Daily Archives: May 30, 2015

I don’t well when put on the spot or caught off guard. This is why I’ve always begged people to call before they stop by. Well, I just got a call a few minutes ago from a guy who only calls once or twice a year when he wants something. Of course, it’s all under the guise of “hanging out” which somehow usually involves him dropping trou and trying to prove chronic pot use doesn’t cause impotence . (Seriously, what on Earth possesses a man to drop his pants without so much as a hint there’s interest?) TMI? Oh, well.

I’ve never  been all that into this guy. I don’t dig potheads, just don’t. I don’t think they should be persecuted like cocaine dealers but I simply don’t relate to people who are stoned out of their gourd every day of the year. I require a modicum of intelligence and lucidity. It ain’t coming from this guy, which was why I lost complete interest. Unfortunately, I don’t have the heart to tell him to fuck off. He’s a friend of my brother in law’s and I have no desire to kick the hornet’s nest. My mother would go ballistic on me if I upset their pro stoner bum lifestyle. (Not my mom or sis, just her husband’s friends, every one of them.)

Instead, I keep going with, “You want to visit? I wouldn’t recommend it, I’m not in a good mental state.” I feel rude and yet…This guy ignores me but a couple of times a year when he wants something. And I’m not gonna go too graphic but he ain’t after my mind. Is he a bad person? No. Just kind of a lazy stoner. He’s 40, still lives with his grandparents, has no license or car, and basically lives to smoke dope and play video games. Not to be judgey, but he got out of this place, joined the military, had a career, made good money…And he flaked out and came back to this hell hole. It irks me because if I could ever get out of here, and support myself and my kid well enough, I’d STAY gone.It is unfathomable to me to give up a career to come back and smoke dope and play video games.

I am judgey. Oh, well. If this person treated me with a modicum of respect rather than random booty calls I might have a different attitude. Instead, even when I was doing okay and willing to hang out, I’d have to say, “Can’t, I have to do this, and pick my kid up and do that…” And he would say, I kid you not, “Oh, yeah, you’re busy doing the mom thing.” Doing the mom thing? Um…Like it’s a short term hobby? Immaturity personified.

Weird thing is, last summer, I ran into him at the smoke shop and we chatted a bit and I was in a decent place, Bex was here, and I told him he should pop by and meet her and we could all hang out. He never did call or come by. Kind of told me what he wanted didn’t involve hanging out and watching movies or listening to music with me and Bex and my kid. So I’ve copped a major attitude. And it’s not like I’m lying, I am NOT in a good place right now. I am coming off Prozac, starting another new med, I’m only two weeks into the Trileptal, my anxiety is pathological. I am in prime screaming mimi territory, to be honest.

Of course, I was caught off guard, put on the spot, and I think I gave too much truthful info which is likely going to bite me on the ass. “I just had a bad reaction to a med and kind of went off the deep end.” Not untrue. But he will tell my sister who will tell my mother and next I know I will be getting a call berating me for not snapping out of my depression because I have a kid and no wonder men can’t stand me and I am unfit mother. My mom’s off the deep end these days and this is exactly the thing she salivates over. Kind of like last July 4th when they had a cookout and I dared to have a Mangorita. OMG. One Mangorita? I am a raging drunk!

I never should have entangled myself, in any minute way, with this stoner guy. It’s all so incestuous, the way he basically lives at mom’s so he and brother in law can spend hours gaming and getting high. I shun him, he tells my sis, she tells mom, and I’ve got a shit storm no matter how you go about it. I’ll either be rude or unfit or whatever tangent momster wants to go off on.

And I am starting to fear that maybe her influence has rubbed off on me and I am too critical of my kid. Though I lean toward impatience due to the anxiety and her defiance less than any evil intent.

GRRRRRRRRRRRR. I don’t like being caught off guard. Never should have answered a call from a number I didn’t recognize. Bloody hell. Now I feel guilty, and for what? Telling the truth about my shitty mental state? Not wanting to be an orifice?  It would be one thing if ya know, like R, he just wanted to hang out, watch Dr Who or whatever. That’s the sort of thing I can handle for the most part, provided I don’t have to leave my bubble. But random booty calls…Ugh. I’m too fucking old for such immature men. And I use the term man loosely, because age is not indicative of maturity in the men here.

