Monthly Archives: June 2013

F*cking emotional!

My dad’s crew just left.

My kid is crying over her diaper rash. As if I am indeed speaking Japanese trying to teach her to use a toilet so she doesn’t get a diaper rash from the pull-ups.

My mind is a mine field of misfiring emotions and discombobulated thoughts. It’s making me want to die. At this moment, I feel so alone, so shitty, like such an incompetent misfit, that I should be sentenced to death.

It sounds so pathetic and dramatic and yet the misfiring chemicals and hormones are all at war, putting these thoughts into my head, making me just emotionally wonky enough to buy into the party line about how horrid I am as a person.

The stepmonster read to my kid.

All I could think was, “God, I am such a failure, when I read, the kid won’t pay attention two seconds.”

I got texts from R, telling me how fantastic his party was and I should have been there and a mutual friend neither of us had seen in 10 years was even there…

And that got me thinking, “Wow, Shane couldn’t be bothered to call or drop in and meet my kid, but he could go to a drunken shindig for R. I really am chopped liver.”

And feeling that way makes me view myself as so pathetic and weak.

Because ultimately, not going was my choice. The cramps were a factor, but mainly, I just didn’t want to face the social anxiety. I’d like to think it was a controlled decision. A choice.

Fact is, I let the disorder kick my ass.

And I apparently missed one hell of a shindig.

But not being there isn’t the problem.

It’s the fact that Shane, who I loved dearly, did not even send me a text while he was in town. I knew him before he ever met R, and yet, for R he could be there. He’s never even met Spook.

God, I am making myself want to puke with all these bullshit thoughts.

I am the one who chose not to go, yet here I am feeling all victimized? What the fuck is wrong with me?

And three posts in one day, wow, that’s how you know I am feeling really mental. When I am stable, I don’t have much to talk about. Today is not one of those days because stable has left the building, leaving behind this husk of a pathetic whiny bitch who can’t regulate her own emotions, can’t shake off the Seroquel cobwebs, and can’t stop thinking death is the only thing I am worthy of because I am such a waste of space.

Perhaps the hardest thing about any of it and all of it is that the bottom line is: I have never belonged anywhere in my life. I don’t fit. Anywhere. With anyone.

And because I am socially programmed to feel bad about it, I do.

But the fact of the matter is, I much prefer being alone and doing my own thing. When you have to drink just to enjoy someone’s company, then obviously you’re not meshing. And that’s how it has been with everyone I have ever known for the most part.

I’m not arrogant enough to think it’s anything but my own failing.

And in my current state, feeling like a giant failure is not going to go any place good. It is likely going to be one of those nights where I force myself to bed early, hoping for the brain “reboot” that comes with sleep so I can wake up in a different mind space.

I don’t know if I will feel better tomorrow, though. Probably won’t start to level off hormonally until Wednesday.

Now if that isn’t depressing, what is?

God, just to feel like there is ONE THING I can do right.

And be able to believe it beyond the next mood swing.

My goals are modest.


Just say no

To Seroquel. I even had an energy shot in hopes of being revived, but I am still the walking dead. Yet now that I have my kid down for a nap, my brain keeps telling me I am sleepy but I can’t sleep.

I am all crampy and my dad has decided today is a good day to bring me a new kitchen table, which will require rearranging stuff when all I want to do is stare off into space and embrace my misery.

And I am miserable. My mood is so low right now, I could easily just curl up and die.

I know new meds screw with you and take time to kick in, but the last time I felt this absolutely shitty was back in the 90′s when they put me on Serzone and I had this mega bad reaction.

I cannot believe on 25 mg dose of Seroquel has managed to drag me down so far. I’d been doing okay. I know the hormonal thing doesn’t help but this is ridiculous.

I’ve forced myself to get up and do some housework but it’s like my entire body is coated with Novacaine. I could walk into a wall and not feel it. I sent the neighbor kids home this morning, I had just had all I could take. The walls are closing in on me, I can’t keep up with the housework and the cats and the finances and my kid is becoming an unholy terror that I am almost scared of at times…

My brain is coming undone.

I know it will pass, happens every month, but I never really get used to it.

Twenty minutes after I sent Damiana home with the admonition “We’re not having any more c0mpany today”, she came knocking on the door and asked if she could come in.


