Survival Of The Sweatiest-A post about anxiety

Obviously the fact that I am writing this means I survived the school “carnival” with my daughter. All that really matters is she had fun and got some prizes.

Yet…It was grueling for me. I thought it was all going to be set up in this big gym, which is daunting enough. Turns out, this school’s gym is a closet for all purposes. I went to a school in a district with maybe 500 students total and every gym we had was ten times bigger than this one.
Needless to say…The “games” were spread out across all four floors of the school. The popular ones, like soda ring toss, were packed. All into tiny classrooms made for twenty kids and one teacher. Yet there were dozens of parents packing in with dozens of kids to the point you couldn’t move without elbowing someone.
Um…I gave my kids the tickets for each game and stood just outside the door, away from the masses but with her still in my line of sight. And she sees other kids and pretty much forgets I exist so…
She played every game once. She got upset when she didn’t win but that’s a kid thing. I still think she did okay with her loot.

While she had fun…I was sweating not merely buckets, but troughs. And because I am allergic to my own sweat, my thick hair was the sweatiest of all and my head was itchy like I had lice and I could barely breathe and I was wound so tight I couldn’t have snapped like a piano wire and decapitated someone.
And while I know all the cognitive bullshit talk…I swear there were a couple of people who did look at me weird. One was a teenage boy who was all smiles and I couldn’t discern if he was laughing at me or merely being friendly or goofy.Then came the devil girls and their “you can’t hang out at Spook’s house” lowlife father and they didn’t even speak to Spook. Acted like she wasn’t even there. It was all I could do to walk away without punching him.
How fucking dare they judge me when I spent an entire summer feeding their kids cos “mom’s working and daddy won’t wake up.”
And all the times mommy was working but dad was home yet sent his 6 and 8 year old girls out in negative 14 degrees to use my phone to call the grandparents to bring him a pack of cigarettes.
And let’s not forget the time they left the six year old home alone while they ran an errand and told her not to leave the house but she got so scared she came to my place to use the phone to call her grandparents in a panic.
Parents like that have the gall to judge me????
I’d love to get a mallet and play whack a mole with their ignorant brains.

I digress.
It was grueling but I kept my word to my kid and ultimately that’s all that matters.
I never did force myself into the shower but I did do the skin so soft whore bath thing and wore a nice button down shirt and did my hair and make up and even doused on my fifty dollar a bottle of cologne (which I’ve been able to afford ONCE in the past ten years) and hey, I even wore earrings.
Okay, I wore all black and looked gothy to the nth, sans platform shoes, spikes, and a dog collar. Frankly, in rural midwest, you could wear a simple black shirt and be considered “one of those goths.”
But I looked nice, smelled nice and I kept my word to my kid so even if the idiots were glaring or staring…Whatevs. I persevered. I was drenched in sweat head to toe (I actually had one mom ask me if I was sick because I was pale, soaked in sweat, and having trouble breathing..)
But I ripped the fucking band aid off. My kid was happy. And I’ll be damned if she didn’t behave like a perfect angel. What the actual fuck.
Must be that donut I promised her in the morning if she behaved.
(I’m not above bribery, no decent parent is.)

Tonight was just one more example of how my conditions affect my functionality. I went, I endured, but between the trembling, sweating, paranoia, breathing troubles, and apparently looking like I had a pegacornswineflu…All that grooming was for nothing. The sweat pours off me and bam, I look like I’ve been through a bleeding tornado. Been that way as long as I can remember.
And once again I am lambasted with “rah rah rah” positive thought posts that make me want to stab my eye with a dozen forks.
I get it. You’re awesome and I suck. I can’t shake it off and rather than being empathetic, you’re showing how amazing you are by getting over it thus proving I am a loser.
Ok, I get that that’s my perception but it’s still how it comes off, not that I think anyone even notices.
Though they’re not reluctant to make their displeasure with my “negativity” known, they want me to adapt to their MMMMBOPPiness. Hey, if it’s working for you, more power to you. But if it works to an extent that you make others feels bad for not being the same as you…
That’s a slap with a decomposing fish.

Anyway…I came home, had a Mike’s Harder Mango Madness, then I fixed myself pork chop sammiches and baked potatoes. I still need to shower but…Meh. I think I am off the hook for the hand holding gig as R’s wife has returned home. So one more day feigning functionality and plastering on the “I can pretend it doesn’t all suck” smile.
Mind you…It’s not just bad attitude when you’re basing it on the incorrect messages your mind is sending. It’s called a disorder.

