Discrimination?

One rule you (should) learn rather quickly as a mentally ill person is to never EVER disclose your diagnosis in an interview. Don't even elude to it, if you can.

I recently broke this rule (he asked why I left DI, what plausible lie would've sufficed?), and the interviewer immediately became uncomfortable. His body position shifted, his face subtly became strained and worried, his voice became sympathetic. Ugh. His concern was that he'd heard "people with depression have a hard time with needing a lot of sleep." He continued "Is that going to be a problem for you?"

First of all, most people with unipolar depression actually sleep and eat LESS. It's not my case (and yet another reason why the GP thinks I'm bipolar), but that's more normal. Second, even after I assured him staying awake from 10pm to 7:30am would not be a problem for me, he still seemed uneasy. It was heartbreaking, honestly. I saw my chances at this job evaporate before my eyes.

It's hard because there aren't a lot of jobs I can do in the first place. This was one of few opportunities that he just eliminated based on his misunderstanding of people with one of my conditions. A bigger problem for me personally is a marked lack of motivation and energy. The only other issue I've had with work is stress-response.

He had no idea, but two days before my interview with him, I started my first day at another job. I actually enjoyed it (who wouldn't enjoy putting labels on boxes alone for 6 hours straight?). However, I was moved to a much faster-paced area of the production line and people were unhappy with my lack of experience. I wasn't doing things the way my coworkers liked (they all gave me different instructions), and they were getting frustrated. Which, in turn, made me frustrated. And disappointed in myself. I absolutely hate being the weak link. The negative wheels started turning and, despite every effort to interject rational thoughts, a few tears started seeping out. I tried as covertly as possible to wipe them away and continue unnoticed. No such luck.

Somehow, this girl with some level of authority came over and asked what was wrong. I said: "Nothing is wrong." She asked my coworkers in Spanish, they didn't know. She kind of huffed and walked off. Soon afterward, my supervisor approached with the same question. "Nothing is wrong." I lied. "Just trying to work." She asked if I wanted to go home. "Is my shift over?" I asked, looking at the clock. No. Then the answer is HELL no. "I want to finish my shift at least." I answered. She said "Okay." and she walked off too. Then, my freaking manager shows up. By this time, I'm highly embarrassed and doing my very best to stifle my thoughts and tears, and work as hard as possible so no more attention will be drawn. He asks what's wrong. Slightly frustrated, I reply "Nothing!". He asks if it's because of something from home or from work. It's from neither. The problem is from my stupid brain, but I can't explain that now. "Neither! I wish people would just stop asking!" I'm suddenly taking my gloves off and walking out. On auto-pilot. I'm devastated I'm losing this job like this! That I couldn't even finish my first 10 hour shift. Beyond frustrated with myself. Embarrassed as fu*k. What adult does this?! Needless to say, the car ride home and subsequent suicidal gesture were emotionally-charged and there was plenty of screaming and sobbing.

But yeah, I had no problem getting up at 4am to be there at 6am.

Like

We all have our passions in life. Today, I got to talk about mine!

It started with an article about Richard Ramirez; The Nightstalker. Basically, he would go out at night and enter unlocked doors of homes and bludgeon (beat, rape, sodomize) his victims to death. His crimes were horrific, but I think what fascinates people most about him is his little following of girls. Yeah...this guy brutalizes innocent people in the worst way, and yet the girls adored his good looks and mystery so much that they'd flock to all his court appearances.

Anyway, this article was more of a criminology perspective of why he did what he did. Interesting as hell, of course. I took a criminal profiling class (they hate that term, btw) from a retired FBI agent with the Behavioral Science Unit. Basically, I learned that a) people don't just "break". b) the difference between a psychopath and a sociopath is that the psychopath is born without empathy and the sociopath is conditioned to lack empathy. c) my husband's ex is literally a sociopath, and it helped on all the tests because I just had to list attributes about her. I'm not kidding.

The article theorizes that Richard Ramirez is a sociopath who suffered alleged physical abuse from his father and had 2 traumatic head injuries - a dresser fell on his head, causing a laceration in infancy, and getting knocked out after being hit by a swing (he suffered seizures from then on). To top it all off, his mother worked in a boot-making factory and was exposed to chemical fumes when pregnant with all her children. All of his siblings suffered defects. And, to me, if a mom would put all of her kids at risk after seeing the damage to the first ones, there was neglect. Or a low IQ. Most devastating, in my opinion, was that he was shown photos of raped and murdered Vietnamese women by his soldier cousin. When he was 13. Developing sexually. They think this made a connection in his brain between sexual arousal and violence. He became aroused by violence.

So fascinating. I still think he should be punished for his heinous crimes, but I also sympathize. Did he really have a chance? A lot of comments (from those who obviously didn't read the article) claimed: "I had a bad childhood and I didn't kill anyone!" or "It's entirely his choice. Doesn't anyone take responsibility anymore?!". Silly. And true. A LOT of people suffer messed up childhoods, and yet don't kill anyone. So we need to examine these guys and figure out what makes them different. What is the tipping point? A gene? A personality trait? Different brain shape or chemistry?