Then my kid grabs a kitten by the throat and I correct her and she starts blubbering, “You scared me, you scared me, are you sorry you scared me?” Never mind the cat she just choked. Never mind how many times she has been corrected and KNOWS she is doing wrong. The manipulation never ends. And even R has started to see it. The child is a budding sociopath. Which all kids are,but because of my issues, I am starting to feel like I’ve already damaged her horribly or maybe it’s just junk dna between her father and I. It’s like I can’t even tell her no because even if I whisper it, I get the same fit, like I smacked her or something. That is pure manipulation and I don’t like it because it not only scares me, it makes me not like my kid very much. I love her, but when she acts like that, it’s hard to like her. I keep telling myself she is a normal kid, I am doing fine as a mom…

But at least at this time, I don’t believe it. I feel like I did something, maybe just the act of existing, to screw her up in the head. And while kids have imaginations, she has started telling wild stories about how her daddy works at a bank (gas station) and has black hair (long blond hair) and wears glasses (no glasses) and takes her all these places and buys her things and oh, the most asinine of all, he loves cats. None of which is true and I am trying to roll with the punches and not freak out, let the kid have her fantasy world, it’s my fault for choosing an unworthy sperm donor…

I just bite my tongue but I want to cry, because I am the one busting my ass and mind every day trying to juggle everything while he has no responsibility but here she is giving him all this credit. Yes, it’s her imagination, and yes, I know I am being ludicrous. Doesn’t make the emotional distortion go away.

On the bright side, I did one good deed for the day. One of the stray cats has kittens under my trailer and Damiana’s brother brought me one that was ice cold and nearly dead…I warmed it up, spoon fed it milk, kept it inside, and it revived and went back outside with its litter mates. I don’t know if it will make it but it was walking on its own volition so I will take that as a good sign. If it does live, I am going to call it Lazurus. Because it truly was knocking on death’s door.

Now…I am going to get back to dreading my existence and the upcoming visit from my dad (Nothing personal, just off my nut at the moment). I am NOT taking any more Seroquel. Like, ever again.

I’d rather gargle razor blades with a bleach chaser.

The vortex of suck that is the aftermath of Seroquel

My kid had Damiana stay over last night, and it coincided with the start of shark week. I thought, what can it hurt to start the 25 mg Seroquel at bedtime?

Ha ha ha ha ha ha.

One 25 mg pill has given me ten hours of lethargy, narcolepsy, gauze brain, Novacaine fingers, grouchiness…

I had a shrink who used to give me 25′s for panic attacks and I remember it doing nothing for me at such a low dose, not even sleepiness. Not to mention it does fuck all for panic anyway.

Now one little low dose pill and I am basically the walking dead. I am grinding my teeth to stay awake as I write this, having to stop every other word because my fat numb fingers aren’t hitting the right keys.

I have cramps. Damiana is on my last nerve. One of the “magnets”, as I call him, came around last night sniffing about. (As in, I am a LOSER magnet, ya know, 40 year old guy, no job, stoned 24-7…Not a bad person just not my cup of tea.) I dropped hints as subtle as anvils to make him go away. Of course when you live in such a perpetually stoned state, I guess everything seems like a joke. Because “I am PMS-ing and in a really bad mood” is of course very vague.

Loser. Magnet. That is me.

I had hopes for Serqouel and this shark week disorder. But I absolutely cannot do this walking dead thing. My kid woke up three times during the night and it was all I could do to pry myself up and amble about like a zombie in search of brains. I felt so disconnected and the overwhelming need to sleep was staggering. How can anyone function like that? I guess everyone responds differently. But this tells me Seroquel ain’t gonna work for me, I cannot spend a week a month zonked on this shit.And it’s hard to build a tolerance to side effects if I am only going to take them 7 days a month. It will virtually mean repeating this somnolence bit every single month.




I tried being positive, keeping an open mind.

Which is why I feel like I am covered in bubble wrap and gauze stumbling into doorways and unable t0 type properly because my fingers don’t feel connected to my brain.

Fuck positive.

I’m gonna embrace my negativity and hump its leg.

As soon as I manage to stop drooling and thinking about warm mooshy brains while shambling about.

