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So let’s just say growing up as bullied kid for a plethora of reasons that made me stand out in my rural population 144 town, such as too tall. grew boobs too soon, didn’t like country music, didn’t wear denim, liked spray in hair dye, wore lots of make up and jewelry, refused to cave in to conformity no matter how much they tortured me…

I will admit to my bias again those I consider ‘the beautiful people’.

For me, this isn’t merely about looks or wealth or success.

True confession- I check out every blogger who clicks like on my posts or follows me. Sometimes, their writing resonates and I instantly want to read more. And sometimes…I see people with dozens of likes and a hundred comments and honestly didn’t find their writing to be my cut of tea…so I move along, guilt free. The beautiful people don’t need lil ole me to join their fan club. But if you are one of those popular bloggers and I follow you and chime in occasionally…it means your writing is damned good and that’s an uber compliment from me.

I suppose I should feel shitty for such ‘elitist’ bullshit, allowing my old baggage to impact my adult life but ya know what? I just don’t.

I am the same with bands, comedy videos, tv shows, movies, fashions. If I don’t personally find it to resonate through a stack of amps…I move along. And people with that many likes and comments aren’t going to miss me so there’s nothoing to really feel bad about. Something speaks to your soul or it doesn’t. At least I give people the benefit of the doubt before the opt out due to overpopularity.

That will never be an issue with my blog. It says I have over 900 followers. On a good day, I get 4 likes. If people are in a good mood, that may double. And of course, my fragile creative writer soul bleeds a little any time I post something I am particularly proud of and it gets completely ignored. I’m not looking for my existence to be validated. I would just occasionally like to know that I wrote a post that was at least as scintillating as that Facebook picture someone took of their salad with a Narwhal shaped crouton on it.

Needy bitch much, Morgue? Hells yeah.

But my entire identity has always been tied to the ‘little guy’, the people like me who are overlooked, underestimated, dismissed, criticized, insulted. So I guess it’s all about ‘the little blog that could’ for me. No, having thousands of followers and likes and comments doesn’t make anyone evil. It just means they are on solid ground so my efforts to bond with others are better spent on the lesser noticed blogs like my own.

Don’t get me wrong. I am under no illusions that my blog is anything special. At best, it’s a clusterfuck to follow some posts, and at others, it’s like depression could be considered infectious.

What I take pride in is the honesty in which I display in my writing here. No filters, no sunshine spewed up your pant legs, none of this “this worked for me, I am all cured, it will work for you too!” I curse, I leave my typos, I wander topic to topic and it is confusing and irritating and ya know what?

THIS IS JUST WHO I AM. Verbally or written…I’m a hot mess of quirk, dysfunction, dark humor, proud sarcasm, and if you can’t handle me in writing…we’d definitely need a couple of Z-Whackers to battle it out in person.

And after having confess my blog bias and coming off looking all shallow and grudge holding…I won’t be shocked to lose dozens of followers (who never read my posts anyway, so whatever) and maybe even some dressing down comments on what a bitch I am.

That bitch thing, is one more facet of my personality I am crystal clear on. My best friend in high school gifted me with a “Bitch Goddess” keychain I carry to this day and taught me not to take it as an insult, but rather as a word people fling about but when women piss them off in whatever inane way. So color me bitchy cos I am always going to piss people off with inane things, with off color things, with an inability to focus or often make sense…

This is who I am.

Some days like today when my mood is low due to lack of slep and absolutely exhaustion…I’m not real fond of being me.

Other days, when my dark sarcastic humor cracks people up and they tell me how funny I am, how good my writing is, how awesome it is that I’m still fighting to just be who I am instead of deciding “oh, I’m 45 and have a kid, time to change everything about myself and conform’.

And those rare occasions when someone comments on a blog post and tells me they like the portraits my words paint, or they totally get where I am coming from and it’s helped put a smile on their face or helped them gain enough perspective to fight another day…

THAT is why I blog, why I write, why I shun the popular blogs and beautiful people.

While a Trek Fan, I’ve never gotten on board with that whole ‘needs of the many outweight the needs of the few’ thing.

I will gladly take one comment a month from someone telling me I made them laugh or my words helped paint a picture they can relate to.

Because if I had hundreds of those, I could never have the time to reply or really interact and attempt to engage and show…misanthropal tendenancies aside…I do care.

I just reserve that energy for caring for those who don’t have a village of adorers. Maybe it’s my loss but I’ve had some experiences with the popular beautiful people and frankly…Opt out.

Bad judgey snobby Morgue.

Shamelessly, unapologetically so.

Only beautiful people I wanna hear about is when the Marilyn Manson song plays.

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My first kid free weekend in who knows how long. After a tumultuous year of unexpected change after change, a crippling months long depression, and overloaded anxiety circuits…I should be fast asleep at 4:19 a.m. Instead, I am sitting up watching Major Crimes, drowning in sinus drainage, thoroghly disgusted by just how extreme my disrupted sleep pattern has become.

I fell asleep sometime before 11 p.m….And I woke at 12:30, then 1:30, and again a little after 2 a.m. So I got up for a bit, turned on some news thing on PBS about foreign news stories and I moved to lay at the foot of the bed. More toss and turn, more racing mind and thudding heart in spite of a second 6 mg dose of melatonin, so in went more Xanax. And I nodded off.

Only to wake at ten til 4, wide awake, misrable in my drainage, and said, oh screw this.

I’ve always had sleep disorders-insomnia, somnolence, trouble falling asleep, oversleeping, not sleeping enough…But this disrupted cycle since my child was born 9 years ago…it’s insane. It’s exhausting. And everything I am hearing and reading says that this lack of rejuvenating rest could be making my depression and anxiety worse. Oddly, it’s the aspect of my disorders the professionals seem least concerned with. Probably because I refuse to take their old school sleeping pills like Trazadone because hey, I have a kid and need to be alert, not bombed out, and I can’t sleep 12 hours a day and spent two hours shaking off the damn headache hangover those sleeping pills give me.

So I try the ‘lights out, calming sounds only’method. Counting backwards, visualizing the STOP signing, deep breathing, relaxation techniques, no food or caffeinated drinks after 7 p.m. take my Xanax to calm my brain an hour before my melatonin…I am getting more exercise, more fresh air, more sunlight. I AM DOING EVERYTHING TO HELP MYSELF EXCEPT TAKING THEIR DAMN COMA PILLS and nothing helps, nothing works.

I tried the hypnotic sleep med route back when I had a decent doc who gave me samples. I’d wake up on the bathroom floor with no memory of walking there so thankfully, insurance wouldn’t pay for that crap and the samples ran out.