Sad thing is, were I in a good mental place, I could have said “Nope, not in the mood to hang out” and not felt a second’s remorse or guilt. But because I am in pathological anxiety whining simp mode…

Even doing the right thing is making me feel shitty.

Everyone keeps asking me why I don’t start “getting back out there” since the Donor’s been gone four years now. Frankly, I’m not in that space. My priorities are maturity, intelligence, and someone who doesn’t view my having a kid as “doing the mommy thing.” Just done with the shallow assholes who’d rather smoke a joint and play World of Warcraft than actually spend time having a conversation with a woman. They’re man children and they seem so prevalent in this town, my hope is dwindling. On the days I let myself have hope, and I’m not entirely sure those aren’t just hormonal spikes telling me I need to get laid because I get this super cranky when I don’t.

Now, watch. Couple weeks on the Cymbalta I will probably be raging gleeful and social. Okay, maybe that’s overstating it, but I’ve had good results with it in the past so I am hopeful…

This consistent inconsistency mental illness brings should be used a method of torture.

It’s one of *those* days. I’m not feeling much of anything except anxiety. Now that I have fulfilled my debt to R by meeting the dudes to pick up their TV, braved the dish, traffic from hell, pouring rain…I think I may be able to relax. Or at the very least breathe a little. Every movement feels like trudging uphill in sludge. Am I functioning? Yep. Am I feeling a damned bit of it? Nope. Pure auto pilot and pathological anxiety.

I can’t explain this sudden fear and anxiety when out in public. Oh, sure, I have my attitude toward the petri dish of humanity, it stresses me out, I don’t fare well under stress, et al. This is more than simple anxiety, this is almost a pathological fear. That “painted with a target and everyone has a gun” feeling. It just started in March, I’m not sure what triggered it. The doctor, of course, is very dismissive. You’d think when someone’s telling you all these symptoms and your diagnosis is “anxiety induced”, y0u might want to adjust their medication so their anxiety is better managed for the time. Nope. Just dismissal. And it’s fairly common with shrinks, they have great disdain for anxiety disorders, I think. Whereas anxiety medications are viewed as “masking” the condition, the truth is, for some of us, we need that mask just to start at the same point others normally do. Otherwise, our functionality is hindered severely.

And I was severely hindered in today’s traffic. One of the lights on the main drag was blinking, which meant eight ways of each car having to completely stop, then discerning whose turn it was go next from which direction. My kid in the back, yap yap yap, I felt like the walls were closing in on me. And trapped in traffic, door to door basically, it’s a logical feeling. I was so relieved to turn off onto a side street. Of course, my relief was short lived because my mini backseat driver let out a shriek of, “Watch out, Mommy!” For no reason other than a car was in front of us. Thank you, Spook, mommy needs help being more paranoid and nervous.

I had three bags to carry in and it felt like I was facing a marathon. Just the simple act of carrying three bags inside. Pathetic. And the house work? I can’t bring myself to face it.  Psychological sludge. One would think after a relatively slow paced week I’d be coping better and calmer. Ha. My brain has other ideas.

In a display of my evil side…I am feeling a bit of schadenfreude. There are events going on all over town and out of town and it’s pouring and ha ha ha, the dish dwellers and their normal people activities are ruined. I really am a bitch at times. Maybe because I envy their ability to live normal lives. Then again, crowded events aren’t my thing anyway so even if I were functional, it’s doubtful I’d be at those events.

MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY. MEOW MEW MEOW MEW…MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY.

Cripes, it’s like living with Sheldon from Big Bang Theory minus the OCD knock on the door.

Okay. Dish time done. I need to chill. It would probably help to take a half dose Xanax since I haven’t had any since last night. I try to do without as long as I can simply because of all the stigma and addiction bullshit attached to Xanax. And I don’t get it because I’ve seen people just as hooked on Ativan or Klonopin. Leave it to a bunch of fucktards to taint what is a very good medication for some people who need it. I know it helps me, yet the guilt and stigma attached…Sad that I’d be looked on more favorably if I were just a constant drinker.

