Daily Archives: December 25, 2012

Yuletide Fright

Christmas Eve, when I am in the States, means one thing: my friend G_’s party.  Now, I hate parties, and you won’t catch me at one, except for G_’s Christmas party, which I always attend.  I do it because she’s my friend and I love her a lot, and I know it makes her happy that I show up.

I generally find some out-of-the-way yet still polite place to stand with the Single Malt that G_ has pulled out of the cupboard especially for me, the other Scotch drinkers in the crowd being relegated to Dewar’s.  I make polite conversation with whomever approaches me; generally, I do not know them because, as the Social Security Administration judge’s summary of my disability disposition notes, I am a recluse.

This time I got stuck in an hour-and-a-half one-sided conversation with a World War II veteran submariner.  He is quite a spry fellow, and I suspect he thought he was chatting me up; but I felt my fight-or-flight mechanism rising, and panic setting in, as he was standing between me and the only exit. Then a woman broke in, introduced by another guest whom I did not know, and said she knew who I was and absolutely had to meet me.  Black spots appeared before my eyes.  The submariner was still going on about diesel smoke at 10,000 feet below the ocean’s surface, but his voice sounded like it was coming out of a long metal tube.

Then the woman told me why she wanted to meet me, and my most feared monster surfaced:

dinosaur fright


“My grandson, who has some “problems,” lives with me.  Your blog helps me so much!”

Dive, dive, shouted my inner submarine.  A local person reads my blog!  She knows who I am! She also knows my mother!  I am found out, exposed, and all hell will break loose, maybe even tonight, and if not tonight, tomorrow, because she just came from the same party my parents were attending!

My mind capsized.  All I could hear through the roaring in my ears was, “Oh, (insert my mother’s name here), your daughter’s blog has helped me so much,”  says my paranoid self, impersonating this well-meaning lady, which this time could very well be right.  (And if you are reading this, dear lady, please forgive my reaction to your well-intentioned thanks; I think you know what I’m talking about, and I really am grateful that you told me.)

And then (prates my paranoia) my mother, who is computer savvy, looks up my blog and sees all the honest, yet horrible, things I have written about her.  My ass is grass.  I will be slowly flayed with red-hot forks and pincers.  Perhaps she will throw me out again, as she has done so many times before, and I will be homeless yet again.  Monsters, nameless monsters, are attacking me, and I have no weapons to defend myself.

You see, although I am very glad that my blog has helped someone, it does not mitigate the mind-numbing, cold-sweat fear of my mother that persists even to this day, fifty-nine years later.

Some wounds never heal.

My brain is not obsessive compulsive, my brain is not obsessive compulsive, my brain is not…

I think my brain just may be suffering from a form of obsessive compulsive disorder.

While my actions are too scatterbrained to ever be obsessive compulsive, my thoughts are another story.

Today, still, I keep replaying the scene with my mother last night, her and Betty commenting on The Donor getting a better full time job, and even my dad and his woman said it was very rude and improper the way my mother said it and when she said it, so it’s not just me having thin skin. That woman aimed to wound.

And while I’d still have to have an iota of emotion for the man to be wounded by mention of him, and I don’t…What I do have now is a super abundance of OCD thinking and paranoia that my own mother just might be colluding with the enemy here. (And considering she sided my with first husband in our divorce, before he, you know, stole her money t buy drugs as I said he was doing, this isn’t unfounded paranoia.) And Betty, my supposed friend, still going to the store where The Donor works even though there are six others right in a row beside it, and talking to him, as if they are friends, when he hated her and called her horseface and made fun of her…

Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark.

I have trust issues. I now have major trust issues,

And paranoid ocd brain is telling me that I need to start avoiding Betty like the plague, because if she were my friend and truly cared about Spook, she wouldn’t be chitchatting with the man who refuses to give his a kid even his fucking time, she’d be appalled by his behavior.

Or is that just me and I am being unfair and hypersensitive?

I realize I can’t pick other’s friends. But, honestly, after R and I broke up, my dad still had something to do with him and it didn’t bother me because R is a good guy.

The Donor, on the other hand, is the devil. And I have tried soooo hard to refrain from name calling, but in the interest of being honest with myself and in this blog, I truly believe he is a product of evil. Not like, occult evil, but like human nature evil, the lowest of the low, completely delusional and without conscience. THAT is true evil to me. I sensed it all along and ignored it, telling myself I was untrusting and paranoid and it was me with the problem. Of course, he reinforced this 6000% to the point I no longer believed I had a genuine thought, everything was my bad personality. My gut knew.

I will not ignore that gut instinct again.

