The hamsters are doing their middle of the night workout

My kid woke me up for a drink of water. Then we were off to the races with the spinning thoughts. Thus the hamsters are on their wheels, and the fuckers had spoonfuls of meth and the wheels are squeaky. It took me two hours to get out of this mode when I went to bed at 9pm. Now…right back where I started. AWESOME.

3:51 a.m I see to be having a lot of these middle of the night freak a thons lately. Between the anxiety and the churning thoughts, it’s maddening. (It does not help that I am hormonal  as the curse nears, every month this is just one more shock to the system that amps up the insanity and throws in feeling physically shitty as well.)

I keep trying to tell myself, this will pass, you are in control, you are tougher than this, you can just choose to not let the thoughts kick your ass. Ha ha ha, that is so much easier said than done. Then I get mean to myself with the self bullying tactics: “you are not a fucking wuss, quit being a whiny bitch and grow a pair!” Also not helping.

Then I find this page which is supposed to HELP depressed people. It sends so many mixed messages (The depressed person will not just snap out if it, they have an illness) followed by (Placebos are nearly just as effective as anti-depressants and positive thought can help cure depression.) People who put this shit out there, free speech or not, are dangerous. They are entitled to their beliefs but they make it sound like depressed people WANT to be bottomless pits of negativity and drag down everyone around them without taking responsibility for their illness. People in a bad mental spot go looking for something helpful, read that shit, and boom, you got another fucking suicide statistic. I don’t think that is dramatic, either, not when you have teenagers killing themselves over stupid shit on Facebook. Telling a depressed person to stop feeling sorry for themselves and “think” themselves positive is Tom Cruise thinking because it rejects the idea that mental illness is valid and is some excuse to be a negative shitty person.

So that gave the hamsters more steam. (I really need to WD-40 that wheel,it’s loud and squeaky.)

Another petty thing (well it will no doubt seem petty to those looking in but it’s actually a little hurtful to me) that has me rather pissed off,well several, because when it comes to family, one thing is never enough…My sister had a birthday dinner for my dad last night…and didn’t even invite me and my kid. Not to mention, all I asked for my birthday last month was a meal…and her and mom couldn’t even be bothered with that much.

Yet I’m the fucking bitch.

I am pretty much writing that side of the family off, they’ve made themselves clear. And I am tired of it tearing me apart. At least my dad and I have mended fences for the most part. My mom says I kiss his ass but the truth is…He and stepmonster practically worshipped the Donor…so when he abandoned Spook and they found out how wrong they were about him…They kind of started kissing my ass. And as long as you’re not in grill, I can get along with pretty much anyone. And stepmonster, while loud and irritating and rednecky at times, did the sweetest thing. She brought me three yellow roses, had Spook handed them to me, and wish me a happy valentine’s day. I think that’s fabulous on two levels, because it was a sweet gesture, but only stepmonster seems capable of remembering I PREFER YELLOW ROSES. I read something that if a guy gives a woman yellow roses, he’s just broken up with her. I really am an oddball, I guess, cos yellow means friendship, and that is far more meaningful than the cliche red or pink roses.

What carries more weight with me than anything though is when people LISTEN to me about what I LIKE. It means a lot.

4:07 am.

Tick tock of the clock. I am going stir crazy being home every day and yet, I don’t look forward to going to the shop today. I’m tired of being his spork. (utensil) I’m tired of Styx videos and Toto videos and listening to how his wife was throwing up the other night so he slept at her feet holding her puke bowl. Like she’s not 52 years old and capable of taking care of herself. Like telling someone like me something like that isn’t loading me with mean ammo to mock him with. Yeah, I am that mean.

I’m not oblivious. I know so much of this is me. Between the med changes and the hormones and some of my long held beliefs (like holding your own puke bowl once you’re over age 9) I am a nasty piece of work at times.

This, too, shall pass.

But why does it never pass fast enough?

On that token…

Happy Valentine’s Day, Morgue style.


And my idea of a love song.



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