Friday, April 28, 2017

Luckily, this isn't a motivational blog.

Apparently, I am now considered ongoing paranoid-psychotic.  Which I do not actively feel in an uninterrupted way. Adaptation is, eh, great, I guess. 

Sometimes life is going along about 80% like it used to prior to my mental illness, never 100%, but I'm good with that now. I'm basically writing the script~as much as anyone ever can~ & then schizophrenia interjects 254 paragraphs with impunity.  Hate That, but luckily~over time~ it doesn't feel as bad as it should all of the time(just 1/3 to 1/2 of the time). Funny, too, what you can be thankful for. 

Like the IRS picking up with a live person 3 phone numbers & 1 hour of holding later, then actually nicely helping me to resolve a small issue.
But then I needed to call back, & they started asking questions about my 2015 return only for identification purposes.  Sure, I thought as I started to eat Smuckers peanut butter from the jar.  A highly appropriate coping-response I think. 

I happened to look up a favored Pulitzer prize winner only to be met with his mug shots from DUI's.  The Pulitzer came young & early, the mugs late, in senior age.  Then his life partner left him but kept esoterically dissing him in the press. Is there a preferred order for all of that? 

I'm a schizophrenic who never did anything amazing or brave in her life, but mug shots I do not have.  Should I be thankful for that? 

Because, it seems, unlike lots of  the challenged  I read about, I reflexively feel bitter or hurt by what my life is now much more easily than I can access my gratitude or talk about hope or positivity.  I start thinking I'm not thankful enough & then I wonder how I can ever be thankful for this sort of life. 

You have adapted to voices & sounds that hate you waking you in the morning to tell you to run, sit, slap come? had enough? why? eat, go, waitsmilelaugh, see what you did? lie down, drink water(I hear this at least 50 times a day), come, it's over, pig, hahahaha, nails-chalkboard sound.... & then I cry when someone says job or a neighbor speaks, or a siren blares. And that's the way it is, sans the my illness does not define me unembraceable bs.  Because many days it does. But then it would appear I mostly gather myself again.  And Mr. Pulitzer?  He can't be having it easy, either.