Daily Archives: January 20, 2016

Sick and furious


So the whole family is sick (yay).  Green Bean has an ear infection.  Curly Jones probably has an ear infection but being non-verbal he can't really tell us.  And Mary is worst of all of us.  She probably has pneumonia, but hasn't gone to the doctor.

I've got body ache, sore throat, and a massive headache.  January is catching up with me I think.  The light therapy has definitely lessened my normal depression, but being sick in January just blows.

I went to bed around lunch and stayed in bed way too long.  Three people at work tried to get in touch with me while I was in bed.  That made me feel guilty and like shit because I didn't really mean to be in bed that long.  So the whole day just felt shot... like a complete fuck up.

Then, the cherry on the shit sundae.  The co-worker who I respect, am intimidated by, but also think is a bit of an asshole called me.  A month ago I had changed his code.  I should not have done it.  I apologized.  I told him to just undo the change.  I haven't looked at it for a month and he's been looking at it today.  The purpose of his call was to show me how all my changes were bad.  So instead of just listening to my response to just undo the changes, he had to walk through every one and question why I did it that way.  Fuck you.  I get it.  Just do whatever you want.  I apologized already.

A shitty day.  I am physically sick, mentally low, and emotionally raw.  Fuck being sick. Fuck January.  Fuck that guy.  

Image credit from wikipedia

Sick and furious


So the whole family is sick (yay).  Green Bean has an ear infection.  Curly Jones probably has an ear infection but being non-verbal he can't really tell us.  And Mary is worst of all of us.  She probably has pneumonia, but hasn't gone to the doctor.

I've got body ache, sore throat, and a massive headache.  January is catching up with me I think.  The light therapy has definitely lessened my normal depression, but being sick in January just blows.

I went to bed around lunch and stayed in bed way too long.  Three people at work tried to get in touch with me while I was in bed.  That made me feel guilty and like shit because I didn't really mean to be in bed that long.  So the whole day just felt shot... like a complete fuck up.

Then, the cherry on the shit sundae.  The co-worker who I respect, am intimidated by, but also think is a bit of an asshole called me.  A month ago I had changed his code.  I should not have done it.  I apologized.  I told him to just undo the change.  I haven't looked at it for a month and he's been looking at it today.  The purpose of his call was to show me how all my changes were bad.  So instead of just listening to my response to just undo the changes, he had to walk through every one and question why I did it that way.  Fuck you.  I get it.  Just do whatever you want.  I apologized already.

A shitty day.  I am physically sick, mentally low, and emotionally raw.  Fuck being sick. Fuck January.  Fuck that guy.  

Image credit from wikipedia

Keeping Up Appearances

One of the things I am best at, and a lot of bipolars are this way, is keeping up a good appearance when I am feeling bad. Not more than a couple of weeks ago, in the middle of one of my worst depressive stretches in years, when I felt I was acting oddly by […]

Keeping Up Appearances

One of the things I am best at, and a lot of bipolars are this way, is keeping up a good appearance when I am feeling bad. Not more than a couple of weeks ago, in the middle of one of my worst depressive stretches in years, when I felt I was acting oddly by […]

Not What You Need

While I was in inpatient I met a different psychiatrist, Dr. Flanders.  I really hit it off with him and several of his comments keep echoing through my head.  One of them was about Brent.  He asked who prescribes my medication and I told him.  He said, “He’s very attractive, isn’t he?”  I agreed.  “But […]

And yet another ward 13 Wednesday

Outside the main pedestrian turnstile entrance, there are minibus taxis and touts, hawkers selling fresh fruit, vetkoek, fried chicken and so on. From time to time school buses spew forth […]

How Does One Bowl For Soup, Anyway?

 

Not a huge fan of that band but they have a few songs I like. That one just made me laugh. I always thought if someone wrote a song for me, it’d be called “The Bitch Song.”

Liceapalooza seems to have been kicked. For now. I took her to school and they checked her head over. Which means for the first time in three years, I have managed to get the lice problem beaten in a day whereas it used to take a week. Viva mayo and shower cap and Robicomb. Of course, knowing my kid, she will have it again in a week because she stashed some stuffed animal and reinfests herself.

I handled it without clawing my eyeballs out, how amazing is that! And all while battling shark week. I think this lithium is a magic wand for hormonal mood swings. Not so much as a tear or major anger tantrum during the whole process.

