Archive for depression

And the seasonal anxiety and panic spring into action

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , , , on March 18, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

Oh, yes, what a busy little brain I’ve had today with multiple posts. Consider this blog the toilet for my verbal vomit to spew forth and be flushed away. Oh, wow, I do know how to paint a very disgusting picture.

We are two days from the official start of spring. And while that should help my seasonal/winter depression some…It brings with it a whole new series of challenging disorders.

Spring and summer mean lots of triggering sunshine. Traffic, people out and about, lawnmowers, barking dogs, kids playing noisily. And of course, the start of my kid’s friends knocking on the door wanting her to for walks. I say yes since H is 12 and fairly mature and responsible but the entire time she is out of my sight…I live in panic that she’s been hurt. (This kid can get injured in a plastic bubble covered in bubble wrap.) During the winter, we have less daylight and it’s cold and inclimate so the kids stay indoors. If I know she is inside safely with me, I know she’s safe. If she’s out there…And it’s insane because I don’t think I was quite this bad about it at the trailer park where well, we had good reason to be a little scared by our shady surroundings. Maybe because this is a different town, different area and mindset, I am hyperfocused on cutting the apron strings lest some well meaning asshole turn me in for letting my kid traipse round town unsupervised.

Today has been trying on the anxiety front. The neighbor texted and asked me to get her son off the bus til she got back in town. No biggie, done it a dozen times, and they like it cos he’s comfy with me and I do his homework with him so they don’t have to… In the midst of this and Spook’s babbling, the landlord pulled up outside. Instant freak out. I went outdoors to head him off because I can’t stand my safe space being invaded. Not without some notice, at least. He walked around the house checking to see how many screens needed fixed, told me to get the twigs picked up at some point when the weather cooperates more than an hour at a time, and he asked if anything needed fixed. It wasn’t so bad, but it was actually terrifying. Because the house is at a biohazard 3 with dishes in the sink and floors that need swept, mopped vacuumed and of course, the chaos of the middle room where I’ve just piled stuff on top of stuff cos I can’t organize anything. And every time I decide to haul it all out to the shed until my brain is more focused, I get sick or my kid does or it snows or pours. It’s just chaos at every turn and my efforts to get my shit together, so to speak, are epic fails and I try my hardest.

One of the worst things for someone with an allegedly and allegedly not A.D.D diagnosis (none of them agree) is when your sanity pills have been lowered so drastically that you can barely ward off paralyzing terror, let alone count on it to help calm your racing mind and help you regain some equilibrium. For me, it’s like walking a tightrope with no net and my balance is awful. This is petrifying. And I am raising a kid alone here, so it seems to me that being calm, focused, and rational should be a priority. Not when you have shitty mental health care. Their only concern is to shove pills at you and hope they work so they don’t need to be bothered with your complex case.

I am looking forward to the depression alleviating with the season change. The prospect of 6 months of opening and closing doors, impromptu landlord visits, visits from my father’s crew, the lawnmowers, the barking dogs, the semi trucks, kids screeching, kids complaining…I am not looking forward to this. Not on 1 mg daily of Xanax. And I only harp on it cos it works so damn well, there is zero reason for this draconian policy of theirs. It’s difficult not to take offense when someone screws with your quality of life. But with any luck come June they will get their accredidation problems settled and offer at least telepschiatry and perhaps those doctors will be autonomous as opposed to under the benzo dictator’s power.

I jsut don’t feel like I ever get any kind of break from my mental disorders. If it isn’t depression, it’s anxiety. Sometimes both. Sometimes mania. Sometimes hormonal dysphoria. I never get decent sleep and what I’ve been seeing lately on TV and on line where they experiment on how alert a driver is even when losing just one hour of sleep due to daylight savings time…and it’s terrifying. I could be going into microsleeps during the day and not even know it because I sure ain’t getting the rest at night. Not with this current ass trash melatonin, it takes 30 mg to knock e out whereas the stuff with B6 only took 6 mg to help me drift off. I wasn’t staying down but at least I wasn’t spending 4 hours waiting to sleep.

Ok, end verbal vomit. I need to take a dish scrubber to every inch of my skin to be rid of this nervous itchiness and the Lexapro bugs and being out of antihistamines.

