My Two Year Old Is Driving Me Further Insane

My two year old is probably like most two year olds, but I am not like most fathers and it is becoming increasingly difficult for me to tolerate her. The screaming causes me to scream. The mimicry causes me to smile, but get aggravated when she repeats it over and over again which leads to more screaming.

The thing that gets me fired up the most is when she openly defies her mother or me. That gets her a whipping and/or time out. Sometimes I send her to bed over it. I cannot tolerate it. It makes my blood boil. I hate to be disrespected and that is what she is doing. I have tried explaining it to her, but even though she seems to get it she does exactly what she just got in trouble for ten seconds later.

I know she is testing her boundaries, but she reached the end of them a long time ago. She does not respect us and she does not fear us (which is good), but I need something to change and quick because my hair is falling out AND turning grey and I am having to double up on my Klonopin (at the suggestion of my doctor).

My therapist thinks I need a break and I have taken them and they help, but it is back to the same when I return. I can’t take a permanent break as I can’t stand being away from her for more than a night or three (six has been the max and it sucked). So I miss her, but I want to get away from her. I love her, but I hate what she is doing. I don’t know what to do anymore.

Help me, please.

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The Introduction Of The New Me

Over the last seven years my life has changed dramatically. I got married to the love of my life and life itself seemed wonderful. We had a blissful honeymoon and I thought that was how the entirety of my life would go (I believe she did as well). We were both disappointed.

My mental illnesses got worse and worse. I became more and more susceptible to the stress around me. Jobs started lasting less and less time (I had never lasted long at a job because I got bored or my anger got the best of me, or I had the rare anxiety attack and I never went back because I was embarrassed). I spent quite a bit of time in and out of the hospital because of the anxiety attacks that were coming on weekly or sometimes even more frequently than that.

I lost my last job because I had too much time away due to the inability to handle stress and determined that school was my best bet. I would change majors from Culinary Arts to something less stressful. Instead, while living with my in-laws I had my breakdown.

Over the next two months I degraded so fast that neither my wife nor I knew what was going on. She became cold and I became distant. Everyone was out to get me and I could not leave my desk chair other than to go outside to the comfort of my secluded balcony to smoke. It was obvious that I needed help so, with my wife’s help, I got it.

To make a long story short as I have gone over most of this before, I eventually found the psychiatrist I am with now. I eventually found the right mix of medications and I eventually started to feel normal.

I wanted out of the house. I want out of my desk chair. I started to do more around the house. I started spending time with my daughter. I started being a somewhat normal human being.

Last week I decided that it was time for me to go back to work. Due to child support from my first marriage, I need to make a certain amount just to bring in what I am bringing in now with my disability and the jobs that disability will find for you are a joke.

So I am job hunting. I haven’t worked since 2007. I am a published writer so I use that as my work experience for the last several years, but a lot of employers don’t look kindly on that. I will find a job. I will contribute to my household. I will be a active member of society. I will introduce the world to the new me.

Writing Is My Mistress

I recently have posted a few pieces of poetry because it and the novel I am working on have consumed a lot of my life.

We are still looking for a house and getting very impatient. We have to have an accepted contract by the end of this month at the latest. Tomorrow I am supposed to go look some more and hopefully I will find “the one”.

My psych increased my main anti-psychotic med and it will take a week or two to find out if it makes me “normal” as that is the ultimate goal, that and being able to take care of my daughter. If it helps even a little bit my wife and I will be trying to have another baby.

So all of that and keeping the house (cleaning and cooking) should leave me with no time, but I steal away and find time to write. Sometimes I don’t sleep and sometimes I skip cleaning and cooking. I try my hardest, but sometime I even neglect my family to write.

I have gotten more than several rejection letters over the last month (10) and I am trying to not let that put me down. I am still waiting on five others, but I don’t have high expectations. I decided to send out 15 submissions at a time and wait. The next round is coming and I don’t have enough to send out. I need 3-5 pieces for each submission unless the journals/magazines take simultaneous submissions.

So expect to see pieces of poetry more often as I will be posting my scraps here to keep a record of them. If you have a comment that could help me improve please speak your mind. If you think I should give up entirely I am not sure I want to hear that.

Here is another piece to read:

Cold But Not Alone

Belched beer,
regurgitated booze
all reminds me
of home,
of him.

Warmth at
my hairline,
a caress
of my ass –
sliding around
to the front
as I slip
from his
grip
only to fall
over his legs
wrapped
around me.

