Sporkitude: noun;  mental and emotional strength in facing difficulty even when down to your last spork.

Oh, yes, I am making up words again. Panxiety. Pegacorn. Now we have…sporkitude. Because yesterday was an example in sporkitude that should inspire a gazillion pegacorn rebellions. I was running on empty,one spork left for the whole day. Defiant child. Visit from family. ickickick. (My dad had to come in and use the bathroom, invasion of space during crazy panxiety day, not good, not good.)

I made no great accomplishments. I did, however, do dishes. It took an hour because my crazy ass has to do everything in increments. Cups and silverware. Drain. More soapy hot water. Plates and bowls soak while I smoke. Then repeat and wash the pans. Then wipe the counter. Most people can do dishes in ten minutes tops. I…have to use a system that works for me and my fucked up brain. And therein lies the rub. I don’t think like others so I don’t work as fast and organized as others therefore…I’m like some sort of idiot savant. I’m smart but not in any meaningful way for society. I can’t keep up so I’m somehow inept. Whatevs. It got fucking done. (Odd how that argument meant very little to employers and their corporate policies.)

Goal number two reached, in spite of clinging desperately to the last spork: I cooked spaghetti and garlic bread for our supper.

Goal number three: Bathed both kid and myself.

At that point, my last spork was tarnished and bent from me clenching it in my sweaty hands all day and wielding it like a weapon at all my crazy thoughts. I put my kid to bed, not that she stayed, she’s like a demented jack in the box. “Mommy, I had a nightmeer.” (even though she never actually fell asleep) “Mommy, I’m hungry.” “Mommy, I can’t sleep.” (After sixty seconds of trying.) “Mommy, I want my allergy medicine.” (even though her allergy symptoms were under control.)

Love my child but there are days when my crazy brain really believes she’s some sort of 5 year old sadist who lives to poke me with a pitchfork and watch in glee as I come apart. I get that kids always behave better for anyone than the primary caregiver but my kid takes it to the extreme. She’s an angel for everyone but me. Me, she knows I am teetering on the edge. I implore, beg, plead, ground, take things away. Rarely I’ve given her a swat just to get her out of a tantrum. I’ve taken her to a child psychologist in hopes she’d talk about why she’s got such a problem with me. I do my best. I am not perfect. And frankly, the only time we have problems is when she’s hyper and aggressive from sugar or when I say no. Which with a five year old who wants to throttle cats and put dirty marbles in her mouth, means I am in a perpetual state of no. Last night she treated me to an hour of  “You’re the horriblest mother ever!” Because I told her to pick something up. And when she got over that, she went back to the morning’s stained skirt fiasco. I was a terrible mother for not letting her wear a stained skirt.

By the sixth time she popped out of her room, I used the Satan Voice. I do not like using it but it is often the ONLY thing that gets her to back down. I told her she didn’t have to sleep but she HAD to stay in her room because I needed a break. Guess what? She was asleep fifteen minutes later. Maybe because I told her she didn’t *have* to sleep. And that would be in keeping with my personality. Tell me I have to do something, fuck you. Let me come to it on my own, all is good. And I don’t even display this to her which makes me believe genetic programming is pretty feasible.

Finally got her down. Glared daggers at the Latuda. Took it and a Xanax, shut out the light, curled up in  bed. But it was so hot, I had to drag out another fan after tossing and turning for an hour. By then I was pissed. He tells me to take it at bedtime, it will help me sleep better.

Bullfuckingshit. Twice I’ve taken it at night and twice I’ve been awake for hours afterward. I took it at 8 last night. I was still awake at 2 a.m. I read 250 pages and finished off another book. And still wasn’t sleepy. WTF. So now I am going to try to take Latuda during the day.

And pray to the sacred pegacorn my nipples don’t leak. WTF kind of side effect is that????

Today,in spite of four hours sleep, I am less gloomy even though the weather is gloomy.I’m still aggravated and irritable as fuck but I feel less…trepidation. I think I’m starting the day with ten sporks, since I lost two due to lack of sleep and a spat with my kid right off the bat because she didn’t like any of her clothes so she had a raging fit.

Now she is schoolified, I am bubblefied, and oh, guess what. After three days of silence and not responding to my texts, R is texting  me. Wifey must have gone back to work and now I am acknowledged again. I haven’t even read the text. Fuck him. For two weeks, even as I fell the fuck apart, I was there to hold his hand and listen to him piss and moan about how hard up he is for money (if you haven seven grand in a savings account and I’m pawning dvds for gas money, you’re not getting an ounce of sympathy from me.) I didn’t begrudge him grief for Bruce’s death because that saddened me too. But to completely blow me off for three days and not even taken thirty second to reply to a text? The man’s ego and audacity boggle the fucking mind. Maybe it’s an overreaction on my part, lemme think…

Hell to the no.

This is the man who has a tantrum and calls me names if I fail to answer my phone after 9pm because I am in the shower or asleep. So if I can’t even function due to having to catch his calls, what gives him the right to use me then drop me when someone else is there to coddle him? It’s not right and I think my phone battery just went dead. Oops. Didn’t get the message. Or, volatile as I felt yesterday…I might just go off on him and his rudeness. So yeah,dead battery. Can’t go burning bridges just because I am falling to pieces.

And denial and “grrrl” power cheers aside…After yesterday…I really do feel like I am coming undone. It’s gotten to be too much. I’m “doing it” but I am hanging by a piece of frayed thread. I started thinking maybe my kid just hates me and I should go to jail or a psych ward because obviously I’m not strong enough to keep doing this shit. My mind is getting worse instead of better. Maybe institutional life is all I can handle, much as I’ve always hated schedules and rules. I suck at stability which is the one thing life requires. WTF am I supposed to do? Not like I can jog out to Walfuckingmart and buy a case of stability. It seems hopeless. Pointless. And yeah, yeah, it’s just the depression and it’s venomous lies.

Except sometimes, it’s not. Sometimes people really do get more than they can handle and they do crumble. I fear that happening to me, not because I am paranoid, but because my mental state has gotten worse rather than better. My coping skills have improved ten fold, but unless my brain cooperates, it counts for shit.

Sporkitude. It’s all I’ve got left. And believe me, I am sharpening those tines into razor points so I can stab at the panxiety next time it comes around.




6 Responses to “Sporkitude”

  1. Sporkitude-that attitude we can get stabby when shit hits the fan. I feel an apple crumble in the near future. And that’s ok. Stab that panxiety in the throat. And sometimes moms need to channel Satan to get a point across. It’s hard to do it when you have some kind of physical support. Damn R and his needy 7K savings account selfish ass. I really don’t know how you haven’t gone off on him yet. I’m passing off the gold spork to you.

  2. I don’t get any drowsiness from the Latuda. Doctor said it was imperative I take it with food or it won’t absorb. 300 calories minimum. Even though I do I don’t get the drowsy. At all.

    • Me either. It kept me up all night no matter when I took it and it over road the sleep meds. Good riddance. Finally feeling better.

  3. Did you make the letters bigger or did I do it on my end. It stays there so I don’t have to enlarge it each time. It is great. I can easily read it now. Control + to make it bigger and Control – to make it smaller.

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