Is it really too much to ask for things to go smoothly once in awhile?


Nobody Wants To Hear About When You Feel Vulnerable

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , , , , , on March 18, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

Last night’s events with my child and the following third night of interrupted sleep…I am feeling very fragile right now. Due in part to the panxiety ninjas swooping down on me. I just feel…vulnerable. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. And our financial situation makes this other shoe inevitable, not a possibility. I keep filling out applications on line and even the secret shopper and such stuff (which apparently is not done anywhere near Armpit). I am starting to think work from home opportunities are all scams. Unless you have a degree and telecommute for a company you were already with. Or maybe porn. If I were younger and prettier I wouldn’t write off that last one. Proving myself capable of caring for my kid means dignity is on hold.

I’ve been texting my sister about Spook’s meltdown and how dad and them contribute to it, telling her to change everything about herself and fit in to country life. Constantly being told you’re great as long as you change this, and this, and that…Story of my life. It’s fucking toxic and results in shaky self esteem at best. I don’t force her to see them, she chooses to, but then I get the litany of complaints about the jerks they are. So my sister will go tell our mom that I am on another tirade about dad’s crew and my mom will go all smug and say, “I knew they’d be miserable there.” DUH. I’ve always been miserably in tiny rural towns, did she think I was gonna wake up in my forties and suddenly change my view? Small towns have been the bane of my existence since I was 10, thwy have given me zero reason to not view them negatively. And since I moved out at 17 to escape mainly my dad, well, yeah, him being a pain in my ass was pretty much a given. But my kid needed a home and we didn’t have a choice, so here we are.

I hate that you can’t discuss anything in this family without it making the rounds to everyone else. And then everyone judging and gloating or getting into arguments. It’s a lonely place to have a family like this. Worse when you’re feeling weak and need someone to bolster you, encourage you, be supportive, and all they can do is criticize. My dad still brings up stuff from when I was 11 years old.I don’t know what their issue is with us having self esteem but they go out of their way to rid us of it. We’re not talking emotional shrapnel over a few recent incidents. No, this has been an insidious brainwashing process over 4 decades. It takes a toll. If those who claim to love you spend most of their time tearing you down, it wears you down.

Today I would like someone to lean on, to vent my problems to. I tried to my mom the other night but she went on a tirade and chastized me for not having money to get gifts for those kids’ bday parties so she and my sister went out and bought stuff. Which put me in a bind when C has his party later this month and I have no money to buy him gifts. It’s like anything beyond hello, how are you, and eating a holiday meal, interacting with them is just toxic to my mental health. I don’t want it to be that way. But it is, nothing to do but accept it.

Panxiety (paranoid anxiety) is a hellish experience I go through multiple times a week. I have tried to explain it to multiple providers only to get that ‘you’ve sprouted two heads and one is wearing a tinfoil hat’ look. Yet people with the problem themselves relate just fine. I just feel, even in my safe bedroom crypt, like I have a big target on me and everyone is armed with shotguns. It makes no sense but it’s been common for over 20 years. Since the Nardil incident damaged my brain. I fight it. Logic is powerless against mental illness.

So yeah, I am a very strong, tough person. Sometimes even a badass if you consider my fierce sarcasm I wield as a weapon.

Right now…I am weak. I am scared to death. I feel like bad things are coming. I feel hopeless.

But no one wants to hear about that. Some things never change.

Reality Bites

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , , on March 18, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

Much as I am loathe to validate anything the donor might have felt during his brief tenure in my life…I have to admit that I see certain behaviors in my child that she can only get from me. Mind you, she has a lot of his behavior,too, which has to be genetic coding cos he hasn’t been around since she was 2. But yeah, much as I thought had changed and grown as a person, it has become clear, even in this blog, that…I’m annoying as hell.

Spook gets on a topic and just drives it into the ground and works herself into hysterics and screams and cries and the more you try to calm her and validate her, the more she says you won’t let her talk, you don’t care, etc. I have tried tough love, total love, nothing works with her.

