I just really hate everything and everyone right now.  Suddenly I understand why people choose retreat to a life of solitude in mountain caves.

I spent my first week in hospital being depressed.  I spent the second week being manic.  I will have the rehab diaries detailing both up soon, I promise.  But now things have come full circle and I seem to be the way I was when I came in.  Really.  Fucking.  Shitty.

I just hate humans.  Can’t stand them.  Don’t want to be around them.  Don’t want to see them.  Don’t want to hear or talk to or see any evidence of us sharing oxygen.

Oh I’m sorry, does that sound unreasonable?  Well I regret to inform you that this is a vent and if you have a problem with me sharing my pent up emotions on the internet I can’t help but wonder what the fuck you think people do on the internet between porn vids?

I have no tolerance.  None.  Can’t seem to open my mouth without effs and cees pouring out.  (Or type apparently…) The ward is closed over Christmas, they haven’t been admitting any new patients so you would think an easily socially exhausted person like me would be loving it.  A maximum 65 patient facility only housing 19 patients.  Actually I’m the only one on this side of the ward.  But am I grateful?

Ha.  Ha.  Is Pepsi a superior form of cola?

I’m hiding in my room all day because every time I see or hear people I get so annoyed I have an anxiety attack.

Think very, very hard about the implications of what I just said.

Not because I’m scared of them.  Because I’m scared of myself.  They annoy me SO.  FUCKING.  MUCH.  I just want to scream at them detailing all the ways they’ve failed at life that I’ve inferred from overheard conversations and them sharing at group therapy  (which I stopped going to because every time I try sharing these fuckers talk over me) and why it is totally their fault so stop blaming everyone else.  I’d do it too.   I’m smart, educated and much better at using these privileges for evil rather than good.

And yes, I do get the odd violent intrusive thought that I’m not detailing here just because my therapist may or may not be stalking this blog.

(If you are reading this, no I’m not going to act on them.  I am perfectly clear on what happens if I do.  But I am getting the thoughts.)

People with personality disorders are intrusive.  They have no boundaries.  They think they can just come up to their next victim you and start telling you about their lives.  I also have a personality disorder, plus I am on the spectrum which means that I have ALL THE BOUNDARIES.  I don’t give a flying fuck about your life and prefer to do as much interaction on the internet as possible, thankyouverymuch.

But apparently my Resting Bitch Face, which I got so much grief from the staff about on previous admissions has resolved itself and something about me says “I am a pleasant, non judgemental human being!  Please tell me all about your problems and why it’s everyone else’s fault but yours!”


I can’t deal, ok?  I can’t pretend to be annoyed because it’s nine and the nurses usually give you your meds at eight and don’t they know you’ve got places to be.  Well you’re still in your fucking nightie so those places can clearly wait.  My meds are late too, but I’m trying busy myself until they arrive by showing some compassion to the understaffed nurses who are fighting an uphill battle to satisfy both management and 19 dickhead patients who all think their needs are above the other 18.

I can’t pretend to appreciate being looked to as the diagnostic authority on autistic spectrum disorders, which as an adult with Aspergers comes up way more often than you’d think it does.  Even when you haven’t told anyone that you have it, apparently them opening that conversation is still ok Oh you think your four year old has Aspersgers, why is that…?  Because he’s, like, super into aliens.

…WUT.  That it?  Really?  He’s making friends at preschool ok?  His co-ordination and eye contact is good?  It’s just the alien thing?  Yes I suppose if all the other mums at play group are being asked for Ben 10 action figures for Christmas and you’re being asked for alien crystals that is embarrassing but hardly grounds for a behavioural diagnosis.

I can’t take any more stupid right now

No I don’t want to hear you bitch about your dopey husband, who is the saddest looking person I’ve ever seen by the way.  The whole hospital has had to listen to you bitch about your husband this morning, every morning actually.  Every part of every day you’re shouting, sorry talking about something because that’s just the way you talk.

Yeah, the way you talk?  Is shouting.  And jarring.  And the reason you clear the room faster than a fart in a crowded elevator.

The latter delightful human singled me out as her prey buddy this morning when I decided that I wanted to do a puzzle but was told I had to do it in the dining hall because SOCIAL INTERRACTION.  It didn’t matter that I was clearly absorbed in this task, that I had headphones in, unfortunately I was sitting on my own when she decided to come in and shout about her life for the next hour.