I tried their weak ass Vistaril and Restoril hoping if nothing else it’d help with my plethora of allergies and rioting histamines. Both took forever to kick in and didn’t keep me asleep but did give me headaches.

I’ve had a golden day or two this week. The days where nothing great happens but my mind feels steadier and even when something sucky does happen, my steady mind is able to cope with a modicum of lucidity and dignity. Golden days.

The nights, though, the start and stop sleep, over and over and over…Is is any wonder I am always on edge, always tired, never feel revived enough to leap out of bed, happy to face the day?

If you told someone your phone only charges to 40% and goes dead after a couple hours of use, they’d say buy a new battery so it’d charge fully and work better.

But if you’re a lowly person who can never recharge properly to work optimally…meh, no biggie. Your fault for not wanting to take pills that make you bombed out and hungover.

And by the way, even with those coma drugs and sleeping 12 hours a day, I was still always tired because even taking them for years, that morning hangover never would lessen or go away. That’s no way to live any more than this sleep/wake cycle.

I am frustrated. I should be elated, I have another entire day and night knowing my kid is safe and having fun with her grandma and aunt. My time. I was going to do this and that around the house, and hey, if I can’t sleep, I can day nap without a kid to watch. Except dad and stepmonster are going out of town and my brother is staying home to babysit their neighor’s dog…and dad and stepmonster, assholes they are, said, “Your brother is going to be home alone with (husky pup) so he’s probably going to bring him over to your house so you can help out.”

My brother turns 23 in July. How hard is it to go without mommy and daddy for 3 or 4 hours and take care of a damned puppy? Infringing on me quiet time without regard to my feelings is one more reason I have so much resentment for them. They give zero fucks about what I might have planned. Or even I have no plans, hey, I’d like ONE bloody day without another living soul aside from my cats in my proximity.

But hey, I’m 45, paying to live here without their help, and apparently, I’m still a child whom they can inform has to hang around to help her little brother. With a dog. And hey, that dog is awesome, but 15 days in a row those people have been in my face…enough is fucking enough. I say so, they laugh, snort, and ignore me. Were I a wealthy sociopath, I’d hire someone to kneecap them just so they couldn’t get around as easily and bug the fuck out of me.

I am disappointed in myself sometimes for not being a sociopath. Those are some of the happiest most successful people on the planet. Damn having a soul and conscience all to hell.

That concludes my early morning rant. MAYBE if I were ever able to sleep for more than 3 solid hours I wouldn’t be so rant-y. Don’t think I’m ever gonna be able to mythbust that one since it’s more likely I’ll win Publisher’s Clearing House money than get 6 solid hours sleep in my lifetime.

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I’ve long said there’s very little truth, only personal perception. The problem with personal perception is, often, there is no malicious intent. We are all human, prone to bias based on our own experiences, so often our truth is very different from what is scientific fact, or fact proven with evidence. Now this could launch me into a political tirade but instead…

If I say, “I remember you doing this, and I said that…” Well, that is my personal memory and perception of the matter.

You can say, “No, you took it out of context, you didn’t hear me correctly…” And that would be your truth, your perception.

But if a video camera captured that same exchange and showed either you, I, or both were wrong and it unfolded differently…that’s fact. That’s proveable truth, not fallible human perception.

So short of every moment of your existence being video taped, there are going to be many, many times when perception on either side of the fence is simply wrong or a misunderstanding or breakdown in communication. And it’s okay because, hey, only human, we make mistakes, blah blah blah.

The ONE time when I do, however, find different perceptions to be very dangerous is when you have a legitimately diagnosed mental disorder, but those around you don’t mere debunk it but flat out refuse to believe it could possibly be for real. This is when perceptions can become harbingers of doom.

My family, AKA THE ORIGINAL harbingers of doom, perpetually doubt, question, dismiss, debunk, scoff- any negative reaction to mental illness one can have, my entire family practices. No matter the long mental disorder history on both sides, or the fact that my mom, me, my sister, my brother, my great grandmother-all spent time in treatment or in a psych hospital for the disorders-changes perception. Hell, even my mom and sister declared themselves cured and only weak people need medication, I need to get over myself.

Battling this daily- perception ceases to be benign and becomes a malignancy. Frankly, it beats the hell out of your self esteem because these are the very people who are supposed to love and accept you, as you are, no matter what and yet they make you feel as rejected and dejected as the masses. It takes a strong psyche to face this daily battle and not lose your mind or be overwhelmed with self doubt and self hatred.

It may hurt a little less but facing the same sort of invalidation from friends and romantic partners never gets easier. You warn them, this is my condition(s), this is how it can get bad, they swear they are strong enough and care enough to weather it out…then time after time, abandon ship because they had no idea you were so difficult.

Much as the rejection stings, I can’t help but laugh derisively. Wussies. They get to walk away cos it’s too tough. I don’t get that luxury. Furthermore, I basically slap myself with a ‘toxic’ skull and crossbones as well as a ‘biohazard’ label as warnings and still..the cockroaches scurry off. Oh, wait. That’s MY PERCEPTION, not fact. They’re not really bugs and they have every right to flee and not be dragged down by whatever shit I have going on. But I perceive their abandonment less as them trying to spare themselves and more as persecuting me for that which isn’t in my control. And they perceive my disorders as some sort of personal affront on them, as if they bring out the worst in me or I hate them so I’m moody or high strung. (Again, when greeted with a skull and crossbones and biohazard symbol, take a beat and THINK.)

And there’s the rub. Perception deception.

While everyone perceives me as negative and pessimistic, I truly do tend to view most negative views towards those with mental diagnoses as simple ignorance, rather than something evil or personal. People get scared of what they don’t know or understand and they lash out or tense up. Ignorance, however, can be resolved with some information and communication. I’d like to think *most* are willing to be educated and learn more facts before a final judgment. But the bottom line is, there will always be those who simply will never come around. And while they may judge me as crazy, I feel pity for them. Some are born not very bright and due to educational lacking or some sort of impairment, they can’t really become the next Einstein.

Ignorance, however- that is a choice. And if you are presented with facts and personal experiences and still choose to be ignorant and hold ignorant views…you are to be pitied. Nothing sadder than choosing to be dumb when the information is right in front of you.

But, hey, again…perception deception. Maybe the masses that are asses (gotta love L7 for that title) have it right and my perception is all wrong.

Maybe pegacorns are real, politicians aren’t corrupt, and body odor smells pleasant.

Not fucking likely.