My gut is telling me now that people I have trusted are not to be trusted for obvious reasons. Because to side with someone who is such a horrid being, even on a superficial level rather than say ‘PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE AND CALL YOUR KID INSTEAD OF TALKING ABOUT YOUR NEW JOB, YOU LOSER.”…I just don’t think I want to be friends with someone who can ignore that kind of character flaw. I can forgive mistakes but this is the third kid he’s abandoned, so this is not a fuck up, this is his pattern of behavior. Am I the only person who has the balls to call a spade a spade and tell him he’s wrong? Must everyone else keep buying his poor mistreated downtrodden good man act because he’s just so good at putting it on?

I don’t want to care.

I want to hear his name mentioned and feel nothing.

And as far as our relationship goes, I do.

But considering the bond of a child that legally dictates he can pop in and out of our lives for the next 15 years however he pleases…That makes me see fucking ten shades of red.

Why do I let it bother me? Why do I let it bother me? Why do I let it bother me?

Because I can forgive many many things. Rejecting your own flesh and blood is just not one of those things.

That to me is beyond forgiveness, and it it makes me a lesser person, so be it. It’s how I feel. If a fucking nutcase like me can pull her shit together and take care of a child she chose to bring into the world, then someone of his ilk, according to him, you know being so highly intelligent and educated and hard working and responsible, should have no problem manning up.

You’re a fucking idiot, Niki, idiot, idiot, dumb bitch, this is exactly what your mother wanted, she wanted to rattle you and make you feel shitty just as she always and as always, you let her do it, because you are pathetic and weak and it’s not even like you care that much, you just can’t make your brain shut the hell up about it.

My gut tells me to gird my psychological loins.

I cannot fathom why The Donor would chit chat about a new job to a woman known to be associated with me, who he never liked, just passing time. Friendly the man is not unless he’s putting on an act,

Paranoid brain tells me this is some sort of lure, like, “look, I’m going to work full time hours again, let’s see if Betty will run back and tell the evil wife and see if she will come after me for support now.”

Sounds asinine and ludicrous, right?

I would agree, had I not spent three years being victim to exactly that sort of mind game that he played. (Hell, he used to move shit around on me and then say he didn’t do, then he’d laugh at me when I started freaking out…he called it his sense of humor but I think he’s just cruel and scheming.)

I told the sunshine spewer about the paranoid distorted thinking. She says I’m fine because I recognize that I am being paranoid and my thoughts are distorted.

Um…That’s not a solution, that’s a fucking rationalization.

How about I don’t have these thoughts in the first place? That would be wondermous.

So apparently even though I am having these thoughts, I am aware of it so I am not crazy.

Just suffering from mental obsessive compulsive disorder where I have to spend 16 straight hours on the same line of thought, letting it twist my stomach into burning stress knots while my heartbeats rapidly and I feel myself crumbling a little because I had finally started letting my guard down a little and allowing myself to sort of have friends…

And honestly, what did she do wrong? My mother was the venom spewer.

What did either of them do wrong, except show bad taste in timing and manner of execution?

What’s my fucking problem?

What it boils down to is, I have no need to know what The Donor has going on in his life or what he does or says. I have made this abundantly clear to everyone, point blank saying, “Why can’t you stupid fucking people get it through your head that I don’t want to hear anything about (the donor) unless he’s dead!”

Crude, but concise.

Yet these people just keep doing it, again and again and again.

It’s done. My life has moved on. My life is my kid.

Being subjected to talk about him brings nothing positive to our lives.

So what is the point?

And why won’t people respect me enough to just not say anything in front of me?If you want to obsess about him behind my back, go for it. Just shut up about it around me and my kid.

I don’t know why I let my mother have this much power over me. It doesn’t seem like power because I have always done what I wanted, gone against the grain. And that”s part of why she has always been so harsh on me, I broke free and became independent and strong. I don’t let her opinions sway mine or change my behavior.

So why am I letting a four second snotty dig tossed out in my presence kick my ass for almost eighteen hours now?

If you can tell me, I’d love to know.


depression comix #100

Reblogged from depression comix:

Click to visit the original post

Oh dear...Clay has hit another nerve, I'm afraid. My depression has this nasty habit of causing me to think that if I accidentally died somehow, it would be a great relief. I have met truckers and train engineers who have hit people who walked out in front of them on purpose, and those innocent drivers were gashed open forever with PTSD from it. So I wouldn't do it, because it would be an evil thing to do to ruin someone else's life in order to get out of my own. But don't think I don't think about it, every time. Another "right on" for Clay.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Surprise

I’m late to post for the Weekly Photo Challenge on Surprise (!) but today seemed a good day for surprises. …

Continue reading »

Happy Tuesday!

Well, it’s not Monday, ha ha! I hope that everyone is having a pleasant day regardless of religious bent (or lack thereof). I won’t harp on at anyone, other than my usual assertion that we should do our best to be excellent to each other. And for me, that means cooking up a quality turkey… and playing Sims. *grins*

Have a good one!


Therapeutically void

So, here I sit, 9:28 pm, Christmas Eve, having survived the chaos of holiday hell at my mother’s. My spawn is tucked in snug in her bed, exhausted from all the toys her grandparents got her tonight.

