Trudge And Sludge: This Is Life

A commercial this morning really drove home the point of life: It is, for most of us, trudge and sludge, day after day. I think what makes it more challenging, at least for me, is that my mental state constantly shifts, depending on mood, anxiety, activity level, social interaction, monthly hormonal changes. I can’t count on feeling the same way every single day. I spent two weeks on a relatively functional ‘high’ then came crashing back down. Part of it is indeed hormonal issues which will eventually subside (just to occur again next month, egad) but the start of new medications, two at the same time, and increase in another, well it’s a bumpy ride. And it is just beginning because the dosages can be raised again, which if the current mental state is any indication, it will be necessary and unavoidable.

I dream of stability within the walls of my own mind. More than money or success or love…I dream of living in the same mental space 24-7. Normal ups and downs brought on by situational issues as opposed to random “I want to die” thoughts followed by “I feel pretty good today, life may not be so sucky after all.” Usually the Lamictal takes care of the abrupt shifts in mood but with the new med regime, it’s kind of gone to hell in a handbasket. I mean, I am not flying off the handle or crying or going manic, but I do swing from low to lower then to middle then back down. After 26 years of med adjustments you’d think I’d be used to it. I am not. It irritates me and pisses me off.

Adding to my chagrin of ‘sludge and trudge’ daily life is the fact that much as I need calm and routine to some degree…the monotany wears me down. Different day, same shit. But if I have something on the agenda like a dr appointment or school event, it upsets the delicate balance of my calm routine and I slide downward. It’s like The Princess and the Pea. I can’t get comfortable, ever. And I am so far from being princessy (I eat food off the floor and don’t even care if it’s the 5 second rule, whatever) but never finding a happy medium is torturesome.

I get sick of complaining. I hate myself for complaining. I wish I could just snap out of it, bury it all, compartmentalize, get over it. BE NORMAL. And I have always despised the term normal because normal is ugh, boring…But when it comes to mental state, normal would be a welcome change. To wake up in the morning full of energy and positivity rather than pulling the cover over my head and hoping my kid sleeps an extra 10 minutes because I am not ready to face another day of being in the darkness of my own mind.

Shrinks have said I bring on the darkness because I listen to heavy metal, wear black, and dig Halloween and horror movies. They could not be more wrong. Those things have always made me happy. They are darkness I can escape if I CHOOSE to do so. Mental health issues, not so much. It’s like I get little say in the matter and whatever control I have over my brain is limited to not Z Whacking people or having screaming mimis. And that’s years of training myself to paste on the happy face and voice and grit my way through the feelings of anger and aggression. I wish I could ‘train’ my brain to just be happy no matter how shitty the circumstances.

Depression does not work that way.

So another day trudging in the sludge. This is life. My life, anyway.Keep fucking going.

I am just exhausted from living this way. And what scares me even more is that it will never change even for a few days. Too long spent in a depression really brings out your inner doom and gloom monger.

Is it any wonder so many of us crave manic episodes as much as we crave stability?

More terrifying is the prospect of having to go back on Lithium in addition to the Lamictal to curb all this up and down stuff. I’d rather gouge out my eyes than put up with lithium side effects and the lab work.

You’d think over the course of 60 years they’d find a way to make such an effective medication less riddled with side effects that make it nearly impossible to tolerate.

What a dreamer I am.

The Day and Night Clusterfuck

I have lately been doing several posts on how not being able to properly sleep at night impacts your entire day and any plans you might have made. Mainly because prior to Abilify, I had insomnia cranked to 7. Now it’s cranked above 10 and the best my psych nurse can say is take 10 mg melatonin. So I do and it gets me maybe 90 minutes before I wake again and I need more melatonin and then sometimes, even tripling the dose doesn’t make me sleep. I feel aggravated, pissed off, and plain exhausted.

Life does not go on hold just because you didn’t get your proper zzzzs. No one cares that you spent more time awake than asleep so your focus is off, you awareness is clouded, and your physical and mental states are just plain foggy and exhausted. They cut you zero slack. My dad keeps telling me about one of his trucker buddies who kept working at a grain elevator in spite of a broken leg. I can’t fucking compete with that. But there is a bit of difference between a broken leg and the anxiety/panic physical symptms I am experiencing that require multiple rushed trips to the bathroom doubled over in agony. The broken leg may be more of an impairment but you can’t crap your pants every time you get panicked and expect to keep jobs, friends, romantic relationships…I’d call that a major hindrance to functionality.

