Come As You Are Party: Wired Differently or Just a Flake?

Image by Wolfgang Eckert from Pixabay

This is my response(s) to a post on The Mighty.

It is my hope to back away from apologizing for who I am and instead explain about myself so that those I interact with might develop an understanding of those of us who are wired differently.

I have type 2 bipolar disorder and ADD as well as complex PTSD and OCD. I wasn't properly diagnosed with bipolar disorder or OCD until I was almost 40. I didn't know I had ADD until I was in my 50s. I was just always scolded for being forgetful and distracted. I have always vacillated between being Ms. Wonderful and being that flakey a-hole that everyone hates. I understand why it happens now, but I can't change the past. I wish people would try to understand me a little better, but I'm not going to hold my breath.

My son will be 30 this year. He is high-functioning autistic and has ADHD as well as anxiety issues and major depression. He is very intelligent and has read the entire Amber series (Roger Zelazny), much of Tolkien's writing, The Count of Monte Cristo, the works of C.S. Lewis, and the list goes on, but he can't learn from a textbook to save his life. I think the current educational system does a very poor job of addressing the needs of those who are not neurotypical. 

I technically also have a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder, but it is my opinion that borderline personality disorder is actually a form of complex PTSD and is an outdated and sexist diagnosis. It is almost exclusively applied to girls and women. Everyone who has it has endured some form of trauma, whether physical, psychological, sexual or a combination thereof. 

~Cie the Ornery Old Lady~

Image copyright Open Clipart Vectors

Come as You Are Party/Catching Up With the Ornery Old Lady

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

Hiya people! I had myself a little bit of a mental breakdown over the past week and went MIA, not, I'm sure, that anyone missed me. I came to one of those crossroads points in my life where I needed to make a critical decision. I'll just let this tentative introduction that I wrote for the book I'm currently working on tell you all about it.

A NEW TAKE ON AN OLD ISSUE

Here's how I will introduce my longer, more involved books from this day forward.

The chapters in my books can be read as standalone short stories or interpreted cohesively as a longer novelette/novella/novel. During the first half of my life, I had a lot of people tell me that my writing would never be good until I was able to make it conform to their ideals. Now that I am in the second half of my life, I refuse to apologize any longer for the way my mind and brain work or to force my writing to conform to rules decreed by others.

I have ADD (attention deficit disorder), type 2 bipolar disorder, and obsessive-compulsive disorder. These factors affect the way my brain processes information and the way I write. While I strive to make my writing concise in its own way and to continually improve my skills, I will never be able to write novel-length stories in a cohesive fashion. My mind simply cannot stop developing subplots.

It came to a point where I realized that I must either stop sharing my work or start sharing it without apologies for the fact that I neither think nor write like other people. I have chosen to share my work with an explanation but no apology.

I write the way I see the Universe as working: in a sometimes seemingly haphazard and disconnected fashion with an unseen thread connecting aspects in surprising ways. As the Tenth Doctor once said, “People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective point of view, it is more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly timey wimey...stuff.”

My stories are a big ball of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff, and I will no longer apologize for that. I will simply issue the warning that you are now entering the Zone Where Normal Things Don't Happen Very Often, as was once revealed on Johnny Bravo.

If that sort of thing really is your bag, Baby, then welcome! Leave your expectations at the door, and come join Team Netherworld for an adventure like no other! You may at times be baffled, but I promise that you will never be bored.

Cie the Ornery Old Lady with a Mind Like a Maze

I would dare you to try and figure me out

But that wouldn't be fair

Because I've never managed to figure myself out!

Check out the latest and greatest from Team Netherworld

Cie's Year-End Wrap-Up 2018

Image copyright Conger Design

I love the above image. Back in the late 1990s, I went to school for one semester for graphic design but dropped out. I didn't know it at the time, but I had untreated type 2 bipolar disorder, OCD, and borderline personality disorder, three exciting co-morbid conditions which happen to feed each other in ways that are just, shall we say, really special. I wouldn't be properly diagnosed until 2004.

When I think of how many years were wasted mired in shame and stigma because I had no idea in this Universe what was going on with me, I thought I was just an attention-seeking fuckup, it makes me very angry. Granted, some of the tools available to me now simply didn't exist when I was younger. E-commerce was in its infancy in the 1990s. There were no smartphones. 