Seroquel= instant zombie


Off Road

Regular readers will have noticed that last week I didn’t post an edition of the blog, as I usually do.  No cause for concern, I was spending a few days on a cycling holiday in the New Forest ( a National Park in Hampshire, a couple of hours from where I live by train along the south coast). I planned to go on a cycling holiday at around this time of year  March. The idea was to mark the milestone of having not had a single day of sick for 2 years. Unfortunately, shortly after having staggered to that point, my mood has dipped, as I have discussed in recent editions. So, I decided to go on a less ambitious trip than usual – this year’s trip was the 5th in as many years. I have been to the Isle of Wight, Belgium, France and Wales in the past. Going to the New Forest meant that I could come back fairly easily if I felt too unwell, and the terrain was pretty much flat.


As you can see from the photo, I took my trusty Tourer bicycle with me. I do own a Mountain bike, but feel more comfortable and connected to myself with panniers and drop handlebars.

The weather was beautiful, and the cows, horses and ponies roamed around where ever they pleased. And so did I.

I spent hours every day riding through the forest with no particular destination in mind.

While I was there I spent time with an old friend whom I had  met at a depression support group when I first became ill in 2001. She was driving me back through the countryside to my B&B late one night after  a meal out when she swerved abruptly to avoid hitting a horse that had ambled into our path in the dark. She explained to me that animals in the area wore luminous collars that were meant to show them up in the dark. As we drove on and I saw other animals by the side of the road, it seemed to me that these collars hardly seemed visible, you’d have to be particularly vigilant to spot one.

The staggeringly obvious parallels with road cycling only struck me much later, once I was back home. I don’t mean near misses, cars swerving narrowly avoiding sending me sprawling, the importance of bike lights and yellow cycling gear. No, I mean not seeing the signs until it’s almost too late. I have been swerving too much lately, failing to see the signs, dim and hard to see when so much around me is dark and countryside – quiet.

I don’t mean signs of relapse, either.Regular readers will know that I’ve written about that issue in previous editions.  Rather, I mean mis – reading recovery. My psychiatrist upped my medication. I knew to increase my medication, which one and by how much. When I saw him before the trip we discussed it again and he suggested tweaking it further. So, that’s what I did.

I came back home from the trip feeling – not surprisingly – great. It would be hard not to, frankly. A couple of days later I was treating my mood stabilising medication like so much aspirin ( an over the counter analgesic). I stopped taking the higher dose, that we had agreed, and thought nothing of it. No need to see my psychiatrist so soon, either.  I made a mental note to cancel my upcoming appointment at the beginning of July. No side effects.

But I haven’t been writing this blog since 2010 because I have been having headaches, have I? A few days after I got home I went back to work – a 2 day course in London.The trip takes a couple of hours door to door. Getting there felt like, well taking an early train to London with lots of other people and then needing to arrive feeling focused on why I was there (a management training course). By the time I arrived I was ready to turn round and go back home. I spent the day sitting in the training room doing a series of impersonations of a participant at a training course. By the end of the day I felt like I would be nominated for an Oscar, at the very least.

That night my hands were shaking as I counted out the pills, all 350 mgs of them, just as I had agreed with my doctor, just as I had known I needed to do when my mood dips.

This is no headache, though it is by turns a throbbing pain, a sharp pang and most of all a dull, dull ache.

A World Where News Travelled Slowly

It could take from Monday to Thursday

and three horses. The ink was unstable,

the characters cramped, the paper tore where it creased.

Stained with the leather and sweat of its journey,

the envelope absorbed each climatic shift,

as well as the salt and grease of the rider

who handed it over with a four-day chance

that by now things were different and while the head

had to listen, the heart could wait.

Semaphore was invented at a time of revolutions;

the judegment of swing in a vertical arm.

News travelled letter by letter, along a chain of towers,

each built within telescopic distance of the next.

The clattering mechanics of the six-shutter telegraph

still took three men with all their variables

added to those of light and weather,

to read, record and pass the message on.

Now words are faster, smaller, harder

we’re almost talking in one another’s arms.

Coded and squeezed, what chance has my voice

to reach your voice unaltered and to leave no trace?

Nets tighten across the sky and the sea bed.

When London made contact with New York,

there were such fireworks, City Hall caught light,

It could have burned to the ground.