And so i get a peek into what it is like for others to live with me, I suppose. I too get on a topic and drive it into the ground. Psych nurse? Xanax theft? (And they fucking robbed me, make no mistake about it, I am starting to crumble.) Money problems? Hating living in Armpit? But the difference is, since I started blogging, I haven’t had much need to harp on this stuff with actual people I know. One, they never have understood mental health issues, and two, once I purge, I am good for a little while. And much as I hate it, fact always has been that I agonize over things for months before I figure out how to proceed and cope. It’s just the way my brain works through things. Probably also why I have so much trouble with men. They just want to stop talking about it, fix it, move along. I need to mull, to feel, to rant, rage, rail, mull some more…Maybe eventually I figure it out. That’s just my way. I fail to see why I have to accept everyone else’s detachment yet they can castigate me for my clingy coping mechanisms.

I have tried everything to help my kid. She just hates it here. And she has no intention of accepting it. Every Sunday night she becomes argmentative, sick, angry, tearful…And I am the monster who sends her to bed to work out her tantrum and I am the monster who wakes her Monday and tells her yes, you have to go to school. I feel lousy for it sometimes. And sometimes, I just feel angry with her. Because while I know kids are jerks and especially those in a closeknit rural school where they’ve all been in the same class from the get. Spook is an outsider. But she is also very abrasive, hyper, in your face, and she likes to play pranks and insult jokingly but cries if it is done to her. So much as I love her, I can certainly see why she is off putting to some. Took me awhile to accept that about myself but I am different, I see things differently, view, react differently. Not conducive to fitting into the cookie cutter world we live in. Difference is, I learned to validate my own existence and wield my sarcasm like a weapon against detractors. I saved my crying jags for when I was home. I didn’t give them extra ammo.

Spook is different. Very delicate. Yet she is mean as a snake to others. Yesterday I chastised her for yelling at me and she said I need to realize all 4th graders are mean to their parents. Well, she has taken it to the extreme. I hit my wall last night and just told her I understand her feelings, I feel that way too at times, but she needs to write a diary or journal and learn to cope better than screaming fits. Then I left her to self soothe because me hugging her was only making her angrier. She was up 3 hours later, going to the bathroom, preparing her Monday illness defense. Yeah, that sounds cold, but it’s a weekly thing for over a year now. And I can’t afford to home school her and this school is the only local option so as stuck as she feels, I feel stuck,too.

I curled up in bed last night, defeated, depleted, beaten down. I’d have cried if I weren’t so medicated my tear ducts no longer work. It took forever to calm my breathing, slow my mind, get my heartbeat out of my throat. And just as I’d nodded off, she woke me again. And we repeated this 3 more times. To the point I was ready to go sleep in the car to escape her complaints. I mean, I have done for her what no one has ever done for me outside people being paid to like counselors…I validate her feelings, I empathize, I try to give gentle suggestions on ways to cope, I even encourage her to punch a pillow and cuss it, whatever helps get it all out. I hate seeing her internalize stress like me and get tummy aches. And that I am afraid isn’t something you learn, I think that is just our genetics. I was 2 when my maternal grandmother died yet as a kid, my mom would point out that I was getting the itchy hives her mom used to get when she was stressed out. I don’t believe this is something I’ve taught my child. She bottles nothing up like I do. But I have this verbal vomit spot, that helps immensely. She shoots down every suggestion I make, then turns it on me and say I shoot down all her ideas. Um, only the ones that require money since I have NONE, can’t even refill my meds.

So another night waking every hour or so. Very little real rest. Panic mounting as I weigh my options since we have nowhere to go if I can’t pull together what we need to stay here next month. It’s sad to have both parental factions alive but no one has room for you because they’re too busy housing former methheads and unemployeed hypochondriacs and random stoners. I look back 20 years ago when my apartment building burned and I had to get out…I couldn’t stay with my mom then either cos…same shit, different year. I still don’t understand how these people get to live there for little more than their food stamp contributions but when I did stay with them the one time, I had to pay over $250 a month and I’m family. Maybe this is why I have a persecution complex. Because neither of my parents have ever really had room for me in their lives. Though they’d be all too willing to take Spook in for the tax deduction, they proved that this year by asking to run a scam. Oh, I am sure to them it wasn’t a scam but legally, it is.

