Frustration

If I had a shiny gun,
I could have a world of fun
Speeding bullets through the brains
Of the folk who give me pains

Or had I some poison gas,
I could make the moments pass
Bumping off a number of
People whom I do not love

But I have no lethal weapon--
Thus does Fate our pleasure step on!
So they still are quick and well
Who should be, by rights, in hell.

"Frustration," Dorothy Parker


At the moment, I feel Mrs. Parker's pain.

I have 19 750+ word essays due by next Monday, October 9th. Of course, I have no new ideas about what I'm going to write, and I'm terrified I'm not going to get it done.

I'm broke. And, despite all this fucking writing I'm doing, I will remain broke for the foreseeable future, as I'm trying to claw myself out of the hole I dug last month.

I'm having some paranoia issues, but I don't feel like I'm manic or mixed or depressed or anything. I'm a little stressed about getting all this shiznit done on time, but I don't think I'm having an "episode." So I called the doctor and asked would upping the Lamictal again (I'm on 150 mg and have a prescription for 200 mg) help, since I'm not manic?

Well...I got told she wanted to refer me to a psychiatrist. Sooooo...I basically got the "You're too damn crazy for me to help you" blow-off. It's really frustrating because a.) I don't have the money for a psychiatrist, and b.) I am doing SO much better than I was doing. Why choose NOW to decide you don't wanna deal with me?

I cried when I got off the phone with the nurse. I feel like it's some sort of horrible moral failing of mine that the doctor doesn't want to deal with me anymore. *Sigh* Especially since I've tried so hard and done everything I was told.

Then, I met my mother for lunch today, so she could bring me my meds. I made the mistake of mentioning something to her about the psychiatrist referral. I should've known better. I REALLY should've.

"Well, I don't think there's anything wrong with you," she said.

Yes, because we all know her opinion holds more weight than that of the entirety of the medical community.

"It's all in your head," she said.

No, it's in my brain. Big difference.

"Well, you may have a little social anxiety, but that's it," she said.

Uh-huh. She's conveniently forgetting that my "social anxiety" has all but disappeared now that I'm on a mood stabilizer. The "social anxiety" was paranoia combined with natural shyness. *Sigh*

Also, anxiety is the only mental illness she recognizes. Why, you ask? Oh, because SHE has anxiety. If SHE has it, then it must exist. But anything else? It's just a character flaw and something you should "get over."

"I've never 'seen it' in you," she said.

Seen what? The crazy? Hell, no, I have the ability to hide it for short periods of time, and I knew I had to hide it from you because you'd either tell me it was all in my head, tell me I needed to get over it, or tell me I needed to find the Lord. Or all three.

Then, the kicker:

"There's nothing wrong with you. You just want to BELIEVE there's something wrong with you."

Oh, REALLY?

Yes, Mother. Yes. You caught me. All this time, I've desperately been wanting to be diagnosed with a severe mental illness that's ruined my life and the lives of others around me, made me flunk out of school, made me lose my best friend and other people I loved, made me be ridiculed by my own mother, and otherwise just do horrible things.

Yes. Totally faking. I can't believe you figured it out.

Fuck you, you invalidating, self-centered asshole.


Oh...I still haven't gotten a response to my email. I guess I never will. But there was SO much I wanted to say from the bottom of my heart. :(

Excuse me while I go cry again now.