So Sallie Mae declined my student loan application based on the fact that I’ve only been at my current job position for 8 months, even though I’ve been with the company for four years. That and the fact that I work on commission. Now I’m in the fun position of having literally no money to go to school next semester. FML.
I mean, really? They said I need a cosigner. I can’t get a cosigner. My husband has shit for credit from a car repo before we got married. My mom refuses to cosign because she said she tried to help me go to college when I was 18 and I dropped out.
Yeah, I dropped out because I had no goals at the time and had a bit of a nervous breakdown. I told her I wasn’t on meds at the time and this time was different, even my therapist says so. She says I did it for the first two years okay, why did I have issues the last two? Hell if I know. Why does my brain ever do anything? Why did I get depressed or manic or whatever the hell I was that I can’t even remember? I’m pretty sure I was depressed because I recall sleeping a lot and not being able to get up to go to class. Most of it is a blur at this point. I’m sure there was a manic episode or two that cause some of those A semesters. Lots of energy to burn? Try college! But the F semesters were more likely depression. When I got my transcript I could actually see the mood swings in my grades. Semester one – A, B, A, A. Semester Two – A, B, C, A. Semester Three – C, D, F, F. Semester Four – F, D, W, W. Not exactly like that, but you get the idea.
She says me going back to school isn’t her problem. I get it. It’s not. But since I got free tuition when I went the first time and she just paid for books I don’t see why she can’t at least cosign for me. She then went on to say she might be willing to give me some money. She confuses me so much. You’ll give me money but won’t sign your name so that I’ll pay it myself? No, she says, because if I can’t pay it her name will be on it. Yes, I say, but whenever I don’t have money you help me out anyway so what difference does it make? Apparently not the right thing to say. What do I know?
So now I wonder what the fuck is the point of me continuing this semester if I just have to drop after it? If I don’t have the money to keep on going, why waste all this time now? I’m giving up time with my family, time sleeping, time relaxing, time working, time doing any number of things that would likely be more enjoyable than studying. If I’m not going to get a degree out of said time, then why the hell should I be wasting it on school? Yes, I like to learn, but at my own pace and about things I’m interested in not things that the deities of the school system think I should know.
But alas, the degree is important for my job. My job was actually supposed to help pay half, but the declined me too. They couldn’t even be bothered to tell me why. I wasn’t special enough or something. I really don’t know what to do at this point. I need to go, but funds are limited and I’ve spent us in a total hole the last eight months.
I can’t tell my mom this of course. She knows. She tells me I spend too much. Now that I’m mildly depressed I spend in budget, but coming off the high of a manic phase I just couldn’t curb it. It wasn’t the panicked spending in the thousands of dollars a day I was doing in the manic phase, but it was $50 here, $20 there, $100 there and it all added up. I just kept needing things. Don’t know why. Just had to have them. Would die without them. Skincare first. Then makeup. Then skincare agin. Then purses and wallets. All always one thing I would obsess over and spend on that one thing. When I’m manic I do that, but also buy loads of other random crap just to spend money. Coming off the mania, it was like obsessions with categories. I must have every eyeshadow color this brand has ever made. I must have every Coach Poppy bag. My wallets must all mach and I need three. Does this sound like some type of OCD? Hoarding? Something. It’s not manic spending. It feels different. But it’s bad. Maybe just a shopping addiction. I always have to be addicted to something. Better than the drugs, I suppose. More expensive though.
I saw my pDoc today. She upped my Lamictal to 300mg to help the mild depression. We also switched from 30mg XR Adderall am and 15mg regular Adderall pm to 15mg regular Adderall 3/day. That was my suggestion because I find that the XR lasts less time than the regular. I take the XR around 6am and by noon I can’t even focus long enough to read a book or listen to a phone call with a client. When I take my regular dose at 5pm I can focus until around 1am if I really needed to. So about the same amount of time actually. But with the current setup I can’t focus from 12pm-5pm. That’s five hours of me being totally unproductive and generally surfing the internet because I can change the page every five seconds when I get distracted or bored. Or napping. Whatever.
