Fuck up number 1,000,076

So the guy showed up at 8:30 this morning to start fixing the plumbing. It turned into a 3 hour deal, he had to repair all the mistakes the prior handyman had made. Half way through my cell phone started ringing…

and omg, I missed my first appt with the new job lady.

I was just so stressed out having someone in my safe zone and it slipped my mind.

And like the responsible mature adult I am* (pretend to be) I…let the calls go to voice mail and did not call to explain. Because face it, no explanation would be acceptable short of death.

I FUCKED UP.

No doubt I will be receiving my letter soon informing me they are dropping me as a client due to my unreliability.

Which was kind of the point I tried to make to the counselor, job lady, shrink,. and psychologist. Everyone is putting all this pressure on me to “get back to work” simply because I am upright and functioning but no one wants to take a hard look at how this functionality ebbs and flows everyday, especially with med failures and adjustments and changes.

I want to work.

I do not believe I am ready to work because my stability is iffy and my head is not screwed on straight.

Plus, the more pressure put on me, the more I fuck up. I can’t remember a part number ten seconds after R reads it to me, so without a reminder call or a calendar taped to my arm, remembering appointments reliably is damn near impossible.

That’s not me shirking responsibility or blaming my illness.

This is my life.

R asked me to look something up three days ago and I forgot until he reminded me again tonight and said, “Oh, Nik, how could you forget?”

Um, the meds have turned my brain to tapioca, helloooo?

I have to have a morning checklist just to make it out the door, ffs. The only saving grace there is that the routine is so ingrained at this point-kid, cats, self, pack for kid, get keys, phone, lights out, heat turned down, door locked…It’s the only way my brain learns things is through repetition. Which is why deviation and change freak me out so much.

At this point, I don’t even care of the counseling place boots me. My counselor sucks and the job lady(ies) offer nothing I can’t damn well do for myself (mood and panic level allowing.) It sucks because I am supposed to have this support system of professionals helping me get back on my feet but I don’t. My shrink spends less time with me than the people at the Mc Donald’s drive thru. My counselor makes me want to kill myself. Now that the original job lady is gone and as nice as she was, she wasn’t much help because let’s face it, no one wants to hire an unstable fuck up…So what good is the new going to be able to do for me?

It all falls back on me. And I’m not “there” yet, that mental stability point required to function highly. How can I be when my meds are constantly being changed?

Went to the shop finally. Bored, bored, cold, bored. Watched the clock. Surfed Fark and Reddit.Really, there is no point in me being there except to do the shit he doesn’t want to do, most of which could be done from my home computer. He just can’t stand to be alone and he is willing to bribe me with lunch and smokes and free car repairs to get that. Some days, I just want to call him and tell him I died and will be resurrected in a week. Actually, what would be better is if he would just let me come in, do what he needs me to do, and leave. I like R, but twiddling my thumbs for 8 hours for a burger and fries while he bitches about broken stuff and his wife and this and that…Not all that entertaining for me.

Was so glad to leave.

Of course, I wasn’t home two hours and he was calling telling me to use the company card and order this part and that part. No escape, man. Imprisoned.

Now it is 8:13 pm, Spook is asleep, and the rest of the night is mine.

Except I hear the clock ticking, reminding me I have to go do it all again tomorrow and it fills me with so much dread that all I want to do is go to bed. I fight it, but most of the time, I fail. I would say that’s a panic/depression combo.

One thing is for sure, Klonopin is not doing shit for the panic. The anxiety induced paranoia is back in triple spades. Which I do not have with Xanax. I don’t know why I can’t seem to get this through the doctor’s head. I don’t know why my brain reacts to it that way. I just have this thing where if something works, don’t fix it.

At one point today, I was so paranoid, thinking the handyman was going to go tell the landlord I’m a bad housekeeper, then they’d take my kid, then they’d have me committed  and I might as well kill myself because no way is my psyche strong enough to handle it all…

It sounds asinine now but in the swing of paranoia attacks, it all seems so real and possible and scary.

And the proof that it is anxiety induced is the fact that antipsychotics have never worked for me. Other than make me hazy and sleep a lot, they do nothing.

God, I’m prattling again.

I’m gonna shut up now.

I will leave you with a couple of things.

This is my calm song, I don’t know why because I generally do not care for Moby’s music. I heard this on an episode of Torchwood though and now, I just find it my soothing song.

 

And my super happy pills…A big bucket of awwwwww

euxPc

lFbUU

hOyIs

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