Right now, it’s not yet 3 p.m. and all I can think of is bedtime. For awhile, I’d shaken that. But today I am truly tired cos my total sleep last night was about 4 hours and that was in increments. I’m bloody tired, man. I am a space case. My body feels bruised and aches. It was all I could do to mow 1/8 of the lawn. I had thought I might make it to town to do the open interviews for fast food hell but…I need a bath and I am just too damn drained. PLus, I submitted an app over a week ago, my brother directly addressed his manager with my name, and I haven’t even gotten a pity call for a pity interview. They just don’t want me and I don’t blame them. I am overqualified intellectually, yet due to my panic attacks, underqualified to deal with their massive rush crowds of petri dish dwellers. Maybe them not calling me is the universe sparing me from more failure and bad references, idk.

I just know I can’t get to sleep to take a power nap so I have at least 5 more hours of consciousness with ovary oompa loompas, spine devils, and the agony of being conscious when I am too tired to even breathe or blink. This is my daily life. If I am lucky, I get one day that is not like this.

But yeah, sure, employers, I am totally ready to work and stable and cured and I won’t let you down.

I want a chance to see if I can prove even myself wrong but if I were rich and a betting person…

I guess I wouldn’t put my money on me, either. Exhaustion plays hell on self esteem, too.

Bramble On- FML Version

I see the psych nurse in an hour. It has taken every bit of energy in me to fight the ovary and spine oompa loopmas and just put on clean clothes, brush my hair, and add some deodorant. My allergies are drowning me. It is cool and foggy out so of course, that does not help my mood. I just feel in pain and pissed off and what I really wanna do is stay home in bed all day…Then later, I may have to give my brother a ride to town for work and to say I am less than enthused would be underfuckingstatement of the year.

Oh, there I am doing that profanity thing that offends people.

Do I have to curse so much?

No, but cursing a lot doesn’t get you put on death row. Stabbing stupid people who piss you off tends to get you in prison waiting for your last meal. So I will keep fucking cursing, you fucking fuck. If you take it personally, not my problem. I know it’s more fashionable to be a hate spewing racist lying hypocritical dumpster fire these days but…I am content making sailors on shore leave blush and run back to the ship. It’s who I was at 14, I see no need to change it at 46, just because some puritans find it offensive. Them being offended offends me, but they dont apologize to me.

Yeah, I am in a really BAD mood, but I am REALLY in pain. And I don’t know if the nurse is gonna revert to old form and I will spend my appointment talking to her back while she sounds as interested as in my plan to later clean my belly button lint…

Hormones are vile, evil things, necessary as they may be. They are totally fucking my mental state up right now and this is perhaps why no one wants to interact with me on this blog. I get likes, but very few comments, and after 9 years, I’m kinda burning out on the whole ‘well maybe they have nothing to say’ thing. I think because of my moods and foul mouth and anger issues, people are reluctant to chime in.

Here’s a clue: THIS BLOG IS INTERACTIVE, FEEL FREE TO LEAVE A COMMENT. I DON’T HAVE TO AGREE WITH YOU AND VICE VERSA BUT I CAN ASSURE YOU…I am really not that much of a bitchbeast, outside hormone-a-palooza. I’m…a spitfire. Who spent the morning snugglebuggling under the comforter with the kittens. So…

DON’T BE AFRAID TO COMMENT, EVEN IF YOU JUST WANT TO BANTER OR SAY SUP OR WHATEVER. I do not bite. Not on the first date, anyway.

Let’s just get this damn trip to town and appointment over with. My comforter and kittens are beckoning me back to snuggle buggle warm land.
——-
Survived trip to. town.
Nurse reverted back to spending the entire appointment with her back turned while she clacked on the computer keyboard. At least she asked a few questions and seemed friendly enough. I just…I will never be ok with the way I have to talk to her back, I still say it’s rude and unprofessional.
Gonna up the Buspar and start Abilify.
And in a month if I find out their telepsychiatry thing is set up, I am transferring. Might bite me on the ass, devil you know and all that, but I can’t face every appointment with someone’s back turned toward me.
—–
M’kay…

I went 18 hours without painkiller. My toughness is gone, the oompa loompas stomping my ovaries and spine win.
—–
Lies…

I ended up on a 45 minute call listening to my dad prattle on and forgot all about the pain pills. Pain didn’t go away but I did manage to feed myself some food. I am up 6 pounds from last month, which was not amusing. Because last time I was having a vanilla shake every single day. This last month I didn’t have any shakes and I gained in spite of one meal a day, tons of water, celery, melon, etc. My genetics are a clusterfuck.
—–
Latuda commercial…

“I wasn’t happy with myself and I missed out on so much.”

