Daily Archives: May 1, 2015

Pharmacological Terrorists-Latuda

So…Perhaps jumping the gun as I have not even started taking it yet…But I picked up my Latuda today and as usual, I check to see what “insurance” covered.
With my measly copay, the shit was $796 for thirty pills!
That pharma company consists of bank account/insurance coverage terrorist-rapists!
Unfuckingreal, I am still flabbergasted. I was stunned when the Abilify cost insurance close to five hundred.
And of course, I had tiny tiny copay and insurance covered the rest so why am I having a bitch fit?
Well…I was just raised with this mentality that nothing should cost as much as it does because if you watch enough of “how it’s made” you realize the mark up on stuff.
And there is no bigger mark up than big pharma. It’s close to extortion and blackmail.
I certainly don’t have sympathy for insurance companies but jebus. It’s obscene.
Honestly had I known a few factoids first, correct info which my doctor didn’t quite give me, I would have said hell no to this shit.
He told me it was an antidepressant for bipolar two.
Actually it’s an atypical anti psychotic cross labeled for bipolar one depressive bouts. BIG difference, considering bipolar one is mostly highs. Bipolar two is what needs the heavy duty anti depressants.
And I flat out told Dr B that I have NEVER had a positive response to any anti psychotic, especially the newbies that are cross labeled. I furthermore said, nothing that is going knock me out or make me unable to take care of my kid, sleep too much,or become nauseous.
Surprise….I can get all that and a bag of chips, what a deal.

So I am pissed on multiple levels.
And I know how ridiculous it seems to be ranting about the cost of a med when I ended up paying maybe .01% of it with my copay.
It’s just asinine and criminal for these pharma companies to charge that much. Yes, I know the costs of creating a new drug, the time involved, the studies, the trials…
But nearly eight hundred bucks a month for 30 pills?????Are you out of your fucking mind?
Frankly, I’m stunned my insurance even covered it. Normally, they go out of their way to contradict the doctor and sub the cheapest “similar” med.
God, now I feel guilty as fuck for costing the insurance company that much. And that was just ONE med, though all the others didn’t even add up to $60 out of their pocket.

Latuda best make me piss rainbows and puke rays of fucking sunlight.
And I am NOT tolerating any bullshit side effects. I made myself clear to the doctor and he just blew it off, glossed it over, misrepresented…
Perhaps I’m being all Chicken Little and the sky isn’t falling. It might be my wonder drug of joy, for all I know.
There’s just something about the base make up of atypical anti psychotics that does not get along well with my body.

Seriously, if this shit does help and I lose my insurance coverage because I’m all better…How the fuck could I ever work enough jobs to afford the medication that would make me able to work in the first place?
Do the powers that be even consider these catch 22s?

Just think about it. Latuda is the new “popular” kid in pharmacopia.
Assume everyone, like me, takes one pill a day, 30 days a month.
So on the low side, just say, oh 500,000 patients take it and insurance is paying $800 a month for 12 months.
Do the bleeding math.
Even if it takes five years to cover the development, they still a couple years pure profit before the patent runs out.
So their CEO and stockholders can buy a second home, drive Lamborghinis, and wipe their asses with hundred dollar bills.
Do NOT tell me these companies give a fuck about the well being of mentally ill people. Or any drug manufacturer. Perhaps the scientists who create the meds have altruistic motives but the honchos don’t care if their drug causes rectal bleeding, growing a nipple on your neck, or drives you to hack up a room of geriatrics.

And that may be the motivating factor in so many people’s attitudes toward psychiatric medications. Pills won’t cure us, we’re too weak to try, we just cost insurance a bajillion dollars for the scripts.
I can’t dispute the astronomical costs of these newer drugs.
There needs to be a price cap.
There’s making a profit and then there’s raping people who are ill.
And that is the pharmacological way. They’re not more humane to cancer or transplant patients. You need it, we have it, give us your first born, your still beating heart, and we’ll bill insurance for eight hundred bucks as well as their representatives firstborn.

