Why oh why oh why did I have to leave the warm soft comfort of Vanilla the blankie to face the day? I was all ensconced and comfy and felt safe and…Blah. The sun is shining today. My kid is shoveling candy (because I am an awesome mother that way). I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. I still keep losing my voice and choking up on allergy drainage. Is it never gonna end?
I think what I need is a solid stretch of ME time. No kid, no R, no appointments, no expectations and demands. Not likely to happen but I think I need it more than any pill. Selfish? Perhaps. But I can’t take care of everyone else’s demands if I myself have gone under. This is psychological quicksand. And with the time change and cold coming it’s only gonna get worse.
I always envisioned not some dull traditional relationship of spousedom but having a counterpart. One who would indulge my control freakism when I am able, then step up when I come apart. Kinda like tag team wrestling.Unfortunately, it’s never worked out that way in any relationship. Closest I’ve come is when Bex was here last year and if I needed to run from my spawn for a break, she’d take over, she’d cook, she’d clean. I didn’t put it on her too often but it was nice to know I could tag out. (And her liking girls and me liking guys, neither of us even had to put out for this arrangement ;) Twas the same with my friend Shane back in the 90’s, we’d pick each other up from work or whatever if a panic episode ensued, if he or I needed company, we’d just huddle under the covers together and sleep. Not an issue cos he liked guys and so did I. I apparently just suck at romantic entanglements but do quite well with gay people. Of course, that’s less with them being gay and more with them knowing, even without mental health issues, what it’s like to be treated poorly for simply being who you are.
One would think I could turn to my family and just be honest. “I’m struggling with the mental stuff and I just need a night or two off from spawn screamapalooza.” And don’t get me started on R, the man who worked five days with a broken hand before going to a doctor thus everyone should be as badass (idiotic) as him and never ever need a break from social stuff or work or kids. There are times I really do wanna smack him with a shovel with his optimism shoved in my face all the time. Really, anyone who is truly that happy would NOT need to drink 90 plus ounces of beer seven nights a week. Hell I am ready to snap from anxiety and even I can’t drink that much that frequently. Day or two and alcohol makes me gag, I gotta take a break. So ya know, getting life lessons from someone of that ilk is a bit irksome. Get your own shit together before you judge mine and spew advice.
Oh, it would be nice if I ever wrote a short optimistic post, wouldn’t it? Ha, be even nicer if anything in my life ever went smoothly enough to warrant such a post. That is not “woe is me”, either, it’s just plain frustrating to try your best only to get your ass kicked by the inner stress and the outer stress of everything going wrong. And even when something good does happen, you’re so beaten down from the ten bad things prior to it, there’s little true relief or joy.
And the mindfulness thing “live in the moment” continues to make steam come out of my ears. Because you can move on from the past, heal from the bad stuff, but there are always going to be reminders. I was watching AHS this week…And they were serving Absinthe. So I get walloped upside the head with the crushing memory of fighting so hard to save Abby- cat (named Absinthe) and losing her anyway. Followed immediately by losing Arsenic. I didn’t burst into tears but the tear ducts twinged to let me know they are still there.
And letting go of your past doesn’t mean others will. I tried for a job at a cattery (kennel for kitties) cos it was only like ten hours a week cleaning up and stuff, I thought all the kitty cuteness would be like therapy…And I was told I’d make an excellent candidate EXCEPT their policy is not to hire anyone with any sort of arrest record, misdemeanor or felony. And so that shoplifting conviction from ten years ago, after my best friend died and I went off the rails (not an excuse, just a factor) bites me on the ass again. I let it go, I’ve spent ten years trying to be better, do better, atone for my poor choices…Fuck you, mindfulness. I should have committed murder, people look on that with less disdain than misdemeanor theft.
This has turned into quite the incoherent off topic rant…Fuck. I wish I knew how to not do it this way but alas, I do not and this is….well, mental chaos. Exit the ride at any time to the left..oh, wait, to the right or the bipolar coaster will hi- SPPPLLLLLAAAT.
My bad. Clean up on track two!
People (the shrink) tell me it will get better but I don’t think any of my doctors or therapists have ever taken the time to read any of my file. If they had, they’d know for the last 15 years, my worst time is the hellidays. All that family jazz. Mainly because my dad left my mom right before Thanksgiving, thus splitting us all into factions. Him, his new woman and their kid. My mom living with sis, her husband, and their kid. And then lil old me, going through my own divorce (not very traumatizing cos as I have stated, I don’t connect well or get too attached to people, just cats) and trying not to piss off mom or dad but talking to dad or his gf or my half brother resulted in my mother going off the reservation and calling me a traitor who approved of his cheating on her. I was in a no win situation. Right at…the holidays.
I used to love Christmas. (Never Thanksgiving, like the food, hate the boring day and parades and ball games and having to socialize, icky.) I wore my Santa hat every day up til Christmas,even to my job, and I had the light up bulb earrings. I was gleeful and good will to men. Inevitably the day after I would crash cos the family would inevitably get into some drama and all the money and stress amounted to fuck all…But at least for a few weeks I was good.
After mom and dad split up…Nope. And it wasn’t the divorce that bothered me, those two should never have been together in the first place. It was being 27 years old and being in a tug of war with my mother demanding absolute shunning of my father while for once, my father was reaching out to us and there was my little brother who I didn’t want growing up feeling like his older half sisters are beasts for shunning him…While over the years a semi peaceful accord has occurred, where we ALL gather at mom’s for the holidays (inc dad, his woman, and their kid) but…It’s never been the same. It’s just ass trash.
Maybe if the doctors saw all that, they’d understand why I circle the drain at the holidays. It’s just more stress with little reward for me. Not so much as a hug or a “you look nice.” Just…drama and stress. There was war at the Easter shindig cos stepmonster scraped Spook with her watch and my kid went to screaming to my mom how stepmonster had cut her and my mom went off on everyone and they all left expeditiously…
Throw in depression, anxiety, and why wouldn’t I be circling the drain.
Totally off topic and on a psychotic tangent…Oh, well. This is what I am facing so optimism really isn’t on the menu. Mom’s already started in on how cheap dad and I are when it comes to Spook’s Christmas gifts. My kid breaks or loses everything so I fail to see why my bills should be let go, the fridge should be empty, so she can have a half hour of thinking I’m awesome before starting into “what else did you get me”. Let mom and sis blow all the money and starve for a week to impress a fickle six year old. I will get her one big gift and a bunch of dollar store stuff and she will be just as happy. Hell, I could tape a picture of Elsa and Anna onto a roll of toilet paper and she’d be thrilled.
Today I am cryptifying and rotting my brain with more tv shows. Fuck it all. I’ve earned a respite, brief as it may be. If it makes me lazy I am okay with that. Ya know, if people really wanted to get me a gift for Christmas that is desperately needed, they’d get me a couple of months of a cleaning service.
On second thought…I am a control freak, don’t like dish dwellers in my bubble, and can’t stand to have people touch my stuff, it feels like rape of my possessions…
Helper monkey it is. I shall kiss him and hug him and pet him and call him George…
No, I hate that name. He shall be…Mr. Monk. Just hopefully not as germaphobic and OCD. He could solve the mystery of the missing socks and field all phone calls. People pay so little mind to what I say, I doubt they’d even distinguish the monkey sounds from my voice.
In which case…Mr. Monk will remove his diaper and fling poo at them.