I find this offensive. It implies that bipolar depression is a character flaw for us to be unhappy with as opposed to an overall feeling of hopelessness, worthlessness, and darkness.

Yeah, you miss out on a lot when depressed, bipolar or clinical or seasonal. It is NOT a character defect where you just aren’t happy with who you are. That is so wrong.
—-

I keep getting pop up ads…

well not pop ups, but suggestions..for those home health worker jobs I can’t qualify for. 😦 It really makes me bummed out.
Oh, and I rejected for several more minimum wage must-be-brain-surgeon positions at restuarants.
Not giving up but gonna regroup, for sure. In my hormonal pained state, FML is just the beginning of my bad attitude.
—–
A kennel assistant…

job just popped up in my feed so I immediately applied.
I don’t have the experience required aside from being a lifelong pet owner who prefers pets over people and it sounds like a really sketchy place to work but…

I love animals so why not throw my hat in the ring? Rejection is becoming like breathing, it just is.
—–
Since I used…

my time helping R out for the car that never happened, I was asked to rate his business as a place to work.

I gave him pretty rave reviews. Because I am nice, and it’s not his fault I am a trainwreck. Also, it said to be nice, not fair, so maybe I played up the positive more than the negative. But as it was one friend helping another to get extras for my kid and a car, it’s not like it was actual employment. I can cut R some slack. Though I was honest about how people treat electronics as disposable and don’t want to pay to fix them, which lead to him needed to get a full time job and the shop simply became a side hobby/business and took less importance. I was the one who took the flak for the slow work and delays, so…

But all things considered, I did all but nominate him to be Ironman or Green Lantern.

He’s good at what he does, I will never deny that. I consider myself lucky to hook up a dvd player to a TV right the first time, let alone fix them.
—–
My back hurts and I…

have a kitten perched on the back of my neck. I think it is time to disturb Mr. Mudvayne so that I can lay flat and pray to a herd of pegacorns that the painkiller kicks in soon.

Fresh Hell, Served Stale

I did not have a good night. My kid started in on me, being uncooperative and I stewed over the ‘mandated Xanax dose lowering’ because part of my routine is 2 mg at bedtime…Now I don’t even get that for the entire damn day. And I feel bad cos M. is just a practitioner and she can’t control what this Dr. Dictator hands down as practice wide edicts. At the same time, I don’t feel connected to this nurse and I don’t dislike her, but she does not give me good signs on being supportive of my limitations. You know when you’ve got a pro that is all “Team you!” M, perhaps newness to the job or area, she’s not unpleasant but…I also don’t think she’d go to bat for me in a review on my disability claim. Not that unsupportive psychs have ever stopped me from fighting for myself.

I took 12 mg melatonin, 200 mg antihistamine, and 0.5 mg Xanax around 7 p.m.

I figured I would zonk out while watching the ABC special on the final days of JFK Jr (and I don’t even know why I watched that other than promos hyping it up, that whole Kennedy thing was my mom’s spiel but I guess repeats get old and new is new). Ten p.m came around and I still wasn’t sleepy. I was agitated, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable, in severe menstrual pain. The cats were fighting and the neighbors had an ambulance in the drive and visitors parked on my lot, engines running, til almost midnight. It was nerve wracking, and while I tried to be empathatic more than nosey or irate about whatever they had going on…

I could not even get my number counting bedtime routine down, my heartbeat was as deafening as the beep beep beep of the ambulance backing into their drive and the slam of all the visitor’s car doors. I got through Perry Mason (yeah, the old black and white ones, I like a good mystery) and then an episode of Hitchcock Presents (sooo need a digital antenna that pulls stations in from more than 30 miles away) and another episode of Chicago P.D. but I was getting more agitated and finally said fuck it and took a 1mg Xanax. I still have some left from before Dr Dictator’s edict but now they are precious precious little things to be treasured and hoarded. The stress of having this limitation slapped on me, without them even calling to explain it to me, and it coming from a doctor who has not once ever seen me…I was livid, furious, depressed, stressed.