A boy can only take so much.

Bricks burn
when hot enough
and screams
get so high-pitched
you can’t
even hear them
anymore.

They both deserved to die;

him
for being him
and her
for not being
who she
should have been.

And I ran.
I ran
until
I could see
the smoke
no more.

I ran
until
I was
no more.

I ran
until
the boy
became
a man.

And then
this teenage man
was alone
and cold
and lost,

but there was hope to be found in the alleys,
hope shoved in my hand
and pointed
at another man
only existing
in the wrong
part of town.

So blood.

Hands dirty
and never
could they
be clean
again.

So I ran,
but not far.

I found a spot
under an overpass,
where Amelio
proclaimed,
forever in red paint,
that he
loved Kelly

and that was my new home.

I collected
things,
mundane things,
to make my nest,
my new home

and I found friends,
friends who found me,
who offered
more conversation
than anyone
I had
ever met
before.

But then
the cars
started looking
at me

and people
were screaming
at me

and I didn’t
know what to do,

so I hid
with my remaining friends,
feline, fauna and Hector
and we shut out the world together.

Hector,
the hippie from Los Angeles,
just wandered out into traffic
and I have to go after him.

Not In A Good Place

Since medications were stolen, I am not only going through withdraw, but having major anxiety attacks. I am not sleeping and I can’t shake the feeling of large bugs crawling under my skin, just pushing and pushing their way out. My moods are all over the place and the paranoia is so bad that I am barricading the doors and widows and refusing to leave the house. I even tore the house apart today looking for audio or visual devices (I found none).

I didn’t react this bad when I came off of heroin 10 years ago. Suicide is not an option, well its an option just not a valid one – I wish it was at times.

My wife and I are also not seeing eye to eye. She can’t handle my issues right now and I don’t know what to do.

I need help and my psych and therapist just aren’t doing the job. My dog is helping, but only a bit. I did think about throwing her out the widow when she went and did her business on the floor but I stormed off, yelled, put a hole in the wall and cleaned it up.

Then I patched the hole. Then the guy I may or may not have killed came to talk to me about God.

Anger is not my forte. I don’t know what to do with it, how to handle it, or how to vent it so I don’t hurt anyone.

Do I need to check myself in?

Do I need that much help or will it go away in time?

Wanting Attention And A Cry For Help

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

She had no intention of killing herself. It was just to get attention. Ignore her and the behavior will go away.

He only took enough pills to land him in the hospital. It was just a cry for help. Why should I even pay attention to it? Isn’t that just feeding into it?

An attempt at suicide is not a joke. It is not something to take lightly. Even if you know that the individual had no intention of killing themselves, they felt the need to risk it all just to get some attention. And how do you know that the attempt wasn’t just that, an attempt to take their life.

Most people who fail at their attempt try to make a joke of it or blow it off in some way. Most of them try to get you to believe that they just needed attention because of anything from not getting enough love as a child or just being ignored in school, at work or in life in general.

Having attempted suicide many times, I know that some of the times I either pretend didn’t happen or lie through my teeth about them. At the time I had made my peace, gotten intoxicated enough, got so low that I could not find a way up or all of the above and more and ending it all seemed like the only thing to do.

The most common form of suicide is not self-suicide (taking one’s own life by themselves). It is actually what I refer to as life ending behaviors (LEBs). Doing things that “give a rush” by pushing the limits of life and death. These events include everything from skydiving, free climbing, bungee jumping and other inconspicuous activities to things like Russian roulette, experimenting with illegal drugs and abusing legal pharmaceuticals.

There are millions of websites out there telling you what the warning signs are and I encourage all of you to read them. If you see them in someone you love, do something about it. If you see it in yourself, seek help – immediately.

Self abuse is no better and can lead to suicide if not treated. To treat these things a mental health professional is required. Even if you are one yourself, seek out someone to assist you with therapy and pharmaceuticals, if needed.

No one tries to kill themselves just to garner attention (even if it seems that way) and no one swallows a bottle of Percocet just because they are crying out for help. An attempt is an attempt no matter the surface thought behind it, the seated thought is that life is not worth living because …

Here is a piece about a “cry for help”.