She does this every day at precisely 10.30 am until lunch time, shouting into the air, looking for someone to hook into and talk directly to while everyone pointedly avoids her eye line.  I pointedly ignored her when she sat at my table and let the shouting commence, answered her phone, shouted into it then shouted about the call afterwards.

After about ten minutes of this I could take no more and left my puzzle, asking a nearby nurse if it was time for my blood pressure to be taken.  Luckily she was so on the same page and whisked me away to safety.  My puzzle lies abandoned on the table hours later because I am not putting myself in that position again.

Now, more on noise.  I don’t know what it is with people in private clinics finding so fucking difficult to use headphones but it needs to change or some people are getting smothered in their sleep (Dear therapist, I’m exaggerating, obvi!) Currently I find myself exerting some serious self-control about some selfish fucking bitch who thinks it’s acceptable to wander the halls playing her terrible Jessie J music on her phone full blast and sing full blast, off key of course.  At first I thought she was having an episode but it’s become clear that she just doesn’t give a fuck.

Fuck her.  I intend to keep putting in noise complaints until that stops

I wanted out of the circus to clear my head, before I did or said something regrettable – like, say, any of the above – and so I went on leave for a bit.  My parents came to pick me up and on the ride home the conversation turned to my recovery over the last few years.  Well, at least I think that’s how my mother would remember it.

What I remember is being blithely reminded how the whole family’s lives sucked five years ago and it was 100% all my fault.  When I tried to point out that yes, while behavioural therapy has done a lot for me, the family has also made headway in being understanding of me and my boundaries, I was told NUP.  Definitely you.  All you.  You were the problem, you’ve been mostly fixed.  As usual, my dad was notably silent.

These talks happen regularly and I do believe she thinks she is doing me a favour.  She keeps asking “remember when you used to tell me there’s something wrong with me?” one day I’m going to snap and go “well there is, it’s called a victim complex.  YOU NEED THERAPY”

But there’s no fucking point.  I’m the one with the personality disorder, I’m the one that likes to blame everyone else for my problems.  I don’t deny that I was a miserable piece of shit as a young adult but them admitting that there was at least a 95/5 percent contribution ratio to household drama between me and the rest of the family would be supremely validating.

Oh who am I kidding, I’m still a miserable piece of shit.

Are the drugs not working?  Do I need more therapy?  Is this just my personality?  My current tactic is still avoid, avoid, avoid.  I’m wearing noise control headphones to shut everyone out.  I stopped wearing bright colours because people were using my clothes as an excuse to talk to me.

I can just avoid people forever right?

Are those crickets?  Am I hearing crickets?

Damn, that’s what I thought.




Mac’s Christmas Favourites

Christmas isn’t as triggering for me as some, but it does tend to be an general overload on the senses.  When I’m feeling overwhelmed to the point that I can’t even open my mouth because I know my barely verbal 12 year old self will come out, I take solace in these cult Christmas classic tunes.


  1. Mean girls – the jingle bell rock dance

Ok if you were a kid in the 2000s you know you tried to learn this dance, guys and girls.  And maybe still do it in front of the mirror after too much moscato.  You may have even performed it at a talent show like these babes did.


2.  The school concert in Love Actually

This moment where little Sam gets his chance to impress Marceline the vampire queen Joanna by learning the drums so he can perform with her before she moves to the USA is the only part of the film I remember clearly, even though I watch it every year.  That and a twerking prime minister.


3.  The Tweenies – I believe in Christmas


Ok it’s hardly a cult classic but this song makes me happy, all right? Don’t judge me.


4.  The Glee Cast – You’re a mean one, Mr Grinch

I suppose it’s not exactly joyful as such.  But it’s sung by K.D Lang and Matthew Morrison.  They make me joyful.

This song is fun to listen to, not just musically but for the lyrics, with the last line being the cherry on the top of the linguistic glory:

“You’re a three-decker sauerkraut And toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce!”

How can you not freaking ADORE that?


5.  Team four star: 12 Days of Abridgemas

It’s a dragonball Z themed 12 days of Christmas parody of course, which pertains to Team four star’s abridged dragonball z parody series more than dragonball z but would still be relatable.  Although if you’re a fan of DBZ and haven’t heard of Team Four Star, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE?



6.  Yamcha the scarfaced bandit

Another parody by one of the creaters of Team Four Star, to the tune of Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer.  Basically it’s a song that sends up Yamcha, the most hard done by character in the show.  You don’t have to follow Team Four Star to appreciate that.


