Anxiety


My father’s anger issues are something that I’ve mentioned a few times over the years. Whatever is causing the dementia/memory issues seems to have made those issues even more prevalent. Any time that my mom opens her mouth, he yells at her. She could be talking to me and he will snipe at her. He’s thrown things. He is mad over everything and convinced that the world is out to get him. I can’t talk him down. I used to be able to be the voice of reason between the two of them, but his rage gets worse when I try. That rage has had ongoing consequences for me. He grabbed my right wrist months ago and I had some pretty bad bruising; it’s still weak and painful, and it pops when I move it. I told my therapist, but I refuse to get it checked out by a doctor because I know that they might have to report it to cops.1  My mom told me that it would be better if, when he’s acting out, I didn’t say anything to him about it. If he does something, we don’t confront him because the blame falls on us–even if it doesn’t involve us in any way. I thought he was scary before all of this, but I never knew just how bad he could get. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do. I keep making excuses for him because I know that even though he’s always had anger issues that something else is making him like this. This isn’t my dad. This is like my grandfather and I don’t want my dad to be like that man. I want my dad to be himself again. I want him to talk to his doctors about what he’s thinking and how he’s feeling; and I want him to be honest about his symptoms. He has lied to them and that’s impeding his treatment. I want him to let one or both of us talk to his doctors. How are they going to know about the rage? How will they know about the anxiety attacks he has every week when he goes to the grocery store with my mom?2 How will they figure out what’s going on in his head if he won’t tell them? Mom tried to ask him what she could do because she’s trying to figure out how they can get along. He doesn’t want her to try because he doesn’t think that anything will make their relationship better. In other words, he wants to be angry with her and take out all of his anxiety & aggression on her. This isn’t healthy and it isn’t right. I just want things to be better. The code of ethics for a social worker prevents her from sharing the information. ↩He won’t let her go with me instead of him. ↩

Tales from the Angry Side


Last Monday, I moved my appointments with the hematologist up. The lab tests were done on Tuesday afternoon. My actual visit with the hematologist is tomorrow. Well, I assume it’s with him. It could be a physician assistant or a nurse practitioner. I’m actually worried now that I’m not really anemic. Sure, my skin is looking a bit more gray than it usually does, I’ve been covered up under a blanket on 80°F+ days, I crave protein like a person on a planet made of lettuce, and I get winded by just picking up a book,1 but I could just be crazy. I mean, we all know that I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. What if I’m just going further down the rabbit hole that is my brain? That could be all it is. But I know that this freaking out feeling that I have right now is the same sort of thing I always go through when I’m actually sick. I know that I have a tendency to worry about things that aren’t worth worrying about, but I’m also pretty damn certain that my anemia is something that is worth worrying about. And if I’m not in an anemic state, then I need to figure out why I’ve felt so shitty for so long. So if I’m not anemic,2 I need to know that. But I know that it is pretty unlikely that I’m not anemic right now. According to labs, my serum iron has headed downward at a steady rate. That rate was meant to hit the anemic stage in December, but I had two periods over the past several months that lasted at least 2 weeks and were extremely heavy. That would have sped it up slightly. Medically, the diagnosis is in the bag. Maybe I’m just worried that it’ll be low and I’ll have to get an infusion and those scare the shit out of me. Ugh. I try not to freak out like this, but I’m like sitting here shivering3 trying to convince myself that I’m either not nuts or totally nuts when it comes to this very issue. Sometimes I hate my brain and my body. It feels like they team up to make me miserable. And in the past 32 years, they have gotten quite good at accomplishing their goal. Photo credit: euthman via VisualHunt / CC BY No, really. ↩And I probably am. ↩It’s 76°F outside right now. ↩

