Ocdbloggergirl's Blog: OCD, Life, and Other Misunderstandings

More Mental Malaise, Less Donald Trump

Rambles of Lisa — October 5, 2018

Rambles of Lisa

Signed a new lease on the 2nd, which marks six years of living alone. When that time of the year rolls around I’m always terrified that they’ll say they don’t want ‘Cat Lady’ anymore. The thing I worry about the worst is being homeless or losing agency over myself.

I have a teacher from back when I was 6 who wants me to come live with her two states away because she’s still obsessed with me. She hasn’t seen me since age 8 and has tons of “Lisa memorabilia.” She must still see me as 8 or less. She means well, but I can discern her Evangelical need to save me from being a liberal, a social justice warrior, and only a mainline Christian. The thought of having to suppress myself is horrifying. I think the first time I drop something and say the F bomb or GD it, she’d realize her mistake in thinking I’m still my pure 7 years-old self. I always say, “No, thank you. I’m happy with my life here, but I really appreciate it.” My mom, were she still alive, would be concerned about her like she was when I was young.

In other news, my best friend and I thought we heard gunshots while we were feeding strays. It must not have been shots though, because Deputy Doughnut n’ crew took their time to bother responding, circled around my neighborhood disaffected, and left. I was moderately scared. By the end of it all, I felt it was like being in Vanilla Ice’s video:

Vanilla Ice: Gunshots rang out like a bell.

Me: OK.

So yeah, I was moderately afraid and shielded my friend by putting my massive frame in front of where the gun sound came from. We laid on the ground and she called the cops. I personally just wanted to get the hell out of there, my flight mechanism in full on ‘haul ass’ mode. Then we hurried over to the handicapped ramp and hid for awhile. So, it must have been a car backfiring. I’d have given the experience a 8 out of 10 stars in the anxiety department, because as my mind works, ” Being shot isn’t as bad as the fear of being homeless.” I felt pretty stupid, and was grateful that the cops didn’t feel obliged to stop and talk to us. There’s some drugs in my complex, but as far as I know, no one’s ever been shot here. You have to go about a mile or so to get to a neighborhood where people get shot, really. I could imagine the cops laughing at the cat ladies as they went by. “Hysterical biddies,” I imagine them saying to each other. So yeah, unless someone’s bleeding out, I won’t be calling.

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Risperidone Perdition — August 24, 2018

Risperidone Perdition

My brain feels a bit foggy. Hopefully this is a temporary thing. While I’m trying to pass it off as merely sepsis, early onset dementia, and/or Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, I am concerned my brain is just gourded. I am doing better, so that’s a problem. Maybe I’m just nervous. Even with three psychotropic drugs in my system, I still imagine disaster around the corner. A spark in the back of my brain always feels unease. Sometimes it’s just an ember barely glowing, sometimes it’s five alarm….but the point is, it never really leaves. A friend says she wouldn’t want anything in her system that messes with her personality. “But I’m doing better. Can’t you see?” is my response. People just can’t get it. I’m sick, but I can’t get rid of it with just a case of the runs. There’s things I find difficult to discuss verbally. My compulsions are hidden from view, but I’m always doing them. And they’re an iota better! One less step in something plotted out in tens of steps. You might ask me what I’m doing, as I appear to be non-productive, but I can’t explain how I get stuck in my rituals. I honestly don’t know how to conduct myself without them, but a little relief to me is a big thing.

At least I can still write semi-coherent sentences.

Protected: — July 21, 2018
Pillgrim’s Progress — July 17, 2018

Pillgrim’s Progress

Recently, I got a new nurse practitioner for my psych meds.  She seems nice enough: mid-fifties, doesn’t seem burned out, doesn’t feel it necessary to speak  to me as though I were a dim-witted 10 year-old, so I like her just fine. Julie has some experience with OCD sufferers according to her blurb on Google, and she seized on the fact that I was still sub par. Always anxious and paranoid of everyone in my neighborhood,  I’m just a regular Ms. Congeniality. She wanted to try me on Risperdal or Zyprexa, and decided on the former.

when I finally had the courage (and my $3.00 Medicaid co-pay) to try it, I looked upon the tiny brick-red pills with a mixture of trepidation and  psycho hope. This could be my missing link to making life worth living! Maybe I can be normal now or fake it. Maybe I can stop hating myself  and having  ideation pop into my head.

The risperdal has helped some. I feel less terrified around my neighbors.  I think a medication would have to put me in a coma, however, to stop me from checking  the front door for an angry missive or an eviction notice twice a day. I still feel like I could lose everyone and everything I love in an instant. Everyone I love dead in a pile like Hamlet.