7.  Futurama – Santa claus is gunning you dowwwwwwn!




51 Things that Mac really wants for Christmas

Because I’m pretty sure I’m getting a doona set.

This article is a response Elite Daily’s article 51 things a single 25 year old single girl really wants for Christmas.

Ms Martin, I regret to inform you that this ache in your soul that can only be soothed with a hefty dose of body positivity and addressing those dependency issues.  If you bring a man into the mix right now you’re just going to create a host of new problems, take it from someone who knows.

You want a ‘man to blow my mind and a suppressed appetite to fit into those jeans you should have bought me instead.’  Speak for yourself, missy.

These are the 51 things this 25 year old really wants for christmas.  However note that I don’t disagree with her on all counts:

  1. My 12 year old ability to feel refreshed on three hours sleep
  2. Dudes who message me wanting to hook up to be both upfront and polite
  3. To feel comfortable wearing ass hugging pants
  4. MOAR money, less effort
  5. For my mother to not act like my adventure time t shirts are the sole reason I’m failing at life
  6. Netflix.  In Australia.  Yeah its coming but will it be without limitations?  Doubtful!
  7. To not be made to feel more disposable with age
  8. Acohol that makes my ex boyfriends grovel to me more often
  9. More travel
  10. Appreciation for my sparkling porcelain complexion instead of being shamed as ‘pasty.’  Why glow when you can sparkle, amirite.
  11. Being able to feel bad about how that dick from high school died of rapid ALS
  12. To be able to unfollow my 14 year old cousin on instagram so I could stop being unnerved by the borderline soft core lesbian porn she seems to think it’s cute to re-enact with her friends.  So not worth the drama though.
  13. Guilt and consequence free sex with that dickhead ex-lover who was amazing in bed
  14. For shanking street harassers to be legal
  15. To have the pelvic strength to fire blood clots ping-pong balls at people who don’t unserstand why my periods make me miss work/school/parties/sport.  It’s called endometriosis, assholes.  Look it up.
  16. Pain free tattoos
  17. For people to stop trying to make ‘superfoods’ happen.
  18. For people to stop asking me to like fanpages for their dogs.
  19. To be able to eat a nutritous balanced diet by only eating cake
  20. For my married friends to not turn into the pillar of relationship knowledge as soon as they have a ring on their finger.
  21. No writer’s block
  22. Guilt free torrenting
  23. To be able to change my hair colour at will
  24. For my boyfriend to respond to my efforts to teach him massage skills
  25. To wear scene hair without worrying whether or not I’m too old for it
  26. To be able to work through my angst by belting out related songs glee-style
  27. For my grandmother’s dementia to go away
  28. Neck down alopecia, not because I buy into letting porn stars direct my hair styles but because the horrors of the sudden intense itch prompted by being stabbed in the labia by a rogue pube which only ever happens in a public place is a situstion I’d really rather not deal with ever again
  29. Not crying and fainting every time I have those regular blood tests I’ve been having for years
  30. A blog following like Amanda bynes on twitter to appreciate my crazy
  31. That rubix cube hand bag I saw at supernova 2011 and didn’t buy for some reason and haven’t been able to track down
  32. A jumping castle bed
  33. For my man to be able to grow a luscious ginger beard
  34. Unlimited travel sounds good actually…
  35. Being able to attend One Direction concerts a) without shame and b) with a 2 metre personal space bubble that repels crazy twelvies
  36. Bacon every day
  37. Relationships without WORK
  38. One week where carbs didn’t make it impossible to poop
  39. cheese that goes to my boobs
  40. All the guac in the world
  41. All the moscato in the world
  42. Culinary skills
  43. Green juice without the work
  44. Squats without pain
  45. Heels that don’t wreck your feet
  46. To undo the damage 10 years of caffeine addiction has done my bladder
  47. Hair that is both naturally voluminous and flippy
  48. Being able to apply winged eyeliner and false eyelashes without a freaking meltdown
  49. To be able to transform into either a sailor scout or a super saiyan
  50. A spacious home like mum and dad’s without the decades of hard work to afford it
  51. A swimming pool sized spa bath

Merry Christmas


The Rehab Diaries: Getting the Referral

I had an appointment on a Wednesday.   The sole purpose of this appointment was to get me a referral to this private rehabilitation clinic which I’ve been umming and ahhing over whether I should go to for a few months.

