MIRACLE! Five sporks left at 7 p.m.!!!

***Many apologies for this, I copied and pasted it from wordpad, which seemed to wipe out all the formatting and turned it into some awwwwful neverending KILLMENOW rant. Sorry.****

Extra extra, read all about! Yes, this is a looooong random rant. But ya know, can’t have blog without the bog. That’s basically what this is, a toilet for all my idiotic thoughts. But if you make it to bottom of the Cracker Jack Blog, you get a participation prize. Begin: I ventured into the petri dish and two sporks were gone within an hour. Traffic had me freaking out, the bright ass sun had my head hurting, my mind was spinning. Nearly rearended a car for no reason other than zoning out with my spinning thoughts. Then a postal truck tried to pull in front of me and I barely missed that. The dish is what sets me off the most. I have learned every coping skill I am going to learn except how to make the physical responses go away. In traffic, you don’t have two minutes to “talk” yourself off the panic ledge. Of course, in today’s nightmare de jour, it was my own fault, not by intention, just…swiss cheese brain. I have started taking my meds in varied order rather than all at once. Focalin first. Prozac second. Lamicatal third. Then Xanax. Only today I was so exhausted I didn’t want to take the xanax right off lest it make me groggier (and it only does when I am already sleepy.) So dumbass that I am, I forgot to take Xanax and it ended up biting me on the ass. I consulted my pill case and realized, FUCK, I didn’t refill it, these are stupid tic-tac-o-pin which won’t do shit. (My term for Klonopin, which seems to help everyone but me.) By the time I got home, my mind was spinning and I felt like my skeleton was trying to escape my skin. It’s as close to feeling truly insane as I’ve been. Take xanax, fifteen minutes later, I can think clearly. Because I’m not surging with anxiety impulses and having every function distorted. (Though I did try to put an ice cube tray in the microwave earlier and freeze my meatloaf,so the swiss cheese brain theory holds water.) The thing about panic is, you know you’re not going to die but the physical response can be so enormous, it affects your ability to think clearly. And that’s a dangerous place to be. You’re panicking and all your therapy learned responses fail and the logic gets overwhelmed…No one is going to let it slide when you slam into another car or walk out in front of a bus just because you were altered and in a panic. And altered is the best way to describe myself at various points today. At the shop when I took R his meatloaf, I got so dizzy I had to sit down and put my head on the desk. He kept talking, voltages and capacitor and et al and my brain was basically hearing BLAHBLAHYADAYADA. I don’t mean as in tuning out, I mean, that’s the comprehension I had. Nothing was making sense to me and the numbers alone made me go blank. Another spork bites the dust. 3 pm, I have five sporks left. Does not bode well, but hey, anything can happen. My day may go off without a further hitch. In which case I can get to work on that sporkacorn project. It was bizarre when I went to get my kid today. This grandmother who’s been picking her granddaughter up was there, and the little newborn she’d been packing at the start of the school year…is now walking and doing it quite well. WTF have I accomplished since September? Nothing. Fuck all. Two steps forward, ten steps back. Is it any wonder my family thinks I am a malingerer? My regressions are so frequent, it does look like I am not trying. Psychologically,I have made a ton of progress. I am no longer as easily buying into the depressive distortions. I am learning to cope better (most days.) I am venturing outside my comfort zone every time I go out into the dish or interact with others in the blogosphere. I am TRYING. And my only criterion for going back to work, which was what my counselor and I agreed upon, was ONE year of stability on the doctor/all conditons adequately medicated and managed. One year. And I can’t even get that right. It’s discouraging but I know I am trying my best. So Sass got me to thinking about a term for readers…And I think I shall dub my followers “Morgueticians.” Oh, come on, it’s cute, albeit in a creepifying way. I have forwarding turned on for my “socially acceptable” gmail account and I got one today from the goody two shoes addy where some James had used my account to sign up for some sort of NFL thing. WTF? Porn, maybe. But sports? UGHHH, duuude. I changed my password. Good thing it forwards or I’d have had no clue it’d been compromised. I only use it for “social” purposes like Spook’s school and such. And I resent that I need to do it. But sadly, having the word “murder” in your email addy, even if in reference to your favorite band, scares people. IDK. The Arsehole files… What R HAD to show me was some Facebook post from his baby mama denouncing child abuse. That is rich coming from a woman who had the kids taken away because she abused them. But for a borderline unaware she’s even got a problem, it’s not all that shocking or funny to me. Kinda like the Donor trashtalking people who don’t work, get food stamps, or don’t support their kids. Um, failure to support three kids…??? Unfortunately