Bunch of Bitches °∆

What They Don't Tell You About Mental Illness | Elizabeth Medina | TEDxS...

BITCH FREESTYLE BY PYTCH PYTHONESS

 

MANAGING

Making it work when all odds are against you

No matter what I do, I have a voice in my head always telling me that my statistical chances of getting the upper hand in most situations or events; is not that good.

This type of self-deprecation / thinking maybe an unintended manifestation of the results that I'm seeing in my real life.

Being homeless/couchsurfing and having little to no support other than an extremely good friend of mine, being without a safe place has not been as bad as I thought it would be. I would like to also mention that, even though it has not been as bad as I had expected it to be, it has been extremely stressful, I felt defeated nearly every day, and I have done some things to ensure My success, as any intelligent human would.

Me thinking about
this blog post😆

Me Again, foo

Well, just about anything.

I was so afraid to suffer or have any more traumatic events 

happened to me, that I was scared to move. What reminded me that I needed to continue to move no matter how afraid I was, was the domestic abuse of my birth mother. I have to say the situation was so bizarre it forced me to open my eyes and think about people's motivations rather than how I would like to perceive them: as good honest people.

Now that I have learned from my experience, have been thrown away several times by different groups of people, ignored, undermined, humiliated, and exploited, I'm starting to realize the power of manifestation. It's not mental positivity.

I would like to repeat manifestation is not the same thing as mental positivity. Or toxic positivity. I mean obviously, you have to say grounded in reality.

Manifestation is saying that you're going to do something (to yourself) all the while refusing to entertain any doubt on the subject.

Self-doubt is almost like a poison that stops us before we even have the chance to run from the danger. Fear can do the same thing and does, just look at me. I was scared to death to re-enter the real world because I had failed at it so many times before. What it took for me to realize that whether I must cheat, steal, sell things that God gave me, lie to protect my own interests or occasionally forged some documentation, was complete abandonment by everyone in my family and as well as my distant family.

To be honest, it's been a relief. And I don't think about them that much. But I do think about what I learned. I learned how to make it run nothing is going my way. I learned how to lie better, I learned how to cheat at life better, and I learned to manipulate the system to get things that I need / want just like my mother. And intelligent person would use her trashy genetic strength to bring themselves up. So really, all I'm trying to do is be smart.

Throwback From The Past: "TWINE" BY Avrin Kelly

Sneak Peak: TWINE from (13 Wicked Tales Of Witches Book)

TWINE

My sister always had an obsession with string. She liked to play with it. Run around with it. Roll it between her fingers, tie bows around arbitrary things.

Braid it into her hair.

I never really thought it was abnormal.

Until some of the things she started tying up and wrapping bows around began to do strange things.

Like her dead gerbil, Penny.

There are some that say we are bound to this world by some unseen thing, like our mortal coils.

coil.

Sounds a lot like string, huh?

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, just think about how the three Fates from the Hercules movie could cut your string and it would kill you. All they did was break the twine binding you to the earth.

To the living.

Penny came back to life.

We were sad when she died. We loved her, she was part of the family, but she was old and her time with us had come and gone. The only person her passing surprised was Lara, my baby sister. When Penny was gone and it was time to bury her, Lara had marks all over her arms and legs from tying that damned string all over her body.

She said she was trying to keep the memories in; so she wouldn’t forget about Penny.

I knelt down and told her, “Penny will always be with us,” I put my hand on her tiny little chest and patted her unicorn shirt right over her heart. “Right here.” I said.

I made sure to look her in the eye. So she knew.

She needed to know that her big brother would never ever lie to her.

Only the truth for my baby sister.

She counted on me to tell her things ‘adults’ wouldn’t. She depended on me to separate the chaff from the wheat when it came to bullshit.

After the divorce, everybody lied to us.

“Everything is going to be okay.” They all said, but it wasn’t. We had to stay in a shelter for a long time because my mom was pretty sure he was going to try and kill her for leaving.

He never did.

We hid at a shelter and lost our house for nothing.

Nobody’s seen that ass hat for months.

I went out of my way to find the truth and let Lara know what was really happening to our family. And she’s stronger for it now. So am I. It’s easier to deal with what might be coming if you know enough to prepare.

I digress.

Penny came back to life because Lara wrapped her up in twine before we put her in the shoe box.

It was just me and my sister. Mom was at work. I should have told the kid not to be petting and playing with that dead gerbil, but I figured she could wash her hands when she got done; but dealing with her pet’s death, saying goodbye the way she wanted to, was priceless. I let Lara do what she needed to do to be alright with the death of her friend.

