A Beer a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

Enjoying my newfound wellness, a reprieve after the heavy pressure of psychosis. I’ve taken to going out a lot and enjoying the summer months (despite the heat). A beer, yes, tastes better in the hot afternoon. I go out to socialize and get my mind off my narrow, myopic indoor self, the one who is bored in the face of the vast internet where anything can be found within a few clicks. I just sit there, staring at the screen, wasting hours upon hours doing nothing much at all. My computer is to me what television is to my mother, the attention grabber that isn’t very important after all.

I’ve decided to keep track of my time using a spiral-bound day planner, and when I notice a chunk of time starting to be etched out doing nothing, I start finding something for myself to do. Ergo–the blog today.

Going out alone in your 40s as a single woman is a lot different than going out alone in your 20s or 30s — something I couldn’t stand then, but should have. In my youth it seemed like every hairy, wrinkled old man would hit on me and park himself next to me, lording over me his stale pheromones and rank booze sweat. In my 40s the men largely consider me a fixture and will talk openly with each other around me, so I get the man’s perspective on everything, for better or for worse. If they get exceptionally frank, one will typically buy me a drink, perhaps in hopes I’ll forget about their raunchiness.

When they inquire about me, I lie about my working status and extend the last date on my resume, saying I am still working my last job (this being the most fresh in my mind); I’m a technical writer working as a project manager. This earns me some street cred and very few questions about what I do day to day. No one wants to be in the shadow of a PM. I feel guilty admitting to being on disability, especially drinking, where I might earn the ire of the working man for using government money to fund my carousing.

I don’t lie about being in school, working on my Master’s in Education. That has sparked a few conversations. Add to it that, come January, I’ll be working on a technical certificate from a reputable local college, I’ll have more to talk about.

I don’t know much about politics. My memory has never served me for political points, nuances, lies, and history. I get pissed off before I can make my point and I just let it roll over me. I know where I stand, and I don’t need convincing or cajoling to alter and amend my views. As far as bar conversation goes, then, not speaking about work, kids, or politics cuts away the meat of what is said in conversation in which I find myself participating, so I sit and enjoy the revelry around me and simply laugh when appropriate.

 

Done With Psychosis, Again

My last psychotic episode, which began in January 2017, has finally ended. It ended in July, so that was a good seven-month run where I was overcome with symptoms. I’ve been able to determine that “Psychosis” for me is a delusional state, not paranoia or auditory hallucinations alone, but a blanket combination of hearing that is overwhelming paired with beliefs that what I hear is my ever-present reality. I follow what the voices say, especially at night when all is quiet.

I can see why paranoia is often a part of the diagnosis. It is what the doctors can see from my actions…I run in fear. I stay up all night, afraid. For me, however, I see it otherwise. Fear seems to be the by product of my delusions. The story line that picks up where it left off from the previous bout of psychosis, while the story line has also evolved as the psychosis has departed.

It’s getting to the point where I absolutely hate my psychosis. It is so taxing, mentally and emotionally. It is the narrative that won’t quit, that never takes a day off. I’m subjugated to the pressure from the moment I wake up until I fall asleep in exhaustion. Months go by where I have no self-directed days. Months.

Making use of my “down time” is something I want to pursue. Maybe a book, I tell myself. I can put all my pain down in the saga, the tragedy. Working harder than ever before, I can do this.

I’ll post more as I plan out my work.

Thanks to everyone who reads me. I lost my .com url with this last bout, so I changed my domain to bugbearandcaw.blog. With your continued support, I will keep writing.