some people are too damaged to be self aware. And that’s where my misanthropy comes in. I don’t expect people to be unflawed. But the fact remains, some people simply treat others like shit. And I’m not a big enough person to make excuses for them. If they want to prove me wrong and show me it was alcohol or drug or mental illness or moment off assclownery that made them be shitty to me…Fine. If you can’t even see how you were wrong… Clown shoe yourself. That was my big epiphany earlier. I don’t think *all* people are evil. But there are some who have completely taken advantage, been cruel, rude, et al…And never an apology or change. They just get to be evil. And I’m the one in the wrong for judging them. Pardon me, but do explain on what planet it is acceptable to inflict physical or psychological harm on another for no reason and not be called on it? I’m not inflexible or judgmental. I just want a fair playing field. If I give, I should receive, vice versa. If there’s no quid pro quo and I come out of feeling like shit…I don’t need friends that fucking bad. I am crazy anxious today. I am letting my kid play outside but honestly…every fiber of my being wants to get her inside, close the door, and not worry about checking on her every two minutes when I don’t hear her babbling. I cannot transfer my issues onto her but man, it is nerve racking. Actually, it’s morphed into panxiety. I do not like this mindspace. And trying to talk myself out of it is not helping. Spam Spooge. R mentioned earlier that he liked spam. I cringed. I can handle it fried but I still remember my dad eating it cold from the can with all that slimy stuff sliding off it… Spam spooge. Ick. And in another example of people who don’t play fair on the playground… R keeps hounding me to come watch Flash with him tonight. I’ve tried to explain I have a bedtime routine that gets my kid to sleep before 9, I cannot deviate or else I will be suffering til ten or 11. Funny when it was a school night for his kid, not even having a knife in my head made him deviate from their routine. Knowing him, he will just find some sycophant to join him because he can’t be alone. Meh. After watching Arrow with him last week and him yapping thru, as well as my kid yapping thru it…I’d rather watch it alone and actually be able to comprehend what’s going on. I don’t think putting my kid’s routine first is anti social. Is it? For all my grrr feral kid rants… The boy my kid is playing with fell off the swing and scraped his knee and in spite of how bratty the kid is (threatening to shoot her) I was out there, examining, offering a band aid, antibacterial cream… I talk a good game but I’m really not that evil in my heart. It’s just my fucked up brain that brings out the evil. On a cheery note…I hear that M2 is bringing back Celebrity Deathmatch. YESSSS. I wanna see some carnage of Miley Cyrus, Justin Bieber, the Kardashians, Kanye West, Taylor Swift, the douchebag singer from Maroon 5… and all the other douchebags that pass as “talented” in this vapid age of tone deafness. (Sorry if you like them, to each their own, I doubt you’d like my knives in a blender metal.) And for the record, I did try having an open mind. There was so much gab about Taylor’s Swift’s “Shake it Off” being this feel good catchy tune. I thought it might be my next MMM Bop. (Shameful yes, but still cheers me up.) Um…NO. I made it about seventy seconds in and it was like nails on a chalkboard or someone’s junk in a blender. Ouch. Ears…bleeding…Lyrics…vaccuous…Ick ick ick. And I mean, I can admit to liking a couple of country songs so…It has to be pretty bad for me to dismiss so totally. I also did the same with Miley Cyrus’ “Party In The USA”: because some article declared NO ONE could hear it and not find it awesome. Audio ipecac. (And I even like a couple of songs by her one hit wonder dad!) Just can’t do…bubblegum mindless music. 5 p.m. and I still have 4 sporks left. Hmm. Xanax is wondermous. Like pegasporkacorns. I worry about my daughter…She is so extroverted and has such a big personality and thinks everyone is good…She will play with any kid who comes her way. And now the boy she’s calling her friend is calling her stupid and saying she has head lice, which is upsetting her, yet when I offer to make him leave, she has a fit. “I need friends, I won’t get any more if he goes away.” God, I don’t want her to be like that. It took me til I was 14 but I eventually figured out the people who were insulting to me…were not my friends and alone was definitely better. She may be five, but it just feels like a bad precedent if she feels she has to be insulted and have her feelings hurt to have friends. Fine line between childhood hijinks and bullying. For the third time in the last week…I thought about one of my worst school tormentors. The stoner douche who told me I should “smoke drugs, then you’d have a reason to be weird.” “You should do the world a favor and kill yourself.” And his piece de resistance, done during lunch hour in front of bleacher rows of other kids…He handed me a dollar and said I looked like a hooker, I should blow him like one. Absolute charmer. The girls loved him for some reason. Of course, after I looked at him and said, “You’d need a federal loan for my services…” Learning sarcasm