R asked me to come in today if she went back to school. I haven’t mustered up the give a damn yet. He’s practically ignored me and all but let me go without smokes or gas for the last six weeks wifey has been off work. Fuck him and his needs. I NEED a couple of hours not hearing “mommy mommy” and a bunch of whining. I NEED to not be doing freaking laundry for an hour or two. I need to not have to cater to the whims of another for a few hours.

I hesitate to mention this as it could be a fluke or this could jinx it but…after she zonked last night, I sat at my desk and wrote TWELVE pages of fiction. It’s the same story I’ve been working on since ’08 but whatever. I WROTE. It made me gloriously happy. I even took a break to watch the new Flash and still was able to go get back into the pocket to write. Fuck me, this is like, miraculous, like the Virgin Mary on a piece of toast.

I doubt it will last. I am so nervous about this court hearing. For all his uselessness, the donor still has the power to make me doubt myself at every turn. As if the bipolar and anxiety don’t have a stranglehold on that one. There’s this paralyzed part of me that fears he’s going to pull some stunt trying to get custody just to avoid paying support on her. He always did rail about the moms spending “his” money frivolously. He has some serious issues with women.

And I have serious issues with dumbasses.

I wouldn’t put it past him to try and use this blog against me as slandering him. He did my old blog, which I took down and I never did link it to this one but I kept the same user name…I’m sorry. I don’t use real names. I don’t give exact locations. I am just one more random internet person spewing my mental drivel. And slander is only viable if something isn’t true. Not paying a cent of child support or even mailing your kid a birthday gift is the very definition of being a sperm donating deadbeat.

I just want it over with. For fuck sake, it’s my birthday Friday. I don’t celebrate but at the very least I shouldn’t have to lay eyes on that…that…whatever the fuck he is.

He reminds me of our cat Nightshade. Bitch has had 23 kittens in three years and only two have ever survived because she doesn’t want to be bothered with them and they starve. She, much as I love her, is a bad mother and a deadbeat, too. My opinions are for everyone who does the same bad deed, he shouldn’t consider himself special.

See, I’ve already wasted time ruminating over “it” and it’s more of my time than he deserves. It’s not about us anymore. It’s always been about our child.

Part of me giggles when I think of him getting visitation with her. He thought I was a loud mouthy stubborn bitch…Muhahaha, Spook is gonna eat him alive. Oh, no, she’d get food poisoning.

I am a bitch, I own it.

Ugh, really not feeling the “go be around people” thing. It would be super helpful if R ever told me what it is he wants of me. Cos if it’s just hanging out cos he can’t stand to be alone and I don’t even get a pack of smokes out of it…Leave me the fuck alone.

That always drove the donor nuts,my “what’s in it for me” quid pro quo streak.

I think for those with depression and anxiety, it’s a legit mindset. We constantly have to weigh gain versus what it will cost us mentally and sometimes, the gain simply doesn’t trump the cost. People are my kryptonite. I avoid. There has to be something I need in it for me to battle the dish dwellers.

Maybe I am a shitty person that way, IDK.

Onto more important things…

HOW DOES ONE BOWL FOR SOUP????

And is it chicken noodle soup or that nasty cream of broccoli? And do I have to rent some funky icky looking shoes? And those bowling balls are just too damn heavy and unwieldy…

Fuck it. I’ll let the band bowl for their soup and listen to “Girl All The Bad Guys Want.”

Call me when we’re bowling for McDonald’s french fries. I’ll be there with my footed jammies on.


Happy Birthday, Aquarians

Aquarius Opinions


When Dating Feels Like Cheating



I have never dated.  Not an adult man anyway.  High school boys?  We went to the diner, shared French fries with gravy (calories quickly burned in the nervous, metabolic state of awkward teens), and maybe exchanged a quick, tooth-bumping kiss before boarding separate buses home.  That was when we were sober.  Drunk on room temperature Budweiser?  Unsteady sloppy kisses in basement back rooms at keg parties.  This is how I met my high school boyfriends, my college boyfriend, even my husband.  Lust under the influence led to long-term love.  Less talking in the first few heady weeks, and more beer bongs, Jell-O shots, and in graduate school, jugs of cheap wine.  It’s easy to skip ahead to “I love you” after four or five drinks, though harder to backtrack to “But do I like you?”