Then I can crash crash burn into whatever hellish phase comes next.
Already my kid is asking if we can go to some yard sales, or if we can go to the downtown square for this diapers to bookbags freebie deal.
I can barely catch my breath and already I am supposed to suck it up.
It sucks to feel that way because going to yard sales has been my favorite thing since I was 5 years old. Now it just seems like another joyless task of necessity. How depressing to have your depression rob you of something that has made you happy your entire life. What the actual fuck is wrong with me?

Now I get to try to sleep. And no doubt my kid will be up and climb in my bed. Then around five, as every month it happens, I will wake up, freak out, and contact my bank to ensure my deposit has gone it.
And while the professionals and sunshine spewers can call this negative or what the fuckever…It’s happened to me a couple of times, screw ups with my debit card, so pardon me for being scarred and paranoid of repeat performances. I don’t let it put my life in a freezeframe but it is always a fleeting concern.

I got to thinking earlier…The newspaper had a three line blurb about Bruce: Local Man Killed By Tree Limb.
And it was just like, wow…It was reported so clinically and the coroner statement was as dispassionate as it gets. Oh, well, one more person using a chainsaw who got bitch slapped by a falling limb and died.

Life, viewed in that context, is the ass trashiest. I keep thinking about his wife and kids and how they must be feeling…
And here I am, alive and drawing breath, yet every fiber of my neural network keeps insisting I should just kill myself because it’s been so long since I felt true joy and wasn’t fake my way through with the zombie shuffle.
I thought, c;mon, Niki, you can come up with ONE measly thing today that you smiled at and weren’t faking.

Yes. My kitten Castiel. He’s so docile, so loving, so not a follower but kind of a wallflower sweetie pie mama’s boy…And I was just looking at his adorable fuzzy face and pumpkin head and thinking…this is what I need, this is therapy and medicine. I need to find a way to earn a living working with animals. They’re anti depressants for the dying soul. So sweet, so pure, so adorable…
I know my smile is real when it comes to my furkids. Or, hell, even the stray next to the shop and her three fuzzlebutted kittens that have come out to mooch food and roam.’
I would inhale kittens if I could. Soooo absolutely sweet and without corruption…

So, yeah, I do occasionally have a genuine smile. I occasionally even find something in life that isn’t a total buzzkill and not even my pessimistic depression can change it.
I saw a story on line about a momma cat who had babies but they all died and she became depressed and her owner knew she missed her babies and needed to be a mom…So they found a place that had three fairly newborn kittens with no mama and they put them with the kittenless mama…
And they all lived happily ever after. Or with cat moms, about a year before competition for noms results in Ultimate Momma Cat Bitch Slaps her Own Kitten to win…

I think I am done. I have one spork left and I am going to use it to slither off to my bed.

I’m trying, damn it. I may be a sweaty disheveled “oh my, do you have the flu” trainwreck but…I’m making the effort and I want my goddamned participation trophy.
Or someone could just have an order of those garlic twists from Papa John’s delivered to me. They look yummy. I put garlic on my garlic.
Further proof I am not a vampire, if the mythology is correct. (If it’s mythical, how can it be correct or incorrect lore?)

On an end note…Spook gave me one of her little erasers she won at the lollipop tree game.

It’s a unicorn eraser.

Soon I will cross breed it with a pegasus and a spork and thus create a master race of awesome mythological mutts of my imagination…

Yeah, ok. Snoozapalooza time for the crazy woman.

First, I think I will huff some purring kittens.

If that fails to calm me…Back to snorting sea monkeys and drinking Liquid Plumber. On the plus side, it doesn’t taste any worse than a school lunch.


2 Responses to “Survival Of The Sweatiest-A post about anxiety”

  1. Aww kitty kitty !! >^•^< mew-mew! 🙂

  2. That experience sounds like everything I hate rolled into one package. I need to bow to you for getting through it without killing someone. I especially hate parents like that who preach this erroneous concept of “normalcy” based on appearances and choices others make. I have met people of all sorts and had I closed off my mind how I often was told “don’t talk to the ghetto” or “stay away from the goths” I wouldn’t have met some of the most amazing people I know. I wouldn’t have learned all the things I did either. That kind of parenting is negligent and sets up a child to grow into such a narrow minded, limited adult. May their minds be freed when they’re old enough to realize that their parents aren’t always right. Wtf.

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