But I am humble enough to entertain the merest possibility that my perception could be wrong. If so…

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE MAKE PEGACORNS BE REAL.

Gas is up to $3.15 a gallon and I can’t handle being in Armpit, I need transportation.

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I eventually recovered from yesterday’s panic ninjas and near public meltdown. Even made another trip to town to get something I forgot that my kid needed for end of school, some party they’re having. The difference between trip one’s freak out versus trip two when I was totally in control of my mental state. I even got a little more sleep than usual and honestly, I think it’s because I’ve burned out on watching Ion (they’re repeating episodes of shows they just showed two weeks ago, wth?) and I braved running the laptop all night so I could fall asleep to Forensic Files.

I woke up a few times, of course, but went right back to sleep. That narrator’s voice (he passed away, may he rest in peace) is just soothing even if the topics of the show aren’t what one would consider comforting during sleep. It works for me. I have GOT to get the $60 to get a used computer tower so I can return to my old routine of falling asleep to shows of my choice that lull me. I love my laptop for streaming and surfing and email, but these things aren’t made to run 18 hours a day and after watching an episode of 9-1-1 where a lady’s laptop caught on fire…My fear and paranoia of running the laptop too hard have metastasized.

Today started out with hitting snooze six times and eventually dragging myself out of bed. My kid was up on her own and dressed and in good spirits. Oh, the end of school, I remember it well, it made me so happy, I too, was up and ready to get it over with.

Almost immediately, the anxiety and panic set in, though. Tomorrow is the last day of school. Three months of my kid and me 24-7 and even with a tablet, TV, dvds, vhs tapes, books, art supplies, outdoor toys…The kid can’t stay focused and interested more than 15 minutes then we launch into hours of “I’m bored!” Toss in how often her little neighbor friend will probably be over, and of course, he’s only 5 and a handful so she wants me outside watching them and with my allergies and nervous hives- three months of being outside does not sound like a good time. Just three minutes waiting for the bus the other day resulted in me getting four bug bites, which turned into raised itchy welts all over my legs.

So the anxiety induced hives have kicked in today. I don’t know why I am suddenly freaking out, it’s not my first summer with the ADHD bored bunny. But it is our first summer in Armpit and there are no activities in town for the kids and I can’t afford the drive to town for programs there so…Enter churning stomach ache from nerves. Maybe I can take a Pepcid to calm the stomach acid, whether it works is always a toss up.

I’m just sick of living with bad brain synapses. There is something wrong with my brain and body for the anxiety to impact me so randomly yet so extremely. Most anxiety disorders, people hyperventilate, feel woozy, but breathing exercises bring them out of it over time. For me, it’s hours after the onset of an anxiety attack to recover and regain equilibrium. The stomach aches, trips to the bathroom, nausea, dizzness, sweating…My synapses just seem determined to keep me fight or flight mode and do it randomly, not just with usual triggers.

So once again, anyone have any information on the use of beta blockers to treat the physical symptoms of anxiety disorder? REALLY curious.

So I updated the fundraiser site and as promised, I included receipts accounting for every cent. I am going to keep it going because, well, the move put us under financially but the expenses, usual and extra, keep coming.

Care and share, donate, whatever way you can help. A huge thanks to those who donated, it’s a kindness that helped us immensely and we will never forget it.

And for today’s ‘aww’ moment…my stepmonster got me a couple of silicon baking pans at a yard sale and of course, I am not Bettry Crocker, in no rush to bake so I left them on the desk…And Hex curled up inside them. Why bother buying cat beds when cookwear works just as well?

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A friend (? she pretty much ignores me these days, so former friend? Meh, she’s got her own mental shit going on, I won’t make it all about me) would often nod off while we chatted on line and she’d called it ninja sleep. Comes from out of nowhere and launches an attack, you’re down before you know what hit you.

THAT. That’s my anxiety.

After a very rough night trying to sleep in spite of physical pain and irritating cats either trying to lay on my head or murder me, I got about 4 hours of sleep, interrupted into about 6 seperate pieces. Needless to say, start of the curse, exhaustion, and the humidity suddenly rising after a few cool rainy days…my discomfort is palpable. Still, after 4 days trapped here in Armpit, I thought a chance to go to town (thank you to those who donated, I paid car insurance on time for the first time in 3 months, you guys are amazing!!!) would be a welcome change.

Instead…I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach on my way out the door. I figured it’d go away once I was out and about. Instead, like a gang of ninjas it swept in, and metastasized like a cancer. Bad juju, I call it, when I get those gut feelings that something bad is going to happen in the absence of any proof. Needing to make multiple stops, including Hellmart (for cat food and litter, and oh, a cheap new litter box cos I cracked the old one when I was trying to chisel and clean it out), just made it worse. Like I was racing a ticking clock. The one saving grace was the self check out at Hellmart didn’t fuck up on me for once and I was out of there pretty fast. Onto the next and next stop.

Gas is up to $2.99 a gallon. I balked at $2.69. It was a moderate issue living in town but out of town…egad, I am literally stranded by dollar signs, considering one trip to town to the necessary stores is 28 miles round trip. Only 16 of that is highway, so I’m looking at about $5-$6 a trip. (Broken gas gauge, iffy other gauges, not sure what kind of mileage I am actually getting.) And the place where I usually get gas has had a cash only sign for a week and frankly, I am too lazy to drive 6 miles to the ATM that doesn’t charge me for withdrawals, so I just get it wherever now and that contributes to my anxiety. I have this thing about using the same place, the same gas pump, every time. If this routine is disrupted, well, more bad juju.

It’s ridiculous, I know.

I was supposed to get something for my kid at the dollar store, but…it was all I could do to make the necessary stops then flee town like flames were chasing my bumper. The inner voice just kept telling me I needed to get home NOW. Back to my safe space. In my crypt. Which these days isn’t so peaceful or safe thanks to my interloping fraternal family faction but it’s still better than being out in the open feeling like I have a target on me. I got done what had to be done-pay insurance, get milk and cat stuff, gas, and I was supposed to get my med refills but I said fuck that, I NEED out of this bad mental space, I need my crypt. (That’s what my dad has always called my homes cos my light sensitivity dictates dark curtains to soothe me from screeching sunlight during my high anxiety periods.)

Now I am in my safe(ish) space, praying my brother doesn’t barge in to use the internet (seriously, people, is a call or text first too fucking much to ask????), everything’s out of the car, insurance is paid for another month and we have milk for our cereal and stuff. I can breathe. I took 2mg Xanax, to my chagrin, but once the anxiety ninjas attack…Bad Thoughts aren’t far behind and if Xanax wards them off…So be it. Though I am must admit to being curious about the use of beta blockers for the physical symptoms of anxiety attacks. My insurance wouldn’t pay, no doubt, and whatever quacktor I am forced to see at the center for psych health wouldn’t be on board, but if anyone who reads this has tried beta blockers or knows someone who has for anxiety, I’d be interested in hearing about it.