My husband and I were together for twenty years before we divorced.  In all that time, I rarely fantasized about another man or woman, or man and woman.  Certainly, Colin Firth might have been imaginatively energizing in Pride and Prejudice.  Generally, though, I couldn’t swap my husband’s face with Mr. Darcy’s as easily as I used to exchange the heads of my Barbie and Ken dolls as they rolled around on the Dream House bed.  Additionally, my hockey-playing, Wisconsin-born husband didn’t usually woo me with haughty, aristocratic-speak (nor did he ride into the bedroom on a steed).  The dog, too, followed us onto the bed and invariably jumped off to vomit bottle caps and Legos on the floor.  So I was anchored in the nowand the we of my romantic life rather than what else might be possible.

When my husband became “ex,” he told me that he hoped I had moved forward, as he had (though he had lead time on a new girlfriend).  To prove that I had and could (and wasn’t ready to consign myself to yoga pants and Downton Abbey), I accepted a lunch date with absolutely the wrong guy.  He asked, I said yes, flattered because it was the first-time since I was twenty-two that a man other than my husband was interested in me, and not just because I was his wife.  (A panicked “yes,” too, as I’d just plucked my first gray pubic hair.)  What else was I supposed to say?  All those drunk, initial hook-ups were about yes and yes and yes even when a sober no might try to assert itself as I jumped out of the bed and ran to the bathroom to vomit (last call tequila shots). 

The first-in-twenty-years date stealth-kissed me at the end of lunch.  Though I no longer drink and generally now have temperate judgment, instead of dodging the kiss, I moved toward it.  In the waning last years of marriage, my ex and I exchanged friendly-enough pecks but that did not imply the progression of romantic acts.  This kiss, terrible in both chemistry and execution, was no better because my thoughts leaned toward exacting clinical assessment: “First kiss in twenty years from someone other than my ex.  What are my lips supposed to be doing and how do I keep his tongue out?  Doesn’t he have a cold?”  If we were having a moment, it was over.

I’ve been trying on-line dating, mostly under the influence of my ex’s words: forward, forward, forward.  What better way to throw off the past and its mutual, married memories?  On-line dating promises variety and deliberate choice not muddled by late-night booze.  I could choose: taller than me, not a writer, maybe even a Republican (fiscally conservative, socially liberal, though not Tea Party).  I’ve gone on a few dates or “meet-ups,” as the twenty-six year old “match” corrected me, before proposing a night of oral extravagance.  “C’mon,” he said, “how long since you’ve had that?” (He knew exactly how to speak to my graying, newly divorceéd self, but I turned him down.  Closer to my daughter’s age than mine).

The Quiet Man: I leaned so far over our table at Starbuck’s to hear him that my chin skimmed the top of my Venti Latté and I still had to ask him to repeat himself; after thirty minutes, I was exhausted.  Mr. Photoshop: His profile picture was ten years younger and twenty-five pounds lighter.  Even a minor misrepresentation could be trouble.  Was he really a smoker?  Was his wife at the park with the kids?  An Academic and a Gentleman: Our profiles said we were a 96% match.  Witty, intelligent messages back and forth.  A lovely date at a museum where we admired an exhibition of lascivious porcelain.  At the end of our second date, a quick (post-divorce #2) kiss.  Collegial despite the romantic rain. 


My problem is not the men I meet, though living in rural Pennsylvania makes it difficult to meet anyone who doesn’t spend his weekends in camouflage tracking deer.  My problem is that being with someone other than my former husband still feels like cheating.  He kissed me on the altar promising his love, in sickness and health, and his faithfulness, not random lunch man; he stood beside me in the birthing room, holding my hand, as my daughter, and then three years later, my son slid into the world, not Colin Firth; he knew me when I was twenty-two and thirty and forty, knew me well and sick and then better, not OkCupid matches (at least, not yet).  Though we fell out of love, he loved me best for so many years.  But I know some day my kiss will come that will make love possible again.       