I am a strong believer in meds, mainly because I get way worse off them and at least get glimpses of stability with them…
But this Latuda thing sent me into orbit. It’s just fucking stupid.
And even if turns me into super stable functioning wonderwoman…The price will still be an act of financial rape. Fuck insurance companies, but pharma as well.
Leave me my generic old school meds. The ones that work, without all the heinous side effects.
I will give the Latuda a whirl, lest it be said I don’t “want” to get better but…Every pill is going to come with a guilt trip.$26.50 a pill.
For that I may as well get illegal drugs that get me high.
Just because insurance pays for it doesn’t make it right.
Price gouging at its finest.

If I am not bouncing off walls, running marathons, and spewing litters of happy puppies in a month’s time…
Fuck this shit. Not worth the guilt.

Honestly it wouldn’t matter if it were a med or an electronic device costing too much. I’m frugal to the spleen and expensive shit doesn’t mean it’s any better than cheap shit.

Jebus, I paid three bucks for shampoo and felt like I was splurging and I only did that too soothe my irritated scalp.
Seven hundred ninety five bucks for 30 pills?
What the actual fuck.

I wonder how many lambs were sacrificed in the satanic ceremony that leads one to being a pharma boss.

Fecking Functional…for now

I don’t even know why I am bothering to write this, it’s so inane and par for the course. Still, my brain insists I purge to make room for the next round of insanity inducing bullshit.

Came out of the gate, um…Well, I got up. Before the first step out of bed, I was checking my bank balance to make sure the deposit went through. It’s neurotic and yet…It’s feasible (get to that in a sec.) I got up and let Spook sleep 20 more minutes. Gave me time to order her pictures on line. Well, not order, since they sent the whole batch home with a note “send back what you don’t want with payment for the ones you keep.” WTF. Ass backwards.
True to my word, I got my kid her reward donut for her exemplary behavior last night. Put gas in the car, bought a phone card (I was down to eight minutes and freaking out because, well, that’s what I do and when you grow up as broke as my family was where you had one pair of pants to wear for the entire week…You worry about running out of stuff. Obsessively.)
Once the spawn was schoolified, I went to the bank. The ATM was fucked. Which ensured a trip to the other bank and I do not like it. It keeps your card while processing. And I get panicked that a freak storm is going to appear in thirty seconds, wipe out the power, and my card will be eaten. (And on way there, someone pulled out in front of me and road rage brought out my most obscene language. It’s never a good sign when you’ve been awake ninety minutes and are already screaming C*NT out the window.)
After that it was to pay the net bill. Ran into my sister. Who informed me mom’s direct deposit had not gone in the bank following a new card and pin being established.
And THAT is why I am the paranoid freak that I am. Shit happens. People help a neighbor cut wood for their fireplace, they get killed by falling tree limbs. Computers, routing numbers, banks fuck up. It’s not pessimism. It’s called reality and “feasible fear.” Not like I stop living, but the terror is there just the same until proven otherwise.
But anyway…Sis and I discussed the worsening of our mom’s dementia (precursor to Alzheimer’s) and how she’s so vicious to everyone then doesn’t even remember doing or saying evil things.It’s sad. And it also makes me leery of leaving my kid with mom unless sis is there because good intentions are not enough when you turn on a burner and leave it there for an hour before realizing you forgot to turn it off. Mom’s heading into dangerous territory. It’s not her fault, but wow. She’s going to end up in a nursing home if anything happens to my sister. Because I’ve got enough on my plate and I cannot live with my mother. Love her and all but she was evil before all this and she’s more evil now. One of us would end up disemboweled.
Okay, worst case scenario, but still.

From there it was my worst nightmare, all for the sake of my kid: Wal-Mart. UGHHHHHH. I was sweating and the anxiety had me ready to smack bitches. And the place is so big it takes twenty minutes just to run in for one item, ffs. I had that place and yet it’s that or Shopko and I hate that place worse.
Now I am going to have to avoid the cosmetic aisle at Wally World because they re-did it and installed bright ass fluorescent lights EVERYWHERE. I can’t tell what color is what because I AM GOING FECKING BLIND.
I didn’t breathe until I got out of that hell hole. Now my kid has her wheels and cheese she’s gaga for and I got my frozen lasagna cos honestly I am too lazy to cook my own. Nuke it, fuck it.