It’s old hat, knowing full well I am not going to die from panic attacks and generalized anxiety, even though it’s terrifying, crippling, and miserable.

It’s the physical symptoms that hinder my ability to cope. Today alone resulted in foul smelling sweat, churning stomach necessatating urgent trips to the bathroom, trembling, paranoia, feeling my heart pounding in my head and throat…Xanax has been my wonder drug for calming my mind from the anxiety and panic, but the physical stuff is immune to it, no matter what the doctors say. There’s how a med should work, how it works for millions, and then there’s how it actually works for some of us. I’ve tried all the benzos and non benzos and only Xanax calms my mind, quiets the paranoia and fear, and doesn’t render me a drooling half comatose simpleton. (Which reminds me of a draft, well, a title I saved, wanting to explore why so many people experience cognitive impairment from benzos like Klonopin, Xanax, etcs, because honestly, it makes my mental clarity sharpen. Another post.)

So, yeah, panic and anxiety attacks aren’t going to kill me, this I know, I accept it.

But when you’re looking for work or trying to make friends, or god forbid, meet someone and try to date and form a relationship…the random trips running to the bathroom doubled over with gastric distress, the stinky body drenching sweat, the paranoia- not attractive. Definitely does not make people want to be around you, let alone hire you for a job. I’ve tried excessive bathing, layering on body washes, lotions, sprays, prescription anti perspirants, absorbent powders, deep breathing, the STOP sign method to slow my mind….I’ve tried EVERYTHING and still the physical symptoms come. I’d had high hopes, based on what others had told me about good experiences with gabapentin, that that might have been my magic drug for anxiety. Instead, it was an epic fail that even jacked up my blood pressure all the while heightening anxiety and decreasing my cognitive function and lucidity.

So, anyone? Information on the efficacy of beta blockers to treat anxiety? I understand its primary use is for social anxiety, with the end goal of being able to face that anxiety without the beta blockers, I am desperate here. Feedback is always appreciated, I don’t ask for it incessantly. Chime in if you have any info, firsthand or secondhand or whatever.

I am calming down. Safe space and Xanax, my heroes.

The most important thing is that in spite of my gut instinct and bad juju on my way out the door…I didn’t flake out and decide to stay home. I faced the fear…until it manifested as icky physical stuff and impacted my clarity, which are not things that work out well in traffic or public places. I didn’t avoid, I faced it. I just did so like the devil was hot on my heels and rushed back to my safe space.

Oh…For anyone not familiar with the above mentioned stop sign method for anxiety attacks…I can’t remember which therapist taught me that one, but basically you picture a big red stop sign in your mind and focus on that. Because anxiety disorders totally respect therapeutic tricks and obey. NOT. But I try it. And sometimes at night when the racing thoughts set in and the anxiety rises, I utilize the stop sign method, only I tweaked it to suit my own needs. I picture that big red sign, I picture those big STOP letters, but I repeat a mantra I concocted from the letters. S.T.O.P Serenity Tranquilty Offer Peace. STOP. And some nights it helps soothe the savage beast that is my spinning mind and it’s just a first step toward calming down enough to sleep but I think sometimes it helps. Then comes the counting. I count backwards from 1000, in odd numbers. 999, 997,995, all the way down to the number one. If I am still awake, I start back over at 999 and just keep doing it.

The flustering part of that is that my mind wanders so I’ll find myself counting the same sequence two or three times before realizing, hey, I already did all the odd numbers from 699 to 601….But I’ve been using this method for about 15 years and it helps, if not to sleep but to at least keep my mind focused on counting instead of worrying about, well, every tiny thing. I also picture an old school thermometer that’s red from the top to the bottom and red is my anxiety and stress, so I have to picture the red slowly lowering to the bottom, then I work my way up filling it in with blue, because, well, for whatever reason, blue is a soothing color for me.

I am aware how nutty I sound, but it’s just a hodgepodge of things learned in therapy that while not a cure, they can be of help sometimes. Mostly, though, safe space, dim lighting, low noise, and people free zones are what help the most.

I think the anxiety ninjas have left the building at least for now. I can’t help but feel like an epic failure, though. It would have taken all of five minutes to grab my refills at the pharmacy but…that inner voice was unrelenting, telling me to get the fuck out of dodge and back to my safe space.

I had enough trouble in town being outside my safe space for more than an hour. My escape hatch was always that I was rarely more than 15 minutes from being able to flee back to my crypt. Now I don’t have that quick escape hatch option and it’s terrifying. Living outside of town is feeding my anxiety disorder. If leaving my safe space is the trigger, and not being able to quickly return to it amplifies it…living in Armpit may render me unable to cope with trips to town very often. With gas so expensive, this might be a good thing, but then being further crippled by my disorder and turned into an uber hermit here isn’t healthy, at all.

I’m hoping today was a fluke, stemming from hormonal and physical agony, lack of restful sleep, financial strain, the fact I’ve had my family faction in my face 9 days straight…This cannot be the new norm. Up til today, the trips to town felt like jail breaks or being paroled. Except ya know for driving a car with a broken gas gauge and the other gauges are either broken or possessed by an automotive demon that makes me them go all over the place even when the car is in park. I don’t want to be an uber hermit. It feeds the anxiety and depression, fills me with guilt and self loathing, makes me feel weak.

The one constant that is very real and inescapable are the nasty physical symptoms that accompany my anxiety. They’re embarrassing, they hinder me in so many ways, and while it’s easy for the professionals and peanut gallery to tell me it’s not that big of a deal…I am pretty sure someone wanting to work showing up drenched in sweat and reeking in spite of a carefully designed hygiene routine to not smell bad, and the abupt bathroom trips…doesn’t instill confidence or scream stability, hire this woman! No excuses, just facts. I’ve been ditched by friends and dates because my physical symptoms embarrassed them and dealing with me was too much trouble for them.

Employers have to be even more discriminating.

At least the depressive cloud isn’t enveloping me today. Just the anxiety ninjas.

Final note…My kid has a freaky phobia book (I had no idea people could be fearful of long words!) but a show I watched said the DSM hasn’t considered these things phobias since the 80’s. What used to be a fearful phobia of snakes or clowns or enclosed spaces…are all now considered anxiety disorders.