When Dating Feels Like Cheating



I have never dated.  Not an adult man anyway.  High school boys?  We went to the diner, shared French fries with gravy (calories quickly burned in the nervous, metabolic state of awkward teens), and maybe exchanged a quick, tooth-bumping kiss before boarding separate buses home.  That was when we were sober.  Drunk on room temperature Budweiser?  Unsteady sloppy kisses in basement back rooms at keg parties.  This is how I met my high school boyfriends, my college boyfriend, even my husband.  Lust under the influence led to long-term love.  Less talking in the first few heady weeks, and more beer bongs, Jell-O shots, and in graduate school, jugs of cheap wine.  It’s easy to skip ahead to “I love you” after four or five drinks, though harder to backtrack to “But do I like you?”

My husband and I were together for twenty years before we divorced.  In all that time, I rarely fantasized about another man or woman, or man and woman.  Certainly, Colin Firth might have been imaginatively energizing in Pride and Prejudice.  Generally, though, I couldn’t swap my husband’s face with Mr. Darcy’s as easily as I used to exchange the heads of my Barbie and Ken dolls as they rolled around on the Dream House bed.  Additionally, my hockey-playing, Wisconsin-born husband didn’t usually woo me with haughty, aristocratic-speak (nor did he ride into the bedroom on a steed).  The dog, too, followed us onto the bed and invariably jumped off to vomit bottle caps and Legos on the floor.  So I was anchored in the nowand the we of my romantic life rather than what else might be possible.

When my husband became “ex,” he told me that he hoped I had moved forward, as he had (though he had lead time on a new girlfriend).  To prove that I had and could (and wasn’t ready to consign myself to yoga pants and Downton Abbey), I accepted a lunch date with absolutely the wrong guy.  He asked, I said yes, flattered because it was the first-time since I was twenty-two that a man other than my husband was interested in me, and not just because I was his wife.  (A panicked “yes,” too, as I’d just plucked my first gray pubic hair.)  What else was I supposed to say?  All those drunk, initial hook-ups were about yes and yes and yes even when a sober no might try to assert itself as I jumped out of the bed and ran to the bathroom to vomit (last call tequila shots). 

The first-in-twenty-years date stealth-kissed me at the end of lunch.  Though I no longer drink and generally now have temperate judgment, instead of dodging the kiss, I moved toward it.  In the waning last years of marriage, my ex and I exchanged friendly-enough pecks but that did not imply the progression of romantic acts.  This kiss, terrible in both chemistry and execution, was no better because my thoughts leaned toward exacting clinical assessment: “First kiss in twenty years from someone other than my ex.  What are my lips supposed to be doing and how do I keep his tongue out?  Doesn’t he have a cold?”  If we were having a moment, it was over.

I’ve been trying on-line dating, mostly under the influence of my ex’s words: forward, forward, forward.  What better way to throw off the past and its mutual, married memories?  On-line dating promises variety and deliberate choice not muddled by late-night booze.  I could choose: taller than me, not a writer, maybe even a Republican (fiscally conservative, socially liberal, though not Tea Party).  I’ve gone on a few dates or “meet-ups,” as the twenty-six year old “match” corrected me, before proposing a night of oral extravagance.  “C’mon,” he said, “how long since you’ve had that?” (He knew exactly how to speak to my graying, newly divorceéd self, but I turned him down.  Closer to my daughter’s age than mine).

The Quiet Man: I leaned so far over our table at Starbuck’s to hear him that my chin skimmed the top of my Venti Latté and I still had to ask him to repeat himself; after thirty minutes, I was exhausted.  Mr. Photoshop: His profile picture was ten years younger and twenty-five pounds lighter.  Even a minor misrepresentation could be trouble.  Was he really a smoker?  Was his wife at the park with the kids?  An Academic and a Gentleman: Our profiles said we were a 96% match.  Witty, intelligent messages back and forth.  A lovely date at a museum where we admired an exhibition of lascivious porcelain.  At the end of our second date, a quick (post-divorce #2) kiss.  Collegial despite the romantic rain. 


My problem is not the men I meet, though living in rural Pennsylvania makes it difficult to meet anyone who doesn’t spend his weekends in camouflage tracking deer.  My problem is that being with someone other than my former husband still feels like cheating.  He kissed me on the altar promising his love, in sickness and health, and his faithfulness, not random lunch man; he stood beside me in the birthing room, holding my hand, as my daughter, and then three years later, my son slid into the world, not Colin Firth; he knew me when I was twenty-two and thirty and forty, knew me well and sick and then better, not OkCupid matches (at least, not yet).  Though we fell out of love, he loved me best for so many years.  But I know some day my kiss will come that will make love possible again.