Category Archives: Crazy

Why we don’t take our pills and why we’re still human

This post is in response to the fact that the world is terrible.

Well. This blog is in response to that. But this specific post regards a specific terribility. Namely, how the instant that a mentally ill person stops taking their medication, they become evil, irresponsible, terrible, sub-human non-people.  Even in secular, pro-social-justice spaces, Not Being Medicated is regarded as pretty much a crime. Because HOW COULD YOU, mental illness is clearly so heinous that you are but one missed dose away from eating a basket of kittens alive or something like that. As such, mentally ill people are obligated to take their pills. They don’t get choices. Nope.

Now, see here, that is fucked up something awful. Aside from the basic notion of bodily autonomy that is “you get to decide what goes into your body,” which of course doesn’t apply to mentally ill people because we’re not people with things like bodily autonomy, there are a lot of damn good reasons why we can say we don’t take our pills.

Some reasons can be summed up under the broad topic of “not fucking worth it.” Psychoactive drugs are not magic. Mental health care is not magic. Because these things are Not Magic, there are flaws. Some are minor, some are big and blinking with neon signage and their own zip code. For instance,  there’s money. My pills all together, after insurance, cost me $60 a month (on top of the co-pay at the doctor). If I was on a tighter budget, that’d be a choice between pills, or… cutting my eating for the month in half. Or not buying gas. And what good are pills to make you happy if you’re starving with a dead car? NOT MUCH GOOD. And that’s with insurance. Being mentally ill people, we sometimes have trouble with the whole “keeping down a steady job” thing. Which messes up the whole “having insurance” thing. Which leads to the fun little catch-22 of not being able to buy pills, because you don’t have a job with insurance,  because you can’t afford pills. Yay!

Then there’s the whole deal of side effects. psychoactive drugs have a lot. There’s nausea, dizziness, drowziness… I once took pills that made me drowsy and tired. Not like “Oh gee I sure could use a nap!” tired. Like, my-mom-found-me-passed-out-on-the-bathroom-floor tired. Same pills, for depression I will add, also made me suicidal. LOL. Now, yes, that’s a matter of them being the wrong pill, and you can always change pills. Unless… you go on to the pills I am now, which thankfully work because if they didn’t, I would be completely screwed. In short, miss a dose? You get a magical thing called brain shocks. They’re about as fun as they sound, I promise. And they can last a loooong time after you go off of that pill. (My doctor didn’t feel the need to warn me about this. If she had, I would have nope’d her to the moon.)

But wait, I could just fix my brain zap problem if I just stuck to my pills!

Except no. Because for me, sticking to my pills is not a choice. I try. I try really hard to. But with autism comes problems with executive function, and with depression comes lack of motivation, so all at once I have difficulty doing tasks like “take pills daily at same time every day” and on the other I have “Oh god, I need to take my pills… but I can’t even move. Lol guess that’s not happening.” This results in a bajillion missed doses, and even more doses when the same issues mean I don’t get my prescriptions refilled in time and just straight up don’t have pills. Of course, I could commit myself to an institution or live with my parents and have people who constantly remind me to take my pills, but that would honestly trigger so many issues in my brain that it would counteract any benefit the medication would give me.

Which leads to the third part of why it’s okay to hate pills, which is… the mental health system. I’ve written about the fun adventure I’ve had with it before. If you haven’t read those posts, the short story is “holy shit fuck the mental health system.” It’s an abusive, ableist structure filled with a whole lot of power-abusing authority and not enough people who are decent. I’ve seen abuse and neglect, I’ve seen terrified patients, I’ve seen threats and fearmongering, I’ve seen some shit go down in the name of helping people (helping them, my ass- it’s more an industry of fucking with them until they’re normal or killing them off) and it overall gives you a bad taste in your mouth for the idea of mental health in general. So when you’re surrounded by people  buying in to the hate perpetuated by abusive doctors, insisting that you’re not human until you take the magic pills, insisting that you relinquish all of your rights the moment you stop medicating yourself, insisting that if you don’t take your pills of your own free will you’ll end up being forced… the natural human reaction, the natural human rebellion, is to say no.

Say, “Fuck you, I am a human being no matter what I choose to ingest or what I choose not to, and I’m not going to do what you want.”