It occurred to me that if I’d been thinking consistently for months with no signs of stopping, it was time to cut my losses and go.  My depression was intense for that whole time it felt like, and then I’d gone the other way and was a mess of raw nerves.  The mood stabilisers clearly weren’t doing their jobs.

So I had my appointment.  Then on Tuesday afternoon, the receptionist called me to say that my doctor had cancelled all her appointments, and would it be ok if she scheduled me with someone else?

Well, FUCK.

Continue reading

Kitty Flanagan Says Santa Isn’t Real, Enrages Lying Liars Who Lie

After a bit of ad- libbing on The Project from comedian Kitty Flanagan,  thousands of enraged parents have taken to twitter to demand that she apologise for being an honest, trustworthy human being. Here’s the offending clip:


The cat’s out of the bag.  How are we going to convince our children to behave if they don’t believe that creepy old stalker isn’t watching them around the clock?


Here’s a novel idea… how about we STOP FUCKING LYING TO OUR KIDS?

Because if Santa is reduced to just a legend like, say the Grimm fairy tales have been in this day and age, none of this is a problem.

Parents, those of you who have young kids may be under the illusion that you can keep this convenient Santa story going forever.  Newsflash:  you can’t.  Kids are often more intuitive than we give them credit, they do figure out that you lied sooner rather than later.

And let’s not pretend that there’s no benefit for you to keep the ‘magic’ alive for as long as possible.  No I’m not going to make any more cracks about lazy parenting – heck I’m not Mark Latham – but I think it’s a bit rich that mums and dads are getting their panties in a knot in the name of maintaining innocence when they should be calling it maintaining the ability to be manipulated.

“Mac, seriously you need to chill out.  I don’t appreciate being called a bad parent because I’m just trying to make Christmas fun for my kids!”

Hey now, when did I call you a bad parent?  I called you a liar, sure.  Because you did.

I don’t doubt that all these parents have the best of intentions but I think that all too often we avoid thinking about the possibility of a tradition perpetuating terrible life lessons because, well, TRADITION.

My parents certainly never meant for our personal Santa palava to go as far as it did, and in the end I don’t think the heartache – yes, heartache – for me was worth it.

So, like most children on the spectrum I was on the naive side.  The Santa facade went on way longer than in the average family, until I was ten, nearly eleven years old.  The other kids at school had long cottoned on and teased me mercilessly but I just laughed them off.  I pitied them and their fickle, easily swayed nature.  After all, how dreadful must their parents be if they could believe that they’d lie to them so maliciously?  My mother would never do such a thing.

But eventually, despite my willingness to believe, the words of my classmates, every single one, started to get to me.  My sister, two years younger started to disbelieve as well which well and truly planted a seed of doubt in my mind.  I plaintively asked my mother a couple of times and she encouraged me to keep believing.  Looking back, I realise that she sensed the inevitable meltdown and needed time to mentally prepare for it.

The tipping point came when I was rummaging through my mother’s wardrobe for hidden chocolates when I happened across a bag of wrapped presents, tagged for my sisters and I from Santa.  My stomach knotted as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.  Presents are kept at the north pole.  How could they be there, and in mum’s wardrobe at the same time?

My heart raced as I scrambled to find my mother.  When I told her what I found she went deathly white, and I pleaded with her to give a plausible explanation. I don’t remember what she said except that she made it clear that the illusion had to end then and there.

I was distraught.

As I raced into my room and threw myself onto my bed in floods of tears, Mum followed me and assured me that we could still make Christmas magical. And she was right.  We did everything we usually did.  We exchanged gifts.  I had fun picking out something for my family members that they would enjoy.  Mum took us shopping to pick toys to donate to less fortunate children.  We went to church with Nana to sing carols and make christingles.  We had our extended family over and ate more food than was good for us.

I learned that Santa was completely unnecessary for what Christmas is about.  Appreciating family.  Enjoying giving to others.  Celebrating the birth of Christ.  If I have children they will be celebrating all these aspects of Christmas with me but they will not be lied to.

Because what else did I learn from the Santa experience?  My parents don’t always have the best intentions.  Sometimes they just enjoy fucking with me for their own amusement. I learnt that this so called maintaining innocence is not a wonderful thing after all.  It allows you to be taken advantage of.  If my parents are so invested trying to keep me innocent, who knows what else they are trying to pull!