Sticking my finger down my throat,
I swallowed an entire bottle of them.
I realize life is worth living.
I don’t want to fucking die.
I just need to vomit and I’ll be better.
They’ve already been absorbed, I’m screwed.
I don’t want to go to the hospital.
Where’s my fucking phone?  It’s just three numbers.
I can feel my heart rate slowing down
Get excited, raise that blood pressure.
and my extremities are going numb.
They’re just cold, rub them a lot.
Back to the wall, ass on the ground, unmoving.
Get up!  Dance!  Punch something!  Anything!
The darkness takes me and I have one last thought:
I only thought I wanted to die, I swear.

Suicide Prevention Line: 1-800-273-TALK

National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-SUICIDE

The Confessions And Concerns Of A Liar

Disclaimer: I may lie about some of this, but I will make every effort not to.

I have lied about everything from stealing from my parents as a youth to how many times I have been camping. From the meaningful to the mundane and everything between and on either side; if you can think about it then I have lied about it.

I am not sure when it started or why, but I have been lying for as long as I can remember about one thing or another. When it began it may have been by choice or for personal gain, but now it is difficult not to lie and most of the time, as far as I can tell, it does not benefit me in anyway. When writing this blog it started off difficult because I was determined not to lie about anything, it just seems to get harder over time. In my daily life I have been working hard to not lie or correct myself when I do because the lie just spouts forth from my mouth without me realizing what I am saying until I actually say it. Then is when I realize I have lied and I try to correct myself; in the past I may not have realized I lied until minutes, hours, days later – if ever. I also believe that if I did realize it I didn’t care enough about the other people because of my lack of emotional responses and lock of respect for others and myself.

When emotions came flooding back in I started to feel regret and shame for all the lies I have told. I wanted to do something about it. I wanted to do something about it. I wanted to make amends. Something. But my life was built on lies. I couldn’t even tell what was true and what was a lie, I still can’t. I thought about it hard. I wrote down everything I could. I never talked to anyone about it and I still haven’t – not sure I ever will. What I realized is that over 70% of my life is a lie. If I come out with the truth I am not sure I would have anyone, including my wife, in my life anymore – who she knows doesn’t really exist, who everyone knows (except those who read this) doesn’t exist. I will never publicly list the lies that I know I have told, but I have thought of sealing them somewhere (in a safe deposit box or something) and having it released upon my death, but I believe that would hurt too many people and I have no interest in doing that anymore.

I do not believe in heaven or hell so I do not believe that if I don’t “repent” I will burn forever, but it does weigh heavy on me.

So I was curious about whether or not lying was considered a illness in and of itself or if it was just another symptom of the lovely illness I have. I do personally know of cases where the lying is there but little to no other symptoms. I know of three. One is a little bereft of emotion, but the other two are well adjusted. I think one does it to benefit herself and does it by choice but gets an almost high with it. The other is also a female (not sure if that matters) and, I believe, she doesn’t even realize she is lying. At first I thought it was a poor memory, but she would tell several different version of the same situations and even the real situation; that’s when I knew it was a lying situation.

Lying has typically been categorized into Compulsive and Pathological.

  • Compulsive is considered to be a habitual and automatic response. Something that is unplanned, impulsive, has no purpose, and it is thought that the individual has no control over the lies that are told.
  • Pathological is thought to be associated with little to no empathy and the lies are often used to manipulate a situation and others. The individual is often very self-involved.

Neither Compulsive nor Pathological Lying is considered a disease in the DSM (Diagnostic & Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders). A disease is widely thought to be something that is uncontrolled by natural means. Pathological Lying seems to be something that could be controlled, but Compulsive Lying is involuntary, habitual and the individual has no control of the lies that spew forth from them.

This is a concern of mine as nothing is being done to curb the uncontrolled lying in so many individuals. Until is is declared a disease or illness little to no research will be done to correct it. No drugs will be invented to assist the individuals and mental heath professions will have no standard on how to respond to the situation.

Dr. Charles Dike is a forensic psychiatrist and a professor at Yale who is working to have compulsive lying (which he renames Pathological Lying because it sounds more clinical) included in the next edition of the DSM. He has plenty of opposition and it is unlikely that it will be included, but at least someone is shining a light on something that has been ignored for too long.

My Name Is W And I’m Mentally Ill

Rethink Mental IllnessI was officially diagnosed as bipolar sometime around 1990. I don’t remember the first time I got married, but I don’t remember a lot of things from those 15 or so years. Drugs were a huge factor for my memory loss, mental illness was another. My son was born October 28, 2005. My divorce from his mother was finalized in April of 2006. I got remarried on June 15, 2007. I was diagnosed with schizophrenia in 2008. My daughter was born on March 3, 2010.