Lavinia Greenlaw (1962 – )

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Social Anxiety Wins Again

Shark week has arrived, bringing with it the usual pain, exhaustion, and low mood. Thus far no psychotic crying episodes or abrupt polar changes in the mood. Just this all over ache, cramps, no energy, and a distinct lack of desire to be near anyone. The norm for me. I will take the Seroquel at bedtime for the next 7 days, see if it helps any with the altered mental status that accompanies the monthly curse. I have been told this is not the sort of thing to write about, but when you have hinky brain chemicals to begin with, then for a week every month, you have hormones tossed into the mix, it’s all relative. So maybe it’s an overshare but it is not for anything other than accuracy in talking about how my mental states change.

We had two birthday parties we were invited to today.

We have attended neither.

The first one, a kid’s party for some boy my kid knows via my sister, I wasn’t even informed of til Thursday night, which pisses me off. I don’t do spontaneous, I like some preamble and warning. So when my kid got busy playing with Damiana, I didn’t even open my m0uth about the party and she forgot about it. Which was a great relief to me because going to a water park to endure hours of screaming kids and forcing social niceties with people I have nothing in common with, not to mention my mother’s attendance and ensuing critcisms…Well, psychologically traumatic events do not fill me with enthusiasm, and the social anxiety makes it damn near unbearable. Having managed to avoid it, even passive aggressively, allowed me to breathe a little. One day I will have to get over it, cos my kid should be able to go to parties and play with other kids. Just not today.

R’s party is going on right now. Considering the torrential downpour at the moment, I’m feeling wise by not having gone. Truth is, prior to Spook and I taking an afternoon nap, I had planned on sucking it up and at least making an effort to go. Then, after I showered and had a chance to lay down…Scumbag brain began to riot.

“There will be sooo many people there, it’s a panic attack waiting to happen, you don’t need that.”

“There won’t be any parking, and if you manage to park, someone will block you in and you’ll be trapped!”

“It’s at Ursula’s house so you know you it will feel like you’re facing a firing squad!”

What about the bathroom situation? You know what crowds do to your anxiety and how your body responds…”

“R won’t even miss you, his entire family and fifty of his friends will be there…”

“You know Spook will act out, she does any time there’s an audience in which she can defy you in front of you, then the judgment will begin on how inept you are as a mother…”

The more the thoughts swirled, the faster my heart beat. The panic set in and the room felt like it was moving and the terror rose up from within to become walls closing in on me.

I wanted sooo bad to fight it, to overcome it.  I won’t die, right? Panic doesn’t kill anyone. Hell, I might have had a good time.

We’ll never know.

I woke up from the nap when Spook did, and her friend was back at the door and my cramps were kicking up, then it started pouring outside…My decision was made. Any other day I might have had the energy to battle the social anxiety. With aches and cramps and feeling utterly devoid of any energy other than panic induced rapid heartbeat…

Fuck it.

Call me rude. My mother will undoubtedly read me the riot act for not taking my kid to Jacob’s party.

I know R couldn’t care less if I am there. Hell, he didn’t even want to be there himself, the party of was forced on him. Maybe he’s submissive, I’m not. I don’t want to go. I don’t feel like it. So I’m not. Besides, I was at their house til almost midnight last night. I socialized. Enough for a whole week actually.

Now, Damiana and her brother are here. This girl does not know how to talk in a normal voice, she yells everything. My nerves don’t need this, but the alternative, though booze would likely be involved, would not be any better.

I sound like an anti social grinch.

Maybe I just am an anti social grinch.

But I feel the mental altered status setting in courtesy of shark week so this sort of anti social behavior might just be a wise choice. I tend to spaz and say things I should only think.

I hate something as simple as going to a damned party has to be so complicated by this damn social anxiety and panic.

I don’t want to be a complicated person.

But I am complicated.

Short of a lobotomy I don’t know how to be simple.

Fuck it.

I’m going to nurse my cramps and do some mental self flagellation for not being strong enough to get over the stupid social anxiety.

Fuck you, scumbag brain.

Blessed, Self-Perpetuating Neutrality

This about sums it up.

I continue to feel fairly neutral, and really? I cannot complain. Much like the Neutral President here, my gut says ‘maybe’. It’s a good thing, honest.