What If I’m Just Nuts



Are you fucking kidding me? The post-Olympics local news is talking about Jeffrey Franklin. Fuck off, Broussard. — Janet Morris (@janersm) August 6, 2016 from Twitter – August 05, 2016 at 11:32PM via IFTTT I have heard way too much about Jeffrey Franklin this summer. My mental health is being taxed each time it comes up. Why do they always have to talk to the District Attorney Rob Broussard & get his input on the mental state of Jeffrey? He always says the same thing: he thinks Jeffrey isn’t mentally ill, he thinks he’s evil, and he thinks that the fact that Jeffrey wrote extensively about harming his family before he did it proves this. No one mentions that Jeffrey’s own parents acknowledged that he had a mental illness before he killed them, that his friends do as well. He doesn’t mention Jeffrey’s tox levels. Instead, he sticks to this sensationalized narrative that’s out there; one he probably promoted when he first tried the case. And it just makes me remember everything that did happen and I’m agitated and have a sort of “mental itch” for days afterwards. I know that I can’t move on completely from that night, but it would be easier if they wouldn’t hype it up so much.

I could say the title is about Nigel Farage’s ode to xenophobia or, as it is more commonly known, UK’s EU Referendum or Donald Trump’s ode to xenophobia, better knows as his candidacy for president—and it could honestly apply to both or either—but the title actually refers to something I did today.1 I hadn’t been to the pool in a while. My family has been a bit busy with Nana’s nursing home situation, dad’s potential for dementia, & other issues that are a tad more pressing than exercising in a pool. Unfortunately, not going to the pool tends to reinforce my anxiety issues, which makes it harder on me emotionally to leave the house. Basically, as not-pressing as it is, it’s still important. So today I went and… I TALKED TO SIX PEOPLE.  Six.  Not one or two,2 but six.  And I wasn’t related to any of them, nor had I had any real contact with any of them before. Even though a few have been in the pool when I’ve been there, I hadn’t really tried talking to them. But today I did, and one of the ladies actually came back to talk to me (with her husband) afterward. It was just…wow. And, in most of the cases, the first person to make the attempt at conversation was me. So this attempt at acting like a social being was even more significant.  My family was proud. My therapist will be proud.3 I’m proud.  Fist bumps and happy dances for the introverted, agoraphobic, socially phobic ginger.  Photo credit: Fouquier ॐ via Visualhunt.com / CC BY-NC-ND But, seriously, what the fuck, UK? Did you really need to out-crazy Trump & the Republicans? Congratulations, you did it. I just hope your fuckery doesn’t get him elected here. No, that’s not me being paranoid, that’s me being realistic. Your dumbfuckery is so not what we need right now. Kindly go fuck yourselves. ↩or three or four or five ↩She’s happy when I manage one a month, so six in a day will thrill her. ↩