Seems like a disservice to those of us with free floating generalized anxiety disorders. We don’t fear simply one thing. We don’t always have triggers.

I know the diagnostic manual has to change and thankfully, it has and continues to do so, because I was not on board with women being called hysterical when depressed or anxious, and being gay as some sort of mental illness, are you off your nut? BUT at the same time, this whole new ‘behavioral health’ slant seems dangerous and unhelpful to many of us. Not doing so well adapating to that one. Mental illness isn’t exactly a glowing description but at least it acknowledges the problem stems from imbalanced chemicals as opposed to poor behavior.

All that venom now spewed…I am going to sit back (lay back, my spine is killing me when the cramps aren’t) and breathe and then try to face some housework. I want a helper monkey. And a therapy goat. And a floor mopping Roomba. Dishwasher. A dryer that doesn’t take 4 hours to dry one load. And most of all…one.good.night’s.sleep.

I am a demanding little snowflake, I know. But really, a therapy pygmy goat and sleep would be awesome.

I am going to update the fundraising page later, with receipts and every cent accounted for-just as I vowed. We’re not out of the woods, but the kind people who cared enough to donate…they made a big difference for me and Spook and we are eternally grateful. Free pegacorn rides for those awesome people!

Our Story.

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A commercial sparked something in me. A dad talking about all the things he wanted to teach his kids. And I thought, well, I suppose I should teach my kid to bake and cook at some point…and I got images of boxed cake mix and brownie mix…accompanied by that stupid little voice pointing out, “Your mom and sister make their stuff from scratch most of the time, you’re not teaching your kid anything with box mixes.”

And so the comparison trap continues.

I suppose it’s an inevitable thing we do, as humans, compare ourselves to others. Maybe to gain perspective, maybe to motivate ourselves to do better, to strive for more. More often, I think it’s a form of self anhilation of the psyche. Knowing we can only be who we are and some of us are wired differently so we’re never going to be like so and so. It’s so easy to decide on that basis that you’re simply unworthy to live, or you’re a waste of space. Subpar, subhuman, lesser.

One of the first things you learn in therapy is that it’s unhealthy to make such comparisons. They encourage you to just be the better version of yourself without regard to who is superman or superwoman in whatever way. You can only be you, and you can strive to be a better version of you, but you can’t be someone else no matter how much you may desire it.

Thing is, outside of therapy, life doesn’t work this way.

People are constantly comparing you to others. In my case, my dad is constantly pitting me against my sister. She works, she’s a superb housekeeper, an excellent cook and baker, she’s pretty, she’s friendly. Then against their neighbor, who works full time and has a 4 year old son she is raising alone (except she has a bf who helps out a lot) so I am somehow less than both of them in his eyes.

In my own eyes when my mental state permits…I don’t view myself as competing with others thus needing the comparison. I am doing my own thing. I am focused on being a good mom, trying to teach my kid to be a decent human being and value more than just things with price tags. And in my case, I am doing it all alone. With the constant put downs and no positive reinforcement and battling my mental imbalances and financial struggles. It’s hard, it’s thankless, and occasionally, hell to the yeah, I’d like to hear, “You’re doing a good job.”

From my family, that simply does not happen on either side. Unless I snap and point out their negativity and lack of support then they might grudgingly say, “Yeah, you must be doing something right, Spook adores her mom.” THEN come the put downs about not working, or my anxiety and depression maybe harming my kid, or her not having every luxury is somehow neglectful.Oh, my and dad’s favorite rant, people on disability, because in his world, there’s no such thing, just laziness.

Last night he and stepmonster treated my 8 year old to a lecture about their harsh fathers and upbringing in which they were put to work driving trucks or working in fields detassling corn as soon as school let out from the time they were her age or younger. And yeah, they’re not being dramatic, that was their childhood in the boondocks being raised by men who weren’t their bioligical fathers so they were treated very harshly. (In my dad’s case, it was rural country in the ’50’s, long before it was considered a crime to beat your kids or work them at such a young age, but she’s 3 years younger than me, you gotta wonder where the child protective services were for her back then, it was the fucking 80’s…And yeah, my dad is 71, she’s 42, ewww, but whatever works for them.)

It just hit me that while I definitely want my kid to do some chores and learn not to be an entitled snowflake…them shoving that old world rural bullshit down her throat, like it was ever sane or normal to make 7 year old drive a truck or work in a field, pisses me off. Their abusive childhoods have no role in my kid’s life. I’m sorry they went through that, but terrifying a little kid isn’t what I call stellar grandparenting.

But that brought about more comparisons and dad basically making it like I had this charmed upbringing simply because I wasn’t working the fields when I was in single digits. I had a job at 16, I moved out on my own at 17, and I have fought tooth and nail to be on my own. There was no snowflake entitlement here. That was my sister, who was never forced to work. She got a waterbed, she got guitars and snakes and full breed $300 dogs and igaunas even though she had a record for robbery and car theft before she was 18. And it’s not jealousy,it’s fact. I was out of there and doing my own thing and not living under comparisons so there was nothing to be jealous of. Just, if he wants to illuminate golden childhoods, it wasn’t mine. Not saying mine was awful, but it wasn’t all mommy buying my stuff every time I took some pills cos I was told no. (To my sister’s credit, she eventually got her shit together in a big way, even if she still lives with mom.)

I just fail to see how comparisons do anyone any good. They are harmful, at least for me. I guess I don’t have a very strong psyche on some matters. And yet, here I am, still doing my own thing, so while they may rob me of self esteem constantly, they sure don’t keep me from trying to keep up my battles.

So, counseling, yeah, the whole ‘be the best version of you, no comparisons’ is a good thing to follow.

At the same time, I wish all my counselors had schooled me on 35 years of the world at large forcing their comparisons on me to the point I can’t help but fall victim to doing so myself.

Everyone else is out there, happy to anhilate my psyche. I don’t need to help them.

Sound paranoid?

You just gotta meet my family to get it.

Life under constant criticism with nary a good word spoken about you leads to paranoia, wariness, mistrust, and a great sense of dislike towards those who do more harm than good. Especially when it’s family.

Unconditional love isn’t something I’ve ever known and probably isn’t something I’ll ever know how to give to anyone but my kid and cats.

Damaged though my psyche may be at their hands and my own…

I’m a fighter and I’m going to keep fighting.

If only to spite them all.

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I am feeling especially whiney, but also bitchy and ranty. I’ve been blessed with unusually awesome physical health, for the most part, which means my mental battles generally get all my energy. Yet once a month for ten miserable days, my hormones go bonkers, my body ceases to be a mild annoyance to be ignored, and every.damn.thing hurts and pisses me off or makes me cry.