My son was not planned. We found out that my soon-to-be ex-wife was pregnant when we filed for divorce, a pregnancy test was a mandatory part of the divorce proceedings. My ex,along with my current partner and all of our respective families knew I would not be a good father because of the many issues I was having (I was drug free at that time, but there were many other issues that turned out to be one big issue), but I was determined to be a better dad than I ever had. I have no contact with my father anymore and when I did it was not the best. He encouraged me to continue using a lot of the drugs I was using – not a father and a horrible dad. I had more custody of my son than I probably should have had, but instead of giving up rights to him, which would have been better (read: easier) for me, I did everything I could and more.

My swinging moods, increasing anxiety, building fears, and growing paranoia made caring for just myself difficult. It made showing the love that I had for my partner nearly impossible at times due to the lack of emotion and, regretfully, that little boy took so much of a back seat in my life that he was barely in the car.

Luckily I had and have a wonderful support system. My partner was number one. My ex would not let me have my son unless my girlfriend turned wife was going to be with us for the entire time. She never took this or any other issue to court as I never gave her a reason by arguing with her. I don’t want to know what would have happened if she did and I find it is best not to dwell on it. Next came my now mother-in-law and by extension her husband. They were there even more than my own mother. It was more than I could have asked or expected from them. What I did get from my mother was more than was expected, but less than what was wanted; however, she came next. Then was my little sister and finally my partner’s sister (not that her contribution was small). I had others helping me, both mentally and physically (not including my mental health professionals), but those were the primary individuals. That amount of people assisting me was more than most people ever have in their lives to assist with their kids or their lives in general; I know that and I am grateful to them all.

The reason my ex would not let me have my son alone was because she knew I had mental issues (i.e. bipolar disorder, megalomania, compulsive lying, hallucinations and more). She believed that I was one day going to snap and, without someone else around, hurt our son – which was never going to happen. My ex also believed that I just needed to work hard enough (at a paying job) and I would be cured because hard work cures everything (except cancer, diabetes and anything there is a blood test for – other than migraines which she had so that made them real unlike mental illness).

Just like cancer, those with a mental illness can’t just magically “get over it” by wishing it away or “just not thinking about it”, but like the cancer patient that braves through it and doesn’t overreact, the mentally ill patient needs to take a page out of the cancer patient’s book and stop overreacting and attempting to get sympathy for their illnesses (if they are able to).

Another big misnomer is that every one with a major metal illness (especially schizophrenia) is violent and if they are not currently violent then the violence is just below the surface waiting to strike out at anyone and anything. I have a ton of anxiety and sometimes need to walk away from a situation or feel like I am going to have a heart attack, but I am less likely to explode in a fit of rage than the average parent of a two-year old who gets overly frustrated.

Some mental illnesses are brought on and caused by environmental factors such as a parent with wild mood swings or abuse of any kind or any number of things, but it is not always about “blaming mommy”. People whine and complain that people with mental illnesses constantly are blaming other people and they are right. Some of it is justified and some of it is just ridiculous. Most mental illnesses are the subject of constant study, but have not been completely unlocked. It is believed that the brain chemistry has something to do with a lot of the mental disorders (proven by scans and such) and genetics are suspected to also be a factor, especially in patients with schizophrenia. Drug use and self harm are also thought to be causes, but the causes why that is present in the first place is another unknown. Most illnesses, mental and otherwise, are still being studied to determine the cause and origin. Many may never be discovered, but we are working to fix what we do know about. The only mental patient that should be ever begin to be browbeaten is one who does not seek help. There are programs out there so anyone of any class can receive help. I did when I was broke, nearly homeless and completely beaten down. Even physical illness have a similar situation only sometimes it is not as easy for them to get the help they need.

So the big difference between the severely and permanently physically ill patient and a mentally ill patient is that one is more accepted than the other and the other can receive help easier. An illness is an illness and should be treated as such. Most of us do not wish to be treated any differently, however some of us have to be treated with a bit more caution and ease.

I will die will my illness, but my treatment will hopefully prevent me from falling into a world where my illness rules me and I lose control of my mental facilities.

To all those out there that share my situation, just remember to not only take one day at a time (minute by minute), but also keep goals and dreams in mind and share them with a partner or close friend so they can help you reach/achieve them.