I did fuck all yesterday and it was lovely. Because I needed every last vestige of chutzpah to pick my kid up from that madhouse called school. Twenty parking spaces for two hundreds adults and kids, buses everywhere, traffic going in all directions and even with crossing guards it’s a clusterfuck. I parked way across the street and it occurs to me, I ain’t parking that far away and waiting in the cold this winter, something needs to change. Least yesterday I got there before the main flood of parents mobbed up to wait for their spawnage. Showing up to a high number crowd you can’t elbow through is a mega trigger for me. I was okay when it was a handful of parents lingering. Then came the mobbage, then all the moppets were let loose, and I felt like the walls were closing in on me. Like a bag over my head and still being expected to breathe normally rather than claw and gasp for air. And the school has this charming thing where they let first grade out last, so I am there being circled by the vulturage of the dish, waiting for my kid to appear. She’s always, of course, the piddle poking last one. And the longer it takes for me to find her, the more panicked I become, since last year, they lost her. GRRRR.
I wonder if el shrinko would be willing to write me a note to take to the principal explaining I need to pick my kid up five minutes before dismissal to avoid becoming a basketcase. Probably not. My old awesome shrink lady would have done it in a heartbeat. These newer ones….Idgets, all of them. All of this could have been avoided anyway were it not for that stupid 1.5 mile bus rule. That still makes me seethe. And I swear I saw one of the devil girls get off the bus with her dad in tow, but I am sure i’m wrong. That’d make zero sense unless he’s had her classified as special and the district has allowed an exception to him riding the bus with her. (And having flunked first grade, the girl may well be special.) Nah, I’m half blind at my best, let alone at 7:50 a.m half asleep, it wasn’t them.
IDK. I am starting to feel like a bucket of “crazier than I’ve ever been”. As far as self awareness, maturity, and impulse control, I’ve made amazing strides. Since having my spawn…The imbalance of bipolar/anxiety/paranoia has metastasized. And the doctors won’t even hear of it, it’s nutsy kookoo to think that whole pregnancy/labor/delivery/post partum thing might have fucked up my wiring even more. I just know I’m not the same. I used to have reasons for my panic, anxiety, and all around paranoia. Like having a cat in a building that stated no cats. I had every reason to fear surprise inspections and such. Now…I’m hiding nothing because I don’t have to. I have zero reason to be this paranoid and anxious, yet there it is. It’s not merely being a single mom and the responsibilities. This is insidious, unpredictable, and definitely hormonal/chemical/ a giant tumor with hair and teeth and a horn growing on my spleen, IDFK. By the time they take me seriously I’ll done by dead.
That has been the bane of my existence, physical illness versus the mental factors. I had stomach aches, panic attacks, nausea as a teen, and my mom did her due diligence dragging me to doctors, getting the proper tests done…And they all said, “You internalize your stress and it results in physical symptoms.” And the solution? “Don’t get so stressed out.” FUCKING BRILLIANT. And the lifelong gem, “You need to lose weight.” Newsflash- I didn’t fit your stupid ideal weight chart when I was ten because my dad is tall thus I am tall and have a larger frame than a petite person. Sure, I weigh more than I should, but I’ve had few physical problems so it’s very insulting to have EVERY doctor I see boil it down to my inability to properly process stress and oh, you’re fat. Helpful. NOT. And my sister, who weights less than me by almost a seventy pounds and wears a size 7, gets told by her doctor she’s too heavy based on some unrealistic chart that doesn’t factor in wild cards like frame size, genetics, etc. THAT is why I avoid doctors for the most part.
One saving grace with my shrinks- none of them have ever said a word about my weight. Ever. Because they know with mood swings, anxieties, and medications, weight can fluctuate drastically. And a ten pound weight gain if a med works is the lesser evil to them even if the general docs scream in horror. I knew the “ideal weight” shit was a racket with the doctors getting cutbacks for bullying people into that square when my kid was 4 MONTHS old and the doctor said she was growing too fast and her calories might have to be cut. WTF?
Okay, that’s the off topic trigger rant. Now for the brief respite part.
