Suicide bunny and other musings ….

I am not sure how to start this post.

This is not a cry for help.

This is not a cry for trying to convince me to speak to someone.

Really it is not.

I have this post on the edges of my brain, and if I don’t put it down then what ever I write is going to feel like I am being dishonest.  As that is not what is really on my mind.

I have struggled with depression and an anxiety disorder for some time.  I have my good days, and I have my really cannot get out of bed days, but know I must pull the duvet off and just get on with it days.

I am on the right depression and anxiety medication.  I feel a hundred times better than I did say two years ago.  I am much more level and my emotions and reactions are even keeled.  The internal buzz has more or less quieted down to a mild drone.

Good times.

The addition of IBS has been challenging – the problem with it is that I feel ill much of the time.

My abdomen swells, I look 6 months pregnant – the pain spreads out across my back, then everywhere to the point where my skin actually starts to feel sore.  I am fending off remarks about “when I am due” with way too much frequency – of course it affects how I feel about myself and look horrendous.

I hate the way I look.  I hate looking at myself in the mirror.  I try to avoid seeing myself.  Tricky with floor to ceiling mirrors in our bathroom.

If my child asks me once more if I have I have a baby in my tummy, I might throttle her.

I have changed my diet/intake of food lasts week, because I believe my issue is far greater than a few days of feeling shite.  I am reading a few books on IBS and there have been several home truths -and reading another two for perspective.


The list of what I should avoid is long.

There is no easy quick fix.

There is a however a solution if I carefully monitor my intake, and ensure that I avoid refined sugar, refined wheat, dairy, caffeine and alcohol – pretty much everything at McDonalds.  Clearly I draw the line at excluding alcohol.  Let’s not be rash and too hasty now.

If I am excluding that, then the reason to live starts to get a bit hazy and uncertain.

The last four or five days have been a period of exclusion and making different decisions about what I eat.  There is just no way I can continue to survive and eat as I have been doing.

I don’t eat badly or in excessive, but I just cannot eat this way for myself and be healthy and comfortable.

This requires some thought, and a bit of a rethink about my life going forward.  I am not suggesting that IBS is a bit of a stomach ache.  I am suggesting it has become such a pr0blem that affects my every day functioning – I need to decide to behave differently if living is a goal.

My other issue is misophonia – a violent, sudden and physical reaction to sound.

I generally control the sound I experience and generally it does not change my mood or the way I behave.

The only exclusion is the drive home in the afternoon with the kids from school. It has become abundantly clear that I am actually unable to do that five days a week, and ensure all four of us make it home alive – the fighting and the noise in a confined space is doing my head in.  One drive home at a time.  One at a time.  I wistfully think of giving them bus fare/taxi fare and just “winging” it. If two out of three get home, then it is a win, right?

I have been falling out of the car recently and being thankful we have all made it home alive.  I am so irritated, and tense that the rest of the evening is a total lost cause.

Music radio??

For the love of gd.  It is beyond me how I managed to listen to it for so many years.  At the moment I always have audio CDs to listen to when I get into my car.  I listen to a story, or a collection of music CDs that I know will not trigger a reaction.  More story CDs than music, because I find the repetitive nature of most songs sets me off.  It is like having nails across a chalk board, or cutting wool with your teeth.

However when I get into Kennith’s car he listens to Five FM, and I seriously start wondering if I opened the car door, and released my seat belt if I could quietly roll away and the sound of the repetitive really bad music would stop and I could roll myself into a coma and then quietly pass away.

I am weighing up whether rolling out of the car is better than stabbing him in the temple with my Revlon chubby stick.  I am not sure.  I get more irritated that he does not realise how much the noise is a factor and how much it upsets me.  So instead I sit there and stare out the window and praying the car trip will be over.  Grinding my teeth and praying.  Soon.  Let it end.

Music radio is repetitive and at a pitch that I cannot bear.  5 minutes of five FM and I would kill you to make it stop.  Like dead.  I would feel total comfort in burying your body under my lavender.

Not feeling well, makes me wound tight as a reel.

Everything totally freaks me out.  I am sore, my nerves are shredded and no doubt it just makes my stomach tighten and the cramps and spasms worse.

Priv has just had a baby. Priv is my rock, she is the reason I remain vaguely sane.  The last month (June and July) without her in her usual position has left me frayed and stressed.  I was stressed before she has her baby, as I imagined the worst possible outcome for her and her  baby.

I worried, I fretted.

She went into labour last Monday, and the week was about running back and forth to the hospital, waiting in waiting rooms, trying to navigate the public health system and worrying for her every moment of every day made my nerves frayed, and I am exhausted.  I feel sick with worry.

Priv and her baby girl are happily home and I am relieved.

But I worry.  I worry how this is going to work going forward.  I worry about everything.  I worry about her.  I worry about the baby. I worry about how this arrangement is going to work going forward.  I worry. I worry eternally about everything.  Of course when someone asks I say “it’ll work itself out” in a little sing-song voice I have mastered.

Every little thing. I worry about.  I worry to the point that my jaw is sore because I have it set in such an uncomfortable manner.

If I started biting my nails (as I did until 1999) they would be bitten to the quick and bleeding.  But I have nice nails, and no longer chew them – but I have started scratching my legs – that helps.  I also pinch my upper leg, or I flick my fingers.

I am so worried about her.  I am so worried about me and my ability to cope at the moment.

My IBS on a scale of 1 to 10 is a good and solid 8 1/2 and I feel grim most of the time.  It makes me irritable, hostile and angry. I cannot function when it is at it’s worst.  My stomach swells, I feel nauseous, I feel sweaty – I have cramps and spasms that are surely my comeuppance for not attempting a birth.