You see, my body continues to be physically exhausted. I am currently feeling by default nearly spoonless, which isn’t ideal. But it is because it means that while my brain is floating around feeling (what I’d deem as) okay, it means that it stops me from overdoing things. If I’m low/no-energy, then I’m not about to try to go biking around town. I’m not about to propose big out of the house events — I’m just making the best out of being a pile gelatinous goo here in my computer chair.

Having said that, it is totally making the best out of the not greatest. I’d like to go do things. I’d like for thinking about doing things to not be completely wearying. But I figure it’s better to be contented with my lot, yanno? That isn’t to say that I will be happy if this continues on, but that for the moment, I feel it’s better than not. I’m not trying too hard to be social, for example — I’m hanging back and enjoying solitude. I’m still doing pretty good though, insomuch that I’m actually *gasp* sort of active on Facebook, the opiate of the masses. That’s a pretty new development, definitely since I started the anti-depressant.

But in general — I have no strong feelings one way or another, and I’m okay with that. It all seems to be taking care of itself.


The post Blessed, Self-Perpetuating Neutrality appeared first on The Scarlet B.

I lost my father to mental illness way before he passed away

I am feeling reminiscent and introspective this evening. Recalling the days of my youth when I was made to visit my father in the summer and every other weekend sends my thoughts toward despair. He was at times a decent man but I can’t remember him being that great of a father figure to me. Though he did love me…I know he did. But he was a sufferer of undiagnosed mental illness and an alcoholic. He was abusive so my mom divorced him but that didn’t free me from his love. Yes, his love and my love for him was like a heavy weight that pulled my spirit down.

Every time I visited him it was as if there was a muted depression filling the house or trailer he occupied. I had few toys there and most of the clothes he kept for me were too small. He would often sleep all day drunk in a recliner leaving my brother to be my occasional sitter but mostly my tormentor. My brother would make fun of me and shun me from his play. I once made a paper doll to play with because I had no toys and my dear misguided brother ripped it to shreds and called me stupid. That memory still hurts for some reason. It was like a childhood rock bottom. Father passed out, brother being hateful, and no mommy to rescue me because it was my dad’s weekend.

I spent my adolescence imagining what I would feel the day my dad passed away. It would give me cause to cry after school and at night. It gave me nightmares. It still haunts a small portion of my head but now it is the memory of seeing him on life support in the hospital when I was 18 and in my first semester of college. He died from alcoholism and it was a sudden unexpected death. His ventilator reeked of vomit and stomach acid and (this could be my imagination) alcohol.

I was relieved when he passed because I knew his suffering from depression and addiction was over. I also felt guilty for feeling that way.

Now I am almost 31 years old, 13 years after his death and I can still smell the ventilator and also see my paper doll torn to shreds at the hands of my brother.

I Am Dangerous: Crazy

I’m making my travel plans to return to Israel for two or three months.  And I’m taking my Psychiatric Service Dog, Noga, with me.

I could pay an extra sum for Noga to travel under my seat as a pet, as she only weighs just shy of 12 pounds.  That would save me a lot of grief and trouble.  However, having her in my lap pretty much guarantees that I will have a smooth trip unbothered by the extreme paranoia that tends to entrap me in places full of strangers.  And if I start to get tense, she will let me know by licking my face that it’s time to take a benzo before I get into Bad Trip Land.

One connecting U.S. airline wants a letter from my psychologist affirming that I am indeed crazy, and entitled to travel with my dog in my lap, for free.  Uh, that is, for no extra money.  I wrote them a strong letter alerting them to the fact that they are in gross violation of the Americans with Disabilities Act (which states that it is illegal to ask a person with a disability to disclose any personal information including the nature of the disability), and they replied saying that transportation is exempt from that Act.  I intend to take this up with the Department of Justice, which made up the ADA and intends it to be universally conformed to, at least in the USA.

Then there is the form for the overseas carrier that my psychologist must fill out, to certify that I am not dangerous.  Sigh.  What’s really sad about this whole thing is that since the last awful mass shootings, “mentally ill” has taken on the undertone of “dangerous.”

