Daily Dose of Lithium . . . soon-ish

It's official. For a few weeks now, but I've been trying to get someone to figure out what drugs I need. So far, 300 mgs of lithium. Can't start taking it till my CNP gets the results of my blood test. Till then, I've lorazepem to keep me calm and control the insomnia, but it doesn't help too much. Not since the first night. It knocked me on my ass in an hour. The next night . . . not so much. I knew what to expect, and I fought off the drowsiness and stayed up for another three hours.

Slow at work today, so I left early. Was suddenly just massively tired and depressed. Yesterday I was so energized and up. But today. . . .

I took my lorazepem just before I got home and slept for six hours. Watching Olbermann and Maddow, then popping another and sleeping till morning. I'm just tired and sluggish. Can't seem to get in gear since I got outta bed this morning. From the week before (despite getting suspended from work for four days, for insubordination) I was so UP. Ideas, writing, everything. I didn't need sleep. Sleep was for the weak and insipid. Now, I just wanna close my eyes and never wake up. Just tired.

I keep meaning to blog more, to keep up with blogs I like, but I'm either HIGH! and can't focus, or low, and simply don't care about anything. I think that' where I am right now because even typing is physically exhausting me.

Meh.

In other news, I keep seeing stories about Atheists getting debaptized, or de-whatever bullshit religious ceremony was forced on them at a tender or not-so-tender age.

I guess if that's what some people need to feel like "a member of the godless group" . . . but it's still the same old idiocy. A bullshit ceremony that means nothing, to erase a bullshit ceremony that means nothing. Even where I inclined to think that my baptism meant fuck-all in the For Real, you know, that place where things happen and matter, I would think it meant something because of the capital G, you know? in which case I wouldn't be getting debaptized. Couldn't possibly think a debaptism is valid.

Since I don't think any ceremony has any intrinsic value, only has the value I give it, I think they're all so much horseshit. There's no capital G, the ceremony means nothing. The ceremony to devalue the ceremony means nothing, and just gives the fundies something to bark at. I would no more get debatized, than go to a witch doctor to get de-cursed if some old gypsy gave me the evil eye. I genuinely used to think ceremonies like this confirmed one's adherence to reality, but now, I think it does the opposite, and cedes ground to the poor deluded saps that actually still believe their ceremonies and rituals are blessed by Shiva, or Allah or Jeebus.

I just wanna ask these debaptists: if someone told you a leprechaun bit you and broke the skin, and that you'd have to get a special fairy-tetanus shot to keep you from getting leprechaun rabies . . . would you rush to get that shot?

Not a great analogy, or at least not well-put, but the point is valid. To me, it's a damned good parallel. These debaptists are pushing a cure for a disease that doesn't exist. Anyone who needs that fairy-tetanus shot should reexamine what they believe, or don't believe.

The zeal is appreciated . . . cautiously . . . but aim it in a worthier direction, hey?

Aim some righteous ire at institutionalized wrongdoing that actually means something, like fighting Prop 1 in Maine. Those of us on the side of civil rights lost California. Let's not lose Maine.

A Dose of "Pussy" . . . Rammstein, anyone?

I won't link to it here, since I'll always make a sincere effort not to link to porn in my blog (get your jollies the old-fashioned way, buddy: find it yourself), I'm totally gonna pimp the new Rammstein video as both porn-y and fucking hilarious. So, yeah . . . I like "Pussy" :)

Y'all are enterprising and smart, so go, find, enjoy, if you haven't seen it already. Quick hint: trawl German porn sites. Good luck, have fun.

Everyone--

DON'T PANIC.

A Dose of LMAO!

Dose of No-fucking-help Whatsoever

My GP was next to no help. Recommended a shrink . . . in Poughkeepsie, which is 40 minutes away by car. The car that I don't own and am not licensed to drive. Bus travel up here is complicated and sparse at best--nonexistent after six pm.

So . . . so much for hopes of not having to put up with this anymore. With not having to feel like I'm crumbling all the time. Help may as well be on Pluto, and I'm stuck like this.

I was crying for awhile. On the bus ride home. Not loud or anything, just couldn't make the tears stop. People kept giving me looks. I was angry at first. Now, I'm just extremely tired . . . and crying again. I need to lay down with Morphine blasting to cover up the sound of the idiot roofers, and of my fucking idiot brain doing what it does so very badly.

Maybe in time I'll adapt. Whatever's wrong with me, be it psychological, chemical, or both, I've had it for a really long time. The fact that it's been getting noticeably worse and more intense for the past six months means nothing, really. I'll just deal, like I always have, whether it keeps escalating, or whether I (and this proves hope springs eternally, like a geyser of stupid) finally emotionally burnout and stop feeling at all. If the time comes when I can't deal anymore, then I suppose we'll just have to see what we see.

A Dose of Silphium

Wow. Humans aren't smart. Even when motivated by the prospect of pregnancy-free fucking. Unbelievable.