SLUDGE SLUDGE SLUDGE.

I went off the sleeping pills/Melatonin because they overly sedated me and gave me very weird, sometimes frightening, dreams. Well, I am still off of them and prior to Latarda, my dreams had been fairly tame. I figured it would go away after the system rid itself of that toxin. But I started the trileptal and the bizarre dreams are still there. I woke up so many times last night, due to weird dreams. Maybe not as weird as the ones I had as a kid where the mustachioed meat counter guy from the grocery store was chasing me around my aunt’s sewing room with a knife…Still…A  bucket of what the fuck.

First, I dreamt of this enormous douchebag guy I went to school with. The one who tormented from me sixth grade on, telling me I should take drugs so I’d have an excuse to be weird, telling me I should do the world a favor and kill myself, oh, and then that scene in the high school gym when he offered me a dollar for a blow job because I “look like a hooker.” Yeah, pretty much the bane of my teenage existence. The one reason I vowed to never kill myself, I’d never give that prick the satisfaction. So WHY THE FUCK WAS HE IN MY DREAMS? It wasn’t sex dream, it was more like “getting to know your tormentor and realize he’s actually very damaged and decent under it all.” Again, WTF?

Then I had a dream I ran into a girl I went to school with when I was in elementary years. I haven’t seen that girl since I was ten, yet there I was having a dream where I bumped into her. I remembered her only because of her unique name. Thariscia. If dreams are some sort of subconscious thing, what is this telling me? It sure as hell isn’t “I missed an awesome childhood.” I know sometimes a dream is just a dream, means nothing, but to go from barely dreaming and having no memory to such vivid dreams I do remember…And yeah, I even had a pleasant dream the other night about hanging out with a gorgeous guy with eyeliner. It was very brief. The weirdo dreams…are long. I don’t even know.

So…First day of kid being out of school for summer. I was up by seven. Stupid bladder is more demanding than the child. I did not want to get up, my entire body ached and I was still so groggy…Maybe because I was awake until almost two a.m. Even when exhausted, I have trouble falling asleep. My gums hurt already from the teeth gnashing, which while I buy it’s a sign of anxiety, I find it fucking convenient I didn’t have it even on Latarda, it only started after the Trileptal. I am so sick of this doctor and his “there aren’t many side effects” or “there is no withdrawal.” He’s just so damned nice, it’s hard to question him, and yet the pharmacy inserts contradict everything he says. If the pharma company admits these side effects exist, the pharmacist knows, the patients know…It’s just wrong that a doctor would be so dismissive.

Starting to feel a little overwhelmed with the kid yapping and the kittens climbing me. I know inevitably my dad will darken my doorstep with a call or visit at some point. (The man makes me want to kill myself, sometimes. He’s just so gloom and doom and critical. But it’s a mystery how I got those same traits.) Oh, the teeth gnashing is driving me crazy.

Oh, I just remembered another whacko dream I had. I was at Dollar Tree and they were selling dentures on the shelf. WTF, seriously. Maybe because I’m gonna grind my teeth down and need replacements?

I have this strong desire to write yet I am still blocked. I know my stress would be lessened if I could just escape into my world of fiction. Yet…Forcing it doesn’t work. I’m trying to read a Jonathan Kellerman book but my heart and head aren’t quite in it. It’s gonna be a looong summer.

And I just remembered I’m on call today so at some point I am gonna have to put on actual clothes. Fuck. I like jammies. Good morning, pretzel gut says. I swear my innards are braided.

Breathe. Picture the STOP sign. I actually spent a bit of time the other night trying to get to sleep with the STOP sign method. Making up what the letters stand for.

Serenity. Tranquility. Offer. Peace. Stop Thinking Of Problems. I do the same thing with license plate letters.

I am coming off the Prozac, so it’s gonna be a bumpy week. In the event the shrink is right and there’s no withdrawal…It will be the first time ever for me and I will alert the world record books.