Deer In The Headlights Day

Last night when I was battling to not simply start to nod off but stay that way…I decided I’d do X,Y,and Z come morning.

After a sleep/wale/repeat cycle in which I pretty much caught sight of every hour of the clock…morning came and it was all I could do to stop hitting the snooze button. I couldn’t wait to take my kid to school, come back to blankie fort, and sleep some more.

That was nixed for when I returned…The maintenance work continues and now on both sides of me for it seems we are getting new neighbors all around. Lots of hammering, drilling, cars coming and going, doors slamming, people talking.

So I’d watch another episode of Saving Hope and tell myself…after this one, the Xanax will kick in, I’ll be good to go for a twenty minute jaunt into the dish.

I was still telling myself that at 2 p.m. by which time it was do or die cos I had to fetch my spawn.

I lost six hours of my day to pretzel gut churning, hive inducing paranoid anxiety. Not garden variety either. This was the real deal, the stuff so bad I couldn’t even pretend to go do a few household chores for if I were to leave the safety of my dim little crypt….

Well, yeah, all of us with anxiety and panic issues know we’re not going to die…It doesn’t make these bouts a bit easier. Or less humiliating. Or fill you with less self loathing or resentment and frustration.

I kicked ass yesterday.

Today, my ass got kicked.

Just so sick of it all. I’ve even started doing research on shock treatment as it’s about the only thing I’ve not tried. (Yeah, I even did a chakra alignment at one point I was so desperate, so I don’t even wanna hear how I’ve not tried hard enough to beat this shit.)

I thought this evening once my kid zonked…I might TRY to write. Ya know, sit down at the desktop keyboard, put on some music for inspiration, revisit an old storyline, breathe some new life into it.

Instead I was too nervous to listen to anything but piano instrumentals of my favorite rock songs at about a volume of 1.5. And I stared at that blank screen and blinking cursor. And I know why I am so broken down from a confidence/spiritual standpoint. Without my fiction soup escape I have no one, I have nothing. I am on my own. Left with reality. Left with people who don’t get it and can’t be bothered to care. People who’ve made that abundantly clear so many times I don’t know why I even speak to them at all.

In my writing…I create a world that is filled with havoc, strife, things are not at all perfect…But in that chaos…there’s always a couple of people with kind souls to act as a support network, a safety net, so my lead character never tumbles into this blackened hole which has become my life.

I TRIED TO FORCE CHANGE.

I TRIED TO BREAK OUT OF MY ANXIETY RIDDEN DEPRESSIVE BOX BUT…

I’m underwhelmed by humanity. Overwhelmed by anxiety and stimuli. Disgusted by people who can be so cavalier about “Oh yeah, I do that, and I’m gonna keep being an ass and doing that but it’s okay cos…” But there is no cos, it’s because they’re being assholes. Period.

Mental disturbance doesn’t give any of us the right to treat others poorly anymore than those without mental disturbance are entitled to mistreat others. So while kudos for self awareness in saying “I do that, I can be an asshole”….

DO BETTER. Try being less of an asshole.

The instant we stop trying to be better versions of ourselves is the moment we lose our right to play the “mental disorder” card. Just because you’ve kicked bunnies every second Tuesday of the year since childhood cos you had gas pains doesn’t give you the right to keep doing it, shrugging aw shucks, and blaming it on your mental bullshit.

Where do I get all high and mighty saying this shit?

Because I am here, a deer in the headlights, fighting every self protective instinct I have, battling every fiber of my being that wants to HURT OTHERS AS I HAVE BEEN HURT, because “I’m depressed” or “I’m bipolar” are not excuses for being a dick.

They are states of mind. Legit conditions.But if you’re self aware enough to recognize you kick bunnies when you have gas…You’re not too “mentally disordered” to TRY and stop doing it.

So for the love of pegacorn, could someone out there just throw me a fucking bone proving humanity is worthwhile and inspire me to write about something other than how much being alive makes me want to be dead?????

Stop kicking bunnies. Don’t be a dick. And if you can’t enlighten me with a glimpse of decency being out there somewhere…would the tribe just launch a barbwire weapon attack on me already?  I wanna tap out if bunny kicking is all life has to offer.

Yes, I am cranky. No, I am not sorry.

If nothing else maybe I can piss someone off enough they will comment something utterly vile and inane and it will inspire me to write the Misanthrope’s Guide To Slaughtering Those Who Kick Bunnies.

My soul is on life support here.

PS- if you’re not gonna dim the headlights, could you at least run me over already? Signed, Santa’s Reindeer, Bitchin’

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5 Responses to “Deer In The Headlights Day”

  1. When I couldn’t write those months on Lamictal my soul was dead. Just dead. The writing is also all I have. The difference between just breathing and taking deep breathes (because the depression gives no fucks anyways) so for you to have lost this when it means so much and when I can see talent and ideas and books pouring out of you that I would buy physical copies of — it makes me so fucking angry. And in spite of everything you are still a good person. I don’t care if this makes me sound sappy or weird or too sunshine. I mean it. It’s not fair that you have to endure this shit. It’s not fair that you have to endure this shit without being able to pour your soul into those worlds. I fucking hate it.

  2. I think you should write the Misanthrope’s Guide to Slaughtering Those Who Kick Bunnies. I’ve got an unfinished piece on my desktop titled ‘How to Raise a Serial Killer’. It’s there for hate reasons. I may finish it one day. I may not. But it’s there to pour my worst thoughts into when I need to.

    People aren’t ALL shitty. There are still some decent ones out there. People willing to do a small kindness just because. I’ve got little nothings of examples, if you want to hear them. What I really would like to do is airmail you one to have in your own life. Give George some directions so he could fly your way and make you smile. Anything. Just one decent being in your life to counter all the fuck-wits you have to deal with. ❤

  3. I’ve got nothing right now, Morgue. But, I’m with you..<3

  4. What Z and Beeps said. Only good news here is that the writer is on life support or IV drip but not dead dead, because we get these posts. That’s a big deal but a fraction or less of a solace for you, I know. Makes me sad that the depression and the anxiety and the being surrounded by nothing but flaky jerks and selfish narcissists has made it impossible to channel all this mad wit and sly perception and good heartedness into fiction soup as well as blogging. I know how fragile the gossamer threads are. There is a book called “Silences” by Tillie Olsen about all the writers who were driven into silence — really it’s just a bunch of pellmell quotations — and a lot of their lives were peachy as shit compared to yours.

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