I am neither happy nor sad. I am just…going with the flow. Life goes on and all. Did eight hours in the dish yesterday cos R had to go out of town to see his new stepgranddaughter and I was ok with that. This couple lost a baby at 22 weeks last Christmas, they deserved a better memory for this one.
Eight hours in the dish pretty much rendered me useless last night. Drained, tapped, put on the charger, no juice left. I didn’t want a Mangorita, I didn’t want company, I just wanted…my bubble. And my kid and I read a bunch together to fill in her monthly book sheet, so that wasn’t too stressful. I was medicated and in fort blankie by 9 p.m. Just…wiped the fuck out.
Now I could go all McMuggle on myself and ask what the hell I did that made me exhausted…I think all of us with mental issues know, it’s rarely about the physical part. I used to work 12 hour shifts, constant movement, lifting heavy stuff, I’d be sore and stuff but…the wiped out part comes from dealing with the petri dish world. Not because everyone is an icky ebola carrying monkey but because keeping up with that pace is toxic to my mental health. I can spew sunshine and poop puppies til a dozen therapists rejoice but it doesn’t change facts.
I can to an extent function “normally”. The cost to my psyche, however, and the triggers to my mental state, rarely make it seem like anything but “this costs more than it is giving.” If one day takes two days to recover…Yeah, not much of a trade off.
My dad called last night. No mention was made of the shunning. Mainly because I was too damned tired to deal with their denials and lies. Come get the spawn, let her have her weekend with them and do her church program. When they bring her back, I am definitely saying something to stepmonster. And I will be recording it because I am fed the fuck up with the way the so called “sane” people get away with saying whatever they want and they are believed because I can’t possibly ever perceive things correctly as I am “not sane.”
I wonder how long McMuggles could survive on our side of the fence, being doubted, questioned, and outright maligned constantly.
Paperwork for the support hearing came in. I won’t forget the date. It’s on my birthday.
One of R’s friends works with the donor, knows his new gf. Apparently she’s been married over a dozen times and leaves once the men refuse to pay for everything. I hope they live happily ever after together because vapid people deserve each other. Odd he can’t afford his own kids but can help support her kid. I must be crazy to have an issue with that. Though I’d forego any financial support if he’d just sign away his rights and let us be. It’s been four years, you live a mile away from us, and you can’t even mail your kid a birthday card. You pretty much deserve no rights.
If you think about it, it’s insane. You have a storage locker and don’t pay for it after a certain amount of time, they can sell your shit, your rights are gone. Yet you can leave kids behind, not pay a cent, repeatedly, yet you always get legal rights to them. So kids are less important than a storage unit. Duly noted. People need to be taught you don’t get a break or a do over. You have a kid, you take care of them or you’re out. You don’t just get to walk away cos “it’s too stressful” so you can have a break then resume parenting. I’d like to say this issue only started once I had a kid, but I’ve always felt this way. You get fined for not having tags on a dog, but if you abandon your child…meh, pay this percent of your income and you can still see them every other weekend and all summer, pfft.
I gotta get my shit together before appearing in court. Hopefully el shrinko will have a thought on how to tame down the Cymbalta/focalin anxiety. I just need to be level, which means…Lithium. Hate it. But being a livewire isn’t working either. Least when I was on Lithium, I didn’t have the monthly nine days of tears and rage breakdowns. It apparently numbs brain chemicals and hormones.
Why work on a better mood stabilizer with fewer side effects when people NEEEEED the newest smart phone that fixes you toast, cures acne, and serves as a sex toy when in vibrate mode…Priorities, people.
That’s all I’ve got at this time. I did find this interesting article (through Reddit, go figure, finding something intelligent on there) and thought I’d share. It’s about how the stigma of depression can be even worse for black women. It’s a well written piece. Pay no mind to it being on Cosmo, I just think the writer’s style is a lot like mine plus she rocks out to Faith No More. Kindred spirits.
And I too, cannot be depressed, because I am funny.
I really wish people would stop bringing my looks into it.