Standing firm in what you believe in used to be an admirable quality in my mind.  In this situation it lead to humiliation.  Now I get insecure over opinions that a lot of people disagree with, which is a problem because this applies to pretty much all social justice concepts.  I’m afraid to stand up for myself, or others, because I’m terrified of the possibility of being wrong!

Just…don’t fuck with your kids, ok? There is no need.  None.

So please stop blaming Kitty Flanagan for ripping off this unnecessarily placed bandaid that was slowing peeling off anyway.

Or you are so going on my naughty list.


All About That Parody

As I’ve been binge watching Bart Baker parodies lately, when he mentioned that he was going to be doing this one, I was beside myself.

“Wow I’m just playing, don’t hate me ‘cos I’m fat!”

“You’re actually normal, every inch of you is perfect stop acting like a victim!”

“yeah my mama she told me that being big is sexy

And it turns on men which totally validates me.” (“makes me feel pretty!”)

“I thought this song was supposed to be about loving you for you…” “It is!!!”

“So why are you basing your self worth off of pleasing dudes?” “…”


Totally on point.

Of course I still enjoy this song, and I don’t think that’s wrong but I’m not going to back off it because OMG SHE REALLY TRIED OK.

Yes she did, but Meghan Trainor is a product of her upbringing and cultural background, which as far as I can tell is very similar to my own. This song is an embodiment of all the verbal microagressions that we have come to accept as acceptable when talking about body image, to say nothing of the problematic mixing of body image, self worth and pandering to male approval.

When I was younger I probably would have died on a hill defending All About That Bass just because I see so much of myself in Trainor as she presents herself relating to her body in the song.  By calling Trainor problematic, you’re calling me problematic because that’s how I talk about myself, and that’s how all women around me talk themselves so how could we all be wrong?

These days I’m not in a hurry to run from that label.  Hells yeah I’m problematic.  I only said those things because I hated myself and was trying to convince other people not to.  The other women say that because they’re insecure.  Besides if I’m not problematic, what am I instead?  Someone who is completely devoid of any prejudice and societal programming?

That would be thinking far too highly of myself



Mark Latham: Mentally Ill and In Denial

Wow. I go away for a week and come back to just about ten things I personally feel the need to address, but anyway.

I don’t know a whole lot about this guy except that he tried to be prime minister that one time when I was a kid and it didn’t work out so well, which he blames – repeatedly, even ten years later – on everyone else in politics. Apparently he’s fallen into the role of a stay at home parent since then, and has been writing the odd column on the side.

So I guess that means Mark Latham is a mummy blogger now. And it seems that he’s discovered the click bait staple of those mummy bloggers that give the genre a bad name – establishing superiority over other mummies. Especially those who work, what up Lisa Pryor?  His titillatingly titled column for the Australian Financial Review “Why feminists don’t like children” has caused outrage due to his character assassination of the poor woman over her admission to taking anti depressants.

Well I’m not a mummy blogger but I can point fingers and cast shade with the best of them. You want to give out unsolicited parenting and medical advice, Marky-boy? You see nothing wrong with that? Great! Let’s see if you can take what you give.

Mark Latham, you are overwhelmed. You are depressed. You are grieving your lack of relevance and lack the distress tolerance needed to process that grief. You clearly hold sexist views so being a man taking on a stereotypically female role must make you feel inadequate. You want us to believe you are unemployed by choice but are you really? Who will give Mark Latham, best known for a spectacularly failed political career, a job? Getting Mrs Latham a job was probably easier.

You are not well and you NEED TO GET HELP. For the sake of those children who you apparently take such delight in. Will you ‘cop out,’ give up the ghost and sort yourself out to be the best parent you can be for those precious boys? Because people like you, people with issues who refuse to get help for reasons of ego tend to produce some fantastically fucked up children. A lot of people I’ve been in hospital with have fathers who talk like you do.

How do you think the boys will feel when they grow up, Mark? That they weren’t worth you getting over your misguided sense of pride and getting help so they could have had an emotionally stable father? Surely that’s worse than finding out that your mum relied on antidepressants so she could be that loving, present parent that you remember so fondly.

I suppose I should explain what led me to draw this conclusion.

Like most privileged humans you not only have trouble admitting that you aren’t bulletproof, you also feel the need to demonise those that do and maddeningly seem to win at life doing it. Unfortunately unlike most privileged humans, you an available platform to spew misinformed hate to the masses.