I just feel myself crumbling since they lowered my Xanax. I know, I can’t blame it all on them, this is for my own good, I have to find new coping mechanisms…But the fucked up part is, when I had the safety net of 3 mg daily, I was generally only taking 1.5 mg unless things got too out of control. Now I have no safety net and no chance of lowering what is already a minimal dose. So it’s like they’ve taken away my ability to think clearly and cope. But again, my mind doesn’t work like others, sometimes my rebellious nature just needs leeway so I don’t rebel. Having no wiggle room really makes me want to rebel. If they didn’t practice one size fits all medicine they’d know this.

The raise in Lexapro has resulted in the bug crawling itchiness, hopefully it subsides in a week or so. I can’t get my Atarax filled first cos they have to get it authorized by the nurse, then put it through insurance, then I need my copay and gas to get to town…It’s just a neverending labyrinthe of road blocks and I am not supposed to let it get me down or hold me back. Yet my mood and mental state aren’t really budging an iota and I dread going back in and having to tell this automaton nurse another combo has failed, she’s made her impatience with me very clear. But if it’s doing nothing and its only benefit is few side effects…

And now I know I am annoying little jerk sometimes because I am raising a mini-me and nothing pleases her so I guess it is all me. I suck.

And reality bites.

How Wicked Can One Woman Be?

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , , on March 17, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

That whole No Rest For The Wicked thing (awesome Ozzy album, also)…How bloody wicked can I be to deserve such torturous interrupted sleep even when completely drained? I was awake every ninety minutes last night and then up at 7 a.m. shivering in this ice box of a house to feed the insistent cats. I stayed up because Beakman’s World was on. Yes, that’s my shameful Sunday secret, I am 46 and enjoy Beakman’s World. (Bill Nye is a little staid for my tastes, I like goofiness.) The spawn is at church and seemingly less grouchy than yesterday.

Apparently when she stayed at my sister’s the roommate former methheads had company over (they don’t even pay rent, wtf) and it was pot party central upstairs so my sis took Spook out of the house for awhile and didn’t get her to bed til after 1 a.m. Some kids can do the late nights and little sleep thing, I always could. My child…NOPE. And I gotta say, without seeming like I have a stick in my ass, I am very uneasy with all these people unrelated to us who live there and smoke pot with my kid in the house. I’m satan if I have a cigarette, but it’s cool to go Cheech and Chong these days? I’ve always been uncomfortable with that aspect of my mom’s and sister’s home and associations. Personally I say tax weed and let people fry their brains. But the mom in me spazzes out at the thought that my kid’s getting secondhand weed smoke from the ventilation system and she could pop positive on a drug test. It bothers me. But I smoke a menthol and I am unfit. The world has gone topsy fucking turvy. And no lectures on the benefits of pot versus cancer sticks, I get it. I’m not on my high horse. Ha ha ha, see what I just inadvertently did there. I really am funniest when not trying to be.

I should be doing housework. Instead I am binge watching Unsolved Mysteries. Or trying to, I think I’ve been through 7 episodes and haven’t watched a single one to the end. I am bad about that some days, it’s like I am so inwardly restless I can’t finish things outwardly. It helps if you can get 7 solid hours of sleep at least once a week but since they lowered my Xanax that has been a pipedream. I have more trouble slowing my brain and relaxing my body now. The Atarax doesn’t do a thing for that stuff, just helps with the anxious itchiness. Which I have tried to tell the NP from the get and she won’t listen. Maybe since I spoke with the director things will improve. Waiting til June just to see a telepsychiatry doc seems like a very long time but my complaint wasn’t issued formally or by name so hopefully I can just maintain the status quo with this nurse. If nothing else maybe she won’t spend the entire appointment with her back turned to me typing on the computer. That’s just rude.

And I’ve come to expect it in this area. We were standing in line at Aldi the other day, me and Spook both with our arms full cos we didn’t have quarter to rent a cart and there was one lane open with four people ahead of us with cartfuls of stuff and we kept dropping things and they opened another line. The chick behind us, with a cart, darting over to that line while we were still shuffling and picking up stuff. That was when my volatile gene erupted and I said, “The people in this place are so fucking rude!” Chick wouldn’t even look our way. Rudeness is just not something I respond to with any grace. Mainly cos I fail to see any reason for it. Please, thank you, excuse me, here, you go first since you don’t have a cart…Basic human niceties. My outburst wasn’t my finest moment but she had it coming.

