Mine, Not Yours

Tonight, I’m done arguing.

Recently, I’ve had way too many people telling me what to do, and how to live my life. Everything from friends, to family, to absolute strangers. I’m just done.

What makes you think you have the right to tell me how to be? How to act? What I’m allowed to do? You haven’t lived one single day in my life. You just see snippets. Especially now that everything is online, you don’t see anything more than I intentionally give you. And you think you can make judgements about my entire life based on those glimpses? Who died and made you God?

You don’t know my childhood, you don’t know everything I’ve been through— emotionally, physically, or mentally. You see a post on Facebook about my father, and assume I’m being too hard on him, or something I’ve said about my emotional state, and tell me how to treat the defect in my brain. You. Don’t. Know.

Have you been in my brain? Have you lived 33 years in my house with my family? Have you even bothered to talk to me in the last fifteen years? No. You haven’t.

If you feel like you have a suggestion, that’s great, but don’t you DARE lecture me on things you know exactly zero about! 

How would you like it if I pointed out that your hippie, pot-filled lifestyle was ruining your chances of a good life? Or that vegans don’t live as long, or as healthy, because actual animal meat is an essential part of the human diet? Or how about that you’re just plain wrong for being who you are?

I didn’t ask for your ignorant “advice”. You are not all-knowing. You are not my spiritual leader. Dudes, you’re not even my friends! 

If you can’t butt out of other people’s lives, there’s seriously something wrong with you. Go away. Nobody, and I mean nobody wants to be told what to do with their own lives, unless the person saying it is a licensed professional.

Buh-bye.

I will be cutting these toxic people from my life. I will also be off Facebook for a while. I will obviously still post my blogs, but that’s it. I won’t see likes or comments, so I frankly don’t care if you’ve got em.

Pure Ignorance

There is exactly ZERO excuse for this level of ignorance.

Today, I posted a video explaining some stuff about Tardive Dyskinesia. Most people are chill. One person, whom I will not name, posted this comment: 

*** This person’s comment has since been removed to protect his/her identity, should anyone who follows my Instagram stumble upon it.***

I wasn’t aware that this person knew me, the ins and outs of my unique disorder, and my history. I mean, to give such advice, they must, right?

Let me rip this apart...

“Try not to take too many medications because the side effects really harm the body.” I’m aware, as was stated in the video. 

“Also, medications don’t really cure the disorder, but helps you cope with it.”  Ya think?! If there was a cure for mental illnesses of any kind, do you think we’d choose to be on daily medications all our lives?!

“But only you can dig and go to the core of the problem that triggered it and start healing fully.” Ok, commenter, MD, tell me what causes Bipolar Disorder. Oh... you’re not a doctor. Could have fooled me by your authoritative “knowledge”. Bipolar Disorder is caused by an actual defect in the brain. How am I supposed to simply dig into myself and heal it? 

“Try it sometimes.” How’s about you try something? Try not speaking about things you know exactly nothing about? Try that sometimes.

Comments like this are entirely inappropriate. You don’t know me. You aren’t familiar with me and my disorder. You don’t know what actually works for me. Same goes for me. If something is working for you, I can’t second-guess it. It’s not my place.

A friend of mine came back with this after I ranted to her about all this:

Think before you type.

Make It Stop

I’m so beyond over this.

Story:

Since my mom had surgery, she’s not allowed to bend over, making it my job to carry in groceries. The jackass narcissist is always asked to help. He never does. Today, I let him have it.

He actually made it out to the driveway, this time, but instead of helping me carry in some heavy stuff, he decides to stare at a new scratch on my car. I’d had it. I went off with “Why are you even out here? You’re not helping!” And, oh, the response. This was pathetic, even for him. He says, and I quote, “I am helping. I’m looking at this scratch.”

Are you FREAKING kidding me?!?! How the hell is looking at a scratch even come close to helping carry things in?!?!

That was it. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut anymore. I exploded, pointing out that he never helps. That is, unless it benefits him. Of course, he was denying it all, because a narcissist never does anything wrong.

Enter: my mother.

She’s more than happy to rant to me about things he does, and I’m expected to listen and be sympathetic. If I tell her things the jackass does, she ignores me, and defends him. Yes, silence is a defense of his behavior.