Then it was Dollar Tree. I don’t mind that as much. Then it was Family Dollar for forty pounds of cat supplies. And finally, off to pay rent. Came home, packed everything in, fed the cats inside and out, put stuff away…
And the biggest miracle of all….
After four days (yes, I know gross, but wet wipes and skin so soft really do give the illusion of being clean and smelling nice) I showered. Shaved all my Sasquathy body hair. I even splurged on three dollar bottle of Herbal Essences because after six months of dollar shampoo, my scalp is seriously irritated. (And I think part of that was caused back during the first great lice outbreak when I used that chemical shit that was pure toxin on the scalp, viva robicomb and mayo.)

Now…I should eat but I’m not hungry. Whereas earlier after taking the meds I was hungry and yet the thought of food made me start gagging. No happy medium. Not to mention I ran out of my Lamictal 200 so I had to take eight 25 mg in addition to all the other pills. I could be a fucking pharmacy. But I know others who have it way worse with pill intake.
While talking to my sis earlier, she talked about how she only “got better” after quitting the meds completely because “pills aren’t going to solve your problems.”
True that.
But I don’t take pills for every other issue. Nothing for my stomach, nothing for my knees, no painkillers, no daily allergy meds,
I medicate only what hinders my ability to function.
And whether I want to be or not, I have wonky brain chemicals. Meds help. Period. I don’t need my family pointing out what a loser I am. Okay, that’s not what they say though they do call my meds “crazy pills” which seems rather insensitive.

I came to an epiphany. I love to shower. It’s a cleansing relaxing thing. I love coming out smelling of Irish Spring and putting on clothes I haven’t sweat through or slept in. And yet here I am, drowning in a depressive bout, so I am denying myself a simple pleasure. It’s not just that the depression makes it hard work…It’s like I am so disgusted with myself for not “shaking it off” that I am denying myself basic pleasures.
Hopefully once it warms up and stays warm and we are marinating in sweat because we live in a tin box sauna air conditioning can’t touch…I will be taking showers constantly as it’s the only way to cool off in this place during summer.
Or the whore baths will continue. IDK.

What I do know is I am a bit irked with R. All week he was beckoning me to hold his hand and comfort him over Bruce’s death. Then wifey comes home and suddenly, he can’t even respond to my texts. WTF? Not to be a bitch, but you can’t treat someone like that and not expect them to be offended. I mean, replying to a text takes thirty seconds. I’m good enough to fill in while she’s at work and be his buddy but then I’m persona non grata?
Play fair, for fuck’s sake. Rudeness is not acceptable.
But then again, I’m so people’d out (ha, just like last week) when I crash from the anxiety and fighting the depression…last thing I am gonna want is to be bothered by dish dwellers. I’m not being pessimistic, I just know this is the cycle. I function, lowly, I fight the panic and low moods, I become hypomanic functional, then splat.
It is what it is.

I have to pick up my meds. I guess tonight is the start of Latuda. I am very leery. I want to hope for the best but my track record with these newer meds and side effects is not good. My only hope for this stuff is that it i ALLEGEDLY geared toward the depressive episodes of bipolar two.
It could be my magic cocktail.
Or it could be one of those ass trash meds I take once and then immediately flush down the toilet because um…NO.
It’s not lack of cooperation or not wanting to get well. It’s quality of life. If a med makes you feel worse, it’s not worth it. And telling a doctor you need a medication that doesn’t render you into drooling zombie land because you have to take care of your kid, well, that should never become a notation in your file about how you’re uncooperative.

I had no idea this was going to turn into a long purge rant. I rant therefore I am. Busy brain. Once I get the spawn from school I am think we are in for the day and night. Then I can start to recharge my batteries. I’m not good at relaxing when I have looming trips into the dish.

Back to Grey’s Anatomy.
Last week I was glued to it, this week my head is spinning too fast to read or even get interested in what normally enthralls me.
No fucking consistency at all except in the negative stuff.

I am alive. I am lucky. I am…

Clown shoes.

Fat Chance

scale omg!

Fake trigger warning: This will be sort of a pity party rant. If that triggers you into self-pity, skip this one.