We laid some tissue paper down in the shoe box and put the gerbil in, twine and all. Three days later, that thing was back in its cage, rotting. It chewed through the box, dug its way backup out of the ground and hobbled back up to our apartment. Back to the feet of its creator.

My sister.

The resurrector.

The thing wouldn’t touch its food or water and got very excited whenever anybody walked into Lara’s room.

A real live zombie gerbil.

I told my buddy Mark about Penny. He said maybe she was just sick, but I know better. That rodent had been cold and stiff when I went to feed her that morning nearly two weeks ago. Penny had died. Penny was dead now, but somehow, she was still moving around. She stunk and she was rotting. A walking, squeaking corpse.

Lara brought her back with that string of hers.

I don’t know how it works.

I found a dead bird this morning. Brought it to Lara. I asked her to do it again.

She gave me a sly little smile that unnerved me. (I’ve never been unnerved by my sister. She may be eleven years younger than me, but she’s like my best friend. We understand each other. Maybe that just means I’m simple, but I don’t think it does.) She took the bird from the paper bag I’d dropped it in on the way home from school and peered inside.

“What happened to it?” she asked me.

I just shrugged. “Found it walking home from school. Can you bring it back? Like Penny?”

She nodded. “Maybe.” Lara was silent for a long time, but she didn’t move. Just stood there thinking, looking into the bag. “Whatcha gonna give me for it?”

“Give?”

“Yeah silly, you gotta trade somthin’."

Her sweet little voice was angelic, but the things she was saying made my spine want to shrivel up into a knot. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, even through a fresh coat of sweat after the two mile walk from my high school to our apartment on the west side of town.

I knelt down so that we were on the same level.

“What did you trade for Penny?” I prayed to God she was going to say her favorite doll, or a few cookies. Mr. Morcott’s dog died not to long ago. I didn’t want to believe that my sister was behind it.

Could she take a life for her own ends?

Did she not know better or did she just not care?

Was I jumping to conclusions?

“I’m not supposed to say. You have to keep it a secret or he’ll take it back. But I didn’t have to trade for Penny, I already traded. He owes me.”

“Who will take it back? Who owes you, Lara?”

“The Man.”

“What kind of man? Where do you see him?”

“The Dark Man.” She answered suddenly turning shy. Coy. As if I were asking her about the boy down the street. I thought six was a little young to be looking at boys, but what do I know?

“Where do you see him?” I repeated the question when Lara tried to evade it.

“Everywhere.” She whispered. “He follows me to school sometimes. Sits behind me on the bus.”

“Then he’s a kid, like you?”

“No, he’s a man.” She held a hand up high above her head to show me he was tall.

“But he rides the school bus?"

“I see him lots of places.” She told me. “At school. In the park. Here.”

I looked around the room behind me and I didn’t see anything.

In Depth: Narcissistic Abuse

Blog Series: Yeet Yo Toxic Mom

1. Narc abuse can hurt you. 

"In an attempt to protect you, your body can suffer and you can become physically ill. Your immunity is suppressed and your ability to fight illness and disease increases. Other physical symptoms of chronic stress from narcissistic abuse are intensified insomnia and excessive worry."

"You'll get yelled at, guilt-tripped, told that you are judgmental or mean, and probably be given a list of reasons that they think you are a narcissist," says Chelsey Cole, a psychotherapist and author of "If Only I'd Known: How to Outsmart Narcissists, Set Guilt-Free Boundaries, and Create Unshakeable Self-Worth."𝇉

2. What is secondary mania in narcissism?

Secondary mania in narcissism is a relatively common occurrence. As I research, nothing shocks me but the surprises are abundant. Meaning, I'm bipolar and I thought I knew about every kind of mania there is. I did not. Here's what I learned:

In the manic phase, he is restless (often insomniac), full of pent up energy, explosive, dramatic, creative, an excellent performer and manager. Suddenly, and often for no apparent reason, he becomes subdued, depressed, devoid of energy, pessimistic, and "zombie-like".

Narcissistic Signal, Stimulus, and Hibernation Mini-Cycles

3. Why do narcs target their children? 

Narcissistic parents love to antagonize their kids for several reasons.

Yeeting Your Narcissistic Mother To Save Your Own Sanity....1

My Mother is a Grandiose/Malignant Narcissist. Here's Why:

                

She feeds on pain and suffering like some type of vampiric demon. If she is not in control, then there will be hell to pay. 

