Mixed Nuts

Boy, am I glad I’m not in a mood episode, because today has been like bipolar on crack! I have been ALL over the map—had a crazy-busy day at work, but I was laughing and amusing my co-workers with my witty repartee well into my ninth hour without a meal break. Later, a patient’s grateful hug nearly brought me to tears, and then tonight I got pissed beyond reason at the AT&T automated bill-payment service which freaking REFUSED TO TAKE MY PAYMENT.

Go figure: here they are nagging me about the bill, and then their stupid-assed system won’t recognize a different number on my cell phone or the pass code from the other phone that’s on the account. Now I get to wait until Monday so I can talk to a real hoooman (who is probably overseas and thus unintelligible) and get the damn bill paid before they shut us off. YAAARRRGGGHHH!

Then, in the middle of my cussing out the canned female voice that was saying “I’m sorry, we don’t recognize your information” for about the fifth time, my poor husband was trying to get my attention and I yelled at him too. I have never in my life been able to deal with more than one conversation at a time—even if one ‘conversation’ is me screaming at a machine—and I sure as hell can’t do it now. I held my hand up, trying to listen to what Robo-Lady was saying, but he persisted in talking until I finally hollered “Stop, stop, stop, I need you to shut UP for a minute, I am OVERSTIMULATED!!”

I could’ve bitten my tongue off the instant I said that. Of all the people I don’t want to hurt, Will is Numero Uno, and one look at his face let me know that I’d really gone too far. He accepted my apology relatively quickly, but I felt like the world’s biggest asshat. I’ve been working hard on taming the irritability monster the past few months, practicing patience in traffic (“Oh, they’re probably just having a bad day and they forgot that there might be someone in this lane, lalalala…”) and choosing my words carefully before I let them go out to play, so to speak.

Fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of therapy, shot to hell in one inglorious moment of pique. Crap. I am REALLY on a roll.:/

But back to the subject of clowning around at work: Being a flaming extrovert with absolutely NO fear of looking ridiculous—at least on my good days—I enjoy making the workday lighter and brighter whenever I can, and thankfully most of my audiences appreciate it. Besides, there are just times when you can’t get an earworm like the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine” out of your mind, and sharing it is the only way to give yourself any peace!

So this morning I was trotting down the hall to give the med-cart keys back to the treatment nurse, whistling this catchy little tune, when my friend Candie called to me: “Oh, BPN, why are you doing this to me? I HATE that song!!” Naturally, that only caused me to redouble my efforts at pushing out the notes and adding a few added fillips that George or Paul probably never intended to be in there. Which in turn caused Candie to mouth some VERY inappropriate language at me even as she began humming it to herself….(*snort*)

This same nurse and I were together again at the nurses’ station later in the afternoon, finishing up our respective paperwork, and while both of us had gotten off the “Yellow Submarine” we managed to entertain each other by sharing our age-related cognitive issues (and believe me, there isn’t a woman in her fifties who’s not at least a little worried about those). She talked about her forgetfulness; I mentioned my infinite distractibility—oh look, a kitty!—and of course, my deathly fear of running out of sticky notes. Just about that time, a patient’s family member stuck her head in and asked where the outgoing letters box was.

Candie and I stared at each other for a moment in confusion, both of us drawing a complete blank. Even though we’ve worked there for some time, at that moment neither of us had an idea in Hades of where the thing was located.

“Uhhh….I’ll have to ask someone,” we said in unison, which undoubtedly made us both look like idiots. Then again, if the woman was anywhere near our age bracket, she probably understood just fine. LOL

Published by bpnurse

I'm a retired registered nurse and writer who also happens to be street-rat crazy, if the DSM-IV.....oops, 5---is to be believed. I was diagnosed with bipolar I disorder at the age of 55, and am still sorting through the ashes of the flaming garbage pile that my life had become. Here, I'll share the lumps and bumps of a late-life journey toward sanity.... along with some rants, gripes, sour grapes and good old-fashioned whining from time to time. It's not easy being bipolar in a unipolar world; let's figure it out together.

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