I am fat. There’s just no getting around it anymore. I am fat.

I know how I got this way. Too much eating and not enough exercise. It’s pretty simple. If I went into detail, it would be baby weight that never came off and psych meds. There’s nothing like being overweight and taking a drug that makes you hungry. But sometimes that’s the only drug that works.

I’ve been trying to lose weight. I was on an all liquid diet for a while. That didn’t really work and was expensive. I’ve switched to Jenny Craig. The food is good.

I am struggling for a lot of reasons, but one is my family. I need to cook dinner every night for 4-5 people. Well, believe me, by the time I shop for it, cook it, and clean it up, I am not going to miss out on it. I have been trying to make my portions look like Jenny Craig size, but I’m probably still eating a bigger serving than I should. And I know that all of the ingredients in my cooking are not super low cal.

Things keep coming up. For example, I was in the hospital a couple of weeks ago. You’d better believe the food was hardly diet. I had a couple of fruit plates with cottage cheese which weren’t bad. Although all of the food was fattening, the portions were pretty reasonable. And you got one dessert per day. But truly, when you are in the hospital calories are the last thing on your mind.

I don’t go out to eat too often, but when I do I have a hard time just ordering “diet” food. The place where I did the liquid diet has educated me on what to select but I struggle. I have given up desserts out, but I still want a glass of white wine and some bread.

I wanted to talk about self-image. Now I am not incredibly obese, but when I am in a room, I am definitely one of those on the heavy side. There have been times when I have looked at delicate chairs or furniture and been nervous about them holding my weight. There have been times when chairs are narrow and I feel uncomfortable.

I don’t hold my head up like I used to. I don’t have the confidence I once had. I just feel fat.

Let’s talk about being naked. In high school, I never minded the locker room. I wasn’t an exhibitionist, but walked around like all the other girls. No big deal. As I got older and would go shopping with friends, I’d get in a large changing room with some other friend and try on clothes. Again no big deal…even when I still had the baby weight on. But now I can’t stand to be naked. I don’t like to look at myself in the mirror. There’s no way many people are going to see me without clothes on. That’s depressing. Not that I want to parade around naked, but I’m tired of hiding out. I guess the exceptions are my husband, massage therapist, and assorted doctors.

My husband says he doesn’t care. And I really think he is only worried about the weight as a health issue. (My father died at 57 from diabetes.) My husband isn’t the body building type so he’s no thin miracle. But he weighs much less and looks much better than I do. I’m just glad he doesn’t nag me about it. Or maybe he should.

I had a massage yesterday and cringed a bit when I got naked. Of course, you’re covered with a sheet, but she is still massaging, legs, arms, and other fat.

Now part of me realizes that a massage therapist has probably seen everything twice. But I still feel a little uneasy. Which is sad. Massage should be something you thoroughly enjoy.

Anyone remember my shower fear? That fear is mostly gone, but I now have sort of a shower aversion. I swear some of it is because I don’t like to see myself naked. It’s incredibly depressing. Which is something I really don’t need.

I’m meeting a new friend next week. When she first lays eyes on me, I know what she will think. “Boy, she is fat!”

I have a few friends that are heavier than I am. But most of my friends are normally thin. I think most of my friends are like my husband…they just get concerned about my health.

Should we dive in and talk about bathing suits? Where I live, you can’t avoid them. Not to mention travel. I have the kind with the short skirt. I feel a lot more comfortable with my bottom and all covered up. But I hate swimsuits. I feel like a stuffed sausage in one. I can’t wait to peel it off after swimming.

I know what I need to do to lose weight. I need to watch every single thing that goes in my mouth and make sure they are all good choices. I need to exercise. That’s really about it. I’d just like to lose a pound a week. I don’t think it should be that difficult.

I really don’t want to die fat. I don’t want to be fat when my kids get married. I don’t want my high school friends to have a heart attack when they see me.

There have been almost no pictures taken of me in the last several years. I have a big phobia about cameras. I just look so bad. But I know pictures are important. It’s nice for the kids to have them.

It’s a new month. May. Let’s see what I can get done this month. For one thing, I am going to buy a better scale. Today, I am also going to eat what I am supposed to. And I’m going to do something about exercise. I don’t know what, but I have to try.