Why, when we can't even manage our physical world, would we go around inventing a supernatural one? Just to liven up our epic fails? Self-defeating and self-destructing--just one more self- and we'd be a triple threat.

T minus four days till I see my GP and begin the likely long and unfun process of figuring out what--besides a lot--is wrong with me. Still only hearing the one Voice. I was also unbearably High, today, but in a happy-ish way, more so than angry . . . till I just got anxious, irritable and paranoid. Kept thinking everyone around me was talking about me. Not a fun feeling. I don't believe in a god anymore, but it's all too easy to imagine the universe is totally fucking with me. I'd hate to think that what's it's done thus far is borne of total indifference!

Bloodwork, tomorrow, to find out what other nuts I'm deathly allergic to these days, beside almonds.

It'd be best for all concerned if I had a massive stroke in my sleep and was cold by the time my alarm went off in the morning. For the next few days, the world's gonna be too shiny and bright to be dealt with by me someone this brittlely euphoric and itchingly alert. I'll spend all my spare moments weeping and/ or laughing, and unable to stop jittering. Cruushed by the wonder of existence.

I'm crossing my fingers for that stroke.

Daily Dose of the Voice

Hah. Yesterday, I posted here about possibly being bipolar, and--well, I've been rolling the possiblity around in my head for a few days, and my consolation was, well, whatever, at least I'm not hearing voices.

I've been telling myself that a lot lately, and today, at work, on a particularly annoying call (they all are, really, I despise the general public. They're stupid, immature, lazy, and mean) this voice whispers, like it was right next to my ear, really, Rachel, you should just kill yourself. You know that, right?

So, I don't hear voices, just a Voice. Big difference. For awhile, I didn't really notice it, anymore. It's like a white noise, only . . . it's suicide-slanted. And it's like the boy who cried wolf. To the point where, if I have to run to catch the bus, it's there, waiting to tell me what I can do to solve that thorny problem, and in a way that doesn't involve running or sweating.

See? I'm still in good shape. Fighting trim, even. Look out, personal demons.

Dunno if one Voice even counts anyway, especially since I've been hearing it since I was old enough to know what kill and death meant. So from five onward, if not a little earlier. I used to hear it rarely, randomly. Any time--during the Highs or the Lows, more often during the nice, uber-rational, mostly emotion-free Numbs.

I'd hear the Voice, and to shut it up, give it shit-tons of reasons why I should not just kill myself. Not step in front of the D-train, or that speeding minivan. Reasons that always won the day. And did, until recently, I mean--who can kill themselves when the Star Trek franchise's received an infusion of fresh blood? Not me!

And that Voice has gotten quieter, over the past couple of months. I thought that might mean, whatever other things were going horribly, off-the-rails-wrong with me, I had that wee, death-hungry Voice beat.

Thing is, I've taken to muttering I should just kill myself aloud in idle moments. Some stressy moments, but mostly non-stressy. I've had to stop myself from doing it on the phone with customers.

("Unfortunately sir I can't look up your iPod warranty with your social security number or your driver's license number oh my god I should just kill myself because this is all this is all this is motherfucking all but may I have your phone number please area code first?")

So, I'm now saying what the Voice used to say sometimes, and sometimes the Voice, playing what I assume is Devil's Advocate, tells me why I shouldn't kill myself. But. Well. It's running out of good reasons and so'm I. The reasons used to be passable but now, they don't hold water.

But mostly, the Voice tries to sway me with logic--or the only kind of logic I'm capable of understanding with regards to my own occasional death-wish: you're tired. Life is tiring. It won't get any less so. Why put yourself through it? If you just kill yourself, you can rest. Forever. No more emotions so big, it feels like you're being ripped apart half the time. No more being afraid of what you might do in the grip of these emotions. Just kill yourself, and you can rest. Don't you want to rest?

I do. I really, really do. I'm tired, and I'm not especially motivated or strong. But for now, I'm also not there yet. Not ready to accept the Voice's logic. Or my own logic. Whomever's. My voice and the Voice are starting to say all the same things, and I really can't tell them apart anymore. Not all the time, anyway. But yeah.

I hear a Voice. It's no one else's but mine, in the end. Some better demon, or worse angel, sitting on my shoulder, dispassionately telling me how to solve every problem I'll ever have, the easy way. And sometimes, telling me why I shouldn't take the easy way out (though suicide takes, I imagine, a brass pair to go through with it). I dunno if anyone else--anyone else sane, that is--has such a Voice. But I do. It's my oldest friend, at this point. I can ignore it, shunt it to the side, but I can't not hear it. Not when it's always made so much sense, and life almost never has.

I can't see my GP for a referral soon enough. T minus five days, and counting. . . .

Guess what, though? The voice telling me to scrag myself and save all this damn effort of living? Ain't god. It ain't his evil brother Lazslo, either, so . . . I may be nuts, but at least, at long last, by logic, I am not a theist.