Holy Cannolies, Batman!

Oh my goodness.  So much has happened lately that I feel really bad for both not blogging about it before and for blogging about it now.

In the past (sorry, got distracted helping my BFF find some stuff for her homework… where was i?)  oh

in the past week i have turned 27, david has turned 3, I was denied an apartment, ben fixed up part of the basement for me to use as my own space, I single handedly took down the government, ad I’m now friends with an ex-con.  I’ll let you determine which parts are real.

Beyond those things i have also been comfortable living on my own via living my my BFF’s house because she was away and sometimes boys are stupid and you need to take some time away from them.  I have brought it to the attention of a few people that maybe i need to just go full lesbian but decided that getting a motorcycle was just out of the question financially…. for now anyway.  Plus, where would I put the carseat?

SIDECAR BITCHES.

Sorry if that last paragraph offended you.  I know that who you love is not a choice and sometimes we end up loving people who make you crazy and accuse you of losing your mind even when you’re on the mend.  I’m pretty sure ben has decided to either not read my blog for his own sanity or he just doesn’t bring it up.  Also, I in no way meant to imply that all lesbians have motorcycles like the buffalo gals of cow and chicken yesteryear.  I just look up to you all from a light of “holy shit these people are all so cool, why are they staring at me?  Oh yeah, I’m naked.”

download (Three Friends by John Curran)

No, this isn’t a picture of me.  This is actual art so no one can be offended and block me.  I hope.

 

Please love me?

 

Damn.

That moment when…

So I don’t know about you guys, but since starting my anti-anxiety meds instead of having full-on panic attacks I will have moments of self hatred but not coming from myself. I know that doesn’t necessarily make sense but here’s one way that I can describe it:

My brain is a Megabus.

Usually everyone’s quiet and is along for the ride most of them are sleeping others are equipping in with obvious observations about the outside world. Some are even having social-psychological conversations with themselves giving me quite a bit to think about. But when I start to have a lot of anxiety they all wake up and they’re all start shouting at me, the bus driver. And they begin driving from every seat in the bus but my own. If anyone has worked in retail you will probably understand this. Being the bus driver means that I can’t react I can simply say shut up period sometimes but usually it’s just shut up.

But sometimes my mind is a terrorist.

And because I’m American I’m sure I have to sit here and explain that no I do not mean someone wearing a turban speaking Arabic or someone from another country that other less educated Americans would believe to be terrorists. I apologize if I offend anyone I really do not mean to this is not the point of my blog. I’m actually quite fascinated with cultures languages and people around the world and if you would love to talk to me please message me. Or not I would totally understand. As I have told my boyfriend you should not stick your dick in crazy or let crazy stick it stick and you. And I’m sure that correlates to messaging crazy people. But don’t quote me on that or do I don’t care. Maybe I do. Shit.

Any way back from that rant what I mean by my mind is a terrorist is the fact that sometimes those passengers who like to say mean things about how I’m driving like to jump into my lap or completely remove me from the driver seat and decide to drive it the way they want to which unfortunately is not always healthy for the bus AKA my body? Anyway so I take a an Emergency anti-anxiety pill which isn’t currently working.

I won’t bore, or scare, you with all the things that my brain tends to come up with but I can tell you that they are not nice and they are really demoralising and saddening.

Anyway, I’m currently house sitting for my best friend at the moment and will be for the next week so yay me and doing things on my own. hashtag trial run living on my own for the first time in my ever fucking life. But that story comes later.

Who can you call?

No one. Not at the moment. Ben is in the bedroom being grumpy at me because i don’t want to talk about the fact that I’m unhappy with the basement flooding with our own refuse because he refuses to skip a credit card bill or whatever to get it fixed. Instead he paid for a guy to clean out the pipes to give us “hopefully” a couple of months to save up.

My biggest problem?

Probably the fact that i made a decision as a grown ass person and mother to not allow my son to live in this house until the pipes are fixed. Hooray for me but Ben doesnt see it that way. He thinks i made a dumb decision (my words not his) to not have David here. Of course all i can think about is the fact that i still don’t have a job, I’m still living in this house, my house isn’t sold yet, I’m still not fucking divorced, and… i still can’t make a living doing anything.

Le sigh….

I know i shouldn’t try to rush things with the systems set up but I’ve been applying for jobs for months and i have nothing. I would upload my resume but that might be tmi.