We had that back in the bad old days of insane asylums, where people were locked up “for their own protection” (thus the term “asylum”), because people acting “weird” have always been alarming to the plodding and fortunate sane.  Of course, our best and brightest scientists, artists, writers, musicians–all of them have been a bit wacky, if not flagrantly mad.  Just give it a think for a moment, and you’ll see.

And that’s not even including today’s astonishing bumper crop of flat-out crazy actors, actresses, radio “personalities” and other exhibitionists extroverts, whose job it is to get into all sorts of embarrassing public “situations” and make us all cringe when their publicists blame it on their “bipolar.”  Bipolar, FOOT!  Public misbehavior is what it is, whether they happen to be bipolar or no.

So between the heinous shooters and the famous mis-behavors,  we who are truly sufferers of mental illness (and I DO mean sufferers) are stuck having to prove that a) we really are mentally ill and b) that does not mean that we are (God forbid) the next mass murderer.

The media has done us yet another grave injustice, by speculating that the recent mass murderers must be mentally ill, and that if so, the mental illness is what drove them to do what they did.  The overwhelming evidence that the mentally ill are much more likely to be preyed upon than to be the predators is completely ignored.  I have not even seen it mentioned in the media.  The mentally ill, and that means me and maybe you, may as well be Mr. Hyde as far as the public is concerned (even though 25% of the public has at one time or another suffered from a mental illness).

Just for fun, I am going to apply to one of the TSA’s Trusted Traveller programs, so I can get through security faster and without having to take off half of my garments just to get through the line.  (BTW they don’t do any of that crap in Israel, meaning doffing of shoes and whatnot.  You still have to take your laptop out.)  How many of you think I will get certified as a Trusted Traveller, seeing as I am a self-disclosed Crazy who travels with a Psychiatric Service Dog?

So.  So far, I am being: forced to disclose my diagnosis;

Required to carry special documentation of my need for my Service Dog;

And as usual, will probably be pulled aside for additional screening at the airport.  I shudder to think what they will do with Noga while I am in the Take-It-All-Off Scanner with the x-ray eyes.  Isn’t that great?  You just walk in and they strip you, for free, and you don’t even gotta take your clothes off.

Of course, if I had a “visible disability” like blindness, or balance problems, or even a non-visible disability like diabetes or deafness, I would not be required to provide extra documentation, because those are “legitimate” disabilities.  Everyone knows that.  But mental illness, now…..anyone could feign that, right, just to get their dog on the plane for free?  Oh yes.  I’m crazy, and I need my dog so that I….what was that I needed the dog for?  Oh yes, so I won’t go wacko and shoot the plane up.  That’s why.

Do you see why I’m feeling discriminated against?

The Report

I received an update letter in the mail that asked a short series of very simple questions. Or, most of them were simple except for two of them. They are:

1. Have you attended any school or work study program?

2. Have you discussed with your doctor whether you can work or not?

That’s it. Those two questions have terrified the shit out of me since I first read them. I wasn’t sure what to say. Here are answers:

1.Yes I have attended school

2. Yes, my doctor and I have discussed whether or not I can return to work (both of my doctors have said no.)

What had me freaked was how can I justify going back to school yet not be able to work? If I can do one, then I should be able to do te other…correct?

Wednesday my therapist pointed it out simply by saying “No, I don’t think you can return to work. I encouraged you to take classes and your number of withdrawals and poor grades have been a good gauge to determine that you are just not ready yet.” He told me to just fill out the form, send it in and don’t worry about it. He then continued with “The worse that can happen is they put you under review, which means they’ll talk with me and review your notes with me, which will show you aren’t ready yet.”

I’m going to take the form with me to my appointment with my pdoc today. I’ll bring up the same fears/questions. I already know from previous conversations that he’ll say the exact same thing as my therapist.

So, what am I so worked up about? Two things actually. First, that even though I’ll get assurances from both my doctors and both have told me they are not going to allow me to go back to work before my time, I still worry I’ll get cut from the program. Now, these are two very intelligent men who have dealt with this many, many times before, yet I’m still scared shitless by this letter.

Secondly, and this is the ridiculous one…what the hell do they mean that I’m not ready yet? Am I still too sick? Am I still crazy enough that I won’t be able to keep a job? Apparently so, according to them. Hrumph

Why do I do this to myself? Why the hell do I beat the crap out of myself over shit like this? Oh, I don’t know….maybe because I’m bipolar? Yeah, that’s probably it.