Hell, even GPS was still in its infancy. (I still have my TomTom Go.) The job I have today could not have existed in the 1990s. Back when dinosaurs and Ronald Reagan roamed the Earth in 1984, I delivered pizzas. Even the TomTom Go was as yet unheard of. How the hell my dyslexic ass didn't get lost more often, I'll never know. When I think of trying to do my job without Waze, it gives me that feeling of waking up with a start after a terrible dream and praising whatever powers there might be that the dream isn't real.

So, I didn't initially come here to talk to you about type 2 bipolar disorder, but now that I've thought about it, I want to talk about it. This is how people tend to think of bipolar disorder, and it's a reasonably accurate depiction of type 1 bipolar disorder.

Image Source

The post that the image comes from is worth reading.

The late Patty Duke had type 1 bipolar disorder. She is a personal heroine of mine. Her book, Call Me Anna, helped me understand better the things that I had gone through and to help me forgive myself for some of the truly awful decisions I made while hypomanic. 

Being diagnosed with type 2 bipolar disorder helped me understand why I had seen some features of bipolar disorder in myself but was convinced that I didn't have it because I'd never experienced a full mania. I tended to go from crushingly depressed to positive and overly functional. I never flew off to Vegas and got married to a guy I barely knew or anything of that nature, although I did convince myself several times that the Universe wanted me to be with guys who raised red flags like nobody's business and who, unsurprisingly, turned out to be horrible and abusive.

When I was hypomanic, I would take on second jobs and be the world's greatest employee that everyone loved until everything came crashing down and everyone ended up thinking I was the world's biggest flake and fuckup. I would be mired in depression which felt like being at the bottom of a dark pit that there was no way out of. 

When I would finally, miraculously, find myself pulled out of that pit, I would admonish myself that from now on I would be positive and productive and would never go back THERE again. When I inevitably went back there again, I would shame and berate myself for being a worthless fuckup.

Click to enlarge. 

This is a fairly standard bipolar disorder screening questionnaire. It tends to miss people with type 2 bipolar disorder.

Was there ever a period of time when I wasn't myself? No. I was always myself, although I often didn't like it very much. 

The late Peter Steele of Type O Negative, who had type 1 bipolar disorder, describes reflecting on occasions following a manic episode where he felt that there was something he could have learned from the time in question if only he could remember it. I never experienced anything like that.

I've never presented as talking extremely fast or seeming particularly hyper. I've never slept well anyway, so the "sleeping less than usual" criteria didn't send up any red flags. The late Julia Lennon described having periods where she wouldn't sleep for a week at a time, and doctors didn't know what was wrong with her. She was institutionalized on several occasions.

I did get involved in ill-advised relationships with abusive guys, but I never flew off to Vegas to do so. I took on multiple jobs and then crashed, often losing all of my jobs. When I was good, I was very very good, and when I was bad I was nonfunctional. 

I speak openly about my mental health struggles because I would be very happy if no-one else ever had to fight the way I've had to fight. I've been told that I should keep my psych problems hidden because people would avoid me if they knew I was one of THEM. I was told I would never find a job if people knew I'd been to a therapist. 

I was also told that I was "just being dramatic," that I needed to "stop seeking attention," that I was "just being lazy," and that I brought all my problems on myself with my "negative thinking." I can tell you that none of these criticisms did a damn thing to help me improve my life or to do anything except hide my problems and hate myself because I was never able to develop any decent coping skills for dealing with them until I was in my middle years. At this point, I'm still cleaning up the messes made by attempting to hide my problems, such as a storage unit full of stuff and a mountain of debt.

We've come a long way when it comes to mental illness in Western society, but we haven't come far enough. There is still a tendency to see people with mental issues as less intelligent or less capable or as loose cannons just waiting to explode and harm others. The truth is, people who live with mental illness are more likely to be victims of violence than to perpetrate violence.

There is a tendency to see jobs such as mine as "lesser" and to believe that the working poor, unemployed, and homeless "deserve" to not have basic amenities or a living wage. This needs to end. Everybody deserves the basic amenities, whether or not they are capable of working a "normal" job or at all.

