44 Black Balloons

Okay, the old 80’s song is 99 Red Balloons but turning 44 is bad enough without tacking on 54 more years. And red so isn’t my color.

Yesterday was indeed my hatchling anniversary date. I got cards from family members.

Then I had to wash my  bedding first thing cos one of the bulimic cats horked up. I did my dishes, all the while my is b0uncing off walls with wanting to make a cake for me and have a party and all I wanted was some quiet. I did humor her and wear the birthday girl ribbon she bought me. (Pink also not my color.)

The turning point came when it hit me…The pilot light on the oven had gone out. Now every other stove I ever had you could access this by the bottom part, whatever the pull out tray is, a broiler maybe? Not this fucker. No, I Googled up the product number and fixing the pilot on this thing requires ten different steps and dissambly of the on the inside of the oven. For a cake I don’t even want cos I simply don’t eat cake? Uh uh.

Ant that was when my birthday turned into SPOOK’s POUTING DAY and she refused to speak to me and sat in her room pouting and growling every time I tried to talk to her and tell her I know she’s disappointed but we can make a cake any other time if I can get R to light the oven. Nope. She wouldn’t give an inch, just pouted for hours.

Thus brought me day crashing round.

Then my knees started hurting, which generally only happens when I’ve been using lots of stairs or…the weather is about to drastically change to cold.

I did not receive any texts wishing me a happy birthday or even an email from those I considered my close Friends. I wish this didn’t irk me but it kind of days because well, it’s rude and hurtful and if that gives me some new personality disorder, fuck it.

Because I was watching a show where the defendant was given a psych eval and diagnosed borderline and I realized…wow, I do have a tendency to merge my identity in with that of whoever I am in a relationship with. Now I wouldn’t say I would do anything to get them back, let alone commit murder, I don’t really grovel or risk rejection even more but…

That just woke the black abyss in my head and made me realize…I am a lousy person and probably too damaged to be salvaged. Now we all know once that aspect of depression sets in, even your best efforts to fight it are pointless.

So I stuck the spawn in my bed and we were lights out at 8 p.m. cos I didn’t know how much more of my own mind I could stand.

I did not sleep well. I was awake every hour on the hour, mind racing, finding fault with myself over every tiny thing. Even this morning as I drove my kid to school, I pondered how R did all this stuff with his kids and took them to Cancun and they all turned out so successful and popular and…My kid is obviously doomed.

I don’t know how to shake this frame of mind. And as the forecast calls for 5 gray cloudy days in a row, I don’t know it’s going to lift much since the weather does impact my moods so drastically.

I just know I do not like the way I am feeling, at all. I feel pathetic, petty, self pitying, demanding, needy, and like a bigger pain in the ass than a colonoscopy without sedation.

Age means nothing to me, turning 44 had no impact, I’m not rattled about that.

I am rattled because my brain chose that day to betray me with all this bullshit at once to bounce around in my head and make me feel shitty.

Which might be indicative that it is time to take Lithium again because my emotions are growing into a funnel cloud and overwhelming me. Except I so dislike not being able to feel anything at all.

How ironic I was born on the 22nd, my lot number is 22, and my life is an endless loop of Catch 22.

Not my lucky number, obviously.



3 Responses to “44 Black Balloons”

  1. Happy belated birthday

  2. “…and if that gives me some new personality disorder, well fuck it.” LOL! Sometimes I feel like I’m swimming in labels. Looks like I’m not the only one.

    Happy Belated Birthday! On the bright side, next year HAS to be better.

  3. I love you more every day. And more.

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