This post is not designed to elicit a bunch of sympathy from you readers. I am fat and it is basically my fault. Nothing sympathetic there. So maybe you could wish me good luck. A pound a week.

I can do it.

Where I Come Out With Bipolar Disorder

.The magazine article about my bipolar journey comes out this afternoon in Mississippi Christian Living, a magazine distributed throughout Mississippi and heavily promoted in the Jackson area.  Everyone that I cared about knowing already knows, but after this article, everyone I know should be aware of it now.  That’s a little scary.  My husband’s extended family has kind of ignored my condition since my last crisis, and I hope this article coming out does not upset them.  I don’t discuss my crises in it, but simply my daily life and my walk with God.  But I imagine it could be disconcerting to them to be asked about me in the days to come.

I also don’t want to upset my kids.  I ran it by them and they seemed fine with the idea, but I hope they can use it to educate their peers instead of their peers starting to look down on them.  I’ve never wanted to embarrass my kids.  I want my story to be public and reach people, but I don’t want my family tarred by association.  It’s a delicate balance.  And I ride it every time I talk, or make a post, or do an interview.

I’ll publish the link once they put it up on their site.  Thanks for your prayer support over the next few days in this.  I appreciate it more than you know.

My Favorite Birthday Gift: A Book Deal with Post Hill Press!

Dear Friends, This post won’t focus upon errant hamsters, dancing cows, or much darker thoughts. I have great news to share, and I hope you’ll understand why I want to sing it from the mountaintops!  After a nine-year-long labor, in Fall, 2016 … Continue reading

The Myth of Coping, the Lie of Perfection

All you can do  is your best.” – Any parent, friend, health worker, etc., worth a damn

Blinking Pirate landscape 30 03 15

All too much? You’re not the only one.

My last blog was about how we’ve been sold a pup, about things like coping.

Tell me, do you currently possess:

1) a pulse?
2) the ability to breath?
3) no major injuries caused by yourself (surgery, accidents, and, yes, even minor self harm injuries (1) do not count)
4) a clean conscience regarding current/recent battered spouses, children, kittens, etc? (2)
5) ditto regarding non-petty crime? (2)

Then you should shake yourself by the hand, pat your own back, smoke a kazoo (3), pour yourself a drop of the good stuff (4), and, well, smile.

Because you’re still alive, mate. Remember this?

Whilst there’s life, there’s hope.”

However awful you may feel – including, I wouldn’t be at all surprised, about yourself – then there’s still a chance. A chance to climb out of whatever hole you’re in – financial, personal, physical, mental, emotional, yes, even all of them – and catch a few rays of Beltane light.

2012-05-02 08.54.35That person you passed in the street, who looked fine to you?

Maybe they’re not.

Perhaps, if we could swop problems like swingers swop partners, they’d swop their troubles for yours.

In a beat of their heart. Which, for all we know, may be struggling to beat.

Coping is comparative, and perfection is a pretty lie, pursued by the miserable, and the exhausted.

Have a lovely May Day. Enjoy the flowers, the abundant bird life, and comparative warmth.

“Whilst there’s life …”

Blackbird at the feeder: May Day morning, 2015

Blackbird at the feeder: May Day morning, 2015

This blog was written with thanks to Nimue Brown, Alistair Pearson, and, always, the Beloved. Cheers, guys. Love you, babe.

(1) Whilst self harm isn’t a coping strategy I recommend, for some, it’s a way of dealing with the stress of life.
(2) We all have things in our pasts we regret. And we all have the capacity for change. (I am not saying that this it is easy.)
(3) For more fun with kazoos, listen to Simon Saynor and Alistair Pearson on “The Other Way“, Sunday nights on Sine FM.
(4) Whatever “the good stuff” may mean: beer, wine, whiskey, root beer, “red pop”, Vernors, etc.



admiring miró

Dialogue of Insects

Dialogue of Insects

After I’d seen Dialogue of Insects at the Tate Modern, I kept my peepers peeled for more Miró. And since I lived in London then and Edinburgh later, there were some real ones about and prints and posters too. I did not purchase any Miró merch. And the only reason I didn’t title this post Miró Miró on the Wall, is that its already been done to death. I just felt I had to get that out there before I got accused of missing a bad pun.

miro4218Although my tastes usually run to sad things, there is a small segment of happy that I’m into as well, and Miró is a good example of the sort of style I gravitate to. It’s inner child stuff; not the poor kid who endured the childhood, but the safe kid that I look after now. I laughed when my first psychotherapist said I should hug my inner child, but he was right. Joan Miró is a way to do just that. Cheerful, bright primary colours, friendly shapes and I think my inner child would hug all of it back.