I heard the term "lazy" so many times that I ended up with a terrible complex about taking breaks or doing things that are purely enjoyable and will never turn a profit. I once read a statement from a counselor which said that the term "lazy" should be replaced with "demotivated," because asking a person why they are so lazy shuts down the conversation and thus any chance of helping the person, whereas asking them why they are feeling demotivated leaves the conversation open and may help create a plan for helping them.

Exploitative shows like "Hoarders" should not exist. Like, at all. Capitalizing on people's illness for entertainment is twisted and barbaric. Hoarding is a subtype of obsessive-compulsive disorder. It is the symptom of malfunction in a certain area of the brain. It is not "laziness." Dealing with hoarding tendencies is exhausting, time-consuming, and life-destroying. People with hoarding tendencies need help from a compassionate professional, not a bunch of lookie-loos seeking schadenfreude at another's expense.

My son is helping me deal with the lifetime of hoarding without help contained in my storage units and the closets and spare rooms of the mobile home that I hope to have in a condition where I can think about selling it by the end of next year. With his help, the storage unit, which is about the size of a one-car garage, is 1/3 of the way clear at this point, and we are hoping to have it entirely clear by June of 2019. 

My late father attempted to "help with cleaning," but his help really only traumatized me and made me feel more ashamed, which didn't lead to me keeping up with the process. My son is understanding when I tell him that I can't deal with a certain item at the moment and we'll need to put it aside. We move on to the next thing. He also suggests creating scrapbooks and art from my vast collection of images from magazines, unlike my father, who told me that "anything that lands on the floor needs to be thrown in the garbage."

My father had piles of papers and magazines all over his house. He had OCD with hoarding tendencies too, but he came from an era when one locked their mental health issues in an attic and never spoke of them. This helped nothing, which is why I have come out of the attic and am speaking openly about my struggles.

For years I refused to make New Year's resolutions because I had learned to equate them with "new you in 52" crap, which really benefits no-one but the billion-dollar diet industry. I refuse to have or promote weight loss as a "health goal." 

I spent 33 years in yo-yo dieting hell trying to hate myself thin. There is no way I'm going to endorse that behavior. I'm going batshit at this point with all the blogs in my sidebar promoting "get paid to lose weight" garbage. You'll never see me promoting these things because dieting inevitably fails for everyone but statistical unicorns.

Diets don't work. Health at Every Size works. If you want to start exercising, increase the amount you're exercising, or eat fewer processed foods, great, but do it for overall health, not for weight loss.

We'll all be a "new you in 52" anyway. We'll have new experiences behind us, and many of our cells will have been replaced by new ones. Don't buy into the "new you in 52" crap. It only leads to frustration. Instead, pursue things that will lead to a more authentic you. 

Your authentic you has nothing to do with a number on the scale or even the amount of money in your bank account. It is the you who is true to themselves, which has nothing to do with looks or status at all.

Best wishes in the coming year,

Cie

The Cheese Grates It: Ending the Stigma: Hoarding Disorder

This is a response to a post on The Mighty about what gifts to give and what gifts to avoid giving to a person who is struggling this holiday season.

Do not give a person who struggles with hoarding disorder (a subtype of OCD, NOT laziness, and if you think it is laziness please unfollow me now) things, unless it is something like socks which everyone can use and which are going to wear out. I appreciate money (helps to pay down debt or maybe buy some yarn for my craft projects), gift cards, and socks. Oh, yeah, I wouldn't mind some organizational bins either.

I don't know why I wear out socks so quickly, although, admissibly, some of them do fall victim to the Sock Gnomes. I have a whole bagful of socks which have lost their mates, and I've never figured out where they've gone.

My son and I are working on getting rid of the huge amount of stuff that I accumulated through my years of hoarding disorder which was only treated with blame and shame by those around me, and thus became even worse because it made it a bigger source of anxiety and so my reaction was to stuff things away and not deal with them. We have the storage unit about halfway cleared out and are aimed at having it entirely gone by early next year. 

This has been an enormous struggle for me, and it has pretty much destroyed my life. I'm trying to get my life back so whatever I have left can be spent doing things that are worthwhile rather than struggling with a surplus of stuff.

I still have a shed full of stuff and three spare rooms full of stuff.