I hate these long posts. I’m sure no one reads them. They look too long and formidable to get through. Ultimately I post to vent to myself, but my vanity wants to think that someone somewhere gives a shit about my crazy. My family can’t stand my crazy though, so why would anyone else voluntarily subject themselves to it?
My husband says he hates himself all the time. I dislike me a lot right now and I hate my life. I love my son though and my husband, so I plow on for them. If not for them, I’d curl up in a ball and wallow. If it gets bad enough I still might. I wonder if other people hate themselves often. I wonder if other people wake up and go “what happened to me” or “what happened to my life.” I must think that 100 times a day.
I used to be so fun, such a party girl. I had gotten out of a deep depression and was self medicating, so of course I was fun. Everyone loved me. Or hated me. Not a lot of grey area. Most people loved me though. I lit up a room. I was out ’till four in the morning and staggering into work the next day with stories about having sex in front of four people or dancing on table tops or whatever other crazy shit I had come up with. The reality check is that I was in a very unhealthy place. The ideal version I have in my head is that people actually liked me for once. Plus I was having fun. I liked me. I liked my life like that. I liked numbing the crazy and self medicating. It’s much more fun than the real medication.
I look back…and part of me really misses that time in my life. As absolutely fucked up as my life was then, I kinda liked it. I had no money. I was destroying my future. I was destroying relationships with my family. I was making reckless decisions left and right. I was filled with wild abandon. I was let loose and crazy and manic but not in the hallucinogenic type of way. In the fun way where you destroy your life and think it’s awesome.
Then I realized what I was doing and I got really depressed. Like, tried to kill myself depressed. Tried to go to a doctor who turned me away. Got worse. Cried all day for months. I tried to pick up the pieces of my life and I did. I got a good job, I got married, I had a kid. All things I had decided to do while manic and messed up, but I held through with my crazy promises to myself.
I stabilized after a while. Had some episodes here and there. Had one long episode of depression the whole time I was pregnant and about three months after. I try to forget how bad I was then because I know I made my husband miserable. The fact that he didn’t leave still surprises me.
Stabilized for a while again, and had another break about nine months ago. Screwed more stuff up. Got to a good doctor. Got on the right meds.
And now, here I am left with this normal, ordinary life. And it’s just not enough for crazy, extreme me. My life is filled with the highest highs and the lowest lows and middle periods? They get kinda boring after a while. Right now I’m holding on to “right below the middle” for dear life though. Not the biggest fan of the depressive side of the illness.
But this normal life, it’s making me itch. Normal job. Normal family. Normal employee. Normal wife. Normal mother. Who is this person? I don’t like her. She’s too vanilla. I want that fun, crazy, party girl back. But to get that back, I’d have to give up my son and husband. My son I tried so hard to have. My husband I’ve worked so hard to keep. I wouldn’t give them up for anything – not all the parties and self medication in the world. So why do I still feel like I miss that life? If I wouldn’t change what I have, why do I ache for what I don’t? I guess somehow I think I could have both. I can be nomal!Kira until 8pm and party!Kira when the sun goes down. History tells me normal and manic don’t go well together, but I sure wish I could have the good things that come with mania normally. The energy. The lively personality. The lack of fear.
Now I’m just here, with my vanilla life, hating myself for wanting something different than my wonderful family. Well, I don’t but I do. I don’t know. I know I hate thinking I might want something different. I know I hate missing the party life. Then my paranoia kicks in and I think, what if I can think these things into reality? What if by the mere passing thought of wanting to be that girl again that somehow my son and husband will be taken from me by some greater act of nature. A car wreck or a fire or something that takes what’s most important to me away because I wasn’t grateful enough for what I had. Then I’d forever be missing what I have right this second and I’m here too stupid to enjoy it. That’s my greatest fear of all – losing them because I didn’t love them well enough.
I’m such a shit wife and mother.
And now I’m officially wallowing.