Just pop emotion.

Breakfast of champions. (Taken with Instagram at Cannon Beach)

A little over three weeks ago, I had a miscarriage.

I did not know I was pregnant. It was not planned. And at the time, maybe I was in shock, I wasn’t fully aware that’s what was happening. But research, a visit to Planned Parenthood, and what I witnessed have proven this to be the case. These are the kinds of details no one ever should have to relive.

For the past 13 years, I have been on and off psychiatric medications. After my bouts of psychiatric hospitalizations last spring, I finally found a medication that not only worked for me, but worked well. Without being properly informed, I was put on a dangerously high dose (which made me susceptible to serotonin syndrome). This scared me, but being committed scared me more. I did not know how I had gone from an over-achieving perfectionist that loved her family to someone who had been homeless, jobless, and ended up in the back of a police car more than once because I was threatening suicide. The benefits of taking medication seemed to outweigh the cost.

After I miscarried, I didn’t tell anyone. I was worried my fiance would be disappointed, would be worried, would blame me, would think I was incapable of having children (etc. etc. the negative self-talk really had a field day). So from that next day, I decided to begin titrating off of my medication. Knowing that psychiatric meds are not a science, that the particular one I’m on is notorious for causing birth defects, that if I were to become pregnant again I would need to stop a large dose immediately…I thought, stupidly, I could do this on my own.

Michael was confused as to my sudden change of heart, my intense desire to stop taking medication. He has seen me at my worst many, many times. I know I have brought a great deal of stress and grief into his life. His family hates me for a lot of these reasons, and is scared that he’ll “wake up in bed one day with [me] over [him] holding a butcher knife.” Because having mental illness automatically means you’re a potential murderer.

Not surprisingly, down my spiral began. The past three weeks have been excruciating. Panic attacks, insomnia, crippling depression. Then…then came along the PMDD.

I hurt myself a lot. I hurt him, emotionally. I binged and purged, I disassociated, I trying to self-sabotage in every way imaginable.

He didn’t spend a night at home. I wasn’t sure if we were together or not.

He came home. I told him about the miscarriage.

We’re working on things. But I’m tired. And this is just all so hard.

I will always wear it, in some way. (Taken with instagram)

Oliver has been in a growth spurt lately. He’s skinny but I think the chihuahua is coming out over the dachshund, (Taken with instagram)

Besides prostituting, does anyone know tips on how to get a free/dirt cheap motel room for a night?

Relationship is in Awfulsville, USA. Population: two. Monetary situation: negatory. If I don’t get some space I feel like I’ll end the relationship because of heightened emotions.

Stupid…life. And feelings.

Edit: family and friends are out. He would be calling or stopping by constantly to check on me, people don’t know the depth of our issues and would be giving him “updates.” I need solitude.

And her little dog, too! (Taken with instagram)

My midnight kiss. #NYE (Taken with instagram)

Bitchy work e-mails are fun! So is insubordination!

Long story short: I started at my job on June 6th. I immediately had severe allergy symptoms. They began construction on bathrooms, allergies increased tenfold, to the point where I couldn’t even bear to be in the building. They found mold. LOTS of mold. I opened a worker’s compensation claim. The cause of the mold is a shitty roof on a shitty building. This roof, SIX MONTHS LATER, is still not repaired. I am still having allergic reactions to being in the building, as are two other co-workers. There have been two complaints filed with OSHA. No one else that has space in the building has worked in the building for months. We are the ONLY people still showing up to this toxic heap every day. Yet, our executive director says that because two of the three floors test clear, we all should be working from the office and not from home.

I disagreed. And I let her know:

Just because a day of testing may result in a “safe” status of the building, this does absolutely nothing to speak to the potentially serious long-term effects of *excessively* and repeatedly being exposed to mold.

My greatest concern now is that the second floor bathrooms are unfinished with ceiling and inner walls exposed. As the roof is still not finished, the bathrooms that already were the most intensely effected by mold are now demolished and still under the same damaged roof. As the rain has set in, this will only create more mold. This is, under no means, remediated. I had itching, splotches, swelling, and ear/nose/throat/eye irritation as well while in the building. I have taken photos of the exposed bathroom and the allergic responses I had today.

To think the building is is a safe, appropriate work environment where we should be expected to work is not only ignorant, but reckless and demeaning as we have all expressed symptoms.

BAM.

Merry Christmas, dawg. (Taken with instagram)