Maybe it’s rebellious me having a knee jerk reaction to being told ‘you can’t do X anymore, you have to do Y.” But arbitrary rebellion tantrums were over in my thirties, I realized it is great to rebel as long as you do it for the right reasons and it doesn’t hurt yourself or others more than the principle is worth.

It was after 3 a.m. last I knew when finally I started getting sleepy (and another 3 mg melatonin) and I was in pain and knowing that soon the alarm would go off, with the fear that getting too sleep so late and getting so little sleep could cause me to sleep through the alarm…Dr. Dictator and her nurse minion really put me into a fresh hell, only they served it stale because I’ve been battling idget professionals like that my whole life. They don’t care who you are as an individual, it’s one size fits all medicine and it’s borderline malpractice to not at least taper me down dose wise. I’m super salty toward them now and it’s suckage cos I thought, hey, finally they got a staff member to stay more than a month, she’s seemingly competent and I don’t dislike her…I should have known the other shoe would drop and it’d be made of concrete and land on my damn head.

So I guess I got about 4 hours of sleep, off and on, cos I can’t get physically comfortable even with painkillers and my brain is rioting. I took my first Celexa this morning, by itself, because I want to see if it alone makes me sleepy or hyper or sick, before I take it with the Wellbutrin. I got my kid off to school, and now I am watching the morning Perry Mason, super pissed cos I can’t even do videos on my phone due to the failed micro sd card so it just feels like nothing is going right so why shouldn’t I be depressed and give in to all the dark thoughts? NOt like my providers really give a fuck.

Three more months of winter and maybe just maybe the horizon will look less like a mushroom cloud. UNtil then…this is what I am stuck with and I do not like it one bit. I feel betrayed by Dr Dictator, unsupported by nurse M, and surrounded by nothing but fucking suckage.

Everyone says depression doesn’t kill. People just ‘take the easy way out’ and commit suicide.

They’re full of shit, there’s nothing easy about coming to the point where you feel there’s no wiggle room, ever.

Depression kills, they just don’t have a nice little ‘murdered by mental illness’ box to check on their death forms.

Happy fucking new year.

Self Denial As Punishment For Not Feeling Well

I don’t self harm. But I do often deny myself basic comforts in some sick self punishment cycle. Like right now, I have such bad cramps and my back hurts and I can’t decide if I wanna cry or scream and smash stuff so I am definitely not getting to town to pay rent any time soon and that is just lazy and wrong but I am hurting…So to ‘punish’ myself I am dealing with ice cold feet. I could so easily put on my slippers or some socks and warm my feet but…

I don’t feel worthy of even that tiny luxury.

As harsh as my family and friends and the world at large have been on me for my battles with mental health issues, no one is crueler to me than I am to myself. When I fail to rally and muster due to physical pain or mental anguish or both…it has been ingrained in me by my dysfunctional parents that I need to suck it up, grow up, stop being a whiner, and definitely do not ‘reward’ myself with pain relievers or warm feet because I’m a lazy loser who doesn’t deserve it.

Any other time I’d be all rebel yell ‘cannot resist these middle fingers on my fists’ screaming ‘fuck you’ at these thoughts. But for a few days every month, my mental state becomes a hormonal minefield and I feel like a weak wimpy person and the earworms that are my parents’ harsh criticisms and programming tunnel their way in and make everything ten times worse.

If I had a physical illness, I’d be encouraged to take care of myself, keep myself comfortable, eat decently, don’t push myself too hard.

But I have mental disorders and hormonal imbalances so for whatever reason that makes me unworthy of that sympathy and empathy that physical illness garners. It’s not like I want someone to come rub my back or wait on me hand and foot. I am just in serious physical pain and my mind feels not quite under my own control (only women can understand this hormonal dementia, as I call it)…So I deny myself antihistamines to dry up my allergy symptoms. Deny myself pain reliever for the cramps and backache. The growling belly, NOPE, I get one meal a day and that meal isn’t until mid afternoon that way it serves as breakfast, lunch, and supper. The less I consume, the more I have for my child. And that’s important when you don’t have much and there’s no guardian angel coming to help out and the system that is supposed to put children first simply can’t be arsed to deal with chronic deadbeats.

And there, another reason to feel bad about myself and deny even the tiniest comfort, like a tissue to rid myself of the allergy sniffles. Those cost money and my kid might need them cos she has hayfever problems so no tissue for me unless I am literally draining all over the room. Surely if I were a decent human being, I wouldn’t harbor ill will toward my child’s father, no matter his trespasses and ongoing damages to us. I should be better than that, rise above it, I should…

I should be given a mock Z Whacker for Christmas so I can take it out back with the 30 foot evergreen tree and beat the hell out of it until I’m rid of all my frustration and anger and fear and panic and self loathing.