Nigh is the End



I got another call from the nurse of the family medicine doctor today about the lack of sweat. She (the doctor) is still of the opinion that the rheumatologist is the best option. When I told the nurse what happened, she suggested that I just wait until the next appointment so I could tell the doctor. When I told her that my next appointment would be in around four months, she was a little less comfortable with the idea of me waiting. When I asked if she thought the family doctor might have an idea for a referral to a different specialty, she said that they wanted it going through the rheumatologist. So I decided to wait.  My mom, on the other hand, decided that the weather that occurs in the southeastern United States during the summer was too dangerous to risk that long of a wait;12 she called the office to talk to the nurse.3 Guess. What. Happened.  The nurse said I’d talked to the doctor on Wednesday.4 She said the doctor recommended I go to a walk-in for a potentially life-threatening condition.5 She said that nothing I see the rheumatologist for could cause a lack of sweat & that they don’t treat anything that causes that.6  My mother wasn’t having that, so this nurse said that she would talk to the rheumatologist, if he was still at the office,7 to see what he thought. Within an hour, she got a call back.   He still didn’t think anything he treats me8 for, but that he will reevaluate me in two weeks. He doubts there’s anything wrong that he treats me for, but he will check to see if there’s anything new wrong with me. Not to worry, when he checks, absolutely nothing will be wrong. There’s no possible way for me to actually be sick because I just have “loose” joints and need to get more sleep. This isn’t me being a defeatist or cynical. It isn’t me wanting to trash some well-meaning doctor who actually gives a fuck about what’s going on, but who I’m maligning for no good reason. This is me realizing that my rheumatologist has a tendency to be lazy asshole when it comes to actually treating me. This isn’t just my interpretation of his behavior. Anyone who has accompanied me to the appointment and met the man has the same assessment of him. He is dismissive. He is abrupt. He is out the door before I’m able to open my mouth and get words out.9 So I’m not anticipating any change in my condition any time soon.  Photo via Visualhunt From the Mayo Clinic: Anhidrosis is the inability to sweat normally. When you don’t sweat (perspire), your body can’t cool itself, which can lead to overheating and sometimes to heatstroke — a potentially fatal condition. ↩From the U.S. National Library of Medicine & the NIH: An abnormal lack of sweat in response to heat may be harmful, because sweating allows heat to be released from the body. The medical term for absent sweating is anhidrosis. ↩You can’t be surprised by her lack of boundaries. ↩Nope. ↩He may have told the nurse this. He did not tell me this. If he had, I’d be even more distressed by a doctor wanting me to go to a walk-in for something so serious. ↩I’ve come to the conclusion that my rheumatologist doesn’t bother to actually treat anything. ↩His hours are like four hours a day, two days a week. ↩Treats means a yearly appointment that he spends three to five minutes in max, ignores what I say, tells me to lose weight, ignores anything I say about dryness or subluxated joints, says soft braces and plenty of sleep will fix issues that end up requiring surgery, and prescribes another twelve months of Flexeril, even if I tell him that it’s not even working. This has been going on for years now. ↩Anxiety makes actually speaking about what’s wrong very difficult. If I can get a doctor or anyone else to give me a minute to adjust, I can actually talk to them to some degree. I can even stand up for myself sometimes. ↩

I Can’t Live, If Living Is Without Sweat


I opened a FetLife account one night almost two years ago. I won’t link to it here or explain why I joined. I will say I quit using it not long after because of behavior, unrelated to kinks, by some users that I found alarming. Before tonight, I had only signed in to stop receiving regular emails from groups I had at one time thought might interest me. Since that time, I had not signed in, nor had I thought about signing in.1 Tonight, though, tonight I signed in and deactivated my account there.2 On my FetLife account, I do not recall ever linking to this or any other blog I have ever used. I was warned about maintaining anonymity by a user that I once knew from church.  34 I didn’t use images where I could be easily identified. I didn’t use any identifying nicknames. I used my first name once, but no more than that. I’ve also never linked to my FetLife account on any social media or on here.  I’m stating this because I felt, I don’t even know how to describe it, when I got a notification of a private message. The subject line was “Hello Janet” and the body of the message was:  Hi. You have a very interesting net presence. Your blog shows that you think deeply about a lot of things. Let me know if you’d like to chat some time and see if we can have a conversation that interests you.  I’m guessing that whoever wrote this is probably reading this right now. That creeps me out. It has taken me a long time to feel truly comfortable talking about my life here or anywhere. And now it feels like that comfort, that ability to express myself freely has been taken from me. I don’t appreciate that. I shouldn’t have to feel uncomfortable talking about myself on here. I shouldn’t have to worry about how a total stranger managed to track my blog down from the one time I slipped up and used my first name. I shouldn’t have to worry about what all that stranger might have been trying to find out about me.  I guess I do have way to describe how I feel.  I’m scared.  I’m disgusted.  I’m absolutely fucking pissed off.  I understand that we as a society Google everyone and everything. I understand that privacy is something that barely exists in today’s world. But I also understand that this was something that should not have happened. This was too much for me. I tried so hard to maintain anonymity because I felt that would keep me safe. This ripped away any safety I might have felt on there, on here.  I’m out of FetLife. For now. Possibly for good.  Photo credit: breathtakingly via VisualHunt / CC BY-NC-ND I hadn’t wanted to sign in. I like who I’m currently involved with and feel happier with them than I ever thought possible. I don’t talk about this person or what we do on here because I want to maintain his privacy. ↩I had to reset the password to do so. ↩Who knew Mormons could be kinky? ↩He is part of why I quit the site. I found him on a dating app, but didn’t know who he was—he didn’t include a picture—but I thought his profile sounded interesting. He knew the whole time who I was. When he finally told me, I pulled away. I didn’t particularly like him before the encounter. I liked him less after, especially considering I met him while I was doing my prospective member lessons before I was baptized. That lesson was done at the apartment he shared with his then-wife and his son. We had a history that I didn’t want to relive.  After I made it clear that I didn’t have an interest in engaging in anything with him, he started popping up on other websites I used saying how surprised he was to run into me on them. He accused me, in jest, of stalking him. ↩