I know, what am I teaching my kid? Well, please, thank you, excuse me, unless you want mom to start channeling satan.

I increased my Lexapro to 20 mg yesterday. I honestly thought as we neared the official end of winter and start of spring my mood would start lifting. But all this cold wet gloom really isn’t conducive since my bigger problem is always feeling cold as opposed to lack of sunlight. In a couple of months I will be rioting because I am marinating in sweat. I swear there is something wrong with my body’s perception of extreme heat and cold.

Ok, that’s about all the half ass focusing I can do right now, it only took 90 minutes to do this post. And I ended up saying nothing of substance. To quote Marilyn Maonson, babble babble, bitch bitch.

I Bathed And Wore A Bra, Now Can I go to bed?

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , on March 16, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

So I was up from 1:40 ish til after 6 a.m. with a very clingy stubborn cat in labor who would not leave my side. So I stuck her in a basket on my bed and I could be warm and comfy and still pet her and soothe her. The firstborn cry came at 5:12 a.m. I am always relieved when the process is over so I know my mamas are okay. (And fyi, we were gonna get the male fixed but then the donor stopped paying and they don’t fix em for free so…kittens.)

I could no longer stand my greasy hair so I bathed today, first time in 6 days. I even picked out a maroon shirt and wore a bra for the purposes of dropping my kid at the party. I have to drive on the highway and fetch her in about 45 minutes. I have been crawling with anxiety, first waiting for my sister to return the spawn to me, then Spook babbled non stop for 90 minutes and when I dropped her at the party…I got a glimpse of why she may be offputting to the other kids. She goes manic hyper and gets loud and excited and rushes everyone trying to hug them and get in their face. Abrasive. I have tried to talk to her about it but to no avail.

The littlest boy having the party came up and hugged me around the waist. He is a sweetie pie. If only grown ups could see the good in me like kids and cats can.

Honestly, between the midwifery, lack of sleep, anxiety and running about…I just want sleep. Last night the damn melatonin kicked in within an hour so I missed a call I was expecting. I didn’t even hear the phone next to my head so I really was out. Tonight the melatonin will probably take hours to kick in. I miss our old brand, please get more in, Dollar Tree. Sometimes cheaper is better. At least once I fetch Spook I can come back and rid myself of this medieval torture device called a bra. Then hope she can quietly amuse herself on the tablet cos I am super sensitive to sound right now. And if there is a deity of pegacorn sacredness or spaghetti monster noodliness…we will both sleep through the night.

I spouted earlier about my guilt complex and conscience issues if anyone missed that one and is interested. I know having a conscience isn’t in vogue these days but I am who I am.

Bath and a bra and birthing kittens…I’m gonna call it a successful day and say I earned the sleep of the dead.

Conscience Crisis

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , on March 16, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

About the only thing the donor ever got right about me is that I DO have a major guilt complex. And the saddest part is, I have zero reason for much of what guilts me. I am authentic, honest, my story does not change because the truth and facts do not change. How beaten down and how many times does it have to happen to lead to this level of insecurity, self doubt, and crisis of conscience? I don’t think I am malleable but somewhere along the line, I apparently was slipped the Kool-Aid in my sleep and now I’ve been brainwashed to feel guilt over telling the truth simply because it’s not a pretty truth. WTF indeed. Think this whole thing started with an email where my friend’s bf told her she was being suckered by me but I never asked for anything from her, she offered to send my kid a slime kit and asked me what sort of girly stuff I like in jewelry. (Skulls, skulls, dragons, and more skulls, not girly at all.)

It doesn’t bother me at all if people call me for what I am. Moody? Yep. Bitchy? Yes. Ranty, scatterbrained, neurotic, and unable to get my shit together? Guilty. A bit of a clutter hoarder? That is me. Horrid housekeeper? I own it. Virtually unemployable? This is where I am, I own that, too.