It might hurt to do it. It hurts to be off your pills, after all. Whether it’s withdrawal or the feeling of the pain of mental illness creeping back into your brain, it just hurts. But it doesn’t always hurt as bad as the memory of the “therapist” from the mental hospital you’d been abused in telling you that if you don’t admit yourself to their hospital you’ll just try to kill yourself. It doesn’t always hurt as bad as the scorn you feel cast upon you when you admit you’ve forgotten to take your pills. It doesn’t always hurt as bad as the inherent judgement embedded within the phrase “did you remember your pills?” And sometimes, saying no, saying that you will be a human being who can make their own choices no matter what pills you do or don’t take, feels sweeter than all of the pain in the world. Sometimes it’s just plain liberating.

So if someone confides in you that they didn’t take their medication for whatever reason, the answer is not to scold them. It’s not to call the cops on them. It’s not to threaten them, or declare them a threat.

Offer them support. They’re probably hurting in some form, from withdrawal or from hatred, and the one medication that mentally ill people can use more than anything- yet are so often denied- is unconditional care, support, and understanding. Give them that.

Fix the world

Stop telling me to avoid stigma. Stop telling me it’s easy. Stop telling me I’m so close, because you know damn well that’s when it hurts the most.

Stop playing with pills and talking about therapies. Stop taking away my methods of hurting myself instead of my reasons. Stop trying to fix me.

Fix the world first. Fix the systems, fix the failing structures. Move away the stumbling blocks before you chastise me for stumbling.

But failing that. Failing fixing the things that make me hurt. Let me hurt. Let me fail. Just once. Stop forcing me to defuse this time bomb that ticks inside my head and let me let it explode. Just once.

I’ll clean up the aftermath. I’ll put everything back where it was as best I can. Everything will recover, if you’ll just let me stop. Once.

Blogging Against Disablism Day: How depression makes everything harder

Depression.

It makes everything harder. Everything. It puts a wall up in your brain, makes everything you can do have to push up against that wall and makes your brain hurt in the process.

Every person who is short with you, every mistake you make that’s big or small, every moment of indecision and every moment that makes you worry, every failure, everything that can possibly be construed as negative is another brick in that wall. A big brick. Bigger than the bricks that people without depression have.

And all the good things that happen are nothing against that wall. Everything just bounces off of that wall like nothing, like a tennis ball, hitting it before falling to the ground and rolling away. Like nothing ever happened.

But the bricks stay and the wall stays in your brain and everything you do has to get past that wall and after no time at all, you’re so tired of trying to jump it that you just give up.

And there you are. Trying to read and the words won’t go together, trying to write and you can’t move your fingers. Everything you have to process is too much, every sound hurts because you’re so focused on jumping that wall for everything you have to do that the distraction of noise destroys your mind.

And FSM forbid you try to do something difficult.

And when you can’t read, when you can’t write, when you can’t listen or talk because that’s all too much; That’s just another brick in the wall.

So when people with depression can’t do the same things that people without depression can, that’s why.

Don’t say that non-depressed people get walls too, either. You get walls. But the bricks are small and loose, and you can knock them out with good things. You aren’t entirely destroyed when too many bad things happen at once. The world does not end when a few bad things happen; Unless you have depression. People with depression know what the end of the world feels like because we get that feeling roughly every damn week.

I would write more about depression, because I want a good contribution for Blogging Against Disablism Day. But I can’t, and that’s the gist of this contribution. Every word makes me jump this wall, every sound jarring me and every sensation pushing me off course of the next jump, and I need to stop for now. I need to stop and just sit by the wall. Just sit and do nothing.

Dark

I’m afraid of the dark. At night turning off my light is the last thing I do and then I instantly go to sleep because staying awake is too terrifying. But I can’t be  terrified of the dark when I’m asleep.

 

Except sometimes I have nightmares about the fact that I’m asleep and it’s dark.

 

Such nightmares have now woken me up for the second time this month.

 

I don’t like it.

I don’t think I can read today

Well, no, I can.

Just at a limit of, say, 5 words. At a time. And when I read a new word the last one in the queue gets shoved off.