I've known people whose hoarding disorder, probably combined with depression, was so severe that even doing basic cleaning was impossible for them. I've been down that low a few times. What didn't help one bit is hearing things like "lazy," and "disgusting." These television programs that exploit people with severe problems for the entertainment of assholes wanking to schadenfreude make me sick. To me, it's like watching someone being tortured or raped to watch those programs. It's disgusting the lows to which people will stoop, where instead of trying to help someone who has a serious problem we point fingers and ridicule them.

Many years ago, I rented out a townhome to a woman who had severe hoarding disorder. I was getting Section 8 payments from the government for allowing her to stay there. She wouldn't allow the inspectors in, and the HOA eventually wrote me a letter threatening to have me thrown in jail if I didn't evict her because there were huge numbers of flies in the windows.

When I got in, the place was beyond a nightmare. There were a few bags of things which were salvageable and which I took to give to the local thrift store to sell. Other than that, everything was trash and there was also dog feces everywhere. For reasons unknown, she had disconnected the pipes under the sink and had slime-covered dishes soaking in two basins in the sink.

This woman had two sons. One had a predilection for violence and eventually ended up in the Fort Logan state mental health center. The other one wasn't violent but he seemed totally "at sea." 

I never hated this woman for what she did. I felt sorry for her. I knew she had a serious mental illness. There was a housekeeper who was sent by the county to help out. (I did have to pay her, but it was at a reduced rate.) She was very disdainful, said she'd been here to help the tenant before, and that all said tenant did was "lie on the couch on her fat lazy ass and apologize for the condition of the place.) The tenant had a heart condition, which is why she was on section 8.

Being disdainful and hateful and exploiting rather than assisting people with a serious disease helps no-one. It is a barbaric society which turns people who are suffering into sideshow entertainment.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

Rage Against

Image by Jesse Dixum +DeviantArt.com 

Locked inside these rotting walls

Trapped in my broken mind

Trying to hold onto something

Anything that matters

With everyone around me telling me

That their way is the better way

With everybody criticizing

What they don't

And can't

And are fortunate not to know

But since you don't know

Don't tell me how

I should think

Or feel

Or be

I have only one choice

That choice is to be what I am

For the rest of this life

I am what you can't be

I am me

Count your blessings that you aren't

And let me be

~Cie~

And with that, I'm probably going to move this sort of thought back over to Crazy Town in Looney Land. It was likely a mistake to combine the mental health stuff with the metaphysical theory, but sometimes the two bleed into each other. As always, I took other people's advice about having too many blogs, need to "simplify," blah blah blah.

Are you OCD plus bipolar plus have psychic input that you're just trying to make sense of? Are you paying me for anything I write? If not, you don't get to tell me how to run my damn ship.

I am in the middle of a rather wretched mixed state, so sue me if I'm being a bitch. You won't get a damn thing out of me as you can't get blood from a stone. 

I'm not going to pretend that I count for a god damn thing on my own merit. I wouldn't even still be here if my son didn't need my help. I'm just trying to get by how I can. So I'm going to categorize things as I see fit, and whoever doesn't like it doesn't have to follow along.

Before you even start to say it, you can shut up about "meds" and "counseling." Meds don't work, other than lithium, which usually works but sometimes shit gets out of balance anyway.

Counseling doesn't work, and I don't have time for it.

I'll go to work, I'll do what I have to do, shit will balance out. In the meantime, if you don't have any sympathetic thoughts, butt the fuck out. I've done this before and will do it again, and again, and again, until this miserable life is over.

I'm pretty sure I know what triggered this. Don't want to talk about it now.

~Cie~

Get To Know The Netherworld Crew: The Real Cie

The theme for Silver Threading's Writer's Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge is Comedy. What does the above picture have to do with comedy? It doesn't, it has to do with me, The Real Cie, the butt of the Universe's cruel jokes. We'll get to that.
I created the above picture to be included in a mass email for the birthday of Jared Padalecki, the actor who plays Sam Winchester on Supernatural. Jared lives with depression, and he created the Always Keep Fighting charity to raise awareness. There's something about Jared. More on people with "something about them" later in the post.
Yes, the tattoo is the permanent kind.

