Mental Omelet

I was absolutely useless today. I couldn’t remember something ten seconds after it was told to me. (This seems exclusive to numbers and series of alpha/numeric) and at one point R asked, “I just told you four times, are you fucking with me?” He thinks I am exasperating, try being me. I get the feeling the next time he wants someone to eat lunch with him, he will call a trained monkey. My intelligence is definitely on the decline.
Of course, it could be exacerbated anxiety with the review and winter power bills and all. But even when the anxiety was background noise for the most part, I was still useless with short term memories of numbers and specifics. Believe it or not, getting numbers backwards on electronics parts can be fatal. To the item and the person fixing it. Which was why even that For Dummies book for computer repair certification was lost on me.
Truth be told, I couldn’t even help my kid put together a 24 piece Dora jigsaw. How am I supposed to remember where 300 screws go? Or base emitter collector, volts, amps…God, I wanted that to work out. Work for myself, fit it around my mental issues, take on what I could handle…So I NEVER have to justify my mental illness just to survive ever again. I’m two steps from doing disgusting foot fetish porn, except I’m not sure they have a fetish for those into big ugly feet. This stress is demolishing what little sanity I have left and it’s even crossed over into things I enjoy. I haven’t written in months, started reading three books and finished none. I used to do crafts. Now I just ponder doing them before I lose train of thought.
I am so disgusted. With life, with myself.
And rather than the intelligent being I once was, I now have a Denver omelet for a brain.
I’ve never felt more useless and frustrated with myself.
To add insult to injury, R’s eldest sent out a mass message about how she’s taking her kid to Frozen on Ice. I can’t buy my kid a Happy Meal. I did let her watch Frozen last night, if that counts.
I know the professionals will dismiss it all as personality and anxiety, those are their lifelong go tos rather than admitting they simply don’t know why some people function highly in spite of mental illness and others struggle endlessly. No problem shoveling pills “we’re not quite sure” how they work, but if you have problems they can’t put a handy label on…obviously it’s exclusive to you as a person.

Yes, I am ranting.
Yes, I am stressed.
I think the longest stretch of uninterrupted sleep I’ve gotten this week is 3 and a half hours. Last night was awful. Between snoring company making me feel my bubble was violated (and it’s totally me, not them) and the fact my kid woke up FOUR times in a nine hour span…I am exhausted. I don’t think I’m ever reaching that deep sleep the brain needs to sort of reboot and regain its energy.
I could take a Trazadone.
And need a sitter the next day because even low doses render me a shambling drooling zombie.
If these are my choices, well, it’s gun/knife/noose territory. You’re dead no matter what choice you make.
I am frustrated.
I am scattered.
And my heart died a little today when I said something to the extent of, “I miss who I used to be before Dr. (S) scrambled my brains.”
And R said, “You are definitely not quite what you once were thanks to that man.”
Doctors are supposed to help.
They’ve done fuck all for me sans Dr. M.

Do I sound ranty and angry? I am.
And I think I have the right to be. The entire Nardil thing where my brains got scrambled was never truly addressed, it was pretty much brushed under the rug. And were it not for the fact that I don’t remember that seven day span, I’d probably have sued several people. Namely, the local hospital my stepmonster took me to, incoherent and stumbling, and they said I was exhausted and sent me home with her. It took three days for them to call the shrink and the shrink to say, “GET HER TO MY HOSPITAL NOW.”
Three days my brain scrambled further.
And no one gave it a second thought once I snapped out of the catatonia. They noticed I was flaky and forgetful and pointed it out frequently…But the connection was never made.
For me, if something isn’t happening, then an event like this occurs, and it starts happening…DUH.

I’ve spent too much time trying to be coherent and topic specific and using logic and meeting expectations in this journal.
So I’m letting the lid off the crazy and running with the rant.

Except I think…The rant has helped, but also I am getting a headache and need to not be looking at this blinding white page.

On an end note, I found a comment earlier that said, “Too bad you don’t have a donate button, or I would contribute.”
And of course the sarcastic snort because likely it was a net troll.
Then the…Whoa, if I did take donations I might actually be able to save up enough to pay for a real doctor who didn’t graduate from the university of chalupa or chihuahua, whatevs.
And finally, “Oh, hell no, this is your therapy, you will not even think of compensation of any kind for your incoherent ramblings.”

I want to think it’s integrity.
Part of me thinks that’s just how far down the rabbit hole I am, finding myself unworthy of even accepting things given freely.
But paranoid scumbag brain reminds me little is given freely, everything has a price. If I were to ever take a cent for my writing, how long before it’d cease to be my voice and I’d be forced into using douche advertising or some shit.
Integrity. Insanity.

What the hell do you want from a walking omelet?
(I wouldn’t mind a side of bacon.)


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