Safe-Wording



I don’t like Donald Trump. This should come as no surprise to anyone who interacts with me online. It also would not surprise my therapist or my family. I’m not shy about expressing my distaste for the very angry, very rich douchenugget. Midday Friday, I was accused of being an angry person because a Trumplodyte happened to come across my tweets I’d made about Trump. I responded that I’m actually a very mellow person, which is true if you take into account that I’m also a very anxious person, so my version of mellow is slightly more agitated than most. But I’m not an angry person.  I rant online, so that may make me seem like I’m in this constant angsty bitchfest zone, but social media is an outlet for me. Online outlets like Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, and here are ways I might be able to express that little bit of angst that’s keeping me from a relatively neutral state in my offline world. And when I’m online, I try to maintain a snarky attitude over a truly “grr argh” one.1 I don’t even death glare people online, so obviously I’m not too ragey. I’ll never be an all shiny, happy person, but I’m also not angry.  Yeah, I’m frustrated by Trump. A lot. And I rant about him. A lot. I’m terrified by him. I’ve watched so many specials & documentaries on cults, hate groups, regimes run by brutal dictators, & the Holocaust. Trump reminds me of those, but he’s a current thing instead of a story about something that has already happened. He’s a volatile individual who is inspiring other people to behave in quite vile ways. That’s very reminiscent of those old stories that I’m familiar with, so that is going to stress me out. And talking about him with snark allows me to deal with that toxic stress in a healthy way. It gives me a safe way to cope with his noxious rhetoric.  So of course I won’t agree that I’m an angry person. I’m a person who is trying to express her anxiety in ways that are not harmful to herself or others. And guess what? I’m doing that pretty well.2 Not every person who complains online is angry or whiny or moody.  Photo: Pixabay If you’ve ever read about, heard about, or personally experienced an outburst of anger committed of certain people in my life, then you know that my snark is nothing compared to true rage. ↩If I say something that hurts someone, then I feel bad that it hurt them. I know that wasn’t the case with this individual, but I just wanted to get that out there. ↩