A week from now when the hormone cyclone levels out, I’ll be back to regularly scheduled depression.

Right now, though, I am in misery in every way and feeling shitty cos I have never paid rent after the 4th in my life but unless he comes to town and knocks, I don’t see spending $6 on a trip to town. I could mail it to him, but that would take two days (yes, two days for mail to travel 10 miles into town) and of course, with his senility, I couldn’t be sure he’d get the money order in the mail and mark it for the right tenant. With the sinus pressure I am experiencing right now, going out oin 30 degree cold would make it even worse. And the whole ‘the more you move around, the less your cramps hurt’, yeah, that skipped my family. Even my workhorse paternal grandmother would be down in bed for days every month and that’s saying something cos the way she was raised, you got a nail in your foot, you just kept going and hoped it didn’t result in amputation.

So I can barely feel my feet, they are so cold. Have I suffered enough discomfort to be worthy of my slippers now?

Anyone who thinks I have an easy life where all I do is have fundraisers and rant about my problems…isn’t really paying attention to what I write.

But since what I want for Christmas most of all-the donor paying child support again- I rant on other things I might actually be able to somehow improve or lessen the misery involved.

I want my kid to be fed, clothed, warm, and have a couple of fun things for Christmas morning. I want to be able to keep the cats in food and litter because my dad won’t help me relocate them even though he says he has a guy who will take them but he has to find time to call the guy and I’m like, hey, I can’t afford all these cats, give me the number and let me see if I can get this done…But no, dad has to control everything then bitch that we’re not grown up enough to suit him.

Three more days and I should have my sanity back. Just in time to take my kid to the town hall’s breakfast with Santa shindig then drive 20 miles to her little friend’s birthday party and hope we have a little gift to give her (the last party was her neighbor boy friend’s and he got all this nice brand name stuff and our gifts all came from Dollar Tree and I felt about an inch tall but it’s supposed to be the thought that counts, funny it rarely does.)

Next week is her school holiday program, she says she doesn’t want to go because it makes her nervous getting up on the bleachers and singing and she doesn’t know all the words. I haven’t missed a single holiday program since pre-K when we were both sick so I am trying to encourage her to go (though in all truth, if she wants to stay home, I am sooo cool with that, cos crowds and even more Christmas seeping through my brainstem make me feel very stabby.) Oh, I’m thinking selfishly, what minor comfort can I deny myself next as punishment…But I am at least TRYING to encourage her to go and face her phobias and try to have a good time. At the same time, I’ve seen the child become physically sick from anxiety and while dad and stepmom scream at her to grow up and get over it…I simply can’t bring myself to force her to do something that she is really that uncomfortable doing. It’s called having a kind heart and empathy, not enabling avoidance issues.

One final note…a sincere thank you to Carol Anne who donated $10 towards the $100 I am trying to raise so we can get the necessities and I have to wonder, though I am not at all superstitious about numbers..but it is a little amusing and disturbing to see $666 on the campaign page total. Trying to tell me something? Sorry, I’m 333, only half evil.

So if a few people were to donate a five or ten to help us reach that $100 goal for the holidays, we would be so very grateful.

We also have an Amazon wish list but I recently posted a couple of wish lists in my blog dumping ground of other sites with similar products at wayyy better prices so if you did want to send Spook a gift directly…I can get those links back up.

Now my feet actually hurt because they are so cold and numb and I think I’ve suffered enough to warrant putting on my little slipper booties. I may even allow myself to use a tissue. But the one meal a day thing has to remain, it’s the only way to ration and make sure my kid has enough for the next few weeks. And since they’ve considered me ‘morbidly obese’ since I was 5’3 and 103 pounds in 5th grade, there’s no shortage of people pointing out I could stand to miss a few meals.

What those idgets don’t grasp is when I stop taking all my meds, my weight drops 30-50 pounds even if my diet doesn’t change. Oh, and their chart also says my kid is morbidly obese which is bullshit. I’m healthier than half the skinny people out there but let’s not fool ourselves. No one really cares if you are healthy. They worry only about you fitting into some cookie cutter chart that awards doctors for keeping patients ‘thin’ so the world only has to see pretty people.