I have a lot of work that involves reading to do today.

Other things I can’t do;

Type. Okay, I can, but wow are the typos flowing thick and fast

Balance. It is for the grace of hand rails that I haven’t fallen off the stairs yet. I have learned that my clinging ability is unimpaired thanks to this. Seriously, though, legs. “Walking up the stairs” is not the time to decide that muscle tone is really an optional thing.

List things.

Also I am constantly starving and constantly eating. And constantly moving around despite hardly being able to do so.

Also I feel like those people on Doctor Who who got their faces sucked off by the Wire.’

I got myself some goldfish to make myself feel better but while I was typing this my cat started to eat them. Now I can’t eat them.

Yelling at the cat is apparently too strenuous an activity.

How am I typing.

Do I have to be a productive member of society? Can’t I just kind of take a day off from reality and get better before having obligations?

UPDATE: I’m going to start updating this post every time I decide to rant on this more.

So  here’s a timeline of when right after my cat ate my goldfish:

Read more of this post

My uterus is subjugating me

I thought this warranted telling the internet.

Also I’m crazy again and shopping for diagnoses.

Thanks, Connecticut Shooting reporters talking endlessly on mental illness. Now I get to wonder about *what* disorder I have again. That way I know how likely I am to be a serial killer.

(seriously though fuck you)

 

Eventually I think that I’m going to put up some posts on the crazy I’ve gone through lately. This does require a general lack of crazy though.

Connecticut Shootings

Some asshole opens fire on a classroom of children.

Twenty children dead, six teachers too.

Holy shit, find someone to blame.

Something to blame.

It was autism.

He was crazy.

“Paranoid personality disorder.”

He was avoidant.

He was a sociopath.

Don’t talk to the psychologists.

Don’t talk to any psychologists.

Had to be a disorder.

A sane person wouldn’t do that.

But an autistic person would.

A paranoid person would.

“The disordered” would.

Blame them.

Blame the disorders.

No disorders, no murder.

That was the cause.

So lets make it harder.

Lets treat them even worse.

The paranoid,

The autistic,

Let’s treat them even worse.

Stigmatize them further.

Make it even harder to get help.

That’s the only thing there is.

That’s the only thing to change.

That’s the only reason that two dozen people died.

 

Nothing to do with flying metal.

Being shot out rapidly.

One after another.

Out of a machine.

Explicitly designed for murder.

Into a child’s body.

Don’t think of that.

Don’t mention that.

We want to keep our guns.

We want our second amendment.

Our right to assault weapons.

Because we definitely need them.

Don’t blame the guns.

The guns don’t kill people.

People kill people.

(So long as you believe the mentally ill are people)

 

But don’t take our guns.

Violence would still remain.

People will just attack with knives.

(ignore for now that they’re less deadly)

I need my assault rifle.

It’s such a fun toy.

I don’t care if having it

means someone else doesn’t have a child.

This is all just a conspiracy.

You want to take our guns away.

What we need is more guns clearly

Add another set of bullets

Put a kid in two crossfires

That’ll make everything better.

Just don’t take our guns away.

Take the crazies away instead.

That’s the best of both worlds really.

Lets have guns and eugenics too.

Is this supposed to be poem or am i just typing weird?! The world shall never know.

FUCK

Who the hell shoots 20 fucking kids. And 7 adults on the side.

Don’t answer “people with personality disorders.” Just don’t. People with personality disorders don’t do that either. People with schizophrenia don’t do that.

We don’t know what makes people do that. Scapegoating people with mental illnesses doesn’t do anyone any good.

Unless your version of good is to relegate an entire group into a feared, second-class citizenship.

Or “Make it harder for people with mental illnesses to get help.”

I have personality disorders. Or I think I do, anyways- I fit the diagnoses- but I can’t get an actual one.

Why?

“Hey mom, I need to see a psychologist.”

“Why?”

“I think I have a personality disorder.”

“Like the dude who shot up an elementary school?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

Tonight

Tonight I’m afraid of the dark. Tonight I’m having nested nightmares where I wake up and try to turn the light on and it won’t turn on, and then I wake up from that and try to turn it on and it won’t, and then I wake up from that… and so on, until I actually woke up and now I can’t sleep partly because now my lights are on and staying on, and I’m feeling like I’m going to have a night of sleep paralysis if I keep risking sleep again. Because stress does that. So so much for that.

