No, this is not a post about hairstyles. Nor is it a post about Juries. Or juries with this certain hairstyle.
No, the other day while suffering in the dish (every siren, cop, ambulance, fire, storm warning) had my anxiety boiling and I felt the compulsion to flea, go home, make sure everything wasn’t on fire…So I tried some of this logic bullshit and pondered why I am so anxious outside my bubble, why I am so worried about fires and such while I am gone. Hmm…I once woke up in a burning building. Less than two months ago,my mother’s house burned.
Perfectly logical wariness, I’d say. Because shit burns down. While it can happen whether you are home or not, you stand a better chance of saving your stuff (PETS) if you are home. So naturally my brain wants to be home in that event. I might admit the proportion of my fear is a distortion due to these anxieties and traumas but…It’s the real deal.
Thus I live my life dreadlocked. Locked in a perpetual state of dread. And every time I read some pom pom shaking rah rah “you can make it happen if you are positive enough and want it enough” post that is supposed to empower and help me…I find the dread mixing with lethal amounts of fury and hatred. Honestly, if changing your outlook is that simple, YOU DO NOT HAVE A LEGITIMATE ILLNESS. So posting such easy fixes in mental health once again, pisses me off, even if I am not entitled to that. Just does and I just am. (Oh, you post such things so you’re gonna unfollow me for speaking my mind? Cool.)
Now that the flubola has gone, and the “thank pegacorn I am not spewing anymore” gratitude stage has passed…I am back to being dreadlocked, complete with anxiety, pretzel gut, and a slew of angry feelings worthy of a voodoo doll the size of a Buick and knitting needles to stab it with.
Of course, it all started with Monday’s shrink appointment. Given there is much distortion with depression and bipolar but I still feel he was blaming me for not being able to perform optimally on minimal meds as he’d planned. Then I get all paranoid wondering what he wrote in my chart (he doesn’t write while I’m there, so I assume he acts on memory or secretly records things) because I told him it’s gotten so bad, “I don’t even want to play with my kid anymore.” Which in McMuggle could be construed as “I don’t care about my kid so I’ve locked her in a pet taxi at home with a box of kid kibble and a water bowl”. Fuck. If you can’t be honest without fretting over their interpretations and misconceptions, how can these people be trusted to help you get well? Oh, right. It’s us, never them. If I am not trusting him, that’s my own issue.
“Here, splay your innermost weaknesses open to me, I promise I’m not an asshole who is going to misconstrue everything…Oh, you won’t open up to me? That sounds like you’re own trust issues.”
Fuckitall.
THEN my amazingly asshole father, in spite of four years of me strenuously telling him I don’t want to hear about it, specially called me the other night to let me know the donor had been spotted about with his new gf and was loving on her little girl. Um…And? The man is beneath pond scum, I am not shocked nor particularly hurt by this. By bringing this to me, what’s been accomplished? Reminding me I made a very bad choice in sperm donor? I understand that. Otherwise…nothing good comes of every reporting of the donor’s public movements. My dad is more obsessed with the man than I ever was. That whole thing is played out. The support papers are in the state’s hands now, so aside from that matter…It’ done, over. Shut the fuck up about it. My biggest grievance, is, and always will be, that in spite of being 54 years old, the donor still sees this as some matter between me and him. It’s NOTHING to do with either of us. It’s about a six year old girl who didn’t ask for any of this shit and how he’s done nothing to be a father to her in any way. Unless that’s to be addressed, and face it, it cant be undone and I am not the forgetting type…Just why mention it at all? Maybe my dad wants me to be so distraught I will off myself and stepmonster can raise my kid so she’s not alone when his old ass croaks. Sounds insane, huh? Welcome to the asylum known as my family.
Prior to the flubola 2015, I’d spent the day at the shop where R showed me a video his master’s degree daughter, the psychologist, sent him from the day after Halloween. It showed his granddaughter, age 4, at the table and Mommy-from-hell was saying, “I have to tell you something sad…Last night while you were asleep, Daddy and I ate all your candy…We were just so hungry after all that trick or treating…” And this goes on for almost three whole minutes. The little girl starts whimpering, whining, eyes welling up. And this sadistic beast of a mother just keeps up with that deadly serious tone about how they ate all the candy and, “You okay with that? You going to be okay?”
She thought this shit was funny!
I rib my kid plenty but this was just sick. Even R was pissed off. L (the little girl) just cried and sobbed for a solid minute of the video while mom carried on with, “We;re really sorry we ate all your candy…”
It made me so disgusted I nearly smashed his damn phone. And I’m the mental patient, really? That went so far beyond cruel and unusual. And when he asked his daughter why she’d done it, she said, “Well, Jimmy Kimmel did it.”
Um…How can anyone use a sentence with that name in it to explain behavior, especially someone with a fucking master’s degree? It’s like saying, “Stick the dog in the washing machine, Beavis and Butthead did it!”
It boggles my mind how disturbed this woman is and yet because she has the education, she is counseling others on how not to be disturbed. On what planet is that not unsettling?
The return to misery after my sickness/thank god I’m not sick respite was cemented when this morning my kid started screaming at me at six thirty a.m. to get up because I was going to make her late for school. (See what you do, daylight savings time, you asshole!) And trying to talk sense to her did nothing but make her scream more. She’s been so shitty to me all week, I am at the point of wanting to go to the psych ward for a fucking break. Her lack of empathy, or ability to even grasp the concept, worries me as it’s standard issue sociopathy. Her donor didn’t really grasp empathy, either. She’s only six, blah blah, but if I don’t instill it in her now, soon she will be an adult with no empathy and likely a featured guest on Deadly Women. No, I’m not dramatic. Bad shit happens or we wouldn’t have such reality tv. Derp.
I should feel relieved as it’s Friday, I will have two days free of pick up anxiety. (Yesterday in the pouring rain was the worst yet as most parents were too lazy to get out of the car and fetch the kid so they just held up traffic in every direction waiting for their kids to come to them, absolute gridlock with children darting between cars, grrrr.) Instead I just feel exhausted already. Or still. And I think maybe in light of ya know, a sinus infection and the flu in the same week, I have every right to be exhausted and worn down. But therapy and the sunshine spewers have robbed me of self validation for if I accept feeling this way, I am somehow feeding my depression.
God, I just wanna start smacking dish dwellers with a shovel.
The bitch is back.
My only regret in life is that I was only born with two middle fingers.