Once again, to quote my beloved Wednesday 13…”I cannot resist these middle fingers on my fists.”

FTW. At least the assholes in the world. Nice people I can handle, even if it’s a little paranoia inducing to get complimented because well, even my own family doesn’t do that. I am thankful to those who have offered up kind words or support and encouragement. I promise when I snap, you won’t be on my list.

❤

Morose Monday

I was up half the night, due in part, to monthly curse pain, which apparently I am not supposed to publicly discuss yet it has come to play a very large role in my mental health issues so…whatever. I tried getting back to sleep sans pill assistance but by hour three, I said fuck it, took a melatonin and benadryl and just prayed I wouldn’t sleep through the alarm and make my kid miss the bus. Which by the time Night Club’s “Dear Enemy” began blaring from my phone, I was in so much physical pain from the menstrual dysphoria, I kept hitting snooze and it was all I could to do to call out and make sure she was up and getting dressed. I mustered out of bed by snooze three and fed the cats and got something to drink and went to the bathroom but I was hurting and all I could think about was going back to sleep once she was on the bus…

But my brain wouldn’t stop swirling. I should have been driving to town and giving the landlord his rent money. Instead, I was rooted in place, waiting for Tylenol to kick in against all the physical symptoms that were keeping me down. They dulled but didn’t really go away, and my mental state was somewhere between “If there’s a God, he’d let me die NOW!” and “I really want to attack everyone’s skull with a melon baller!” So I didn’t rush to town, but I was paranoid enough to make it up to the post office for a money order for the rent, stunned this podunk place accepts debit cards. The lady had to drag the money order imprint machine and paper out of a damn closet, it’s apparently so rarely used here. But with a senile landlord, I can’t risk using cash because he even argues with his own receipts and I was so sick mentally and physically, all I could think was, at least if he knocks for his money, I can give him his rent…

I tried to blog. I tried multiple times to even record a short video.

FAIL. This pre-menopause thing blows goats and not in a pleasurable way. I didn’t like the normal hormonal disturbance, I sure as hell can’t stand the ‘end of the road’ hormonal disturbance. And knowing that my mother was born when her own mom was 49 and ‘premenopausal’ so they thought she had a tumor as opposed to being pregnant…I can’t even say this is a relief that I’m at end of the road. I could have ten years of this shit coming and on top on mental health issues and life suckage in general…

KILL ME NOW comes to mind.

My only saving grace is that I know all too well the dysphoria that is monthly and it will pass (only to return again). So I know it’s not all agony and hopelessness but…for a few days a month, it kinda seems that way, no drama intended.

What isn’t ‘coming and going’ is the reality of more expenses than income. I keep calling the state and raising a ruckus about the donor not paying his court ordered child support but as the guy told me, “This is pretty common, if they don’t want to be found, they won’t be found. You can always talk other legal avenues.” Um, I have a lawyer who repeatedly goes to the donor’s door in an effort to hunt him down and the donor even hangs up on his phone calls when the lawyer is not buying his brand of bullshit. I’d like to know why I am the only one who is being held responsible for a child I was repeatedly told it ‘took two’ to make yet only me for going on 8 years has been caring for her. I suppose if I had more money then I could afford a decent lawyer who would actually be on my kid’s side instead of worrying about ‘giving a fair chance so he doesn’t get charged with contempt of court’ for the donor. I don’t care if then send him to jail or deport his ass, I just think after 3 kids and ‘it’s always the mom being too crazy a bitch for me to handle yet she can raise my children safely”- high time someone holds him accountable, even if in a jail cell where he can’t get his precious gourmet saffron seasoned food. In fact, I am feeling so salty because his irresponsibility hurts my child that I’d be fine if they sent him to jail with Kraft mac and cheese, minus cheese powder and a beloved ketchup packet to add to it. Vindictive,moi? Only when you do shit that negatively impacts my kid.

I think of all the times over the last 8 years when others have spotted him out about in town with his various girlfriends and fiancees, and even one of them had a little girl, and they were eating at a steak house and shopping….and he didn’t give a damn if his kid had food. That,to me, is true evil. You do NOT get to preach over and over and over to a pregnant woman who can’t take her meds and is falling apart, “This is your pregnancy but we are having a child” only to leave her with the child and take zero responsibility even when ordered by the state courts…What a dick move. I may be a neurotic, moody bitch who once a month goes fucking menstrual mental, but if I am good enough to raise OUR child by MYSELF…you don’t get to play victim. You just don’t.

