Nope, no type. In the ilk of “panxiety” I have created another blended word to describe a certain feeling.
Flustrated- That feeling you get when nothing is going right and the simplest things seem insurmountable all the while your soul dies a little at the realization you can’t function without an extreme reaction to outside stimuli.
Yesterday was a prime example. I’d had all these notions to run out but then…panxiety set in, followed by inertia. I pondered housework, even that overwhelmed. After allowing myself some idle time, I got up, and as usual, started working in increments. Dishes, laundry, a bit of floor cleaning. Nothing major but I was on a roll and determined to accomplish and finish it all.
Then, enter the asshole king, texting me to bring the high heat soldering iron to the shop.
I was irritated as he told me he didn’t need it there and yet this is the third time he’s asked me to bring it back. I was feeling panicky and vulnerable to begin with and now, he’s forcing me into the dish.So I wrestled up my kid, we got into the car..and son of a bitch if it didn’t die on me every time I had to slow down, yield, stop, or got behind someone slow. FIFTEEN times it died on that outing. To say I was frustrated and pissed off is an understatement. I had her run the iron into the shop cos my mood was not conducive to dealing with him.
Then I decide to rip the bandage off and go to the pharmacy for my meds. After being kept waiting a half hour, they inform me they need my new insurance card, which of course I left at home. So more battling the stupid car. We got home and my kid went spaztic, carrying on about the car dying and then just on a tear about how she never wanted to hear my voice again…
So I took away her brand new Frozen sheets, still in the package. I am not rewarding her for screaming at me. Call me a mean ogre.
Took a smoke break and soe Xanax to calm down.
Then nutted up and ventured back out with my new script insurance card.
Waited another 45 minutes.
Decided to stop at Family Dollar for a couple of things. In the block and half it took to get there the car died seven times.
On the way home, it died on the railroad tracks.
I was ready to cry and scream and stomp and have a tantrum. By that point I didn’t have the energy left.
Quiet evening after that until R called and asked me to come in today. One would think after two weeks locked up with a child, I’d be itching for the company of an adult.
Depression and anxiety give zero fucks.
I told him I was available ten til two. I can’t do the dish in big increments right now, gotta keep it small. And since I am weaning off Cymbalta (from 120 t0, 90) plus starting the Lithium, there’s no telling how wonky my reaction may be. Baby steps, even if the rest of the world expects me to take big giant steps.
Further frustrating me last night was a call from my father. I asked about the car and he went off on me. “I don’t know what to goddamn do about the fucking thing, you just need a newer car!” Hmm, yeah, I didn’t know that. Wanna hand me three grand to find a decent used car? Didn’t think so, assclown.
I can always ask R about it, which I’ve done about ten times in the last two months but he can’t remember a thing and has no time to help me out.
I went to bed after taking 6mg of melatonin and 0.5 Xanax. I was awake three hours later. Then at the 3 a.m. Spook climbed into my bed…And talked, and talked. It was nearly 5 am before she finally went back to sleep. So closer to six by the time I had taken .25 Xanax and tried to get back into the sleepy pocket.
The alarm is evil. Spook with too little sleep is evil. ( I thought she might start spewing pea soup on me, she was so grumpy.)
Was bitter cold this morning so I had to warm up the car, which costs gas money and oh, scrape all the glass.
Now I am chilling at home before I have to face the dish and R.
More frustration because he always waits til five minutes before I have to leave then suddenly he remembers all this shit he wanted done…GRRRRR.
As it happens, even half asleep I can’t watch shows without getting irked. One had this boy diagnosed as bipolar but he was being treated solely with an anti depressant. Stupid doctors. Another a guy known to be bipolar was dragged in as a murder suspect, “Because maybe he got violent and killed her in a bipolar fit of rage.”
So, yeah, flustrated.
Let the games begin. At least this week I remembered to put out my trash.
I’ll take any tiny victory I can get.
(Thanks for that one, Diane.)