Sometimes my depression just  slaps me when I least expect it. Sometimes I regurgitate everything in my head. I hate being a  sub-standard person. I sometimes feel like festering trash of the

red pills in person s hand
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

caucasian variety.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

, and se

Orange is the New Cat — March 29, 2018

Orange is the New Cat

As eBay has yet to publish my review on Ectopamine topical flea treatment, I’ll share my thoughts on it here.

It’s shit.

While no one died, Ectopamine dyed one of my cats’ fur orange in places she wasn’t orange before.

I’m not talking a mild tint either. Orange like the drink mix, Tang. Orange, the neon color of a highlighter. Orange like the way they mark livestock for slaughter.

Beyond not being aesthetically pleasing, another of my cats is scratching the area behind her neck, perhaps from a mild reaction to Ectopamine. All of them have a cinnamon scent great for potpurri, but not so fitting for a cat’s sensitive nose.

I’m writing this, because there are no Ectopamine horror stories, so I thought maybe the next person who Google’s Ectopamine might find this and think maybe I shouldn’t buy this. Besides it has essential oils in it, and many of them are toxic to cats in large enough doses.

Blogoversary: 8 is Great — March 24, 2018

Blogoversary: 8 is Great

I need to write more, and not the emo crap that I wind up making protected or private. It makes me feel better at the time, and then later when I feel better I’m like “oh no, no, no, no.”

This year will be better. Maybe. Hopefully?! My life is kinda dull. The plot is mundane, but there were times in the last three months I could have wrote a post. Shoot, I could write a post about what  I saw at the Dollar Tree, what movies I’ve seen at the theater since I got Movie pass club, or about how I think that Playmate that screwed Trump for 10 months is the epitome of skank (even though we aren’t supposed to slut-shame sluts anymore). Throw in the intricacies of my mental illness and you have the recipe that keeps all two or three of you coming back for another helping.

I have some sad news to report, but maybe I will save it for next time, because I feel some detail is needed to express my sadness and guilt.

Maybe my  post after the sad one will be about riding in a cab with a hooker during a snow storm and/or how my last Uber ride was the Spanish Inquisition.

But anyway, yes it’s been 8 years and eternity since I set sail my first rambling post to this blog.

Thanks for being here!

Protected: MENTALLY CHALLENGED — March 19, 2018
Protected: — February 19, 2018
Protected: — January 5, 2018
September Update — September 24, 2017

September Update

Bleeping September, but I’m still here, and as charming as ever. Today is the 5th anniversary of me moving in here. Just me, my mom’s ashes in a plastic box, and a laundry basket with what the fellows allowed me to have. The rest was either confiscated or in my storage unit. Oh how exciting it was to me that at 34 I was finally on my own. No one to threaten and lord over me anymore. When you had been through all I had in the expanse of one year being alone completely lost its sting. I missed my ex-roommate for a long time, but he and his drag queen boyfriend had become menacing monsters to me.

As of the 13th, it’s been six years since my mom died of sepsis. There’s so much I want to tell her, but  I am happy to be on my own as much as I loved her. I really want to tell her about Donald Trump, about everything that’s happened. She wouldn’t believe me.

This December, I will be turning 40. One of the things I regret most in the world, besides being an asshole, is not jumping at the opportunity to land on the dick of my former elementary school crush. At least I wouldn’t be the dreaded 40 year-old virgin then. The only other people who’ve asked for some were pervs that one couldn’t be sure wouldn’t kill me. Thus is my fate for being ugly and shy. It’s truly a shame, because I think given the opportunity, I could’ve been adventurous, and I’ll leave it at that.

My therapist gave me the news that her entire office will  be shutting down, and that they don’t even know why. I’m going to hold out for a while before I look for replacements for my therapist and shrink in the hopes that they will  find another situation. It has nearly taken 3 years for me truly to start trusting Pepper. I am not big on change and I know it will be hard to set up a rapport with someone new.

It didn’t take any act of congress this year to get my new lease signed.  This is really a funny thing because my neighbor across the street had me convinced that management was conspiring to get me. People allegedly think I have 16 cats and that either the cats or me had to go. I feed several strays in my neighborhood, so that is likely how it all started. But , I surely believed my neighbor, especially since the kids of the ‘hood kept picking on “Cat Lady.” I suppose I should have found her suspect when she postulated that someone swimming in the ocean had caused the mold stains on the pool, that it was actually salt water algae. First of all, can salt water algae live in freshwater, let alone chlorinated water? Truly rumors suck, and I must remember not to believe that dotard across the way (thanks, Kim Jong Un). My mind always conjures up scenes of being homeless or in a home. People don’t get how obsessed I am with that, and they can’t understand unless they have been through something similar.

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