Thursday, February 26, 2015

"I can eat bacon"

Depressed today.  I did sleep OK, didn't wake up with a headache.  I started my cycle - late - I have to figure menopause is around the corner and I am completely fine with it.  I'm having a lot of cramps. 

I always figured, married to Ron, I'd regret my "lack" of children more and more, the older I got.  The reverse has happened.  In my late teens I'd see a cute baby and think "Awww". 

Now I think, that's probably 7-9 thousand diapers to be changed before potty training.  I only have to clean the litterboxes once a day, which would be criminally abusive with a child. 

Of course I also have the "medication causes birth defects" issue.  "Childbirth would trigger a psychotic break" issue, "Sleep deprivation is really, really bad" issue - ha! 

Aside from all that, I honestly think I would be a poor mother.  I have mental illness.  I have to take care of myself and put myself first, at times.  Kids, from what I hear, always come first, even when they're grown. 

They did a study on head injury patients.  The most common caregiver?  Parents.  Parents are used to taking care of their child, so it's "natural" to slip back into the role.  Spouses and children have a much harder time with the victim in a dependent, needy, role. 

Like I said, depressed today. 

I did do my God time.  I had a moderate headache so I couldn't take my antidepressant (if I do I just vomit).  We went to Taco Bell. 

Taco Bell is very close to the Post Office.  I had a package for Mom and Dad.  A few things for each of them.  I'd put them into a large flat rate box (I am a huge fan). 

I brought the box and set Ron up with a crunchwrap and a burrito.  He called me, disgusted.  "This is white people food.  It has no flavor".  I told him the "guy" in their commercials is almost always a 20 something year old white man.  "That's their demographic". 

"It's awful, even with hot sauce."  Ron then proceeded to call 1-800-TACOBELL and complained.  They thanked him and he hung up. 

I went off to the Post Office.  It was in the 30's.  Very chilly, clear, and sunny, but windy.  I saw dying mosquitoes everywhere.  They hatched when the weather was nice and then the cold snap nailed them. 

I didn't feel sorry for the dying mosquitoes!  I am candy to them, and always getting bitten. 

I took my time taping the box.  I have seen how priority mail boxes are handled at work, just a part of it is enough to ensure a lot of taping on my part.  I have seen just a part of the processing.  It involves "crab cages" - a huge, metal, rolling cage, at ground level.  They are filled with packages.  Then the handler picks up the package and throws it into a "tow behind" metal rolling rack.  God only knows what happens after that. 

I package my items to be thrown around, dropped, etc.  No one's ever complained. 

On the other hand, I've gotten things that had minimal tape, no padding, and were fine - like the computer I got in 2012.  My brother in law, God love him, literally placed the computer into the box with disks and manuals only, then put a little tape and shipped it.  Amazingly, while the box was pretty beat up, but the contents were fine. 

Well, I figure, that was God. 

One time I got a one pint jar of honey in a cardboard box that had been run over by a tow motor.  The package was completely crushed.  However, when I opened it, the honey was fine.  It was good, too. 

So, I got it mailed.  The clerk is very nice.  She told me they are cutting staff, which I find foolish.  It is a very busy office.  We gossiped a little and I left. 

I went back, got a couple of breakfast tacos.  "I can eat bacon" I told Ron "But sausage in any form makes me nauseous now."  He just gaped at me. 

I was fine eating my bacon things.  I also got 2 cinnabon delights.  They were very, very sweet.  Good but extremely sweet.  "It's like" I told Ron "A cinnamon roll made love to a cheese croissant."  He made a face and kept eating his sausage. 

Our driver came on time, and is a really delightful man.  I like him a lot.  I do have my favorites. 

We went home.  I was a little manic by now (it's called ultra rapid cycling, and considered "bad").  I decided to clean up the bedroom. 

I couldn't find my passport.  I was pretty alarmed.  I keep a little cash in there also in case I need to leave for the night.  I tore the bedroom apart for an hour. 

I laid down, trying to take a nap.  I was pretty agitated and beating myself up.  I had horrid visions of trying to get a new passport and social security card.  Not to mention the money. 

I finally managed to fall nearly asleep, and was thinking about the last time I'd seen it.  I'd wanted to put $20 into it.  I thought it was too obvious where I had it.  A burglar could find it, steal my cash and my identity.  I had to move it. 

But where?  When my house was robbed the first places searched were under my bed, dresser, and top of dresser - all places I might have used.  I remembered thinking "It has to be easy for me to grab, yet oblivious to a criminal." 

Biscuit kitty came along, and walked all over me purring.  He knew I was upset and hurting (cramps!).  I finally remembered! 

I won't say where because it's obviously a good hiding place.  :p  I did have a nice little nap with Biscuit. 

WHEW.  What a day. 

I did organize the bag I would take with me if I had to run out.  I had a lot of toiletries, way too many, in my opinion.  I pared it down to a bar of soap and some deodorant.  I need a small brush, though, and some hair elastics. 

I woke up, talked to Ron, did some accounting stuff. 

Ron got very emotional listening to a love song and thanked me very sincerely, and profusely, for "Sticking around". 

I don't see it as a big deal.  Yes, I hear a lot of "Once I became disabled, my wife left" stories, particularly on one message board.  I know people sure acted like I was either insane (I am, ha ha), or some kind of holy saint, for "keeping him" (anything good you see in me is God). 

I did it for one reason: to live with myself.  That's all. 

I love Ron, he does better when I'm around.  When he's having a meltdown I am the only one who can calm him down.  Usually, I feel valued and respected. 

So he's in a wheelchair?  So freaking what?  It's a tool, like my glasses.  He didn't run off when I needed bifocals. 

I'll refer back to one of my earlier statements: he does better when I'm around.  So, that's it. 

I have to live with myself, and my God, and I would have a hard time with both if I had walked out on Ron because he looked "messy and difficult".  He was, at first, but has made huge strides with the head injury. 

Physically, I have resigned myself: he's going to have a setback, every couple years.  I just need to expect that.  I would always rather expect the worst, and have a nice surprise, than to expect continued improvement and have a huge grief process because he went back in the wheelchair (like I did last year). 

Hey, I'm no treat.  Unmedicated severe bipolar for 14 years before diagnosis.  Let's just think on that for a minute.  Do you know an unmedicated person with bipolar disorder?  Would you want to sleep in bed with someone like that? Trust them to have your back? 


Ron did, for 14 years.  

Ron is very accepting of my mental illness.  I see the looks I get when I mention having hallucinations.  People cringe, like I might infect them.  Boy, that makes me feel warm and fuzzy - but I feel education is more important than stigma.

Over the years, I do feel I have helped educate some people who needed information; people with bipolar family members, or even those with it themselves.  That's worth some gossip and stigmatization.

Ron is very supportive of my drive to "Be the person I needed after my diagnosis" and even does his own education.

I think, at the end of it, we try to have each other's backs.  

That's worth a lot. 

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