I am sick of the monthly invasion of the body snatching hormones. The last two days I’ve even taken naps-which I DON’T do, sans the clockwork psychotic orange monthly curse. The pain has had my abdomen feeling like a thousand oompa loompas are punching my ovaries and shredding my organs, driving spears into my spine. Bad enough when your emotions are all over the map, but when your body is in hell, too, it makes it difficult to feel human, let alone behave like one.

I am accustomed to a very quiet life-by choice. Because of my anxiety disorders, too much stimuli overwhelms me and makes my moods and anxiety worse. While most people find socialization a comfort, or even fun and nourishing (wtf?), for me avoidance is as important to my mental health as any medication. Since the move to Armpit and living down the street from my dad and his crew…I can barely go a single day without them all in my business and honestly…they’re loud, they all talk at once, they are overly critical, have zero tact, and on top of that, they’re often racist and offensive. Small doses is the only way to take them.

In town, I had that luxury. They’d go a month without seeing me or Spook and it was blissful. I had control there, because they only came to town once a week or so and they were far too busy to be bothered with us. I liked it that way.

The ‘new normal’ has them stopping in constantly without calling, telling me my house smells bad or this isn’t clean enough or my yard looks shitty or I am lazy and need this job and get over my mental issues. They’re toxic and no amount of speaking up makes them back off in the least. If I let my kid go to their house so I don’t have to endure them ( and she likes it there cos they have dogs and neighbor kids, so she’s not suffering), then stepmonster sends her home with her clothes washed because my laundry soap is cheap and doesn’t smell good so she’s ‘helping’. It’s fucking insulting, pardon me if I don’t have a man also bringing in income so I can blow $22 on laundry soap and booster beads and fabric softener. She’s been doing this for years. Yet if you say one word about the way they live (their shed looks like something out of Sanford and Son, and I mean a junkyard, not anything sinister) they go off.

I cannot stand hypocrites, especially people who can’t admit that’s what they are.

I despise the new normal. They’ve been in my face every day for 9 days now. I am ready to blow up on them.

Throw in that my kid is about to get out of school and she’s already started in on how she’s bored, bored, bored, hates me for moving us here cos she always had plenty of kids to play with at the trailer park but the people here won’t let their kids play with her cos they don’t know me…I feel like a volcano about to erupt all around.

I look forward only to sleep and the occasional ‘golden day’, which happens about twice a month.

I can’t get my feet under me when every 20 days my body and mind riot, resulting in so much cognitive dissonance and physical misery.

Mental chaos has become a nightmare I can’t waken from.

The money stuff just makes it worse. I had to borrow money from my younger brother just to mail a letter. OMG, how humiliating. No doubt he went and told dad and I’ll get a lecture on managing money but you can’t manage what ain’t there. And I HAVE been trying to find alternate sources of income, but I am a stranger in this town so no one wants me babysitting their snowflakes, and gas stations may be hard up for part timers, but if you can’t even pass their basis math test because you have numeric dyslexia…

BUT I keep reminding myself of the three kids between dad, mom, and stepmonster, even if I am disabled and don’t work- I am the ONLY one who has gotten out on my own, and stayed that way. I TRY to make ends meet without living with mommy or daddy and ten other people. And my brother lives rent free with dad and stepmonster, whatever he earns mowing lawns or whatever, he gets to keep and spend as he wants (he bought an X Box last week) so it’s not like he’s budgeting. My sister lives with mom and her mother in law, plus my nephew’s fiance, so they have four incomes in one house.

I am disabled, a single mom, facing all these negative changes, and still-upright and trying to do right by my child, as much as I can for myself. (Trust me, fundraisers bring me no pride, only shame, but when you’re trying to help yourself and people aren’t finding you worthy of earning your way…you’ll do some surprising things to stay afloat.) I am TRYING.

And a week from now once the hormones settle, I should have two good weeks, at least physically. By then I will have seen the shrink for the last time before likely being shunted back to doc nurse (it’s a nightmare, thinking about going back to that noob) and while I’m hardly doing great…hopefully reporting that Cymbalta is making me feel somewhat better will result in a dose increase.

For now…I just want to tuck my daughter in, then curl up in bed and ride out the current wave of cramps and backache. I’ve overdosed on ibuprofen today, hate taking more pills than my psych meds but it was necessary. When I nap and can’t even stream favorite shows because I am hurting so bad…And all I want and need is peace but the very people who love me are the noisy presence pushing me toward the edge…

I’m pretty strong to still be upright and fighting. Even if I feel like a big wuss who should just…Well, I won’t go there because I know it’s hormones and low mood and bad thought bullshit but still…When the negative devours the positive and you’re still sticking it out…

It’s pretty badass, in my opinion.

Yeah, yeah, I’m not patting myself on the back. It makes the backache and cramps worse.

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My hormones are having their monthly pre-riot, causing my face to break out and my moods to flare up like a 14 year old’s. The cramps make my innards feel like they are being run through a paper shredder. I am accomplishing nothing yet feeling exhausted and drained, everything aches as if I ran a marathon. All of this could factor in to my current mental state being splat. It could be the newest med simply isn’t at a max dose so I am stalled here in gray space.

I think it’s a lot of both of those things, and I also think I’ve hit my reality overdose point. Dealing with my overly critical dad invading my home and insulting things, my kid having a friend over yesterday for 4 hours of bickering and demands for food I can’t afford to be sharing, reading about yet another school shooting, more political corruption, more hatred being spewed against anyone remotely different…

I’ve been trying very hard lately to see the beauty in the world, to not let the ugliness eclipse the good stuff, but today…the Susie Sunshine thing isn’t working.

I am on edge, in pain, feeling wiped out, and filled with self hatred for even indulging my own piss ant feelings when all of this horrid stuff is going on out there. How dare I speak up when I simply don’t matter! My problems are nothing in comparison to what’s happening in the world right now.

But we can each say that at any given time in our lives because, spewing sunshine or not, ugliness exists and sadly, there are times when it is prevalent. When it overshadows the vast beauty of life and can fill even the most apathetic with an inexplicable sadness and empathy towards those in the midst of the heinous goings on.

My heart goes out to the victims and families of EVERY school shooting. I am ashamed to be an American every time I read about the way ICE is tearing apart immigrant families not because they’ve incited crime or terrorism, but because they came to this country ‘the wrong way’. I cringe when inadvertently soaking up the current climate of hate against immigrants (legal or otherwise), Muslims, gays, trans people- It’s not right for people to harbor so much hatred against others for simply being different. The current political climate toward women and reproductive rights is under attack and it’s terrifying, as a woman.