I thought since it was the holidays and stuff there’d be *some* assistance so my kid gets a winter coat, boots, and maybe a few clothes and a toy or two for Christmas. I mean, we are way below the poverty line, considering half my income is spent on rent alone, never mind power, gas, insurance, water, trash, gas in the car to get to town, food, pet supplies, household products…But apparently $812 a month in this state means I’m pretty well off so me and my kid don’t qualify for most of the assistance programs. They require 0 income, so in a way, having even disability income is punishing my child. What the actual fuck, powers that be??????????????????????

I don’t want sympathy. I want empathy. And I have come to terms with not getting much for Christmas, ever, as an adult. I’m to the point where all I want is to replace my gogroover speakers and fake silk sheets and I’m good and you can call it Christmas and birthday for all I care (my bday is Jan 22). I mean, my #1 priority is always gonna be my kid, #2 is gonna be the cats, and then there is me. And short of maybe some take out food that I haven’t been able to afford since we had to move to this hellhole, I’m not really feeling all that denied or whatever. (And if someone says they don’t occasionally wish they could afford a pizza or burger, they’re probably on the road all the time and want home cooked food for a change or they are liars, it’s legit to want something you don’t often get.)

Okay, this is not how I meant this post to go but it is what it is. Insult to injury is my kid has exactly TWO friends at this new school and one girl is having her birthday party this weekend but she lives in the town where the school is , 10 miles from us, so I have to drive my kid there and back and I can’t afford a gift so I actually reached out to my dad and stepmonster on the chance they might be able to find something cheap so Spook can at at least attend with a gift for her friend. I refuse to break her heart, even if it means regifting, which I don’t like to do, but I have and I will. One thing about being a depressive, you can end up seeming like a hoarder because you bought 3 bottles of nail polish six months ago and never opened it so…gifting or regifting. Not ashamed, long as it’s not opened. Man, I hate the donor for putting us in this position. It’s not like I get to take a year or two and say, “I have no income so I don’t have to pay or take care of or see her or make any effort at all.”

But ain’t that the big difference. I would never do that to my child.

I would have to be declared incompetent and put on lockdown or lock in before I allowed myself to fail my child in a major way. The beauty of children is, while she wanted to go to that school dance and I couldn’t swing it due to loss of child support…she’s forgiven me, ‘as long as you buy me Domino’s bread bites!” I haven’t been able to do that so far but I WILL. But since we live in Bumfuck, we have to eat them in town and our place isn’t for dine in, just carry out, and sitting in a car in 15 degree weather isn’t optimal…

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

I don’t think I’m gonna ring in the new Year outside a Rubber Ramada without my full strength meds.

And I just hope I have enough DVDs in good enough condition to pawn, even at 50 cents each, I might be able to come up with $10 to buy her a few things.

It isn’t oh woe is me, or poor us.

We are in this situation because a man about to turn 56 seems to think getting fired from jobs to save himself paying child support is a sport to excel at.

If I believed Voodoo worked, I’d have quilting needles to stab into a (donor) doll. That’s not crazy. That’s call ‘loving your kid and being infuriated when someone is allowed to repeatedly do them wrong’.

I love Spook so much, it just rips me to shreds that I am putting in 110% on every front and still not doing ‘well enough’.

If anyone or anything is eroding the family values of this country, it’s the deadbeat parents who don’t do anything for their kids. And because they walked out, the single parents look like we’re in favor of broken families and being broke.

If the world could measure love, it would be the single parents who were the billionaires. It’s easy to spend money. But to give all of yourself, money, your sanity, your heart, your humor, your empathy and understanding, to a child (ren)…

Those are the kids who may wear hand me downs and not live in mansions but honestly…they’re very wealthy children to have even one parent willing to give that much and hold no grudges.

Loving Spook is second only to breathing for me and I’m fairly sure breathing was a thing even as we crawled out of the primordial ooze. But love…that isn’t instant, as so many deadbeat abandoning parents prove.

Morose. Monday.

What downer, what a long idiotic rant, and what the hell. I’m gonna hit publish.

Our page is here.

$100 is what I need to raise to cover expenses and get her school pics and tiny bit of Christmas. $100. Some people blow that one manicures and fancy coffee in a week.

THAT is why I’m shamelessly promoting our fundraiser. Because MY KID IS WORTH AS MUCH AS A DAMNED MANICURE EVEN IF HER DAD DOESN’T THINK SO AND I AM KEEPING HER CLOTHED AND SHELTERED AND FED.