Let’s talk about Lisa Pryor. Respected journalist turned doctor? The woman is an achievement machine. And while I’m not familiar with what Mrs Latham does, I think most Australians are familiar with the works of Pryor’s husband Julian Morrow. Despite being having such a busy partner the baby maker has the cheek to pursue not one career, but two!

And you?  You’re unemployed. A house husband. A stay at home parent. For someone who is apparently so content and proud of your position in life, you were oddly vague in describing exactly what that position specifically entails.

Haven’t we been calling you crazy for years? Forgive the ableism, that isn’t the word I would use. But as a fellow ‘crazy’ I’ve noticed there are certain…behaviours that you have in common with the average left feminist behavioural therapy patient.

You were left angry with everyone after your exit from politics, even with the discipline itself.  Intensely so, years later. To the point where you allow your personal agendas get in the way of your career, when you might have had one. Does the word devaluation mean anything to you, Mark? How about dysphoria?

But let’s face it, escaping federal politics with your sanity intact seems to involve interpersonal skills that you don’t have.   For example: something you seem to struggle with a lot? Distress tolerance.

A lot.

Yeah. A lot.

That’s not normal, Mark.

And let’s talk about where you tried to create some precarious argument as to why Pryor’s depression is proof of a feminist conspiracy theory to destroy the family unit…um, that’s called paranoid delusion. Characteristic of a manic or mildly psychotic episode. Don’t worry Mark, we can fix that. Maybe you’ll find mood stabilisers more acceptable than anti-depressants?

I didn’t want to make this a feminist issue, Mark. I know you find such debate tiresome and it’s obvious that on an academic level you are out of your depth there. Let’s face it, that word was only thrown in so that you could do this:

He can’t stop, no he won’t stop

And hey, it worked. You’re bigger than Superbowl! But at what cost? Do you really belong in the public eye while your personality disorder is running out of control? Boundaries, Mark. They matter.

You can feel better, if you choose to. If you choose, your anger will disappear. You could stop feeling like everyone is out to get you. If you choose.

And no, by choosing I don’t mean just ‘getting over it’ or changing your attitude. I’m asking about committing yourself long term to questioning everything you’ve accepted as appropriate and necessary interpersonally. If that means picking up a diagnosis of clinical depression or a cluster B personality disorder along the way, so be it. Anything to be the best father you can be, right?

Ok, that was far too politically correct for your liking. Let me put that in a way that you can understand, Mark.




What I’m into this week #2

Watching: Paranormal activity, oooooo!

It was Halloween, this is what we chose as our spooky movie. This movie could have been terrifying if my friends weren’t offering ‘hilarious’ fandubs of the demon all the way through. Seriously though, for a film that must have cost like ten dollars to make, it was very well done.

Working on: nail art.

If you’re following me on Instagram (and if you’re not – why? BE MY FWEND!) or if you just take a cursory glance to the right side of this page you can see that I’ve been painting my nails a lot lately. It has been my favourite mindfulness activity for over a decade and the quality of my mental health is inversely proportional to the quality of the nail art. When I’m doing well, I have no time for anything but plain colours. Last week I sat down to do an adventure time test wheel. It took ages and I’m not sure I would ever do it on my hand but it still looks good I think.

Following: The Honey Boo Boo drama.


I said last week that reality stars gone rogue was my favourite topic to read about but this has gone beyond trainwreck into truly upsetting territory.

For the uninitiated, the hit reality show “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” was abruptly cancelled when the show’s matriarch was snapped hanging out with a convicted child molester. Who molested a relative of hers. That relative being her oldest daughter who came forward and identified herself, because really it was only a matter of time before she was outed by a tabloid journalist after Radar Online got hold of the police report.

The pictures of Mama June with this man keep coming, often with the titular Alana ‘honey boo boo’ in tow. First June was saying that he was just her friend, then she was saying they were photoshopped but it wasn’t adding up. Anna did a tv interview talking about the betrayal she was feeling and then had her 14 year old sister call her a liar. More digging into the background of these characters was done.

It’s been known that the Shannon/Thompson clan had a shady past – personally I’ve reserved judgement until now because to me it speaks of a class based culture I’m not informed enough to comment on – but what I didn’t know was that a pregnant Anna only returned to the Thompson household for the sake of the show. I’d always thought Anna looked healthier than her sisters and no, I don’t mean because she’s not overweight. She just generally looks brighter and not totally exhausted all the time. Which is funny considering she’s the one running around after a toddler.

As I said it’s truly upsetting. I was amongst those that used to defend these people as harmless, fun loving rednecks but it’s now obvious that this family has some deep rooted demons.