A 52 year old "child" trapped in a geriatric but still semi-passable as "hawt" my mother walks around bragging about her venue, her kids, her house, her car her clothes, how great she is at business, design and decoration. She spends so much time building this fake world that she is living in, she doesn't have time for much else. Not for her granddaughter or her once adopted, twice abandoned 36 year old bipolar firstborn and her newest chew toy/ save-a-hoe/scapegoat.

She brags about how many people she's mentored, how much she can/could teach me, but to get that far, she first had to "gently remind me" that I "am an adult with a childlike mind"... hmmm.... That doesn't sound like me. Not many children write books, are expressly self aware I would say hyper-aware; to the point it borders on a maladaptive scale of emotional monitoring.

Back in August of 2022, I'd been in a fight with my body for two years and finally, all my resources had been exhausted, and let me assure you, I used every single resource I had. 401k, savings, disability leave, long term leave, vacation, unpaid time off, voluntary time off, I sold things, I cut the fat out of my life as far as physical energy was concerned, and began to (often from my bed) ruminate on what else I could liquidate and how much food would that buy and how long would that last? 

My long time boyfriend (at the time) was kind and supportive. He watched me literally poop out. I went from being a normal, functioning human being to a bedridden, anxiety -inducing, crying, heap of vantablack sadness that no light could pierce. 

I stayed this way, in a state of shock, feeling as though I was living in a fever dream until around May 2023. In that short time from August 2022 (I moved cross-country from Texas at the behest of my birth heathen) to May 2023, I was in what I am slowly coming to believe was a state of psychosis. Basically you disassociate so hard core, you don't come all the way back; at least that's how it felt to me.

I was vaguely aware that time was passing, but I never could grasp how fast or slow it passed me by until it was too late.

While I lived with that female snake for almost a year, or maybe over a year(?) I still don't know. Around Feb or April I finally started to feel a little better after being forced inpatient on a 1013 for threatening my psychiatrist's snooty office lead/ RN. She really was an asshole in my defense, and I didn't actually threaten, I just told them I hoped they would find themselves in the throws of a month and a half long mixed state, beg for help, find people available to help you and watch them stare at you blankly because they didn't feel like doing any work that day. Went inpatient against my will right before Christmas. Did a week or to of severe physical sickness then finally, a manic episode that lasted a long ass time. I'm thinking it pushed two months for sure.

Around this time, they changed my meds, and I'll be damned,,,, it fucking worked.

Not quickly, but slowly--- very slowly, it began to pull me back into the reality that I hadn't really been a part of my entire time in Georgia. All my estranged family knew about me was my name and that I was bipolar 1 with mixed episodes. I was no longer human to them. I was different, the odd man out, the scapegoat, the faker, the lazy, ungrateful little bitch who was offered the world by my beautiful perfect mommy who threw me away not once, but twice.

As time passed I'd been shocked by a few things that suck in my head from the day I got there.

1. She talked to anyone however she wanted with no consequences.

That was my first red flag. Even though I was in a very thick haze at the time, I remember definitively that she was a real ball busting bitch. You do something small, a mistake etc., she airs out your dirtiest laundry on your first offense. Not a person you really want to get closer to, but she'd whined about how much she missed me for 34 years, so I thought I might be an exception. I wasn't. Well, I was but not in a good way.

I've seen her dig into her husband so hard it made my penis shrivel up and want to die and I don't even have one. There's no telling how that man felt.

It never occurred to me that she "loved him" until he kept (stupidly) getting caught cheating on her. One of the best things he ever said that was true was "no matter what I do or say, it's wrong. There's no pleasing you." Boy was he right as fuck! 

One day while she was bashing him about his stupidity, his body and his age, I asked her outright: 

"Is that true what he said?"

"What do you mean?"

"When he said he can't win. What would please you? like, what do you want him to do? Because it seems kind of true what he said, so now what, if y'all don't want to break up? There's no give and take."

She thought about it for a moment and I watched it sink in: the first real thought she had given to what WOULDN'T piss her off more. That's her perpetual state by the way: mad cunny.

Anyway, I was proud of her when she exhibited self awareness or the fact that she even attempted a glimpse into another person's point of view or how they feel. 