I could go on and on. And I did. I just took poor Stephen on this ride, rambling on about my theories and branching into different crimes. I remember a lot of different crimes. Lots of details. It's a neat party trick.

But I was actually somewhat excited about something. I feel things when I talk about this kind of stuff. I love criminal justice. I really love just how intricate and unique each case is. Justice bends to suit every participant. There is real, raw emotion from all parties involved. Or sometimes a lack of it. All very interesting. All real. It matters. It all matters.

I just wonder if that's why I like the things I like. Because it makes me feel. It saves me from the constant boredom and emptiness. Music, crime, epidemiology and thanatology. It's so stupid, because that's the way everyone works, I think. We all like what we like because it actually gets our attention. We actually find those things important in some way. I don't know. So simple. So obvious.

Can't deal

This is going to sound dramatic (when do I not?), but it's impossible to describe another way. I honestly don't feel like I was built for this life.

Contact with "the other man" has been limited. For understandable reasons. And it's not like I wasn't dysfunctional when I could communicate with him, but I was definitely happier than I am now. I didn't realize how much.

It's getting hard to eat. For me! I couldn't do much more than shower before and leave the house at night to get my one meal of the day (fries), but now even that is asking a lot. I have been playing Overwatch basically nonstop. It's not that I love the game that much - especially because I often get stuck playing healer - it's because I can't stand being cognizant of reality. Of my stupid limitations.

I am so bored. I am so empty. The disappointment is astronomical.

Excuse the emo sentiment, but it is literally painful to be alive. I hate being awake. All I can think about is how long this is taking. How I can't possibly make it past age 30. This is too much. Imagine if my life was actually difficult! I'm such a waste of human tissue. 

And it's not like I have anything to look forward to. I have PKD, I clearly can't hold a job, I will never get a degree, and I don't want kids. All I ever wanted was a career, since I was 5 years old. And it's just never going to happen. Not in a million years. Yes, I am bitter :)

In My Heart

Hello. It's been a short while. Things have been a bit different as of late, in ways both exciting and devastating. At least I feel something though.

I haven't been to work much since going off antipsychotics. They're trying so hard to help me, but I sabotage their efforts voluntarily and involuntarily. They want me to see a psychiatrist so I can get medicated and hopefully work a proper schedule again. I want that too, so very badly. However, I am not at all interested in trying more medicines. I'm just done. The only ones that have worked are so bad for you. The side effects are unbearable. At least with what little I'm on now, I know what to expect. The whole situation makes me absolutely miserable to think of.

And I've gotten so angry lately. It's definitely different from sadness. It's not emptiness. It's new. I just don't want to be a victim anymore. A victim of what I am. My life is out of control, whether I'm trying to control it or not. I'm mad that I've wasted so much time trying to fit the mold of others. Of healthy people. I've had a lot of time to think about what I really wasn't and what I don't want. I don't want kids, I've never truly wanted them. I wish I stopped going to college sooner. Sometimes I wish I never got married, and will never marry. I want to be sterilized. I want tattoos. I love coffee. My life would be so different if I didn't listen to or try to please anyone. I realize that I still hurt so deeply from things people closest to me did. Things that can't be changed, and should be accepted by now. But I don't think I'll ever stop hurting, honestly.

But that's where the good(?) news comes in: I've fallen in love with another man. Not to say that I'm any less in love with Stephen, just that I love two people. Life has been interesting again. Maybe even good. He treats me so well and he supports me emotionally. He cheers me up when I'm sad (or at least tries very hard to). He compliments me constantly, and showers me with affection. He's the good boyfriend I never had. We have a lot in common. Most importantly, he makes me feel like I have worth. He, without trying, is slowly patching up the broken pieces of my heart and my psyche. I love him. I'm really not sure where it could ever go, but I'm just enjoying it for now.

Futile

Never.

"Reading" Music

Today has been a bit of a reprieve. That might be because I slept in an extra half hour (3:30pm, woohoo?), or because I've been distracted by other mental stimulation such as TEDtalks, the Sword and Scale podcast, and playing Overwatch and GTA5 with a group of rowdy teenage boys. Another thing that has helped today and that seems to be the only thing that marginally helps on the worst days is MUSIC!

I've had a long history with music; piano lessons from 5 to 17 years old, playing viola from 6th grade through most of my years at college, playing in pit orchestra for multiple school plays, I even took viola lessons for a few years (including some from a protege of Dr. Dalton - the student of William Primrose). Mostly with her though, we focused on note basics because, from my audition, she couldn't tell I had the major detriment of not being able to read music.

...yeah.

I managed to get by. With piano, my teacher would play the piece for me, and I would just "pick it up." I was always able to memorize it after awhile.

Transitioning to viola was easier on me than most, because it has it's own clef, and that shifts the notes a bit to fit into the instrument's range:

vs

Because I didn't know the names of any notes in any clef, there was virtually no transition. In fact, I can still only identify C (3rd finger on the G string), and A (open A string) without cheating. With orchestral music, you basically have to look at the music. On viola, you play the open string and then put 1 finger down to raise the note. Then a second to raise the note again, and a third finger. Eventually, in higher levels of play, you learn to use a fourth finger instead of an open string, but we'll keep it simple. Viola music was easier for me to play because the notes on lines are all either 1st finger or 3rd finger. The notes on spaces are played as either open strings/4th finger or 2nd finger. This helped me to know which string I wanted to be on and approximately what the following note would be.