Am I doing this right? I don't know. Will they like me? Probably not. A few people do, but most people don't understand where I'm coming from at all. Nor do they get my sense of humor.
In this post, I refer to myself in both first and third person. Referring to me as I am now, I always use first person. Referring to my past self or the fictionalized version of myself, I will use either first or third person. I tend not to edit posts of this nature too much, because I want to preserve the emotional rawness.

I've never fit in. I was badly bullied. I had a serious mental illness (I have three diagnoses, actually: Bipolar disorder type 2, Borderline Personality Disorder, and Obsessive-compulsive disorder) that was improperly diagnosed until I was nearly 40. There was always something different about me. People saw that and wanted to destroy it. I wasn't pretty, I was socially awkward. I tried to make people like me, but they didn't. I started self-injuring when I was in my early teens. I made my first suicide attempt at age 13 by swallowing a bottle of aspirin.

Because I was raised Catholic, I believed that committing suicide was a sin that would get you sent to hell. Because sending a person who was already suffering to hell makes a lot of sense, right? Not here to argue theology, but that idea is a crock of shit, as is the idea that people who commit suicide are "selfish" or "stupid." Suicide may be "a permanent end to a temporary problem," or it may in fact be not a permanent end to a lifelong problem. Pithy sayings don't work on serious issues.
"This is really fucking depressing, Real Cie," you're saying. "When are you going to get to the comedy part?"
The prompt mentions Robin Williams.

Mork is one of the friends I turned to when real life was too painful.
I was a writer from the time I was very young. I was precocious and learned to read at a first grade level when I was four years old. I'm not saying this to brag about how smart I was, because I don't really think I'm that smart overall. I was in the top percentile for the English category when I took my SAT's. I have some sort of gift in the English comprehension and writing areas, but I've never learned to use it in a way that appeals to most people. I'd like to thank my bipolar disorder for that.
I always had a real sense for the absurd as well. I could find bits of humor in the oddest places. Other people didn't get it. I used it to survive.
Young Me used her literary and metaphysical gifts to escape to an alternate world. Unlike the world I was living in, this world was filled with fun and friends.
I didn't know it then, but I was an empath who could pick up on other people's emotions. I wish I could have known Robin Williams in life. I think that Real Cie and Robin would have been friends, just like Cie in my stories and Mork were friends. That's what I like to think.

This became Mork and Cie's favorite band after one of Cie's few friends' older brothers played their music and Cie said "wow, who's that?"
Keep in mind that in the 1970's, there was no public Internet. Young Cie had to go into record shops and look for imported magazines to find out more about her new favorite band. She liked doing research anyway, and liked pretending to be a detective.
If you see evil rather than humor when looking at the above picture, you need to adjust your perspective. I'm still gobsmacked that anyone could have thought of these men as "evil."
Cie liked AC/DC not only for the music, but because, like her, they were outcasts and freaks who used their sense of humor both to cope and to entertain others. They didn't like people who bullied other people. There was also "something about them."
I didn't know it yet, but "something about them" means "walking wounded."

Even at ten years old, when I was watching Star Trek reruns I really resonated with the Empath character, Gem. I didn't know it yet, but it was because, like her, I take on other people's pain. I don't get physical manifestations, and, unfortunately, I can't do psychic healing on a physical level.
This plane is purgatory, and this world is in a lot of pain. I used and still use my sense of the Ridiculous to cope, and most people don't get it. I've suffered a lot of derision because of it.
I still do it because the Pissed Off Crusader for Justice in me doesn't want me to destroy who I am to please other people. I've tried it several times. I almost didn't survive. I won't do it again.
I think that many people who express themselves through comedy use comedy as a coping mechanism. Like me, they have been bullied, or they suffer with a mood disorder such as depression or bipolar disorder. Seeing the ridiculous helps us survive. Often we try to make the world a better place. Sadly, it doesn't really seem to work.
This doesn't mean we shouldn't try, though. If we make the world a somewhat better place for a few people, it's worth it.
I've got more to say, much more. But the foam mat on my bed has slipped sideways and it's really irritating me, so I need to fix it.
Did I mention that I have OCD?
I have to joke about my mental illnesses, because otherwise I'd go crazy!
I'll be here all week. Also, for the rest of my life.

~Cie~

Cross-posted to:

Crazy Creatives Cheerleading Camp

Encyclopedia Netherworld

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