No, I haven’t completely lost my shit as the title might imply. Just some good humored mocking of Dr. Seuss. You read the same book to your kid fifty times, it has this insidious way of creeping under your skin. Besides…it’s funny.
As predicted…my little hypochondriac made a miraculous recovery yesterday. No vomiting, full appetite, full of energy. I can’t believe the school is always sending her home then threatening me with truancy charges. I’m from a hardcore family of hillbillies. We didn’t go to doctors unless we were bleeding, on fire, or required to by law. So you threw up once? Oh, wait, she didn’t throw up, she coughed up phlegm and called it puking. Geesh. Kids today are wussies.
Mother of the year, ain’t I?
We all are a product of our upbringing. I just want to reverse the mentality all my mother’s babysitting put into the child’s head. She gets a hangnail and says, “Gramma says you should take me to the hospital.”
Knife in the skull? Hospital.
Gas bubbles in the tummy? Suck it up.
I’m not without empathy or compassion, I’m just…not an enabler. Especially after this morning when I was playing music I like and she claimed it was giving her a headache and upsetting her stomach. But if it was that bloody Frozen theme, oh, she liked that.
Yesterday was a low mood day but…The anxiety wasn’t as bad. And I know why. My kid was home, I had no dealings with the petri dish, I could just breathe. For whatever reason, I am more dysfunctional outside my bubble. Of course, this sounds behavioral and a suck it up issue, but it’s really not. I’ve adapted as much as I can. The pathology remains the same.
On a side note…It’s amazing how someone will just use you and blow you off until you call them on their bullshit. Then suddenly they’re all about shifting blame onto you and insisting you don’t know them, you don’t understand them, you’re wrong.
Is denial the same thing as lying? I mean, if you truly don’t know you’re being an asshole, does that mean your denial of it is a lie or just plain old lack of self awareness?
And how is not offensive and assholish when someone only calls you when they are drunk and everyone else is busy?
I don’t see how I perceived that wrong. It’s asshole behaviors.
I stand by my assessment, although I’m not convinced it’s an entire write off. I mean, if an insult can get someone so riled up, well, it’s kind of entertaining. LIke a cat batting a mouse around but never killing it.
I’m a troll that way.
I am due at the shop. My adoration for a bag of catfood. Those cats are lucky I love them so much because I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than be someone’s errand wench simply because they don’t like to be alone and all the cool people are busy. Cripes. Is this the best I can do for friends?
Oh, well. As long someone is useful to me, I can suck it up.
Sounds harsh, I know.
I got to thinking earlier how harsh I must come across. And I wasn’t always like that. I was always mouthy, rebellious, and sarcastic. But I wasn’t venomous and harsh. (Well outside the bipolar stuff, that shit’s vicious as fuck.) I guess so many years of being mistreated (yeah, yeah, boo hoo, call a whaaambulance) and all the mental shit..It just takes a toll on you. It depletes your spirit.
I don’t have spirit anymore.
I have a “fuck you” determination to survive even if it’s futile, because you know, none of us get out of life alive.
Anyway…I don’t always mean to be harsh. Hell, half the time, I’m not even aware I am being harsh. That’s where it’s handy to have non passive aggressive friends who are willing to speak up and call you on your bullshit.
Of course, much as I need that, those around me seem to be offended when I take that approach.
You think calling me a bitch is gonna piss me off?
I AM a bitch.
I am going to be a lot more vindictive if you bottle it up, then go double barrel on me with the resentment. Speak the fuck up or shut the fuck up.
Truth be told, much as I never wanted to be harsh…I quite like who I’ve become compared to that welcome mat I used to be.
Oh. I finally forced myself into a shower last night. And it was harder than you can possibly imagine. Such a simple basic necessity (and one I generally enjoy) and yet it took every ounce of self bullying and will power I had to pull it off. It was like climbing a mountain, I almost did a victory dance. That is not normal. But it is a norm of sorts with mental illness.
I finally heard back from Dr. Chihuahua’s office. They’re increasing my Prozac to sixty a day, split into 3 20 mg doses. Maybe that will help. I’m nervous about seeing the new doc next month. Face to face, eye contact, knowing they will closely scrutinize and pick apart any gesture that indicates you’re not being truthful…I mean, seriously, with my anxiety, I could fail a polygraph on my own name I get so physically responsive. It’s unnerving but at the same time..I think it’s what I need. And maybe he’s good. His wife is my kid’s pediatrician. She’s pretty cool with my kid so…I’ll give this guy the benefit of the doubt. Until he proves me wrong. Though maybe I should check his credentials, make sure he didn’t graduate from the University of Bofas And Sofas.
Okay, I’m wearing the joke out. It just makes me snicker, and few things do during the black depression. I take what I can get, even if it annoys others.
Fuck ‘em, I have enough friends.
Now…I have received my text beckoning me to go lick some shoes in exchange for cat good so I should probably run a brush thru my hair, scrape the moss of my fangs, and go fake good cheer.
Thank God I am a woman. I learned how to fake things well early on, like about the time I started getting interested in men.
(Too harsh? Meh.)