Woman and Birds at Sunrise

Woman and Birds at Sunrise – Mirò

During those years, i also tripped over Alexander Calder and immediately thought zomg it’s Miró in 3D. Again, in my twentysomething invincibility, I thought I was really clever to have thought so (lol).

The Star

The Star – Calder

For almost a half-century, the American sculptor Alexander Calder and the Spanish painter Joan Miro looked on each other as good friends. When apart, as they often were, they sometimes exchanged a letter or postcard of greeting. “A good smack on the butt for you,” wrote Calder in French in 1934. “A hug, kisses, and see you soon, you big stud,” wrote Mirò in Spanish in 1945. They liked to embellish the postcards. Mirò, for example, added underarm hair to the portrait of a Spanish dancer. A Miró-Calder Reunion

If I’d known that Mister Mirò was from Barcelona, I’d no doubt have been blathering on about Gaudi too.

Casa Batllo - Gaudi

Casa Batllo – Gaudi

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThere was a Miró on a plinth in a water feature thingy, at a Sotheby’s exhibition/auction at Chatsworth House in Derbyshire in 2000andsomething and I was with my mother around art for once. It was jolly (I’m sorry, art snobs, there just ain’t a better word for it) and if I remember right, had a yellow dustbin lid or similar for a face. There were a pair of old women in kagools (mhm this is Britain we’re talking about, of course it was pissing with rain. They were leafing through their list and nattering away in that accent that I surprised myself by falling in love with. Oh I like that Joan Myrow said one, giving the Joan a frumpy housewife vibe. (Nee sies, I don’t mean that kind of vibe.) They nodded and muttered and cooed. Itnwas one of those utterly, perfectly joyous moments and there was no way in hell I was about to look at my mother, because I could feel the grin and suppressed howls of laughter without doing so – and I knew we’d both crack up otherwise.

And thus did the famous Catalan artist, Joan Mirò come to be known to my mother and I evermore, as Joan Myrow.

20150429_204708-01Here’s my last little Mirò thing (apart from the gorgeously wonky embroidered version done by a local funky fibre project, why didn’t I buy it?). Tis but a silly thing, but so,e years ago, my mither arrived with a cardboard box and one of her widest grins. “I had to,” she chortled (she really did chortle), “wait till you see it, it’s just like the Joan Myrow!” And there was this daft kid’s lamp and it was just ome of the funniest and sweetest things she did, the delight radiated from her. And the Joan Myrow memorial reading lamp is on the little table next to me in the lounge. 99% of visitors see it and then their eyes go like this: @@


No misery in any of my little Mirò memories, not much meaning either, if I’m honest, but I do not give a monkey’s. Sometimes even I just smile.

Explore more …

A brief overview of his life and work: Miró’s aim was to rediscover the sources of human feeling, to create poetry by way of painting, using a vocabulary of signs and symbols, plastic metaphors (an implied similarity between two different things), and dream images to express definite themes. He had a genuine sense of humor and a lively wit, which also characterized his art. 

This very interesting review discusses his political paintings and makes the claim that his truly great work was the Constellations series, and that all the rest was twee.

Survival Of The Sweatiest-A post about anxiety

Obviously the fact that I am writing this means I survived the school “carnival” with my daughter. All that really matters is she had fun and got some prizes.

