That Groggy Feeling When You First Wake Up?

Multiply it by about ten, add muscle aches and the belief you'll never feel better, and you have the very beginning of understanding clinical depression. The depression bipolar sufferers experience is very similar.

Just a quick description.

Politial Incorrectness On A Sunday Morning.

Note to self: make sure you have sausage and biscuits before Sunday morning, as family's expecting sausage gravy and biscuits on Sunday morning means a groggy trip to the grocery store.

A few observations. Turn the channel if you're easily offended:

The Girl Scouts outside the grocery store selling their cookies are evil. And a special kind of evil; the kind that can't be killed. I'm not saying I feel some obligation to NOT chuck a hatchet at them from a safe distance, I'm saying it would do no good. I do not believe we've invented weapons that can take them out. Everyone knows I am EXTREMELY sensitive to children being hurt. But these are no children, not in the purest sense. Monsters, these are. Monster puppets controlled by their mastermind rich white scheming mothers.

Monsters that were, in this case, out of Samoans. Perhaps I'll toss a hatchet to test my theory. "Would I like to buy some cookies other than Samoans? Sure. Can I pay in...HATCHET!?"

*THWACK!*

Nope. Didn't kill her. And she's still trying to peddle those nasty Snickerdoodles.

I also saw a midget today. Must be hard to be a midget. All that glaring. Even today, we stare at what's different. I've made a pact with myself to call the next midget I see, "Peck". Yes I know Peck was a dwarf. Same thing. Val Kilmer certainly didn't care about the difference. Neither do I.

So I'm going to call him Peck, and then punch the first person that laughs, thereby ingratiating myself to Peck. Because I defended him. I'm a large, protective monster in my own right (one not afraid to chuck ineffectual hatchets at Girl Scout Monsters), and I can keep others from laughing at the poor little midgety-dwarf guy.

Don't argue. I do this crap all the time, and it always works. Trust me. What makes me, me. :)

I Just Don't Have a Rant In Me

I'm starting to come out of the anxiety, and into a nice depression. I had a psych appointment today, and they fiddled with some meds. Nothing really ground breaking there. Still at 9 pills a day. Joy.

I tried to come up with an epic, how-I-used-to-do-rants rant. But my heart just isn't in it. Just as an (unrelated--well, kind of related) example, I am going to be doing some stand-up comedy this spring. Since the lithium makes me forgetful and the rest of the meds make me a little foggy, I forget things. So I was writing down my jokes. Guess what happened?

I'm offering an epic rant to the first person that can find my missing joke list.

Wanting To Die Is Different Than Being Suicidal--but the blog still sits stagnant

So I've been out of sorts for several weeks. How much? The psychiatrists want me to go to the ER. I can make it to my appointment next Thursday, though. If I go to the ER, and they lock me up, my family cannot afford the missed pay. It's torture, working. Being at work. TORTURE. I work with the customers, too. I sit at me desk and shake and sometimes cry and always want to walk out and go to the ER just so someone--ANYONE!-can fix me.

Do I want to die? Tough, tough question. Yes, just so it will stop hurting inside. But I'm not suicidal. I will NEVER leave my family. My dad did, even though it wasn't his fault (his med combo was just...wrong. It destroyed him. Yes, he was bipolar). My meds are not enough. All four of them. So I know what it was like to lose him, and I would never do that to my family. But I'm breaking.

So there you go. This is what it's like when someone falls into a crippling depression. They're crippled. They can't solve simple problems. I used to be smart and funny. Witty. Full of encouragement for others, though not myself. I don't do anything now. Not write or pay bills or play video games or watch the Cavs (favorite past time at my house) or movies or wrestle with my son or even check my e-mail. I sit and shake because of the anxiety, and take my sedative early so I can sleep. For some reason, it goes away just before I fall asleep.

Not even proofreading this post. Took me days to be able to type it.

Are They Rude, Or Should You Shut Your Mouth?

The next time someone butts in and "rudely" comments on a conversation you were having (LOUDER THAN YOU REALIZE!) on your cellphone in a public place, ask yourself who the douchebag in the equation really is.

Get off the phone.