became my superpower, no one will ever convince me it is a bad thing. And thanks to that scumbag, I got ten times stronger and more rebellious. I wouldn’t want to relive it but I doubt he has any clue just how resilient and determined his idiocy made me. He was trying to break me down and yet…He made me stronger. Joke’s on him. But hey, for all the dents in my self esteem armor, I think all of the adversity and character assasinations have made me who I am. Reminds me of the song “Fighter” by Christina Aguilera. (She’s bubblegummish, but damn, that woman has vocal range and I respect talent that isn’t auto tune.) Goes for all my failed relationships, too.They convinced me I was the monster but it takes two to make something work or fail. By never owning their side…They made me stronger. Odd how all the efforts to break me down have just reinforced me like steel on some points. I need to run to the store and I don’t wanna. Spook has friends here, she will throw a fit. And I suppose it’s nothing I couldn’t do til morning but I’d like to get change so I can send her to school with money to buy her carnival tickets ahead of time rather than standing in line. I could do it before I dro her off except…I’m not a daywalker and taking her anywhere, especially when time is crucial, is living hell. Plus, school spring pix came in and the whole package is $45. I can afford a sheet of wallet size and that’s about it. So…Pragmatist I am, I called both grandparental units and told them if they wanted anything bigger than a wallet pic, they’d need to chip in fifteen bucks each. And they agreed. Excellent, Smithers. God, I wish lightning would strike me and set my brain wiring right so I could get a good job and not have to fret every fucking penny. I miss shopping on line. I miss buying Urban Decay and Manic Panic products. I miss buying purses. I miss buying posters. I miss everything about working and feeling productive and useful except the fact that I couldn’t keep up and was always falling apart and beig left with the choice to quit or be fired. I don’t miss that. But…damn. I am so sick of worrying about every tiny thing. And sadly, I’m not good looking enough to do internet porn. I have huge feet so I couldn’t even do foot fetish porn. I haven’t ruled out the faction that for whatever reason gets off on watching women sit on balloons and popping them. I don’t get it, but if there’s a market for it and it comes between my dignity or caring for my kid… Clown shoe dignity. I don’t think the donor ever understood that being a parent means sacrifice. You don’t get to do whatever you want because it’s who you are. There are not unlimited hours to spend on the internet, or sleep ten hours, or buy your packs of cigarettes when your kid needs new shoes. You come second once you have children and that’s the way it should be. If that makes you resentful, you should have stopped at one kid, not gone on to make three and fail to support all of them. There’s a difference between self sacrifice and giving up your identity. I put my kid first, but I am not above buying myself a lipstick or bottle of nailpolish here and there. Balance. He never understood that concept. I hate talking about him because I sound bitter and yet nothing I’ve said has been anything but easily documented fact. I don’t need to name call. If you have kids and don’t support them or see them…You are a deadbeat. Period. Deadbeat parent law and all that. I’m typing and I can’t shut up… My brain is very busy today. I’ve posted three or four times already and I ain’t done yet. But it’s like if I don’t spew it onto the page it will build up in my system like poison and give me toxic shock. Must…expel…poison…thoughts. On the plus side, I am getting lots of exercise in between writing a sentence here and there when I get up every two minutes to check on my kid outside. On my list of accomplishments for today, and by that, I mean, the tiny lil goals I set so as not to overwhelm yet still feel like I followed through on something: I took R his meatloaf sammiches, as promised. I actually wore a bra. (Yes, I set the bar low, but if you have to wear a bra, then you know the relief when the fucker comes off so it’s like socially enforced boob bondage.) I wore eyeliner. I did NOT have any hormonal verbal explosions. Mainly because I’ve limited contact with people but some months I just burst into tears randomly in front of people due to horrormones. When that doesn’t happen, and I don’t channel satan…SCORE. Little things. Self conscious… I must admit to some apprehension as far as my blogging, or reading other blogs, goes. I know a lot of people who are religious or have faith, and while I am not on that page, my opinions, swearing, et al, are never intended to offend or invalidate the beliefs of others. I’m like Voltaire. I may not agree with what you say, but I will fight to the death for your right to say it. With that, I also have to be true to who I am and hope people are mature enough and open minded enough to know…The things I say, the beliefs I have, are not personal and I do not expect you to agree with me. What makes us all so unique and interesting is our varied interests and beliefs. If I wanted to hang out with Cookie Cutters, I’d become a baker. School pix… This time