Yet…It was grueling for me. I thought it was all going to be set up in this big gym, which is daunting enough. Turns out, this school’s gym is a closet for all purposes. I went to a school in a district with maybe 500 students total and every gym we had was ten times bigger than this one.
Needless to say…The “games” were spread out across all four floors of the school. The popular ones, like soda ring toss, were packed. All into tiny classrooms made for twenty kids and one teacher. Yet there were dozens of parents packing in with dozens of kids to the point you couldn’t move without elbowing someone.
Um…I gave my kids the tickets for each game and stood just outside the door, away from the masses but with her still in my line of sight. And she sees other kids and pretty much forgets I exist so…
She played every game once. She got upset when she didn’t win but that’s a kid thing. I still think she did okay with her loot.

While she had fun…I was sweating not merely buckets, but troughs. And because I am allergic to my own sweat, my thick hair was the sweatiest of all and my head was itchy like I had lice and I could barely breathe and I was wound so tight I couldn’t have snapped like a piano wire and decapitated someone.
And while I know all the cognitive bullshit talk…I swear there were a couple of people who did look at me weird. One was a teenage boy who was all smiles and I couldn’t discern if he was laughing at me or merely being friendly or goofy.Then came the devil girls and their “you can’t hang out at Spook’s house” lowlife father and they didn’t even speak to Spook. Acted like she wasn’t even there. It was all I could do to walk away without punching him.
How fucking dare they judge me when I spent an entire summer feeding their kids cos “mom’s working and daddy won’t wake up.”
And all the times mommy was working but dad was home yet sent his 6 and 8 year old girls out in negative 14 degrees to use my phone to call the grandparents to bring him a pack of cigarettes.
And let’s not forget the time they left the six year old home alone while they ran an errand and told her not to leave the house but she got so scared she came to my place to use the phone to call her grandparents in a panic.
Parents like that have the gall to judge me????
I’d love to get a mallet and play whack a mole with their ignorant brains.

I digress.
It was grueling but I kept my word to my kid and ultimately that’s all that matters.
I never did force myself into the shower but I did do the skin so soft whore bath thing and wore a nice button down shirt and did my hair and make up and even doused on my fifty dollar a bottle of cologne (which I’ve been able to afford ONCE in the past ten years) and hey, I even wore earrings.
Okay, I wore all black and looked gothy to the nth, sans platform shoes, spikes, and a dog collar. Frankly, in rural midwest, you could wear a simple black shirt and be considered “one of those goths.”
But I looked nice, smelled nice and I kept my word to my kid so even if the idiots were glaring or staring…Whatevs. I persevered. I was drenched in sweat head to toe (I actually had one mom ask me if I was sick because I was pale, soaked in sweat, and having trouble breathing..)
But I ripped the fucking band aid off. My kid was happy. And I’ll be damned if she didn’t behave like a perfect angel. What the actual fuck.
Must be that donut I promised her in the morning if she behaved.
(I’m not above bribery, no decent parent is.)

Tonight was just one more example of how my conditions affect my functionality. I went, I endured, but between the trembling, sweating, paranoia, breathing troubles, and apparently looking like I had a pegacornswineflu…All that grooming was for nothing. The sweat pours off me and bam, I look like I’ve been through a bleeding tornado. Been that way as long as I can remember.
And once again I am lambasted with “rah rah rah” positive thought posts that make me want to stab my eye with a dozen forks.
I get it. You’re awesome and I suck. I can’t shake it off and rather than being empathetic, you’re showing how amazing you are by getting over it thus proving I am a loser.
Ok, I get that that’s my perception but it’s still how it comes off, not that I think anyone even notices.
Though they’re not reluctant to make their displeasure with my “negativity” known, they want me to adapt to their MMMMBOPPiness. Hey, if it’s working for you, more power to you. But if it works to an extent that you make others feels bad for not being the same as you…
That’s a slap with a decomposing fish.

Anyway…I came home, had a Mike’s Harder Mango Madness, then I fixed myself pork chop sammiches and baked potatoes. I still need to shower but…Meh. I think I am off the hook for the hand holding gig as R’s wife has returned home. So one more day feigning functionality and plastering on the “I can pretend it doesn’t all suck” smile.
Mind you…It’s not just bad attitude when you’re basing it on the incorrect messages your mind is sending. It’s called a disorder.