At this point, hearing the piece is still vital for me to play it. Upon hearing it, I'm able to assign a section of what I hear with a specific bar or line of music. It "fits". I now understand the part and, granted I'm skilled enough, I can play it! Again, this method depends entirely on actually hearing the music. It's a BIG detriment to not understand music when it's first put in front of you.

As real musicians know, there is so much more to actually reading (and playing) music! But...

I know what a time signature is.

I know what a key signature is

I know what a tempo is. 

I know what quarter notes, half notes, whole notes, whole rests, half rests. etc are.

I know about slurs, ties, crescendos, fermata, accidentals, etc

The disconnect is with the math. Let's say everything is quarter notes in a 4/4 time signature at an andante pace, I could probably play that without hearing it. But nothing is like that! First of all, not all time signatures are 4/4. What does 4/8 even mean? 6/8? How does that effect the notes? Eighth note followed by quarter rest? What?! Like, I just don't really get how much value practically any notation has in any time signature, including 4/4. It is just garbage! None of it makes any sense! I absolutely can't estimate how long to hold what in any time signature! I cannot wrap my head around that stuff.

That's why I haven't tried out for an adult orchestra. I need to sightread some things. I need to know some music that would be hard to find a recording for (let alone pick out and perfect the viola part). It's just not something I'm able to do.

Suicide

This is all I ever think about. I don't even know where to start. Lately I think of what I'll wear in my casket. So vain. I wonder if I'll overdose on barbiturates or make a car T-bone me so I get shearing injuries and bleed to death. I think of shooting myself in the head. I worry excessively that one of these methods will go wrong and I'll be crippled. I worry what would await in the afterlife. I've decided I'd write notes to a lot of people. Not vitriolic ones (stay classy!), but there are so many people who meant something to me, or who impacted my life in small ways that I still remember! You'll be dead, it's your last chance to say everything you've been afraid to! Why limit yourself to just one measly note?

I don't worry much about people I'll leave behind. Most of them, anyway. I know people will move on with time. And perhaps they'll even realize how much I was suffering, and forgive my actions.

I fantasize all day, EVERY day about these things. The fear of messing up keeps me from trying anything. Some NDE's suggest that suicides have to re-live their full life with all the same trials. I do NOT want to do that! Also, I'd feel bad for making other people feel bad. So, there are good reasons not to take action, but it's hard to live with these thoughts everyday. I realize that, what I seek from death is relief - and that's not even a guarantee!!

But man, I'm tired of trying.

Goodbye Antipsychotics

Latuda was the first antipsychotic I've ever tried. For the most part, I really enjoyed how I felt! I was in a decent mood most of the time, and I had focus and control of my thoughts that I didn't even know was possible! However, there were problems. Daily, in the evenings for the short time between coming home and falling asleep, I'd feel unbearably suicidal. It was making sexual things more difficult. It was inconvenient to take because it had to be eaten with 350 calories. I'd sleep a lot, and I was tired all the time. It wasn't cheap at $60/mo with insurance. And, eventually, I'll no longer have that, making the medicine $1,000+ a month.

For these reasons, I decided to go off of it. I didn't want to get used to a life/personality/mood/goals that couldn't be maintained anyway.

It's actually been extremely difficult since going off. I tried Zoloft again. Now I'm trying Bupropion again. Nothing is really helping. I feel so...down. All the time. I feel awful. My limbs are so heavy. It's hard to move. Literally keeping my head up takes effort. Showering is an event. I just don't have the energy to do anything anymore.

Thinking has changed in so many ways. I "chew" on painful memories again. Instead of the short, daily bouts of absolute agony, I feel moderately suicidal all day. I think of ending my life all day. It's never quite in the back of my mind, like on Latuda. It's been really hard to keep going. There is nothing I look forward to experiencing in this life.

Work is suffering. I can't sleep. I have no goals for my future. I'm hopeless. I don't care about anything. I've just been having a very hard time.

Here I am

Well, I failed out of school again.

This doesn't mean I can never go back. It doesn't mean I can't go somewhere else. It just means I probably can't go back to my current university. At least for now.

The thing is, I don't think I should go back. I don't think I'm capable of pushing myself through a number of math classes, in addition to everything else. I'm too depressed. On the other hand, I keep thinking "you're gonna let a few math classes get in the way of your dreams?"

I don't even know what my dreams are anymore. Being a therapist sounds nice, but what if it's too much socially? What about all the money it will cost to do everything? What about that horrific math? What about graduate school? What if it's like most every other job I've had and it's too stressful? I just don't know if going to college was ever a good idea.

But now that I'm not in it, I feel so worthless. I don't know what to do. I'm scared we'll not have enough money. I'm scared about making my loan payments. A degree would've offered security for me. Maybe. What job would I have gotten? What degree, even? I don't know. I didn't know. And I've spent about $30,000 getting nowhere.

Maybe this was for the best. I just don't know what to do now.