she actually smiled, not cheesily and not glaring. Unfortunately, the neat ponytail I’d put her hair in (and she only had to leave it be twenty minutes) was completely yanked in ten different directions so it looks unbrushed. GRRR. What concerns me is the fact that she’s not yet six and pretty much all her pictures the last two years show how she has these dark circles under her eyes. I know she rarely sleeps through the night and it takes a toll but damn. A kid shouldn’t have Sampsonite baggage under her eyes like that. I mean, I get less sleep than her and even mine aren’t that dark. I don’t want to hit the panic button but I definitely want to get her in with her pediatrician for a check up. I wanna tell that doctor none of her brilliant ideas have worked as far as getting my kid to stay asleep in her own bed. Though I am sure it will somehow be my fault. Parents get blamed for everything. It’s like the snowflakes are being absolved while the parents get persecuted. Wait, let me CBT that. Thought: I am concerned for my child so I will explain to the doctor how the sleep disturbance is still going on after two years. Feeling: Much as the child psych blamed my kids’ issues on her picking up on my mental problems, the pediatrician will find a way to make her sleep issues my fault as well. Behavior: I will take her to the doctor, explain, and hope for the best all the while knowing from experience there’s a 90% chance I will be blamed. Take that, positive thoughtmongers. Cautious optimism til death. OMG. 6p.m. and I am rebounding. Hypomania. I suddenly want to go do stuff. NOOOOOOOOOOO. The dish is eeevil. It will cost me the rest of my sporks. It’s less enthusiasm and more, “I don’t feel as shaky right now and tomorrow I may go nutso again so maybe I should do this shit and rip the band aid off.” But when I come out of the gate gung ho, it costs more than sporks. Hypomania. Hypomania. Hypomania. It’s no logical, it’s just… I don’t know what it is. And frankly, I am sick to death of analyzing every moment of my existence in an effort to be sure I’m not simply being a lousy person. I wonder why it is my self esteem is decent outside the mental shit when I am alone. Yet when others give their input, my self esteem vanishes. I don’t need them to validate my existence. So why is it so easy for them to make me doubt myself? There’s my next “self therapy” project. Sporksome…My kid saw the Encouraging Thunder award on my page and asked about it. I said it was someone’s way of saying that I write decently and they like it. And oh so snarkily she says, “Mommy, what could you write that’s decent?” Out of the mouths of babes. Now she wants her own blog. We ventured into the dish for those errands. Of course, it took two tries because as soon as we started to leave, my dad showed up. Bloody hell, do people not understand how hard it is to find some get up and go and actually go? But it wasn’t without merit. They are having major problems with my brother. Who is, guess what…on mood stabilizers, anti depressant, and anti anxiety meds. He won’t take them regularly, they haven’t been working for weeks, he’s getting borderline violent and his tele shrink won’t change a thing. Of course, my dad is still in denial of his flawed genetic line. Stepmonster was very interested in the accolades I was awarding Dr B. And it’s true, he’s spent more time with me in two appointments than all other doctors for three years. He listens, and he’s good. (I may hate him for the Latuda but time will tell, can’t get it til Friday.) So stepmonster asked if she could call the office and mention my name in an effort to get my brother switched from tele shrink to Dr. B. I said absolutely. Because when they were here the other day my brother was in one of his missed his meds moods and actually balled his fists up and glared at my kid. I threatened to put him on his ass if he didn’t move away from her and get a better attitude. He’s 20 years old, he threatens my kid, mentally ill or not,I will take his ass down. He’s choosing not take the meds so mentally ill or not, it’s his fault. He’s borderline dangerous, even taking swings at his mom and our dad. (And yeah, I remember being that way before they gave me mood stabilizers, oh what a difference a pill can make.) I didn’t like the counseling breach but the doctors…I’ve never minded. I’m open about my use of meds. All my therapy issues I tend to want to keep to myself (I mean, away from my family since they’re part of my issues.) Mid heart attack… 7:17 pm and guess what? I still have five sporks left. How did this happen? Who cares? To quote my kid, and the teletubbies, AGAIN AGAIN!!!! I am watching a rerun of X Files, an episode near and dear to me. Because back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and people still used dial up and AOL “freebie” discs I got cable internet and found this wonderful depression support chat room. I needed a chatroom name. And I had just watched this episode. Called Quagmire. And Scully’s dog is named Queequeg (RIP, lil dude.) So…I named myself KweeQuagmire. Eventually it just became Kwee. The chat room is long disbanded and only one person on Earth still calls me Kwee… But it’s a trip down a memory lane that wasn’t traumatic. If you made it this far…you win… sporky


