36

Once upon a time, a girl lived through a childhood with two faces. One was bright and sunny, filled with love and laughter. The other, however, was dark and scary, rife with villains and bogeymen out to break her. They almost succeeded, too! They beat her and betrayed her trust, told her lies and pushed her around, but the worst things they did are too horrible for this little tale, so we shall move on to when the girl was not quite so little anymore. She survived the bad faces because of the good ones, because they loved her unconditionally and without limits. They taught her to love and to be strong, no matter what came along.
Sometimes, though, the good ones weren't there. Other times the girl was ashamed or scared to tell them what the bad faces did to her, and so she was alone with her thoughts. Often. Far too often, in fact, until one day her fragile mind began to crack. Her decisions were reckless and impulsive, her life spun out of control, but it didn't matter to her. She had decided that her life was no longer worth living, that she was no longer worth anything...she made her plan and saved what little money she would need. She stopped eating and sleeping and took on the appearance of a ghoul, or a china doll with the wrong bits put on. She felt alone. Empty. Hollow. Then she felt nothing.

Then she got help.

And now, she is 36 years old and living a life she only daydreamed about.

Happy birthday to me. <3

Not Too Bad

Tonight we had my Gran, mom and one of my aunts over for dinner. It was lovely and fun and funny, which really adds up to almost perfect, in my book. But as they were leaving Gran lost her balance and fell, luckily on her posterior, more luckily on the soft grass. Scary. Very scary. She insisted she was fine, that she's glad she had a fat butt and not to worry. When I called to check on her a few minutes later, she was laughing at my fretting as my mom insisted that all was well and Gran was sittin on a heating pad. Whew!

Now it is quiet and dark, here in our bedroom, as my man sleeps with his cat nestled up closely and I wind down for rest.

Almost perfect.

Rain, Pour, Find Rainbow

Car troubles, hooray! Immobility, woohoo! Zombishly exhausted overworked hub, huzzah!

No one I know personally is having an easy time of it lately; layoffs, deaths, misery & melancholy are everywhere.

Find your rainbow. Find that shining bright spot in the distance and fuckin go for it.

Reason

This has been a year of self-knowledge and change, with lessons learned at every single turn. Why I do this, why I think that, how I became this. But I still don't know why I get up each morning.

Remember This:

"I can find a better place to live than this!"


When you can't stop crying and hating on doing what you were forced to do by his purposeful words and actions, remember he said that, right after he called you and your husband delusional. Remember his pride, his selfishness, his arrogance and most of all, remember how many times he blamed you for his mistakes - not just under your roof.

Ramblin's

Things here are about to change; the pater is moving out and I'm getting back in to see the docs soon.

I'll let you decide which is the more interesting.

Crafting up a dang storm lately. Made the centerpiece for my fam's thanksgiving table, designed place cards & napkin ring things, blah.

Exhausted. It is no small feat to go against your lifelong habits, even when you're actively trying to do just that. Being aware does not make it easier, heh, but I've got to do what's right for me.

I'm sure that seems melodramatic, and it is, because I'm a dnd nerd up against my nemesis: my own guilt complex.

It's a pisser.

If only it was a kobold; I can get rid of them.

Tricksy

Dear brain:

Please stop tricking my mouth into opening when you are being stupid and selfish.

Jerk.

Masking

There are a lot of shitty things that come with depression. Wearing masks is one of them, and it is close to the top of my Shitty List. I don't want to be social, I don't want to talk, I don't want to go out. I don't I don't I don't.

I don't want this anymore.

I do want to thank the patient and caring folks who won't let me hide.
Even though the only place I want to be is under all the blankets, with the cats, hiding from everything.

The best part of depression is that it abates. It goes out like the tide. It is up to me, however, to strengthen my levees and resolve to get through it, again and again and again.

K-Rex

Sometimes my hamstrings kinda shrink up and straightening my legs won't happen. When this happens, usually my arms and feet and the rest of me gain about elebenty hundred pounds of heavy-limbs.

So when I have to stand or walk a few feet on days like this, it's K-Rex time.

As in, my legs and arms are bent at each joint and I make ridiculous screechy tyrannosaur noises and then the hub laughs, I laugh, the depression hamsters retreat just a little bit more and I relax. A smidgen.