The Brain Game

I was going along merrily today, existing, not dreading the whole act of breathing, thinking maybe life doesn’t suck as much as a Dyson vacuum…When the “Wow, I’m doing pretty damn good!” bubble exploded.

I came home with my kid, and she was like the Tazmanian devil. Wound for sound, and I don’t mean in a normal kid way. I mean OMG DID YOUR GRANDMOTHER POUR RAW SUGAR DOWN YOUR THROAT ALL DAY? Because if it wasn’t sugar high, then this child is going to be slapped with an ADHD label going into preschool.

She was mouthing, thrashing around, making noise, kicking cats, threatening to hit me….Which is about like the neighbor kids without their meds.

Thought a trip to the store might burn some energy out of her.

It did, but not much.

By the time I’d endured two hours of it and was wondering where I could get a melon baller to scoop my brain out of my head via the eyeballs…It hit me that I hadn’t had a xanax all day. Which would definitely explain why after three decent days I was beginning to come unglue from what is essentially a daily stressor. Of course, it takes me getting to the point of being so panicky that it turns to anger which turns to tears. Only then do I remember, yeah, take a pill. Literally, this one works.

After that, all was well. She started to wind down, I started to calm down.

I’ll be the first to admit this heat and humidity have not made me a pleasant person. I am less unpleasant now that the air works at home, but it makes me grossed out to go out in public and ooze sweat from every pore no matter what I do to head it off, hygiene wise. It ain’t pretty, but I am apparently a sweater. No, not that warm kind you can get in cool designs and wear during the winter.

Now that we are nearing the weekend and I have been informed my kid has been invited to a birthday party Sat morning, my anxiety and dread are rising. I don’t have money for a gift, ffs. And gee, thanks for the notice, because Sat is R’s party,too. But that won’t matter.I’d changed my mind about not going, thought what the hell, but oh wait, his oldest, Ursula, specified RSVP by the 20th and I didn’t even see it because ya know, I am blind and dumb and WHO THE FUCK DOES RSVP FOR A BRING YOUR OWN BOOZE PARTY????? That girl has forgotten her roots, big time, thinks she’s all fancy and now she’s dragging R along with it. Makes me glad I won’t be there. I can only handle so much bloody fuss and snottiness.

Which makes me feel snotty, but dear god, the man goes to work unshowered with the crotch ripped out of his pants and red underwear peeking out. Does that sound like an RSVP kind of guy to you? That girl of his…GRRRR. Must…be…nice.

Even though every fiber of my being would take great pleasure in undoing her fancy little life and reminding her where she came from. I’m all about comeuppance when people get too high and mighty. It may be my worst trait, actually. But I can’t tell because ya know, I have so many, according to my detractors aka friends aka people I am forced to interact with in the petri dish. Thing is, I don’t care. The entire point of watching serial killer stuff/books is for the specific purpose of seeing the bad guy finally get what’s coming to him. And if that kind of karma could be served in reality…well, it would be a nice little meal for my soul, which is petty and vindictive.

Brain game…

It behaved for awhile.

I am trying so hard to be less annoying (I think it makes me more annoying) and more positive (I think it makes me more annoying, not to mention nauseous.)

But the disorders, and the brain, just like to keep my jumping through the hoops of distortion.

Just an inkling of how demented my brain is…

Was driving by one of those ice slushie stands and the sign said “Today’s Flavor: Elmo!” And my first thought was, “So if Big Bird ordered one, would that be considered puppetalism? Feeding on your own kind?”

I’m curious what Elmo flavor is. Too lazy to stop in and ask, though. In this heat, ain’t nobody got time for that.

And I will part with a joke:

Martha and Edna are sitting outside, having a smoke, when it starts to rain. Martha takes a condom out of her pocket and proceeds to unroll it, then poke a hole in the and stick her cigarette through it. “It’s so my cigarette stays dry in the rain, works like a charm.” She explained to Edna.

Later that day, Edna goes to the pharmacy and tells the guy behind the counter she wants a box of condoms. He is uncomfortable, because, well, she is 80 years old. But he asks what brand she wants and she says, “Doesn’t matter as long it will fit a camel.”

Counter guy fainted.