I remember sitting there thinking to myself then that she was a narcissist, a self-centered lil mongrel that had crawled her stank ass all the way from the gutter to upper middle class, and honey, there wasn't/isn't anything in this world she wants more than an elevated social status. She acts, in every facet of her life, as if she is better than anyone else. Grandiosity is something I have to watch for in myself. Usually it means I'm going to get manic, talk fast, think fast, go fast and embarrass the fuck out of myself, by taking on too much or overdoing to the point that I would be adding PEM (post exertional malaise ) on top of the impending depressive episode that usually directly follows mania. What goes up must come down.

Mental Fucking health. Dude.

I've always wanted to write, but writing about my experiences was nothing I was really into. But lately I've been thinking more like my normal self: assertive, high functioning even though I'm still cycling pretty rapidly tbh.

So. Are the medications we are given as bipolar one patients supposed to transfer emotional pain to physical pain?

Because that's what I've noticed. Physically, I fall behind when I shouldn't, but I don't get sad. I don't get that horrible sad worse than death feeling of truly being alone in the world my biggest nightmare, until it finally came true.

If you want to read some wicked fucked up short stories about my life, the shit I have witnessed that has changed me, keep reading. I have nothing else to lose, but one thing I won't do is shut the fuck up.

Respectfully,

AK

Get A Load Of This.....

 So, I've been bipolar/ trying to get my shit together for some time now. That "time" wasn't fast enough for my "caregiver" aka birthmother. Aside from being a grumpy, moody lil thang, she is also a vindictive bully.

This is what I learned this week:

1. Just because they are family, doesn't mean they HAVE to or even DO CARE. It might just mean they give you a roof over your head, trash your important belongings (in my case, my whole household) to be left to the weather. I would've taken care of it myself if I hadn't been so sick.

up to 70% of elder and disabled/ vulnerable people abuse is doled out by a caregiver. When judging as to whether or not there has been abuse, I've read that caseworkers look for things like

            exploitation

            disability shaming

            willfully denying the client or patient things that they need or just generally making these items hard to get to. 

            Gaslighting, guilt tripping and

            mean joking and other means of controlling the victim like full out ignoring them for days at a time even when important information should have been conveyed: ex) the electric went off and you would need to enter the residence in a different way, the caregiver might refuse to communicate this "small detail" leaving the victim to wonder what else they might have done to bring on more punishment than they were already struggling with.

            Being punished in general for things you can't help. Being constantly told you're not trying or that your faking illness for attention. being told you can't do something even though you feel well enough and hopeful enough to try.

            Constantly aggravated with the patient no matter what or bouncing back and forth between the sick vs well narrative.

            willfully isolating you from care teams connections and support if you don't do what they want.

            inferring that you are willfully taking advantage of the caregiver when its the other way around. 

            telling the patient as well as other people that they are lazy or "feeling to comfortable to try" when in reality they have no idea wat the client has been doing because they go out of their way to avoid the patient at all costs.

            nepotism. playing favorites to make the victim feel shame or inadequate.

            Going out of their way to be distant, oppositional or cruel. Bullying due to disability and sensory issues and purposefully antagonizing those sensitivities. Music too loud, thinking it's funny when people scare me or (when I've been legitimately triggered, in my case)

Dude, the truth is fucking Wicked.

Stay tuned for more drama.

            

Yo, homies (to my Twitter fam)💪😆😎

Okay, I know this is pretty far out of my circle of normality. I do want to get back to writing horror stories. But I haven't been so interested in reading them lately. And that was my favorite part about writing. My stories brought me enjoyment. Thank God for my short-term memory loss for reals. I have the unique ability to be able to read a story I wrote as if it were the first time. And I've written so many, I've completely forgotten most of them.

That being said, my main thing right now is music. I'm still speaking to writers as well to be honest.

There are a lot of similarities in the story structure of a song as there are in the story structure of a book or a story.

Both have "beats", and in music, you even have bars to measure those beats. The biggest breakthrough I ever had as an author was finding standard workflow instructions for writing a book. That would be a beat sheet, ladies and gentlemen.

You want to write a book? You want it to be a good book? Need a beat sheet.

It tells you all of the important plot points and turns in which it takes to make a creative and satisfying story. But you have to give yourself permission to write trash. Just like I have to give myself permission to record trash bars. Even if it's just a placeholder, it does serve a purpose.

Trashy writing and trashy lyrics and trashy delivery teaches you something every time you mess up. It trains your vocal cords. It trained your mind to think in the form of story structure in the case of writing.

Trashy lyrics help you write better.

But I've noticed, as I've gotten older, I've become more impatient and I want a resonating story quicker and easier to digest than reading an entire novella or short story or even a good novel.