Resting Bitch Face: Internet-Style


1
So, while I wait for my sunscreen to power-up, I thought I’d say that the only real use for a certain stigmatic trending topic, #TheTriggering, is to fill my 100,000+1 strong blocklist .2 I’ve seen a lot of those assholes pretend like it isn’t an attack on people with PTSD. They claim that the people who talk about needing trigger warnings aren’t “really” PTSD patients. Well, in a way, they’re correct; some who need trigger warnings are not PTSD patients. Many psychiatric ailments have environmental/stress-related triggers. Many “physical” ailments do as well. They claim that people who talk about having PTSD haven’t really been diagnosed; that they just looked it up on the internet and randomly decided that they have it. Randomly claiming to have PTSD is apparently a lot less classy than telling a stranger on Twitter that you know more about their psychological health than they do.3 Maybe some who claim to have PTSD are faking, but I guess the shitlords don’t realize that if a person is faking a mental illness for attention or sympathy or because they genuinely believe they have it, they are still suffering from a mental illness. Guess what that means: They still deserve respect & compassion.  Most of the posts I’ve seen that don’t bash PTSD patients are bashing non-whites, LGBTQ community members, the disabled, and other marginalized groups. They’ll glorify free speech and free enterprise, while wanting to restrict votes4 to people they don’t like and saying that a private business5 cannot ban people who violate its terms of service–they think that’s censorship.6 They deny that their harassment and bullying campaigns are abuse because, to them, abuse has to involve physical violence, but they’ll use Eron Gjoni’s supposed psychological abuse to promote those campaigns. Many profess a belief in Christianity, while not understanding its tenets. Others claim to be atheists—a belief they promote as one for morally superior individuals—while simultaneously engaging in harassment and bullying of others for fun.7 Many are Trump supporters and/or identify with KKK, neo-Nazi, or other alt-right ideologies. #TheTriggering is nothing more than a bigotpalooza. It’s sick and fucking twisted.  And all of their hate is over what? Having to give a heads up that their words might upset others? At worst, that’s an inconvenience. They’re basically assholes complaining that they can’t be assholes to other people.8 There are kindergarten graduates who have a better grasp on how to behave around others than they do.  Photo Credit: Pixabay Seriously. ↩And it’s not even all that useful since I already have most of the assholes using it blocked. ↩I speak from experience on this. I was told that I couldn’t have PTSD from childhood emotional abuse, sexual abuse, and bullying. I was told only military service personnel who were atracked in a war zone could have the disorder. ↩Voting is a form of free speech. ↩Twitter. ↩It isn’t. ↩If you think terrorizing another person is fun, seek professional help. ↩Get some manners, guys. ↩

Huff and Puff



I had therapy yesterday. No worries. It was just my monthly visit. Things were kinda wonky there. The computer system went down for one receptionist before it went down for EVERYONE. There were therapists complaining their computers were frozen and secretaries complaining that they couldn’t schedule anyone. Patients were also complaining because there was no way to check everyone in. Debbie ran a little late calling me back, but that had nothing to do with the computer situation. She ALWAYS runs late. I think it’s a Social Worker thing. I was a little more anxious than usual. I still get nervous seeing Debbie, even after knowing her since my freshman year of high school. She’s been my therapist for almost a decade, which is the longest I’ve ever seen a therapist & I worry sometimes that one day she will leave or something. I used to expect therapists to drop me all the time. I actually worry about that sort of thing with anyone—doctors, therapists, friends, family. I feel like I always have to be prepared because people leave me so easily. It makes it a wee bit harder for me to trust people. I guess everyone has their baggage. I went to the pool a few hours ago. I did some walking & other exercises for about thirty minutes. When I got out, I was a little sick/overheated. Standing out in the rain helped some. Then, like a lot of people in Alabama, I voted. Unlike most, I voted Democrat.1 My leg still hurts from exercising on Sunday. It’s gotten a little better since I got out of the pool this afternoon. I think it is just an overuse sort of thing, since it is just achy pain and not injury pain. The muscle just feels tired. Oh, and I’m still smiley about other things from Sunday.2 But I just want to say that even with the injury and even if Leo hadn’t won his first Oscar, Sunday was a good enough day that my mood is still like really good. Happiness for multiple days at a time is weird for me, so I’m celebrating that.  I may go work on organizing clothes & books in my room some. I’m not even dreading it if I do because, like I said, I’m in a good mood.  To paraphrase Sheldon Cooper paraphrasing Spock: Live long and suck it, GOP. ↩I am being deliberately vague here. ↩

Busy Ginger Is Busy


I really do cry before my birthday. The day before my birthday seems to be a stressful, depressing, anxious time for me.1 I cried a lot Tuesday. My depression and anxiety issues didn’t mix well with my racing heart, a milkshake,2 and my inability to find my Effexor bottle most of the day.3 I found it eventually and stopped crying like a toddler.  It’s a tradition that I need to break. Maybe I’ll figure out how to do so one of these days.4 Because the rest of my life is super fun time. ↩Damn you, lactose intolerance! ↩In addition to dizziness, blood pressure issues, a little catatonia/increases in pain & fatigue, and profound bitchiness, a lack of Effexor leads to crying fits that just won’t end. ↩Yeah, right. ↩

I Cry Before My Birthday