I had such a good mood day. I dressed well, I presented well to the shrink, though I did mention the rapid cycling mood swings. We are trying an increase in Lamictal but next month she is “re-evalutating” me, which means she wants to change the Lamictal to one of the heavier duty mood stabilizers which scares the fuck out of me. The side effects alone are frightening enough but if they work even less than the Lamictal is…But doctors don’t understand this because they don’t have to live with the fall out from side effects and meds not working. To them, you’re being immovable or not keeping an open mind. It’s never occurred to them you’re TERRIFIED. The devil you know is better than the one you don’t and all of that…It was not a bad appointment though she did want me weighed and that never makes me feel good. EVER. But on the plus side, I am down a pound and a half from last time they weighed me. At least I’m not gaining weight. I suspect once the mental stuff is straightened though, I WILL get the “lose weight” lecture. Doctors seem preprogrammed to blame everything on weight these days. Knife in your skull? LOSE WEIGHT! Brain syphillis? LOSE WEIGHT.
Eh, fuck you.
It was very hot today, which was very uncomfortable for me. My temp gauge has been broken for awhile now, causing me to be burning up, freezing cold, never comfortable, ever. Rather irritating and frustrating. (Maybe early menopause setting in?) Not to mention people now think I am some sort of princess. (This bed is too hard…This bed is too soft…This bed is just right…Wait, there’s a lump in it…) I can’t help it. I try to keep my complaining minimal but if I am shivering or sweating bullets, it’s sort of something people notice. And if you alternate amongst the varying temps, well, then you’re just a whiny little princess who can’t be made happy.
Eh, fuck you.
Shop wasn’t busy or dead. Stuff came in, went out, phone rang. I was surprisingly well equipped to deal today. Not one rubber band snap.
THEN I got home. And Spook’s little friend came over. And it was sweltering hot outside with no shade so I was baking in the sun watching the kids and her friend just kept saying my name every ten seconds and she wanted food and she was thirsty, and…I felt like my brain was going to implode. In all fairness, she’s been here six straight nights. I need a fucking break. Badly.
Then R calls and wants me to bring the car by so he can check out the brakes, which I say seem to be failing. But he and his son in law both drive the car and say the brakes are perfect. (And let me tell you, having other people drive my car did not make me comfortable. R I don’t mind, but that snotty son in law of his who teaches auto shop yet can barely fix a fucking a bottle for his baby…Not so much.) Of course, R’s wife, Mrs. Picky was there and doing yard work and she basically took charge of my kid. R sent me out in his rental car to get more beer for him. For a soccer mom mobile, it’s actually pretty posh aside from being a bitch to see to back up. I could do with an SUV easily. But then, I have always liked driving bigger cars whereas he hasn’t. I can see how going from a two seater to that huge thing bothers him. But the leather seats just wrap around you and it’s…posh. Not the best looking SUV I’ve ever seen, kinda space ship-y but…
So while I was gone Spook helped Mrs Picky with the yard work…And I asked if my kid behaved and she snottily said, “She minded me fine.” I could be paranoid. I could be hypersensitive. But I am pretty sure that was a shot at how my kid does not mind me half the time. Okay, so when I got there, I was pretty stressed out. I assumed it was the neighbor kid and the heat but then when things started getting spinny…It hit me I hadn’t had a Xanax in nearly 20 hours. So no doubt I seemed psycho flaky and they probably thought someone needed to not freak out. Like stressed out mommy is somehow unacceptable.
The kicker came when his friend Mark and his wife, Mrs Even Pickier, showed up and blocked me in the drive (unless I wanted to back out over a ditch, which I did not.) She, too, got her shots in when my kid didn’t say please or thank you. Well, I try, I try very hard, but ya know what? The kid is three and I pick my battles. So if she says “Give me a drink” without a please once in awhile, I doubt the world will end. Between Mrs Picky and Mrs Pickier, though, I fled the place feeling like an utter failure as a mom. I was actually in tears. And the anger, oh, the blessed anger…And the Xanax withdrawal. And backing out, I nearly ended up in the ditch because my night vision is utter shit.
Yes, the suckiest ending to an otherwise okay day.