The last three nights as I dozed off my mind has been trying to calculate exactly how much medication an overdose would be.  How much would I have to take?  Would I prefer a 3 month coma or straight death?  Tricky, tricky — which will it be?  I have enough schedule 5 drugs to stop a small herd of goats firmly in their tracks.

Could I just go to sleep, and be at peace?  No more pain, no more discomfort, no more feeling shite.  Could that really be an option? Or is it time to schedule another little sojourn in my nearby clinic?

I don’t want to rob my kids of a mom.  I also do not want to be an irritated, upset, horrible mother than clouds their existence.  The reason they are on a leather couch in 15 years bemoaning why the fuck their mother could not just be happy.

I looked at some short videos that Kennith had taken recently of our holiday, and Georgia’s birthday party.

I am not the one smiling.  I never look happy. I look pained, irritated and angry – which is pretty much how I feel most of the time.  I am never smiling in videos or photographs – unless someone tells me to smile, and then it is forced and never moves to my eyes.

I know that if I wrote down a list of “things to be happy for” and “things to be fucked off about” – my list of happy would far exceed my “things to be fucked off about.”

I have a good life.

I have some wonderful advantages in my life, I have so much to be happy about – but I am unfortunately so deeply unhappy.

The reality is that my reality feels dark, sad, pained and confusing — and at a certain point I start to look for ways to step off the fun, but nauseating round about.

So that’s how I feel them.  Clearly not main stream happy, and maybe not Living and Loving Magazine cover bullshit, but there we go.  You know what they say …. actually I have no idea what the fuck they say.


suicide bunny

IBS …. holy crap


I have suffered with IBS since about 1994.

Need to know what IBS is – check out this link and this one, and then you know.

I am sure I had episodes (what I politely call bouts of swelling, cramping, sweating, crying and looking like I am 7 months pregnant) before, but I recall them from 1994 onwards.

I am not sure I know what caused IBS.  I still am not sure exactly what my triggers are.  I am not sure how to relieve the symptoms.

It is excruciating, and I thought over time it would get better – the last two or three years have been a slow and gradual dip into the hell that is irritable bowl syndrome.

IBS is the same as a stomach ache, as a Migraine is the same as a head ache.  Nothing like it.  The only similarity is the area of pain.

I know that when I have too much: pasta, meat, tea, a bad combination of food, too much food, white bread, the wind blows slightly north-easterly, I watch too much Toddlers and Tiara’s.  The point is I have no idea and short of lying in a drunken stupour and not being aware of anything, I really have not found the trigger and the cause.

I merely deal with the symptoms.

I go into spasms and it kicks it off.  Some times it just gradually grows worse and worse until my skin is stretched so taught that I start t0 walk like I am pregnant and hold my lower back.

My stomach swells – I start to get spasms, that start in my abdomen, then spread out into my back and then I think into my brain.

On the upside, and really I mean this sincerely, some people suffer from such explosively bad diarrhea that they cannot leave the house – “fortunately” I am on the other end of the scale, and get so constipated there is actually no realistic manner anything is or can come out, without the introduction of a large garden hose and a fair amount of water pressure.

A fairly good bout of IBS makes me want to purchase a sawn off shotgun, kill everyone and then myself.

All I can think of doing is getting in to bed with a hot water bottle, taking a stupid amount of Librax and sleeping, and when I wake up taking another handful of Librax and repeating the exercise until it is no longer needed.

It is not loads of fun.  It makes a barium enema look like Disney Land!

I have had a bout which started about two weeks ago, and somehow managed to find a way to get more sore each day.

The problem with being in excruciating pain is you lose your sense of humour.  Like totally.

You start to develop a sincere disinterest in everyone’s babble-babble because all you can feel is your pain – and really the energy it takes to pay attention is almost impossible.  Yesterday my mom was trying to show me the house they had renovated — I was leaning over at 90 degrees holding my side and going “huh-huh-huh”and the pain was so bad I actually could not hear what they were saying.

Which was a pity as they had done a phenomenal job.

I have realised I would make a poor amputee or person with cancer (yes I realise that is somewhat politically incorrect) -anyone who is sick or injured and who has a jolly composure.

You know how sick people sometime have that upbeat attitude and you get all soft and squishy about them and say “why, my goodness she is an inspiration!!” yep, I would be nothing like that.  NOTHING!

I would be the opposite of what ever that is.

I would be the one no one wants to visit, and no one sends cards to.

I would be folded triple in my hospital bed swearing at the help, and be a bit sour when you popped by to brighten my day.  I might even say things like “fuck you and your carnations, you have no idea of the amount of pain I am in … ”

I might move between that and promising sexual gratifications (which I would pay for, but not supply) to anyone who was able to push up my Morphine supply and promise me relief-giving suppositories on the half hour.

The last three weeks have been slightly less than fun.

Last night I stood and cried in the shower and wondered if there was any way in hell if my stomach could actually be pushed out any further without me being given a surprise baby shower and being asked to pant and not breath.

After I wiped the snot on the towel I decided to see if I could overdose on Dulcolax.

The short answer is no.

But if you take enough you will wake up at 4am. Not gently.  But in the “sit up screaming WHAT THE FUCK” as you fly out of bed to find the nearest toilet – BECAUSE THE EARTH IS ABOUT TO SHOOT OUT YOUR RECTUM.  But not in a fun way.

Holy cheese and rice.

I think I might have broken the septic toilet.

I have decided to sit here quietly and say nothing as I watch the plumbers work – every now and then I shake my head in agreement and say “those damn kids, you never know what they shove down toilets ….. tsk tsk tsk ….”

IBS.  I have nothing good to say about that heinous bitch.