Youtubing: Bart Baker parodies

I just discovered these and I’m obsessed. These are my two favourites:

“What rhymes with funny?” “A LOT OF STUFF, IDIOT!”

Bart makes a great Robin Thicke actually. Much better singer too.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m not 12, but I find these guys so much cuter than 1 D. And fangirls don’t bother getting riled up, I have a feeling that if 1D did see this they’d find it hilarious.

Next week…hopefully I’ll be reading/watching something more intellectual.


Topamax. It ain’t tops


Things haven’t been great for awhile, so my doctor decided to mix up my medication.

 I’d been subsisting on a mood stabilizer and melatonin antidepressant to regulate my sleep. She was iffy over the melatonin and suggested removing it. I cried. She changed her mind.

 She did decide to supplement my mood stabilizer with another one – topiramate, or topamax. I take an extra pill, tiny pill that must be no more than three millimeters across, every morning and evening.

 She took me through the potential side effects, of which one really stood out –

 Appetite suppressant.

 See, in my experience that should read as:

 Heinous nausea.

 I wasn’t too worried otherwise, because my current mood stabilizer didn’t give me any side effects even in the beginning worse than some broken sleep and mild constipation.

 The day after the night I started, we had a party in the evening and I was running around trying to clean the house in dreadful heat. If I was feeling washed out that day, I put it down to that.

 The next day though I hit the wall hard. Well, I would have if I’d been able to get out of bed. Heinous nausea did indeed make an appearance. After the first few days it’s reduced to being around only three hours after I take it but trying to fall asleep feeling like I’ve just downed a three course meal is a challenge.

 My mood was stabilized all right. Stabilized in a very bad place.

 My depression over the past two weeks has been dreadful. I spent hours in bed staring at the ceiling, with even my thoughts slowing to a plodding pace. Plodding over things that happened ages ago that are suddenly at the forefront of my mind and I can’t get them out, trying just wears me to tears.

 On top of that I’ve been getting headaches. Which is ironic because as well as mood stabilization topamax is supposed to stop migraines. I’ve never had a migraine in my life and I hardly think that these are as bad but they’re still nasty. Paracetamol and ibuprofen don’t help. And funnily enough it’s localized to where that bloody Frisbee attacked me…

 I saw my GP a few days after I started and as soon as I slouched into her office she told me she was concerned. The fact that I was low – more specifically that I hadn’t showered in some time – was clearly evident.

 I told her I had started topamax and she looked surprised. “Topiramate? I’ve only ever seen that used for seizures” – I raised my eyebrows – “but these psychiatrists always find alternative uses for drugs in practice I’ve found.” She added quickly. “come and see me in a week, if you’re still feeling gross I’ll give Dr *psychiatrist* a call”

 I continued to be low with bouts of irritation that haven’t gone away. I can’t leave the house, except near the middle of the night to do my grocery shopping. I can’t stand the sound, sight, touch of people. I fought off intrusive thoughts compelling me to commit violent acts toward my self and other people. This is a symptom I associate with a manic episode.

 I’m not sure if my out of control moods are as a result of the meds not working yet, of them not working at all, or of them interacting and cancelling each other out. After a particularly violent episode of intrusive imagery I left a message for my psychiatrist asking for emergency advice. I will put up with a lot while adjusting to new meds but being bombarded with violent imagery isn’t something I want to deal with for too long if I possibly don’t have to. As yet, I haven’t heard back from her.

 I saw my GP again yesterday and happened to have the first good day I’d had in two weeks. So she’s decided that I’m doing better. Now I’m back down again and no idea where this is going.

 I’m still certain that this is going to cumulate in a hospital visit and I’m ok with that. This medication business needs to be sorted out…not once and for all because it doesn’t work like that but at least for a long stretch.



Update: Turns out you can be both depressed and concussed

If you recall, about three weeks ago I had an unfortunate altercation with a Frisbee on a morning run.

I was wondering if the abnormally low mood even by my standards that resulted was in fact a concussion symptom, or purely coincidental.  Not that it was overly serious but still, it bugged me.

Last week during a routine visit to my GP I casually mentioned what I had been speculating and she confirmed that depression after a concussion is, in fact, a thing.

Welp.  There you go.

A fairly insidious lesser known concussion symptom, depression can apparently appear even in patients with no prior history with mental illness.  Something to keep in mind if it happens to you, I guess.