We had this awesome thunderstorm/downpour yesterday afternoon and evening. I love storms. My kid, courtesy of my sister’s influence, was running around like chicken little screaming “tornado!” rather than the sky is falling. I was perfectly calm and soothed. It got darker, it cooled off, and suddenly, I felt a serenity I’ve not felt in a long, long time. I fixed our supper, we both got showers, I read her a book, put her to bed…And though it took a little time…I slept without even taking my bedtime meds. I didn’t sleep through but I never do. I did sleep, med free, naturally, on my own, and it was wondermous. No morning coma aside from the normal “I’m a nightowl, daywalking sucks!” thing. I got her to school, on time. Now I am home and breathing even though a mountain of ass suck housework mocks me and the cats all need flea baths and Willow has gone missing after taking the screen window out while I was gone yesterday so I need to call animal control to see if they picked up any strays over here in the last day or so. Not that I have any money to bail her out if she did get busted. Dammit all.
I am trying an experiment, oddly brought about by my dad. He knows this sixtyish woman with no license or car and she needs a ride to pay bills and fetch groceries and such. She’s willing to pay for gas. I can barely go to stores anymore because of my anxiety. He was thinking maybe her and I could be “buddies” for such things, both of us having our needs met, her with a way around, me with someone for support when I am in the dish spazzing out. I’m gonna meet her tomorrow at her place, see if we hit it off. From a twenty minute phone conversation, I think we will. I’m not fond of conceding defeat and admitting maybe I need a buddy for support when in the dish but I’m not gonna dismiss it, either. My big thing is, am I reliable enough? I am at THIS moment but I can never foresee hours, days, weeks, months ahead. That’s always been the problem. My issues end up in me letting people down thus I earn their disdain. It’s never intentional, there is never a point where I decide to give up. It just happens, I hit the wall. I gotta try, though. A support system who also hates to go to Wal-mart but will take a bullet with me could be a good thing.
I’ve noticed one big difference between my blog and others lately. I don’t stay on topic well. I never have. Thinking the Focalin would fix that was my own naivete. This is either a damaged brain or my personality. I could try to change it but to what end? I see asinine blogs everywhere with little content, little depth, little interest, but that’s just to me. They have ten times the followers I do so I must be the boring one. I don’t agree with that cos I think I have a wicked sense of humor in spite of all the mental darkness and I have written some damned GREAT posts. Suppose it’s partially my own fault. Everyone knows if you want attention to your writing, even if it’s first grade level, you have to link with social media. Where the flotam and jetsem of humanity posts every detail of their existence, including bowel movements and pictures of their ass crack as they bend over to tend to their organic fruit garden cos they are sooo awesome…
Okay, little bitchy, but not without some truth. I see blogs out there where the writers may get the punctuation and all dead on but they have way less writing talent than I do, yet people flock to them like they’re sages. Arrogant of me? Perhaps. But writing is all I’ve ever been excellent at doing. Maybe I don’t proof read to the nth, I have errors, I ramble on…But I’m real, I have my own voice, and I’m not spewing what the masses want. I’m being me and telling my story. Truth isn’t appreciated as much as trashy entertainment or banal “I ate a salad for lunch” shit.
Meh, it’s too early to be deep or even venomous. My brain won’t wake up til 2 pm or so. Proof that I am half braindead in the morning is that I am rewatching this episode of CSI with Rascal Flatts…And I actually liked that song at the opening. I hate country. WTF? Could it be they are actually talented to spite their genre and popularity? UGHHH. It may not suck but I don’t think I’m gonna be trading in my Black Veil Brides “Coffin” ringtone for their song any time soon.
On the plus side, I am wearing pants. On the bad side, they’re pastel blue, baggy, and I slept in them. I need to change before I fetch the spawn. I need to clean catboxes, do dishes, blah blah blah…I want to sit here, watch CSI mindlessly and do fuck all. This school pick up thing has really worn me down, asinine as it sounds. I’m just doing what a million other parents do everyday, I’m not special and it’s only a big deal in my own mind. I know this.
Scumbag brain gives zero fucks.
What is the upside to the meds “sorta working” if all that functionality you “manage” results in days of being too drained to do much of anything? And don’t tell me to fight it, cos I already am. I am shaking my fists and stabbing it with sporks. It’s not doing any good.
And that’s all she wrote cos I have nothing witty to end with. I suck that way.