As one born in 1973 (on the very day Roe V Wade made abortion legal) I grew up with mixed emotions on the topic. As if wondering, would my parents have aborted me due to non ideal financial timing for a child if it had been legal the year before? Over time, though, I began to see things differently. It’s a personal choice, and while not one I think I’d make myself, I’m appalled by how many politicians and so called do gooders want to jump into chime in on what isn’t their damned business and take away an individual’s rights to choose.

I consider myself fortunate for the years in which I was young and growing up and forming my own opinions. I’ve been so very lucky to watch social climate change, to witness people opening minds and hearts and embracing that which some consider ‘abnormal’ or ‘deviant’. Even with homophobic parents who were also a bit racist against all non whites…I valued whatever diversity I was exposed to. I learned about it, I asked those I knew about it, I embraced their battle as my own.

Never have I been more proud of my generation, and the turning tides of our great country than when I see a commercial with a celebrity like John Cena promoting the very diversity of the LGBT community. Or watching shows like Grey’s Anatomy, Station 19, Instinct- and seeing how well they handle such hot button topics as transgender people, bisexual people, lesbians, gays, even interractial couples. That for me has been a personal high, seeing what I have believed in and support all along become not some dirty little secret but to actually be included simply as part of our beautiful diverse culture. And that culture’s beauty hinges on us embracing not just fellow Americans or heterosexuals, or certain religions…

The truest test of our character, not just as Americans, but as the human race, is our ability to open our minds and hearts and realize we can cooexist without the hatred, without total agreement, but with absolute understanding and respect. We’re making progress and for that…I am proud to be part of the human race and to be an American.

Sorry to get off track, but the hormones are really yanking my emotions and train of thought all over the place. After all the ugliness, it felt good to latch onto something positive, something that doesn’t make me feel that we are all doomed to go down in history as hate mongering narrow minded idgets.

Having said all of this and purged…

I am prescribing a continuation of a long held DIY therapy method many of us here on wordpress have utilized for many years. Fort Blankie time. Take to your safe space, wrap up in your favorite blanket, and ride out whatever has you feeling so out of sorts and useless.It’s like comfort food for your entire body, minus calories. And it sounds nuts but I know damn well it has helped many of us many times. Maybe it goes back to that whole infant swaddling thing where we feel safest? IDK. But it works for me and I’m going to utilize it. Plus, I already own my blankets and have my safe room, so technically, this therapy is of no charge and doesn’t require prior authorization by some ass clown at the insurance company.

Today is going to be one of those mentally dark physically uncomfortable days for me, and rather than bellyache and fight it and get even more flustered…

I’m returning to Fort Blankie in hopes it will fortify my mind and soul, offer me comfort I need right now, and hey, tomorrow’s another day.

But today…my mind and soul mourn. For all the civility and lives that have been lost and disrupted and destroyed, not just my own.

Never underestimate Fort Blankie’s magical powers.

It won’t however, fetch you food and water, so you’re on your own with that necessity.

No therapy is perfect.

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First things first. Because this is my blog and I am allowed to set the things I find most important.

I updated our story today, a simple read costs you maybe ninety seconds, just look for the most recent update.

I wrote a couple of posts this week I was particularly proud of and of course, they languished so I am going to post links to part one and part two of Stripped Down Naked. If you’re going to read some posts but not others (and yes, I am a flood poster some days, no one can keep up), at least read those two. They are no holds barred honest regurgitations of unmasked emotion.

Stripped Down Naked

Stripped Down Naked:Part Two

I don’t normally encourage people to backtrack, but I put a lot of myself, minus sarcastic tough girl masks, into those posts so it might be worth a read if you truly want to understand me a little better.

—–
Yesterday was an uphill battle to get to town and run errands, and of course, I forgot several of the very things went for-and I had a list. But six stores including Hellmart…lucky all I forgot was a couple of things and not wound up committed to the Rubber Ramada. My kid went to grandpa’s to play for a few hours and of course, I had all this stuff I was going to do but…Much as Cymbalta is making a difference, I still feel the depressive inertia, not to mention that all out exhaustion and cramps of my PMDD so…I binge watched shows (a comedy, shock shock!) and then her absence and waiting for them to return her sidetracked my plans to nuke myself a frozen lasagna for supper. By the time she got home, my resources had dwindled. I managed to bathe her, get her to bed, then I bathed (twice in one week, woo hoo!) and then it was time to try to sleep without melatonin. I am starting to think it may be what makes me hit snooze six times every morning. But ninety minutes of toss and turn…I caved and took 3mg. And ha, snooze and I carried on our affair this morning. Hate that crap. Hit snooze once or twice, fine. Six times? Something is amiss.

So far today I have accomplished nothing other than the finale of Grey’s Anatomy and catching up on the episodes of 9-1-1 I missed. Oh, I did put a load of laundry in the wash. Maybe once I purge all the shitstorm in my mind I will accomplish more.

I thought today was going to be calmer because at first it was gray and cool out. Now the sun keeps playing peek a boo and people have their lawnmowers out which plays hell on my noise sensitivity (the other day it was people using band saws, chainsaws, table saws, grrr, so much noise.) I am trying to roll with it, cos I don’t have a choice but it still grates on my nerves.

I have often referenced the ‘noise’ and ‘little voices’ in my head in this blog. Occurred to me I might be doing a dual disservice. It’s not mockery of those with disorders that do include auditory hallucinations, nor does it mean I have them.

The voices and noise I hear are real, but they belong to people. Family, friends, strangers, acquaintances, articles I have read, shows I have watched. Most of them are not saying positive things and living with that constant barrage of criticism and reminders of how inferior I am is tough.

I keep indulging my Google-itus (ya know, since I can’t hit the library anymore as a non resident without shelling out $60 for the year), looking for ways to thicken my skin, to toughen up, to not let these assholes get inside my head with their insults and unhealthy comments and negative opinions. I swear, I was more of a bad ass at 14 than I am now at 45. Back then, even being bullied on a daily basis and living with overly critical screaming parents, I wasn’t so vulnerable to them getting inside my head and making me feel insecure, unsure, and doubt myself and my own strengths and motives.

I’m not entirely sure when my armor fell off and I did start soaking it all up like a sponge. It doesn’t mean I believe it, though courtesy of so much damn talk therapy, I’m reluctant to not at least entertain their notions as I could lack self awareness and be in denial of my own bullshit. For every way therapy helped me learn better coping mechanisms on some stuff, I think it also tore down the very armor that kept me from becoming this wishy washing bucket of self doubt.