I,er, Santa, have not wrapped her gifts for tomorrow morning as of yet, for I am licking my wounds, left by my evil mother.

I sit here, pondering her shots, wondering why she hates me so much she would say such hurtful things and spout on about how horrible I am.

I showed up, I brought gifts, I made food, I put on the social face…I don’t know what more I could have done to ward off her cruel barbs. At one point, she said something, not to me,of course, even though I was in the same room, about, “(his real name here) got a full time job at(store name here), did you hear?”)

Referring of course to The Donor.

Like she’s his friend and I’m not, but she was just going to toss that out there that she heard about it from the woman in the other room, Betty, who was talking to him,yet she is supposed to be my friend…Though why you’d want to talk to someone who can’t even mail his kid a fucking Christmas gift makes me not want you to be my friend. Lay down with dogs, get covered with fleas, et al, as petty and bitchy as it sounds. It was just my mother’s smug tone and expression, and the way she said it like I wasn’t even there, damn well knowing I hate when people tell me about whatever shit he’s been seen or heard doing…

That’s my mother, disturber of shit, hell bound and determined to hurt anyone who has the audacity to land on their feet after being ditched by their husband. Gotta love mom.

I don’t fucking have to like her, and most of the time, I don’t. She’s evil. I don’t care what her psychological reasons are, she’s cruel and hurtful without cause. I choose not to be around any more often than I have to because I just want to fucking slap her across the face. Which I have told her, and she says the feeling is mutual. What the woman has no clue about is, everyone says my attitude at times is a mirror image of hers. So, technically, that particular personality failing would have been learned from her.

Blargghhhhhhhhhh. Stupid fucking family baggage.

Then the daughter of one of the non relative bums who was there looked at me and asked, “How can you not have any money?”

Um…Her mother wants nothing to do with her and her dad is unemployed drawing wellfare, so where the fuck does she get off being such a snot to me?

THEN I had to listen to one of the bum roommates whining about how he hurt his knee, so we compared wounds. His was a fucking ( .) Yes, a tiny dot of a scuff. Mine trumped his, and I’m not crying like a bitch even though it fucking hurts like hell.

Sooo sick of wussified men I could puke.

(And if that makes me a bitch, I will own it and hump its leg.)

The rest of the day… Pressure, pressure,pressure.

Mom took a chunk out of me first thing because R asked me to come into the shop for a couple of hours. I shouldn’t do that on a holiday. What she means is her idea of the holiday, since legally today wasn’t a holiday. Then I went to my job lady, and she has given her notice, she will be leaving mid January. I love her.

Then, for the first time in three months, I saw the sunshine spewing counselor.

For once, she didn’t piss me off. And she respected that I was all stressed out and needed to leave early.


I didn’t feel much better having talked to her. I spewed about everything, the wreck, the hellidays, my fall, the new med regime and side effects…I told her about the problems I am having with my kid.

It was good to vent it all.

But she is no fucking help at all.

I think she is a terrible counselor.

But then I also think maybe I am biased because her style is so at odds with mine.

Maybe she’d be great for a dozen others. Just not me.

But I am too panic stricken to talk to the powers that be and ask for a different counselor since it’s such a small office and they only have like two other counselors. That could end badly for me, you know, look at the  mentally disturbed person rocking the boat because the counselor doesn’t tell her what she wants to hear…

I hate seeing her.

I look for ways to get out of it.

I need a counselor. God, I need it.

But seeing her…is only slightly less painful than seeing my mother.  I know I should nut up and speak up, ask for a change since it’s been a year and I honestly don’t feel I am making any headway with this one…But, in a small town, in a small office…Speaking up could be my undoing. But suffering in silence is becoming my undoing, as well. Catch 22.

All day long…stress..panic…stress…panic…

I actually enjoyed seeing my sister and my dad and his clan.

My mom and so called friend Betty I could have done without.

And one of the bum in laws was punching the sick dog in the head because the dog tried to eat the food on his plate he left sitting on the table. I hate people who hurt animals. And a sick one that’s dying? That dog is ten times the human being that bum in law will ever be.

I hate it, I hate them , I fucking hate everything.

Oh, and I filled out an application on line to work at a sub shop (I won’t name names, but it’s not the common popular one) and OMFG, they had  a 12 PAGE PERSONALITY ASSESSMENT. To serve fucking sandwiches. And some of the questions were such obvious traps because you know what they want you to say, but you know how you feel, so do you lie or do you be honest?

Since when did you need a fucking psych eval to serve fucking sub sandwiches?



Must shut the fuck up and go wrap presents for the spawn.

I noticed tonight how everyone kept noting how sweet and loving she is.

I also noted no one gave me an ounce of credit for raising her properly, but instead noted, “How can she be Niki’s kid?”

Because, ya know, I’m Satan and all.

Hell is family.

Hell is holidays.

Heaven is…

being done with it all for another fucking year.