The Epic Fail Of Being

Yeah, yeah, I know. “Not another woe is me negative post from this chick.”

Welcome to mental illness. It is what it is. I get depressed for no reason and bounce back and come down and…Ya know the drill.

I hit a wall last night after a visit from my dad. Well, I was sliding down the abyss before that but he…I made an “ouch” sound as I was walking down the steps because I had cramps and he snarked at me. I growled, “You get cramps and talk to me.”
To which this empathetic man yells, “I DON’T WANNA FUCKIN’ HEAR IT, YOU WORK EIGHTY HOURS A WEEK THEN TALK TO ME!”
Sometimes I want to hit him over the head with a shovel. He has no empathy. NONE. Well,except for pets (this is where I get my pets over people mentality, I guess.) I flipped a car into a creek when I was learning to drive, they had to haul me and mom out cos it landed on its roof…I was cut and bruised and panicking. And he screamed at me, “Look what you did to the car!” Not “are you ok?” Not “As long as you guys are ok, the car can be replaced.”
But nooooo.
So why I am still shocked by his douchiness is a mystery. Guess I keep dreaming, even at 42, about those warm fuzzy parents that allegedly exist in magical pegacorn land. Yes, even I am astounded by my own naivete. Maybe R was right when he called me delusional. For all my pessimism, there’s still that stupid sliver that thinks people can change because, well, I did.
Pfft.

That was my wall. I didn’t even bother to eat, I was just in so much discomfort. And yes, I have no right to complain blah blah fuck blah.
Everyone is a complainer in their own way.
We all have issues, discomforts, anger, desire…Expressing emotions is the definition of complaining. Because if one did not complain, one would have to be silent for life.
Needless to say by 7 pm…I was under my blankets in my crypt like bedroom tossing and turning and trying to get warm. I can’t seem to regulate temp these days, always too hot or too cold. (Premenopause???Cos bipolar needs one more glitch to make it go haywire.)
It hit me it was easter bunny night. It was almost 9 pm before I managed to fill the eggs and hide them and set out the small basket for my kid. I felt so evil and grumpy for not feeling happy about it all.
But it’s a kid’s holiday, not mine. I pasted on the fake smile and all for her this morning.
Inside, I am not smiling.
I have to deal with my mother today. The one who has other people buying her groceries so she can go blow over a hundred bucks on Easter gifts so prove she loves my kid more than me. She cusses me to hell and back for being practical like my dad. May be the one good quality I got from him. I’d rather have food for the next month than blow it all on crap for my kid to get bored with and break in two minutes. Crazy me.
Tis a sad day when your own mother makes you feel shitty for being responsible.

I am dreading it. There are gonna be like ten people there not even related to us, and I am still crampy and bloated and grumpy. I don’t want to go. I am obligated to of course. If I didn’t have a kid, though, I doubt I’d be missed. I am little more than the vessel that provided the grandchild for my mother to dote on. One day she even said, “Well, at least I love your daughter.”
My parents are a nasty bit of work.
Already my stomach is churning.
I usually make chicken and noodles for the family shindig. Upon learning how much my mother spent on gifts while someone else bought the food for a meal only her and my sister even want…I said fuck it. Not wasting my time and budget to feed a bunch of people not related to me.
I may put in an hour and play the “cramps” card. It’s true. Not that it will lead to me being cut any slack but it’s my escape hatch should things get too venomous or ya know, my mood become explosive.

Tomorrow is the start of a new chapter. Focalin day. If R keeps his word in helping me pay for the stuff. Once the winter power bills are done, I should be okay if I sacrifice well, everything but eating and using toilet paper. For now…This is my lifeline. It may not work but then again…It could be the one missing link in the magic bullet of med cocktail to get me back on my feet.
How pessimistic can I be if I still have HOPE?

I haven’t showered since Thursday. I don’t want to. I don’t want to do anything but stay home and stew in my shitty mood for today. My kid is so excited and here I am, viewing it as an execution basically.
Is it distortion or just traumatic family syndrome?

Might not be so bad if my family drank wine with the meal. Hell, wine makes everyone more tolerable. Even me.
Unfortunately my mother thinks anyone who takes so much as a sip of wine cooler is a raging drunk.
If they weren’t before they met her, they are now.

Okay.
Take a breath.
Paste on the happy face.
I’m a woman, I can fake it, I have lots of practice faking things.

Meh, fuck it.
Maybe my shitty mood will deter people from talking to me.
And there it is..My kid asked, “Why did the Easter bunny only bring me this? I wanted this that this and that…”

Fuck it all seems the appropriate mind frame.

Hoppy Easter to those who are feeling it. Fetch an egg for me and make sure it has a sample bottle of cake vodka in it.
What? I have a drinking problem?
I have a dealing with family problem.
And I have counseling files to prove every one who met my mother labeled her toxic and told me to limit exposure.
Thank god for once in my life I am validated rather than doubting myself.

Bring on the pain.
I mean, Easter joy.
P.S.
I LIE.
Epic bucket of fail, all of it.

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4 Responses to “The Epic Fail Of Being”

  1. I hope you get through your day. Coping with unsupportive parents is traumatic in itself!

  2. Well at least I love your daughter – ffs what an utter shitty cruel stupid bitch. If I hear any particularly evil yo mama jokes, ima save them for your mother.

  3. I hate family gatherings with my mom as well. There’s always a good chance I’ll be asked something inappropriate in front of everyone. Hang in there.

  4. Mothers…what can you do? I made a London Broil, because after the “Great Stomach Flu” on Christmas 2010 my children will not eat ham. Eh, who can blame ’em? Anyhoo, it wasn’t pink enough for my mom. She said, “It’s fine, I’ll just have to chew it for 20 minutes.” Yeah, love you too Mom. Didn’t stop her from eating 4 pieces though, so HA I win!

    And I gotta say, I like you and your honesty about mental illness. My husband is bipolar and I have no clue what’s going on inside his head. Oh and he hasn’t showered in weeks, so you’re all good.

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