It’s not like I am even hypersensitive. I consider it a compliment to be called a bitch because, hey, I rock the bitch thing sometimes, intentional or not. I don’t even get that bent when called weird or crazy. But when people start chattering in my ear, and that chattering sticks around in my brain, whispering that I am lazy, shiftless, useless, don’t want to get better…They’re dead wrong. I am none of those things. So why do I let them get in my head, and why do I let it bother me?

Because the mind is a lot like the immune system. Much like you can’t fight off infection with a weakened immune system, when your mind is under siege by depression and anxiety, you lose your Teflon coating and things no longer slide off. They stick and they cake on and you have to soak them and scrub them and still can’t get all the icky bits to come off.

One more reason many bipolar people prefer mania or hypomania even with the bad outcomes. Feeling ten feet tall and bulletproof and too happy beats the hell out of constant self doubt and being mentally poisoned by people who may mean well, but obviously have no grasp of mental health or of those of us battling mental health issues.

Anyone else get ‘the voices’ like I do? I’d love to hear from you. Maybe together we could bolster each other and come up with ways to combat the counteproductive input the voices from well meaning people feed us.

Today my dad’s voice is in my head, telling me about job openings. Never mind I’m not qualified for them, have been on disability many years, and have bad references for reliability. Never mind that I am still struggling and hardly in a stable place and even the doctor agrees this isn’t the right time to venture into the job market. No, my dad cares nothing about facts, just making it clear I am lazy and useless in his eyes and a majority of the world shares his view so until I ‘get over it’ (mental illness) and get a job…I am a disappointment and an embarrassment.

I can the same to him because I wanted a dad who loved me as is, didn’t flinch when I hugged him, and didn’t get distant and edge away when I was upset and cried.

Guess we both got let down. But I can’t get in his head the way he can mine. Some people just don’t have the conscience or ability to feel empathy or see that their own path might not be the right path for others.

I’m on my own with the voices and put downs and expectations.

Therapy did as much a number on my head as my dysfunctional family, otherwise I’d be stronger than this. If this is the professionals’ idea of emotional maturity and progress…I give them an F.

Silver lining- Cymbalta has helped enough that while down, I am not shattered. I will take any improvement I can get.

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(Let us not mention the Primus song of the same name, such an awful awful band, like worse-than-Backstreet-Boys awful.)

This is not a post about low self esteem or self loathing.

Rather, it is a post about the weight of depression and how it impacts your motivation contrary to your own desires and choices. Whe factoring in the ninja like swiftness and surprise of anxiety attacks and mood dips minus triggers…

It is a lot like when your feet get trapped in thick, wet mud and it makes that suction sound when you lift a foot, then you pry the other one up, only to find every place you need to step to get to your destination is a giant mud hole…That sixty second jaunt on dry ground becomes a five minute chore of frustration, exhaustion, and well, it pisses you off cos now your shoes (and sometimes socks) are all messy, maybe your shoes leak so your feet are also damp.

THAT.

That’s how depression and anxiety of the ninja variety feel.

So many things I want to get done, need to get done, and yet after last week’s hypomanic burst and sense of accomplishments…I am back down to hormonal drudgery with those mental health ninjas sneaking up on me. I manage to pull one foot out of the mud, only to realize it sucked off my shoe and I lost my balance and now my foot is planted in the mud again in my sock.

The ultimate insult to injury is to try so hard over and over and rarely succeed. And the body blow is that everyone around you discounts your minor victories, those small successes you cling to, because they want to see mega success. They can do it, so can you, move your ass!

I try to set small goals each day. Yesterday the goal was to take a bath (nailed it!), run an errand, and fill ice cube trays. Today’s goal was to binge watch The Arrangement, make sure my kid was homeworked and fed, and well…not let my brother bully me into letting him use the net when all I wanted was a quiet evening.

I am pleased to say that the spineless jellyfish syndrome I’ve been experiencing when it comes to dealing with dad’s faction of the family hasn’t made a miraculous turn around, but I HAVE started speaking up, drawing boundaries, and reminding myself-and him- that I am footing the bills here, not them, so if I simply don’t want someone here, I can’t be bullied into it. And it’s a small thing, but I am soo proud of myself for locating at least a portion of my spine, which means that part of me isn’t dead and buried. I 3 weeks on Cymbalta has brought a positive change like that, what could be possible with a dose increase and more time on it? It gives me hope.

But yeah, I’ve been bitching for days about the housework that needs done and EVERY day I go face it down and tell myself I am going to get this done…but both feet are suction cupped in the depressive inertia mud so I just wave the white flag and say ‘maybe later’. Then ‘maybe tomorrow.”

In another positive mental state change, I used to apologize for days when I post multiple times because ‘flood posting’ annoys people into shunning your blog. I’m not sorry for writing when I am able to write. This is my therapy, read it, don’t. The stuff I am truly proud of never gets recognized anyway so back to writing for myself with no public. Cos writing for the public with no sense of self simply isn’t gonna happen for me.

—-
And now (don’t get your panties in a bunch, PETA, it’s a metaphor) to beat the dead horse with the awful ‘f’ word…For those who can’t be bothered to even read our story on an external site…Allow me to copy and paste the transparent income versus expenses cost analysis I posted on that site to show how dare I have the gall to ask strangers for money.

Income $812

Rent $400 ($325 due on deposit, rent is current)
Gas and Electric $225 (varies from season, but averaged)
Water and Sewer $75
Trash $20 ($130 just to start service)
Car Insurance $47
That brings the total to $767- without internet, phone, household supplies, cat food, gas.

Due dates have all changed, which brings about late fees. My kid has no summer clothes. The cats need flea treatments. And the security deposit thing is a constant worry because senile landlord can decide to forget the agreement he made to let me make periodic payments when able thus have us evicted.

The move was not by choice. I would never have uprooted us without the appropriate savings to cover everything. We found ourselves in an impossible situation and this is where we are. I am looking for ways to earn side income, hoping the income we lost is quickly restored, but until then…Yeah, we could use a few acts of kindness. And frankly, someone willing to let the payments be made directly to landlord/utilities as opposed to being handed cash indicates how sincere I am being.

Even a share shows you care so ponder that much.

Thank you. I am now going to wait for melatonin to kick in. I don’t mind it when the sleep ninjas visit. Just wish they’d keep me asleep more than 3 hours at a time. Must be a ninja union thing, can’t grant too much mercy or something without losing medical benefits.

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