Then I can crash crash burn into whatever hellish phase comes next.
Already my kid is asking if we can go to some yard sales, or if we can go to the downtown square for this diapers to bookbags freebie deal.
I can barely catch my breath and already I am supposed to suck it up.
It sucks to feel that way because going to yard sales has been my favorite thing since I was 5 years old. Now it just seems like another joyless task of necessity. How depressing to have your depression rob you of something that has made you happy your entire life. What the actual fuck is wrong with me?

Now I get to try to sleep. And no doubt my kid will be up and climb in my bed. Then around five, as every month it happens, I will wake up, freak out, and contact my bank to ensure my deposit has gone it.
And while the professionals and sunshine spewers can call this negative or what the fuckever…It’s happened to me a couple of times, screw ups with my debit card, so pardon me for being scarred and paranoid of repeat performances. I don’t let it put my life in a freezeframe but it is always a fleeting concern.

I got to thinking earlier…The newspaper had a three line blurb about Bruce: Local Man Killed By Tree Limb.
And it was just like, wow…It was reported so clinically and the coroner statement was as dispassionate as it gets. Oh, well, one more person using a chainsaw who got bitch slapped by a falling limb and died.

Life, viewed in that context, is the ass trashiest. I keep thinking about his wife and kids and how they must be feeling…
And here I am, alive and drawing breath, yet every fiber of my neural network keeps insisting I should just kill myself because it’s been so long since I felt true joy and wasn’t fake my way through with the zombie shuffle.
I thought, c;mon, Niki, you can come up with ONE measly thing today that you smiled at and weren’t faking.

Yes. My kitten Castiel. He’s so docile, so loving, so not a follower but kind of a wallflower sweetie pie mama’s boy…And I was just looking at his adorable fuzzy face and pumpkin head and thinking…this is what I need, this is therapy and medicine. I need to find a way to earn a living working with animals. They’re anti depressants for the dying soul. So sweet, so pure, so adorable…
I know my smile is real when it comes to my furkids. Or, hell, even the stray next to the shop and her three fuzzlebutted kittens that have come out to mooch food and roam.’
I would inhale kittens if I could. Soooo absolutely sweet and without corruption…

So, yeah, I do occasionally have a genuine smile. I occasionally even find something in life that isn’t a total buzzkill and not even my pessimistic depression can change it.
I saw a story on line about a momma cat who had babies but they all died and she became depressed and her owner knew she missed her babies and needed to be a mom…So they found a place that had three fairly newborn kittens with no mama and they put them with the kittenless mama…
And they all lived happily ever after. Or with cat moms, about a year before competition for noms results in Ultimate Momma Cat Bitch Slaps her Own Kitten to win…

I think I am done. I have one spork left and I am going to use it to slither off to my bed.

I’m trying, damn it. I may be a sweaty disheveled “oh my, do you have the flu” trainwreck but…I’m making the effort and I want my goddamned participation trophy.
Or someone could just have an order of those garlic twists from Papa John’s delivered to me. They look yummy. I put garlic on my garlic.
Further proof I am not a vampire, if the mythology is correct. (If it’s mythical, how can it be correct or incorrect lore?)

On an end note…Spook gave me one of her little erasers she won at the lollipop tree game.

It’s a unicorn eraser.

Soon I will cross breed it with a pegasus and a spork and thus create a master race of awesome mythological mutts of my imagination…

Yeah, ok. Snoozapalooza time for the crazy woman.

First, I think I will huff some purring kittens.

If that fails to calm me…Back to snorting sea monkeys and drinking Liquid Plumber. On the plus side, it doesn’t taste any worse than a school lunch.

What to do, what to do….

So I’ve been unemployed for a little over a week.  I have officially hit a patch of restlessness.  I have such a need to do something but I’m too tired to do anything.  

I’m fighting the urge to shop which is an old friend of mine that accompanies me on my roller coaster cycling.  I did make some purchases that I now wish I didn’t make because of the expense.  Well Mama, why don’t you just return them?  One word…GROUPON.  I’m now the proud owner of 4 sessions of microdermabrasion, 5 tickets to a Renaissance fair, shellac nail session and two massages.

I can’t WAIT to tell my husband (said with dripping sarcasm)