If this makes me a selfish bitch…I can deal. Cos it ain’t about me getting stuff or being liked, it’;s about motivating people to want to do something decent for a little girl who lost the dad lottery and got a devoted but disabled and poor mom.

One day she could cure your cancer or solve global warming or write a concerto or…That’s the point. She’s the future so invest in her.

And for those in our same financial place, a like and a comment count for a lot, too.

The world has lost sight of the value that most things have, even if it isn’t monetary or social influence.

But hey, my kid wants Minecraft Legos and I can’t afford them so were a kind person to go there for Spook…Gratitude would be immediate and immense.

❤

All I Want For Christmas Is Coherent Thought

Now that the night’s 25 mg dose of Seroquel is exiting my system and my fog is clearing (it still didn’t keep me asleep, I woke four times, with an aching head, how do people live on this stuff?)…The cyclone of thoughts and emotions are starting to swirl up again. Frustration that I didn’t sleep through, aggravation of the side effects, irritatation that my sinus drainage has me feeling like I am drowning and plain old anger cos the premenstrual dysphoria has me in physical pain and mental turmoil…And then I turn on the TV and computer and it’s a mashup of tiny things to make you smile and a million huge things to make you cringe…And I don’t know what to make of any of it.

I literally cannot clear my brain enough to form basic coherent thoughts. I’ve got three stations trying to play on the same frequency, so while I dig the Motionless In White, it’s being ruined by a light rock Rick-Rolling and some ‘tear in my beer’ country tune…I can’t sort it all out and it’s maddening. I know I need to get my ass in gear and clean house, try to make some semblance of organization in prep for the holidays (my stepmonster gave us an artificial tree so at least we have that much), I NEED TO GET MY SHIT TOGETHER.And I don’t know how cos nothing makes sense. I can’t decide to rock out, eyeroll or claw out my eardrums cos it’s all a clusterfuck of things that are awesome, okay, or downright awful. I tried over and over to explain this to the doctors but the only ones who will listen can’t help because my insurance won’t cover the Focalin that is the only thing that helps.

Political discord. Fires burning out of control. Everyone in dire financial straits. My own family looking down on me for having a fundraiser since we lost child support income yet they can’t or won’t help so wtf…I’m not even qualified to ring a damn bell for charity (or more likely, the area just has too many people needing work and too few jobs, so of course, the less stable less appealing aren’t shoe ins.) We’re still in autumn and already at 17 degrees with 5 snowfalls so between the weather’s impact on my sinus allergies and my mental state, I feel like I am coming undone. Meanwhile, TV is ramming Crhistmas down my throat with the clear message that how much you spend equals how much you care and I know it’s utter shit and I’ve never bought into it before, but I was never in this position before. I didn’t keep us living in the traler park for fun, it was what I could swing, without child support, and living within my means has always been a big deal for me. The move was forced and now the expenses necessitate that child support but her father gives zero fucks, the state’s impotent, the court is useless to do anything…And no one understands why the depression is crippling me, the anxiety is crushing me, and the guilt for asking for ‘handouts’ is choking me to death…

I am a ray of fucking sunshine. I’m the negative person you need to avoid to feel better. I know this. I don’t like this, at all.I thought I was onto something with that idea of buying stuff from auction and yard sales and having an on line resale business, but I can’t make ends meet on basics, let alone ‘spending money to make money’. So even the positive plan I was trying to set into motion is a fail…The miracle here is how I haven’t run away from home and had myself locked up in a psych ward while there’s still something left of me the world hasn’t chewed up and spit out.

Oh and fuck anyone who thinks that is self pity. Depression is a frustrating disorder that absorbs your life and identity and well basically, it’s like I was forced to drink poison, now I am just wasting away, hoping for death while those around me ask what on Earth could be wrong…

I just want some clarity for Christmas. To tune into one station in my brain and have that genre play until I choose to change it. To walk into a cluttered room and have the coherence to tackle tasks one at a time instead of being so overwhelmed I flee back to my bedroom, terrified that I will never get my shit together enough to dig myself out of this hole.

This is depression,ugly, honest, negative, poisonous, maddening. This is my life.

But there’s still a corner of me human enough to mourn the death of Stan Lee, and to smile at a picture of him looking grumpy with Grumpy Cat. Rest in Peace, Stan, thanks for sharing your talent with us all.