I don’t know if I was due for a mood crash or if it was the lack of xanax or being hypersensitive and feeling criticized…But it sucked. I admit I don’t take destructive criticism well. Who does? As a writer, I had to learn the difference. As a female, I also had to learn the sneaky ways other women sneak in their judgmental little digs when you don’t meet their standards. Could they have just been trying to be helpful? Sure. I doubt it though. I way they both treat their husbands speaks volumes for me.
And it hit me…Is that how I am toward guys? I’ve always had guy friends and it was always a banter type deal. Is it possible my banter is taken seriously and I am actually offending guys? And if so, why the fuck do these people not stand up for themselves? I have boundary issues, I admit that freely. If I have crossed a line, sometimes it is necessary to tell me because my social skills are so lacking, I don’t always know. So now I am flogging myself in the event my humor has caused someone to feel bad when that was not the intention at all.
I am lost when it comes to dealing with other people.
And maybe that’s why my kid doesn’t respect me or appreciate me or mind me. Maybe I am too pathetic. Because she seems to do fine for every other adult out there. Am I too laid back as a mom? I honestly don’t think I am. I am trying to teach her right from wrong, manners, consideration for others, et al. But since children aren’t allowed a childhood anymore and must apply for Mensa by age 5, I guess my kid is lacking intellectually. I stand by my decision to be unconventional and not push her too hard, though. I want her to be happy, let Mensa recruit other people’s little geniuses. I am surrounded by all these over achieving persnickety people and it’s insidious the way the doubt creeps in when you’re insecure in the first place.
But Mrs Picky…has a 22 year old son with a $20,000 truck who earns $15 an hour and she still pays his cell phone bill, so I’m not sure she is the perfect parent template she thinks she is.
And Mrs Even Pickier…NO ONE except her husband can stand her, so I probably shouldn’t be too concerned with her opinions. God himself couldn’t meet them.
So what exactly is the bug that crawled up my butt?
I get soo scared they will take my kid from me. Because she doesn’t mind me half the time. Because I am at a loss for what to do that is politically correct these days. Because I know when my child is manipulating yet these other people haven’t got a clue and cater to her little mind games because they somehow think I am denying her. Mrs. Picky kept giving her apple juice boxes even when I said no, you can drink water. She was going to give her a third one and I put my foot down there. Three juice boxes in under an hour? NO. Apple juice gives the kid massive runs. Ya know what the woman said to my kid? “Mommy says No, I have to assume she thinks it’s best.” I don’t THINK it’s best, I know it, because I have been with the child every single day for four years.
I swear Spook does it on purpose. Any time there is an audience, suddenly she is hungry (just ate), thirsty (Just drank a gallon of water) is hot (it’s 2o degrees out) is cold (it’s 90 degrees out) wants to stay outside (bugs are eating mommy alive but who cares) wants to go inside (because there are different toys to play with.) It has started to feel like being set up for public failure. I know she’s just a kid, but she has this manipulation gig down pat. And these people who know fuck all and may mean well…don’t have a clue, they just feed it endlessly and what I say doesn’t seem to matter because I am mean mommy.
I am glad I see the counselor tomorrow. It will probably be a shit appointment but still…I need to vent. R is no good to talk to. I wouldn’t dream of asking any of these other people for advice or a sympathetic shoulder. About the only people I can truly trust to talk to about any of my problems are Becca and my stepmonster.
But I won’t.
Because I have on the big girl panties and I just need to suck it up, grow a spine, and stop letting these insidious little bitches invade my mind. I am a good mom. I don’t always get it right, my kid is not perfect, but I do okay. She’s clothed, clean, fed, happy…Let her attend etiquette classes and obtain her master’s degree in Kindergarten, for fuck’s sake.
Eh, fuck you.
Yeah, that’s where I am right now. I am in no mood to go to the shop tomorrow. Because I now know why he is a functional alcoholic. If I had to go home to that every night, and even be around friends’ wives who are the same, I would drink too. I would never stop drinking. The difference is, he chose this life, he is fine with it.
I am not.
And I think it is time to start looking into computer courses or something to get the fuck out of that place and away from all his negative female clan.
Maybe the computers won’t take it personally when I have mood swings and panic attacks.
Because this is something people will never grasp.
Crash, crash…Eh,fuck you, mood swing, fuck you insecurity, and fuck you, you holier than thou picky elitist women who can’t mind your own business and let me parent my kid the way I see fit even if it doesn’t suit you.
Why do I let them get to me?
That’s the $64,o00 question.