Depression makes you exhausted. Being exhausted makes you unable to work. Being unable to work gives you anxiety. Anxiety gives you insomnia. Insomnia keeps you exhausted. Exhaustion finally makes you pass out. Paranoia makes you afraid of the dark. Anxiety gives you sleep paralysis. Both of those make sleep terrifying. Being terrified of sleep makes you wake up at 2 am and not dare go back to sleep. Waking up at 2 am makes you exhausted at noon. Being exhausted at noon makes you sleep all day. Sleeping a whole day away makes you depressed.

Uhh

So apparently I’ve passed my one year anniversary on wordpress? Yay I guess?

I’m not sure how I feel about that because the only reason I’ve signed onto wordpress is because I’m riding the crazy train into depressoville and I decided that maybe a good thing to do would be to write incoherent shit about said adventure on a blog.

I realize now that I haven’t said anything about my current bout of depression on this blog yet save a cryptic post about a bug that flew into my room and later crawled into my lamp and died, so I’ll recap some of the events that lead up to now.

I actually don’t know when this bucket of fun initially got dumped all over me, but I’ll arbitrarily decide that it was the beginning of October or something. Maybe September, late September. That would be about when I started to work on college applications and similarly when my perception of having a successfully put together life and well controlled mental illnesses got torn right the fuck down. One by one, prospective colleges started being killed off like contestants on a terrible gameshow for reasons like “too expensive” or “application designed ten years ago by a monkey” (“This application works best in internet explorer or netscape browsers. Also the save button makes it crash, have fun”) leaving me with one victor that quite honestly terrifies me because the idea that I would get into it with my credentials when most of its places are reserved specifically for “people who are not Grimalkin” is laughable. But I’m applying to it anyways.

Or I was until, oh, November 10th-ish, when my brain decided that me being happy just was not going to be a thing anymore. So I stopped being able to do school work or college applications or basically anything besides start watching Doctor Who and sleep, for about a week. Then I woke up from that week of hibernation, decided that I was going to actually do some productive shit, did exactly one productive thing, and then avoided all other forms of productiveness for a while for fear that even touching them would destroy everything.

It turns out that that fear was well-placed, because on November 24th I decided I would check some things with my college applications. Doing so informed me that my applications were due in a week and I hadn’t asked my school to send them yet, and in response I promptly lost my shit again.

At that point I began seriously reevaluating my back up plan- tell universities to fuck off for two years and go to my community college. In the past I had very bad knee-jerk reactions to this possibility because I perceived it as essentially being a failure and giving up and taking the easy road out. Then I decided that my community college makes me happy and applications make me too crazy than is safe, and simultaneously decided to be proud of the fact that I was basically alive enough to even go to any college.

I’m still applying to the one university despite that decision. I’m really kind of hoping that my school fails to send the transcripts though, because I would really just like to be able to say “I FUCKED UP AND NOW I HAVE TO GO TO COMMUNITY COLLEGE YAY” and then hate myself for my awful failure for roughly one terrible week and then get on with the normal levels of hating myself. That sounds much better than waiting around to hear back from a college and being crazy every day until that happens.

Boy do I ever wish I could get a psychologist again! It sure would be nice to not have my life decisions based on whether or not I’m insane at certain moments. But sadly my psychologist is a horrible gaslighting pill-pushing asshole and the brief period of time when my mom was actually receptive to me existing while having problems and being willing to help me with them has passed, so the chance of me getting a different psychologist is basically none. I did get to have an actual supportive conversation with her regarding my decision to go with community college, but that lasted about two days until I was informed that me not being perfect was a burden upon her life again. Oh well.

As an aside I realized I was genderqueer a while back. I’d write about that now but it’s three AM and I really need to sleep because I have college classes tomorrow. I have finals soon! Finals soon and an inability to pay attention in class paired with difficulty motivating myself to go to class and an inability to sleep on the nights before those classes. Actually, an inability to sleep period. There’s nothing quite like depression tiring you out and then anxiety giving you insomnia. Really, nothing.