Yes, I got my spork count wrong. I have FOUR left. This is what happens when you have a chatty kathy doll in your ear, you write the gibberish they spew.

Bygones.yetowrite gibb



6 Responses to “MIRACLE! Five sporks left at 7 p.m.!!!”

  1. First to like, first to comment. Sass gets a GOLD Spork of fortitude. BOOM! There is so much I want to comment about! Um…my eyes crossed. Love you to bits! I’m a Morguetician! Woohoo! What are mine again? Sassafranians? :p Sending you telepathic responses to info-great job on some of the not-so-personal personal info πŸ™‚ I took my nighty-night meds, but I need a shower…I agree about the Deadbeat and sacrifice. When you have a family you don’t get to do what you wanna do when you wanna do it. Your wants come last to their/our needs. *Not getting on THAT soapbox Hope the hypo wore off. Some people are just selfish assholes. Your bro needs a good jaw check, meds or no, he shouldn’t do that towards his own niece. Dad is in denial land and will probably never surface from it. I hope it’s a tiny island with no coconuts. I hate when I space cadet while driving-even worse while The Heathens are in the car. Thank GAWD NSLM is vocal enough to let me know when I’m about to lose control-because I’m on spotify *blush* Damn my brain just shut down…piddle. Guess I’ll have to leave more comments later. Toodle-Loo! Love and g’night!!

    • Gold spork of fortitude? Chick, you get the BEDAZZLED spork of fortitude. I only have one heathen and I battle so I admire you being able to handle two of them plus all the physical and psych stuff. You’re kinda my hero. I still want my unichef, though. πŸ˜‰

      On Tue, Apr 28, 2015 at 8:35 PM, Take a Ride on My Mood Swing wrote:


      • SWEET! I LOVE bedazzled stuff! Monkey is my extrovert and NSLM in my introvert..but they are VERY vocal like me..idk WHERE I get the patience..I’m glad I can inspire people 😊❀️ I’m just me. Sorry, I’m fresh outta unichefs…I also have a 50 pound German Shepherd that is GREAT at watching me cook..maybe she’s learning?? Naaaah

  2. MSNChat Says:

    KweeQuagmire. I remember you in Depression Chat. EtownMike, LauraLovesToots, ChattyKathy, and JustMama. That was way back in 2002-03. I’m old now. That was such a long time ago.

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