I can't get the quiet and serenity that is needed when writing a 350 page novel. You really have to be paying attention to what you're doing. One or two anachronisms can take people right out of your story.

With music, you don't have to worry about it that much. Not anachronisms. And the only time you really have to super focus is when you're editing. It's the last stage, as we all know, in which you can make changes.

Once you wait to make changes In your second edition, I wouldn't say that the story is ruined, but you will have missed out on readers that you otherwise may have kept had you said what you meant to say in the first place.

Feeling manic lightly, so probably look for some more blog posts in the near future.

Writing still gives me such joy. Whether it be in a story, a song, even an instrumental. I know that sounds crazy, but totally totally just compositions and productions can tell quite fascinating stories. As writers, I know y'all know this. We often listen to instrumental so that we can see the music video inside our mind starring our main character giving us ideas.

I just want to let all my writer friends know that I haven't forgot about you, in fact I think about y'all a lot. The things you've taught me are multifaceted. The things I learned from you will last me a lifetime and I'm super grateful to have had the support and encouragement from especially my Twitter family straight out the gate. And they don't even care that I switch to music. They totally get it.

So, thank you guys. 💜

Thoughts Behind PATTERN OF ILLNESS°∆

Have you ever noticed that when you're paranoid, you perceive everyone to be looking at you, but in reality, they're ignoring you just as much as they normally do. The only thing that's different is you.

You could literally be on fire in the middle of Walmart screaming for help and I doubt many people would even stop to glance at you.

The same thing happens in behavioral health institutions. Most of their patients are "on fire", and the staff that they depend on, are walking around laughing and joking about their weekends and their normal lives while their charges suffer.

I decided to be a certified peer specialist not too long ago, but it's basically a couple levels below a caseworker. And because you are a peer, you can be honest about your mental health conditions in order to help those who have similar conditions. Lived experience is what is valued in that type of work. And I feel like I have an exorbitant amount of lived experience in this particular subject.

Sometimes I think I would be too negative to be a CPS, because I'm not the type of chick to lie to you. The honest to God truth is, is when you wake up at 3:30 in the morning and the weight of the world falls on your shoulders and you're horrified and you have anxiety, there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.

Nothing.

You can stay calm, and you can stay still. But that's all you can control. If you can control that you're doing good as a matter of fact.

I think we've all had some mind-bending situations that have happened to us after hours and have had to anxiously wait until morning to relieve ourselves of the emotional burden of the experience during waking hours, when people will listen.

You might say something like, I will never let this happen again, I will never be this afraid at the worst possible time, I'm going to do everything I can to prevent it. But as much as we would like to think we have control, some things attached to our humanity and individualism don't have control buttons.

There are no magic pills, there are no magic cocktails of pills that will put you back together the way you were before a mood disorder like bipolar ran through your life like a tornado. There will never be that time in your life again that post bipolar time. It can't exist.

Firstly because you know too much. You now know what is at stake when you start to feel bad. When you start to feel sad. When you begin to be unable to withstand people looking at you. You know what's coming.

That on its own, causes anxiety and dread in just about everyone who has a mood disorder (Not to mention their caretakers).

Most of it is fear of the next episode. Worrying about how bad it will be and what we might have done differently to change an outcome that doesn't have much to do with any of your actions or our thoughts; but similarly, has everything to do with both.

But sometimes I think that I might be focusing on the wrong things.

Although the outlook for bipolar disorder is not the most positive research initiative I've ever seen, there are a lot of things they could be doing that would differentiate those who have a tendency to malinger versus those of us who are seriously suffering. An MRI / CAT scan can easily show areas of the brain that have decreased or increased due to bipolar effects on your brain's gray matter.

That having been said, bipolar is an easily identifiable physiological condition that is not left up to a single man diagnosis anymore. They have tests for it. It's literally taking a picture, looking at that picture, comparing it to a healthy brain and seeing what parts of your amygdala or what other gray matter areas you've lost from oscillating back and forth between manic and depressive episodes.

It makes me so angry that some of this stuff is so easily diagnosed. It could be so easily fixed yet people wait years to get a diagnosis because doctors don't like being liable for having to do their jobs.

I don't know what kind of systemic change needs to come into fruition to make our medical system more efficient and worthy of our money and time. But at present, the American medical system is a horrible example of a well-managed, efficient system as well as an excellent example of greed, impropriety, blackmail, corporate cover-ups, manipulative companies and the worst type of leadership. The best marketing. But the worst type of people.

°∆

PATTERN OF ILLNESS (PROD. BY PYTCH)

 

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