I swear I am NOT insane. But being of limited financial means and my kid and I both having very moody temperaments…I have to make up crazy shit to sort of distract her from her tantrums and keep things a bit light hearted. So I started the whole “leprechaun stole my pants thing.” I suppose it’s bizarre for a 5 year old to wake up and see mom running around in a tank top and underwear but we live in a tin box and mommy has some sort of hormonal hot flash thing going on so I tend to skip pants at home. Or I overheat at night and take off my pants in my sleep. Thus…a leprechaun stole my pants. As for underwear hats…When I was her age, I went to Kindergarten with a pair of underwear on my head and insisted it was my hat. I refused to allow my fashion to be suppressed so the school had to call my mom to come get me. I went home, still wearing my underwear hat. So in the spirit of self mockery, when she’s pouty in the morning over wardrobe…I put her clean undies on my head and it makes her laugh her booty off. I’m not above idiocy to stave off a tantrum.I don’t wanna go all mommy centric in this blog and yet, I find myself searching for the little joys in life. A good laugh with my kid is a good thing.
Okay, maybe I am insane. I’m a mom, it’s apparently a side effect.
Mood thus far is subdued, but neither high nor low. Dreams galore last night, about bipolar and meds, no less. WTF. This current med regime is fucked up. And since I wasn’t dreaming prior to this combo…The doctor will not convince me the meds aren’t at least a factor. To hear this current doctor tell it, side effects are rare and a figment of my imagination. I dream of people eating alligators, ffs. That is NOT normal.Not a fan of the teeth gnashing, either, which was NOT there prior to Latarda. (Bring on the politically correct bashing of my terminology.) That toxin seems to be the gift that keeps on giving. A bad stinky gag gift from your worst enemy.
Anxiety is bubbling under the surface but it, too, is subdued. Of course, I have yet to brave the dish and dish dwellers. Dumbass that I am, I set the alarm yesterday for six thirty a.m. and forgot to shut it off. So this morning, from the living room, my phone starts going off and it just plays in repeat til you shut it off so by twentieth verse of 30stm “The Kill” it occurred to me I was gonna have to get up. Which meant braving the a.m. cat stampede. Those fuckers are permanently attached to my ankles. Especially Abby-Sin but it’s hard to be mad at her, she’s such a waddling ball of calico fluffy sweetness.
We are in day 8 of straight rain. Before long, we’re gonna have to return to primordial ooze days and develop webbed feet to get around. Hopefully it dries up by this evening. I much prefer sitting outside at R’s to being inside and fearing the white carpet and the vacuum nazi who thinks a speck of a dust is a tragedy. (There I go, being all politically incorrect again.) The granddaughter spilled juice on the carpet and left the vaguest orange stain and that was two years ago, Mrs. R still hasn’t let it go. She thinks that hint of a stain is humiliating. Meanwhile, my carpet looks like a herd of muddy footed cattle has tromped through and no amount of shampooing has fixed it. Yay. I should curl up and die of embarrassment.
And yet, only half a fuck is given. Housekeeping, not my strong suit, not something I waste a lot of time fretting about. I am far too busy bashing smart phones, the dish, and med side effects to bother with such frivolity.
I a rambling. Part and parcel after the morning dose of meds, even with the Cymbalta halved. Yet I swear the split dose is helping with the afternoon mood crash because I’ve not cryptified before 9 p.m. all week. Small victories.
I seem to be clawing my way out of the depressive hole but I’m far from cured. And I don’t know if the numbness thing is gone or if it’s just hormonal and I will return to Numbo soon. The swell of anxiety when it comes to noise and petri dish time has increased to an uncomfortable level and I am pondering asking the doctor for a temporary increase in the Xanax. He will be resistant but I think if he will look over my file, he’ll see I am the one who’s gradually requested the dose be lowered as I learn better coping skills and the ebb and flow adjusts. Right now, the one split during the day and the two at night ain’t cutting it. I’m still not falling asleep easily, not staying asleep more than a couple of hours at a time. This needs tweaking. What I don’t get is that all these anti depressants are supposed to have an anti anxiety effect, yet I have had that with NONE of them. Makes me wonder if all their results for this being an effect aren’t from people who really didn’t have much anxiety to begin with.
Another thing I am bothered by is my indecisiveness. I can’t even make up my mind for a mix cd so I’ve been playing the same one my car for four months. To say I am sick of it is an understatement. Yet again and again I open my music folder and try to make a list and…I can’t do it. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what my current mood is. It’s easier when I am writing, I will get a playlist or two and the mood is right and the songs resonate. In writer’s limbo…Nothing feels right. It all feels like wearing a shoe two sizes too small and I am in constant discomfort.
In an example of what a stellar mother I am, the cat tried to steal my kid’s pop tart and she said, “Bleep off.” Well, at least I’ve taught her to say bleed instead of fuck. I try but honestly, I’m not all that big on the watching my language around her thing. I was raised by a truck driver, “cocksucker” was one of the first words I learned. Usually on a winter morning when the car wouldn’t start and my dad would punch the dashboard and swear at it, like it’d help. I didn’t turn out so bad. Okay, my sister and I swear so much we make sailors on shore leave run back to the ship. But…we could be serial killers and wear human skin. It could be worse.
The focalin really has slowed my swirling thoughts for the most part. Sometimes, though, I revert to incoherent topic jumping ranty bitch. Part of my charm. That’s my story and I am sticking to it. It’s just that I was tired yesterday and bottled it all up and now the rant must come out.
In a moment of yet more kitty sadness, last night my kid brought in one of the stray kittens. It has a bad bad cold, eyes oozing, low body temp, weak, not eating…And I was like, no more dying or dead cats, I had five in less than two months plus my sister had to put down one of her cats she’s had for fifteen years…I just can’t handle more dead kitties…Yet Spook was so upset, I let her bring the poor thing in. I wrapped it in a towel, held it close to me, fed it warm milk with an eye dropper…He seemed to revive after awhile and started going feral so I put him outside. Hope he’s still alive. You do what you can, ya know. And I had to show my kid my normal self, the one who’d give a hungry animal my last morsel of food. Can’t let my demons stop me from being me, even when it hurts.
I should draft this. It’s all long and incoherent and no one will want to read it. I know, you get so many things you need to read then someone’s got write this enormously long post about nothing and it’s irritating so you skip it…
That’s when I have to remind myself I blog for me. Must. spew. Reading said spewage is a choice I force on no one.
Now..to polish my spork of fortitude in prep for the next two days of “socializing.” Ugh. Icky. I can’t believe this is what other people live for. It’s soul sucking. And I don’t have a bad attitude, I’m just very content on my own.
I can’t go out in public comfortably because the fashion gods frown on underwear hats and not wearing pants because a leprechaun stole them. Clown shoes.