Spoons, Sporks, Forks, Done, Queen Cobra

I am finally sitting still after running all morning. My spoon/spork allotment is zilch, I used them all getting my kid to the doctor, rushing her 15 miles to Armpitopia school, rushing back to town 15 miles to make my job interview with like two minutes to spare…Stick a fork in me, I am done.

The interview was relaxed and I think it went well, though I can never seem to shake the underlying “I am a fraud, I am not fit to work when I can’t even keep my laundry folded.” I hate being forced into this position, I truly wanted to return to work ‘the right way’. One year on stable med cocktail through the winter depression, that is my litmus test. I don’t have the luxury.

Anyway, the lady that interviewed me said they have multiple interviews through tomorrow for only 3 open spots but I could always apply for their thrift store. Cos being a numerically dyslexic cashier sounds like a great idea that could not possibly result in me giving someone their own twenty dollar bill back because numbers so easily confuse me and mix me up.

More bad news, even though I only have $835 a month income, it would still cost me $85 minimum per month, plus $8 gas times 5 days a week for nine weeks, to get Spook into the summer camp there. I simply don’t have it. I might be able to eek gas money, or eek out the camp fee, but I can’t do both. Stupid fucking donor screws up everything for that kid. She’d be so much better off with that program all summer. They take them swimming and to game playplaces and they feed them two meals and a snack…Plus she’d make new friends and get out of the house. But unless I stumble across $240 by June 11th, she won’t be able to go. And even with that paid, I’d still need gas money. I can’t even get a fast food interview, apparently submitting a resume for those jobs automatically excludes you as being ‘too fancy’. Ffs.

On top of this, the new pediatrician thinks Spook may have a ‘slight’ curvature of the spine which is why she is so uncomfortable and unable to touch her toes and is so clumsy. So now she has to get an X-ray. It terrifies me either way because one, she gets that backbrace the kids will torture her about, or two, she needs surgery, and I just don’t see how she’s been that impaired by not being able to touch her toes. Leave it to me to pick the one competent doctor in town who is willing to challenge insurance and get these tests paid for. I have her also set up for some ADHD test, as well as a child psych, and a referral for a psychiatric eval. Shit’s getting real now and it makes me wonder if I have overdramatized things. I know I haven’t though. I still don’t think there’s anything too wrong with her spine. She’s 4 foot nine, 100.8 pounds and perfectly healthy and sometimes happy. I mean, she begged me to take her back to school today as opposed to going to grandma’s or staying home, so apparently her depression and low self esteem only apply to school days when a classmate is having a birthday party with treats.

I am wiped. I fed myself and got back into warm slobby jammies. I went back to sleep around 5 a.m. but I bolted up at 7:30, thinking it was later and I’d missed her appointment. Starting the day in a panic after a night of start and stop sleep and bizarre dreams is not to my liking. One thing, though, I should sleep well tonight. I thought for sure I’d get home and be able to nap but scumbag brain rebels again. Now I have 6 hours at least before I can tune out and try to rebuild the spoon/spork supply and face another day.

This cold damp weathwr ain’t helping at all, for some reason, my housekeeping giddy up requires it to be summy and relatively warm. That is unlikely cos though the temps are going back up to 80’s then 70’s, we have 7 straight days calling for 50% plus rain chances. Fuck’s sake, I can’t escape seasonal depression even during fucking spring because fucking Illinois and fucking Mother Nature can’t stop forcefeeding me the cold and bringing the seasonal symptoms back in spades.

Yes, I needed to say fucking all those times, it was necessary. Cathartic even. Because I feel fucking exhausted and fucking hopeless and fucking pissy. My brother has the IQ and maturity of a bath sponge but he can get a job and I can’t. And I hate my toxic father being in my head, pointing that out to me every single day by mentioning ‘your brother is working today’, like that helps at all. And I fucking wish the donor would just fucking die already since he’s done nothing to help his kid and everything to hurt her.

Maybe if I ever get 7 solid hours of sleep, I will be less venomous and hateful. For now…call me Queen Cobra.

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