Anyway… rant dinner for now. Here’s a couple of pictures i colored in to keep from hurting myself.

P.s. still thinking suicidal thoughts and they’re making me sick because all i can think of is saying goodbye to my son. The scariest thing is thinking about is how my brain is convinced he won’t miss me. *sobbing now*

The funny thing about anxiety.

anxiety doesn’t care if you’ve been having a good day or bad day. It doesnt care if you think logically or emotionally. Rationally or irrationally. Alone or with loved ones. Wide awake or dead tired. It doesnt care if you’re having fun or oon a bad mood. Rain or shine. Day or night.

Anxiety doesn’t give a flying fuckin space.

Why? Because that’s not its job. It’s job is to seek out triggers that aren’t there. Movements, shadows, sounds, smells, tastes, memories, thoughts. These are all its prey.

And what happens when it smells fear? It attacks. The only problem id’s that it’s 10 o’clock at night, both kids are asleep, you’re trying to calm yourself down so your anti anxiety pills (or Chris Pratt) can kick in and save the day.

(That booty can save me any day)

Except it won’t.

You’ll fall, hard, tearing your hair out, trying to get the screaming thoughts out but you can’t. They won’t stop no matter how much you breathe and stifle screams and cries.

But I’m lucky.

Ben heard me from the other room, came in and pulled me to my side on the floor and pressed his arms and chest on top of me. My breathing safety blanket helped me realize where i was and that i was safe. I was not being hurt or under attack. I love him so much for knowing enough about anxiety that he could be my safety.

Ps. What set me off? Thinking about my grandmother telling my mother that i told her i have PTSD as diagnosed by my psychologist. Family politics are bullshit and i won’t have it anymore.

Pps. I’m going to be saving up money to get a service dog for when i have my own apartment. Please help out by making purchases in my etsy shop.

When you feel like you’re gonna die and the world is out to get you, it’s probably not and you might want to call your therapist.

So, the beautiful thing about being diagnosed with Panic Disorder is that you get to tell people: hey, I’m struggling today so don’t expect much.  The problem with that is that you are going to see your boyfriends family who has no idea what is going on in your head (and in reality nobody really knows because it just can’t make up its mind…) and so you have to save face and act normal when all you want to do is hide in a corner with your coffee and crochet hats for poor kids in a school district you’ll never live in.

When i have a panic attack, it feels like everyone has eyes on you.  Never mind the fact that we’re grabbing our hair, trying to pull the thoughts out with your hair and screaming in a fetal position.  Once that passes the embarrassment takes over and another micro panic attack takes over and you start crying.  I still haven’t been able to go back to that movie theater.

It’s these days when i wish i had a service dog to lean on me and reassure me that everything is ok.  I can’t for quite a few reasons (including psychopath dogs and insurance disagreements) so instead I have my coping habits which have become more and more difficult to perform.  I pain, crochet, or do my woodworking.  My painting only works when I’m hit with a chair by my muse, my woodworking only works when I’m at home, so i crochet.  Even then, coping while crocheting is tricky.  Not only do i have to keep my hands busy, but i also have to keep my mind busy.

I just read all of this and feel like I’m complaining.  I’m making excuses for my mental illness. AM I allowed to do that?  Being high functioning and mentally ill means you can get by even though your world is falling apart in your mind but you can’t take the day off right?  Cause “at least you don’t have it as bad as some people”.  I hate that.  Even though i don’t exhibit signs of the extreme doesn’t mean that they don’t happen behind closed doors.  Lately I’ve been so upfront about my mental illness that when i meet new people or new dates, I’ll be upfront about it.  Sometimes I want it to be worse so that people would understand what goes on inside my head that they can’t normally see.  But then i wonder how much of a grip I have left on my sanity.  On my reality.

 

I feel like that could be a song.  I’ll probably write that and post it later.

 

Stay Green Witch Approved.

So… that last post…

Us exactly the reason why i dobt keep a diary. Fuck. I cant remember breakfast in a good day. I’m high, not on my meds (gonna be fixing that one), and pretty…. not happy.  Nor can i remember what it was that was so fucking awesome that i needed to blog about it. My memory hadn’t been great ever so i can’t imagine trying to write while high is going to be easier than writing drunk.