Much as I loathe living in a small town, it has become increasingly clear to me that me low noise th reshold would never allow me to live in a large city. Today alone the street sweepers have every nerve ending n fire and as if that’s not enough, someone across the street is using a chainsaw. Incessantly. So even indoors there is no escape from all these unnatural sounds. Of course, I get my panties in a bunch over the totally natural sound of chirping birds so it’s apparently just incessant loud noise, period, that sets off my panic receptors. Living in constant fight or flight mode, with pretzel gut, is pretty unpleasant.
Unpleasant. Hmmph. There I go, sugar coating it, lest my true feelings cause someone to call me a whiner. Guess what? Living with anxiety disorders SUCKS. It’s not merely unpleasant. It is 24-7 with no break, especially when even your dreams are so vivid you can recall feeling anxious while asleep. This is not something I’d wish on my worst enemy. If saying it sucks makes me a whiner, then pass me the cheese and a glass to pour the whine into.
Day two in the dish. I am running on empty. My nerves are practically deep fried, my will to fight exists only out of sheer spite and stubbornness. Can’t fail my kid, can’t fail R, never mind the damage it’s doing to me. Shamble on, zombie mode, don’t stop to eat brains, that might give me joy. IF I were capable of feeling joy anymore. Seasonal depression has quickly sucked away every last vestige of that spiel. Everything is bad, there is no hope, I am imprisoned, I can’t get warm, I just want my blankies…Depression lies, reminds me of the donor, cos not a word uttered is true. Still, I become prisoner to its lies, wanting to defy, yet too weakened to put up much struggle. For me, getting out the door with clothes on is The Victory. And if that’s someone’s idea of high functioning, they need slapped with a rotting fish. This is existence. And I try to take the small joys where I can- a good episode of The Flash, a purring kitten, my kid saying, “My cat didn’t throw up on the floor, he has an alibi!” (Seriously, how can you not get a giggle out of an 8 year old who knows what alibi means???)
Sadly, depression makes the little things seem smaller and smaller til they’re no longer visible in the rearview mirror. You know your brain chemicals are altered and lying to you, but clinical depression isn’t something you ‘snap out of’. Best you can do is shamble on and hope you make it to the next ‘break in the mold’, which is what I am now calling blocks of time when I am not expected to perform like a trained seal. Because my performance is the mold and when I don’t have to dance, monkey, dance, it’s a break in the mold. (Hopefully Funeral For A Friend doesn’t sue me for using the line from their song ‘Red Is The New Black’, no disrespect, looove that song.)
Oh another unnatural hellish sound. Pick up trucks with diesel engines. Roaring by all the time. This is why I like my hovel across town in the trailer park. Sure, it can get noisy there, especially when police and paramedics show up two, three times weekly for various resident issues… But mostly, it feels like my own corner of the world where the dish can’t really intrude too much. That’s why I discourage visitors. I don’t like my inner sanctum violated. I need the place that makes me feel safe. Safe from what, you may ask. Well, join the club, because I’d like to know, too. It’s not normal to feel threatened and scared at all times. I never knew anxiety could get this bad, but I’m living it now and I reiterate…it fucking sucks.
Another thing that sucks, and I mention this out of irritation…My sister happened to go to the new place where the donor is working and I guess the 53 year old man child was caught off guard and started stammering to her-in front of another customer- about “Tell Niki I’ve been unemployed, I will pay her the child support I owe her…” My sister asked for a pack of e-cig catridges and he blurts all that out. WTF?
And it just proves every point I’ve made since he walked out six years ago. He couldn’t be bothered to ask about his daughter. He didn’t use her name. Just mentioned owing me money. NO. He owes our child money. And that he can’t get it through his thick skull even after 3 kids is infuriating. HELLO, DONOR, IF YOU READ THIS: You and I are grown ups, things didn’t work out, it’s done. But don’t go thinking about what you owe your 3 baby mama’s. Think about your children E, C, and B and what you owe them. It was never about me or you. It has always been about doing right by the kids.
Sorry, had to be vented. Just…wtf, why mention our personal shit to my sister, anyway, while he’s at work and another person is in line and she never said a word about any of it…I guess I should expect it. He did strongarm my stepmonster into “try to talk some sense into Niki so she’ll sign the papers.” Yeah, well, I talked to a lawyer who said DIY paperwork involving child custody doesn’t fly so I was using my sense. Dragging someone else into it is his thing, I guess. Maybe because he knows how infuriated it makes me to have my family up in my business. Anything to stir the pot.
Except this time…I refuse to take the bait. He’s under court order to pay support by the state so whether he likes it or not, Spook will get that money even if they have to take his entire tax refund next year. It ain’t about me. It’s about her. And whatever emotional issue makes him, and other ‘parents’, fail to grasp that concept, makes me pity them.
Whatever my damage is, it ain’t as bad as theirs. Kids come first. The grown ups can fend for themselves. You don’t owe me shit. You owe a beautiful, smart, funny 8 year old girl.
Tirade over. Xanax needed. I really hate chainsaws. Given a choice between Justin Bieber or a chainsaw sound…I’d throw myself into the chainsaw and drag Bieber with me. Kill two birds, one chainsaw.
Yes, that was an attempt at macabre humor. Don’t judge me.