So, I’ve had it. I’m just waiting, hoping he’ll die soon. Preferably painfully, so he can understand the pain he has inflicted.

This Is Fun...

That backfired spectacularly...

In my last post, I talked about how my Seroquel dose had been lowered from 400mg to 300mg. Things have been going all right, mood wise. But then the fallout...

Monday night, I got about five or six hours of sleep. This, naturally, resulted in my inability to function like a walking, talking human. But it gets better... I have been awake since 6:00am Tuesday, was too tired to do schoolwork all day, and now I can’t get myself to sleep. 

I finished the book I’d been reading, laid in bed for 30 minutes, gave up that pipe dream, and got up. I decided to try schoolwork, thinking I’d get through about a quarter of a section. Yeah... I finished the section and the section test. And I passed! That was surprising, to be honest.

Right now, it’s 1:00am, Wednesday. I feel tired, but not. Maybe I’ll try bed again.

Experiment

Here goes the neighborhood...

About a week and a half ago, my Seroquel dose was lowered. I’m down from 400, which is the max dose, to 300. My neurologist wasn’t exactly pleased at the high dose, and when I asked my med manager about lowering it, she was all for it.

Things in the mood department have been going pretty well for quite a while, now. I was afraid of lowering the dose for that reason. I’ve been pleasantly surprised.

My dose was lowered right before my classes started. I thought all hell would break loose. I mean, I’m taking two classes that both have pretty high demands on my time and mind. I’m taking a writing class, which should be pretty easy for me, but it’s persuasive-writing. I literally have zero persuasive abilities. I’m to write a persuasive paper on a topic relating to my major. I’m majoring in European history, so I chose monarchies— England’s monarchy, specifically. Sounded like a good idea, but then I delved into it a bit more. My best argument pro-monarchy is feeble, at best, but my argument against is much more substantial. Yeah... I’m supposed to be pro-monarchy. But then, I’m American. Our country was founded on anti-monarchist beliefs. Washington refused when he was asked to be king.

Back on topic...

I’m also taking math. I hate math. I suck at math. However, after four tests, I’m 94% strong! Maybe, just maybe, I can do this.

My point was that, with school starting, being mostly stuck inside, and what’s going on with my mom (🎶mysterious music 🎶), I thought for sure I’d have to go back up to the higher dose. But things are actually getting better on the lower one.

Here’s to that continuing 👍🏻 

Retroactive Mourning

And the hits just keep on coming...

So, my mom is in the hospital for a few days, and thanks to COVID, I can’t go visit her. This leaves me home alone with my father. I’ve had to talk to him, but to be honest, it’s actually gone well. We even had a pleasant conversation at dinner tonight.

With mom in this situation, my nerves are shot. But I was dealt a blow today that put me completely out of commission for a few hours. I pulled myself together, put my mind into schoolwork (school started today, which adds to my stress, too), and though I couldn’t put it out of my mind completely, I was functioning. To some degree, anyhow.

For a couple years now, every time I typed “know” into a Facebook post, an old, dear friend of mine would pop up as an option to tag. I haven’t heard from her in years, so I thought I’d check out her profile. Somehow, we weren’t Facebook friends, which was weird. So I asked a mutual friend to see if this friend was online still, and check in to see how she’s doing. My friend came back with a punch right to my stomach. This friend had passed away more than a year ago.

I sat down, my legs buckling, and I cried. Even now, I’m crying just thinking about it. I got nauseated, and I couldn’t breathe. 

This friend and I had a very strange beginning. We were in 8th grade, the only year we were in the same school. I kept hearing things about how she was going to beat me up. Mind you, she was twice my size. 

Well, our parents were called in for a meeting with us to discuss the trouble. Turns out, she‘d been hearing all about these things I was supposedly saying behind her back. The common denominator? Her brother. He was making things up to get us to fight.

Right after the meeting, this girl who I was straight up afraid of, wrapped her arms around me, and called me her friend. And it never changed. She was instantly the kindest, most welcoming person. 

I moved schools not long into the next year, so I wouldn’t see her again until 9th grade Lagoon day. *Lagoon is our local amusement park* We took a picture together, that day. It would be the only one I’d get.

This absolutely beautiful woman had four children of her own, and several step-children when she passed. She was 32-years-old. Barely.

Kristina, though you are gone, your smile will forever brighten my days. I miss you.