But I am not suckering anyone. I have all the paperwork to show to justify every cent I have tried to raise to keep me and Spook afloat.I offer to provide receipts or have the costs directly paid as opposed to being given cash. I don’t solicit flat screen TVs or fancy clothes or toys for my kid. I don’t ask for anything that I can get on my own or have plenty of. And every time I resort to asking for any kind of help, my self esteem goes out the window and the guilt monster comes to devour me. Because I want to do better than this. I am just in some shitty situations all around and my best isn’t cutting it. My kid and I have food but I am struggling to provide food and litter for the cats and I am walking dogs (I even put up a video on youtube to prove I am doing this) and running errands for family to try to get a few bucks here and there for small bags of food and litter. But yeah, for the furkids, I will grovel. I thought just writing on all my blogs and asking for freewill donations to support that writing might seem less scammy and more motivating to help but turns out, I know nothing about people.Maybe if I ran a political campaign where everything is a lie and people just accept this but give freely..Wow, I’d have to have my conscience completely removed to pull off the gig of politician, gross.

NONE of this would be necessary if the state did its damn job and kept the deadbeat parents paying. And if they can’t pay, sell off everything they own, take their driver’s license, and stick ’em in jail. Hold them as accountable as the custodial parent is held. Teach them a lesson to live up to their responsibilities. I am trying to hold up my end alone in every way. (And no, I don’t want an award, I don’t think I am special, there are lots of single broke parents out there, some with more than one kid, no family, and often no place to live and not enough food to eat, so no, I don’t consider my case unique, sadly.No kids should ever go hungry or homeless and that it isn’t unique is a terrifying statement about this country’s priorities.)

But yeah the ONLY reason we are in the current situation is because of the donor. Six months he hasn’t paid a dime, and he was already 6 months behind before that, so if they’d just make him cough up the $4000 that he basically robbed Spook of by not paying. Oh, and if you doubt this, I actually have supporting documents showing he hasn’t paid a cent since September something last year, plus the back support he still owes. I have proof of my entire income, proof of the monthly expenses, proof that Spook and I are real and not living in the lap of luxury. I drive on ’01 car that cost my dad $450 at auction, it has over 225,000 miles on it, a broken gas gauge, and the heater makes a grinding noise on high and the wipers only work on high. If I scamming anyone, I am very bad at it, or otherwise Spook and I would be living in a warm climate as someone’s roommate or live in domestic or I’d be trying to hook some wealthy old guy.

I thought being honest was enough. I mean, you have 8 years of blog posts right here to see that my story never changes. Because facts don’t change, there is no scam when you tell the truth.

Okay, this was not the post I was going to write but it’s the one I am going to post. I just needed to vent because I felt a little maligned even though my friend’s significant other is wise to be wary of net scammers though saying she’s a sucker seems a little harsh to me.

I am not a scammer. My guilt only stems from being made to feel bad for needing help and having the audacity to try and seek it out. That and how many times I have to tell my kid no, we can’t afford this/that/the other. Failing her is the worst fate I can imagine. I can’t afford the luxury of self esteem and dignity at this time. All I can do is be truthful and keep trying. If I weren’t assertive and tenacious, I’d have been wormfood years ago. I won’t feel guilty for being a survivor.

Don’t Click Here

Posted in depression with tags , , , , , , on March 15, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

I have been committing bad netiquette by linking to my other posts with ‘click here’, apparently. I guess it does seem a little fishy and click bait-y. I will try to be more descriptive but some days, just making sure I wear pants is a chore. Well, not during winter, the house is too cold, but during the summer, I do have a problem wearing pants inside. If my family didn’t stop by without notice and my kid didn’t have little friends knocking on the door all the time I’d spend the entire warm months in a tank top and undies. TMI? Welcome to my blog!

It’s just now 9 a.m. I got my kid off to school after a long affair with the snooze button. I put on clean warm clothes (it’s so windy and cold I had to put heavy blankets over the rickety windows last night to stay warm). I have posted a new short story I wrote it yesterday but didn’t feel like edits and rewrites til today but at least I kept my word and posted it today. I also prewrote a randomly beautiful post and it is up now.

Tonight my kid is staying at her grandmas which means a trip into town to the big petri dish for me. I am not looking forward to it. I’ve been stuck in Armpitopia for over a week courtesy of the anxiety and agoraphobia resulting from the lowered Xanax. Leaving the house isn’t as hard, but going to town seems like a massive undertaking. I suppose it is when every moment is spent just wanting to return to your safe space even if located in Armpit. Then tomorrow I have 20 miles on the road to take her to a birthday party. She is excited to have plans for every day of the weekend. I am not so much. Even in my heyday when I was having a blast being a backstage attendant for a female impersonator, I could only do the high activity social stuff for a couple of days straight then I had to retreat. If that’s how I handle things I love doing, well, makes sense the dreaded stuff is ten times harder. And now that we don’t live in town, every trip gives me great anxiety over what if the tires blow on the interstate or how much is this costing me in gas and is my mileage correct or is the gauge truly on E…I guess it wouldn’t phase normal people. For someone as high strung as me, it makes things pretty uncomfortable, if not miserable.

My plans for kid free night include a take and bake pizza and maybe I will try to write, I don’t know. Creativity just kind of happens for me. If sit down and intend to write, the cursor just kind of taunts me, daring me to try to create. I can’t plan writing fiction, it just happens. Personal drivel and random musings are easy. Creating characters and places and a whole other world and story-that’s the hard stuff. And I love it when I am able to do it. When I am blocked, it is the greatest curse on Earth. Right now, instead of stress eating, I am stress writing. That’s why blogs formerly left to rot have been brought back to life, why I am suddenly posting multiple times a day on multiple topics. If we end up in a homeless shelter, I may not be able to write for months because I’d fear my computer being stolen and I’d have to drive around to find free wifi and oh, we only have one church related shelter so they might not even take us unless we adhere to their godly rules and…I don’t. In all fairness, I don’t adhere to satan’s rules, either. I am an equal opportunity rebel.

Still no word from the psych clinic director. This is ridiculous. I think their message is crystal clear. Normally when I have a problem at least the long time receptionist who knows me will call and get my take on things. Not this time. But I did try to talk to her, twice, and she said nothing could be done because the low benzos was practice wide. Which means she was not listening to me at all because while that whole thing being sprung on me from out of nowhere, that wasn’t really the biggest problem. I could easily survive 3 months without a refill on Xanax (doomsday preppers got nothing on a woman used to anti benzo docs who hoards to protect herself against their idiocy) and take 2 mg a day. It was just this whole bad fit with the nurse. I know all about professional standards and distance and detachment but I really don’t think talking to someone’s back qualifies as anything but rude. It’s not like I want hugs and hand holding and sleepovers where we braid each other’s hair. I really hate when people can’t get the big picture and just focus on what really isn’t the main point at all. Simple minds know nothing else, I suppose.

I am leaning toward counseling against my own better judgment but there are worse things than having one stable mental health care professional at least. Unless they’re all behavioral based and forcefeed CBT and exposure/immersion therapy and mindfulness. I want someone I can talk to about what is going on, maybe help me sort the junk drawer of mind and figure out some answers to the problems. I can’t begin to work on personality flaws (of which I seem to have many) when my every thought is consumed with just keeping a roof over my kid’s head. Man, I really wish there was another option than behavioral health. That’s where the chick I know personally works and she has broken privilege before to tell her daddy who then told me and his wife all about someone whom we knew’s mental problems. (She later overdosed so great therapy.) I don’t want to be the one people are talking about and mocking for my difficulties. I mean, aside from my family. Privacy really isn’t respected in small towns where everyone knows everyone. That’s fucking sad. Not like I even have anything to hide, it’s not like I am an axe murderer or basement dominatrix. I just think my feelings are my own, not for local fodder. Yet I spew it all here, ha ha ha. Well, I use pen names and nicknames and initials, I am not exactly shining a spotlight on this blog. And I have never given the link to anyone I know personally aside from one person.

I don’t even know what I was on about. My mind truly is a junk drawer and there is no organization no matter how hard I try. It’s like being in a ball pit and being told to gather all the red balls and yellow balls and blue balls (that sounds so wrong) and place them in their own color bin. Intellectually I know how this is done. In practice, my brain won’t cooperate. Thus everything about me seems flaky and a bit ditzy. And the bitch of it is I can still alphabetize things like a mofo but anything else, even my own music folders…Nope. It’s like a squirming bunch of fish and I can’t even get hold of one.

I think that concludes this rant. I may be back later. Trips to town usually send me into a downward spiral. I am hoping to the sacred pegacorn it’s just a facet of the winter depression and come warm sunny weather I will view getting out and about as a good thing.