Raaaaaaaawwrrrrkkkk! *gigglegiggle*





Find the silly, when and where you can.

Arghwhargarble

These are the things I know today:

Depression is awful and terrible and smaller than me, so I can handle it dammit.

Crocheting is peaceful but also painful, with arthritis...but useful too.

Allergies can suck it, yo.

I am dressed for outside because dammit, I need some sun.

(What you don't see here is the mountain of self hatred next to the empty valley of self esteem.)

Black Holes

Oh, depression hamsters, please fuck off. Please. Take yourselves and the insomnia gerbils to some other place where you can't hurt anyone. Or nibble electrical wires.

My therapist says that I may benefit hugely from reading the Gnostic writings. That it'll change my perception of myself. My guilt will be eradicated.

I don't even know what that would be, how it would work; I cannot see me without guilt and self-hatred. Does not compute. But I'm spending too much time in bed & not enough of it sleeping. Not that that makes a difference, of course, but a little bit of restful sleep couldn't hurt.

Bah.

Halloweeniebutts

Not too many kids tonight, what with the friggin hurricane that just rolled through the other day, but the good, courteous ones? They were nerds and superheroes and witches. *sniff* So sweet.

They got extra candy.

Happy Halloween & Brightest Samhain blessings on you, whether you're tricky or a treat.

Cosi Cosa

Instead of the hub getting a boatload of OT by staying at work through the storm, they closed the place down for a day or so which means he's stuck with me tomorrow during the hurricanasaurus...and he won't even get paid for it. Part of me (okay, most of me) is glad he won't be a highway away for three days and nights. I'm not gonna lie to you, Marge, I was plain scared to be here alone. Yes, I know the cats will be here too, but they have no thumbs. That Man is away til' tomorrow morning, so he says, but if this storm becomes truly huge I'll bet he won't be home either.
Which would leave me alone with thumbless howling fuzzbutts and no transportation should the need arise.

So yes, I am a bit happier knowing ill not be gimping around with potentially no power.

Now if I could just go the fuck to sleep!

Head to Toe

Don't you hate those mornings wherein you awake feeling certain that a fleet of monster fucking trucks not only drove over you, but drove through you?

Me too.

But today is costume-making day for my dear friend, and if there's anything to distract me from this ridiculous pain, it's making gory costumes. Also cats.

Descriptive

My brain is full of words and images and concepts, but mostly words. I read the dictionary for fun, scrabble is my favourite board game, books are my closest & oldest friends. The hardest part of each move for me was always my books, since there are hundreds of them. I returned a love letter once with red pen corrections (to be fair, he'd misspelled "the".) (yes, really). Now that you've a better understanding of my verbivore habits, can you tell me why I've been thus far unable to accurately describe the pain I am in each fucking day? 'Cause I sure as shit can't. Have some words:

Aching
Dull
Shooty
Twitchy
Bruised
Broken
Heavy
Sore
Stabby
Fiery
Pointless.

If these were shorter-than-average miners names, we'd all be fuckled.

Time to put food in me and then add the pills and then go back to my comfortable & warm prisony bed.

(Yo stabby, c'mon over and get the pity-bus outta here, now)

Sometimes I Wonder

Why did I grow up to be disabled?

Why did men take advantage of me at every age?

How can I make everything better?

What is the point of living like this?

Aah, but then I remember the answer to the last one: the point is to live. To join my breath to the world, to brighten days and shoulder some of the heavy burdens. To make people laugh.

I can not make everything better for everyone, but I can make them better for me. That doesn't solve my problem, but it's a nice sentence...

Bah. I'm trying to be positive. Helpful. Supportive. But all I am is tired, sore, frustrated and nervous.

'S Too Long, Lemme Sum Up:

I've been busy:

• had the plague, kicked it (the plague/flu, not any buckets)
• made sets of earrings & necklaces for myself & the other 5 bridesmaids in our dear friends' wedding
• painted some pumpkins for above
• helped with the shower and bachelorette party
• had a few arguments with That Man
• got mah hairs and mah makeups did for the wedding*
• cleaned up piss
• pissed myself once, hooray hooray
• listened to beautiful music
• twitched a lot
• took a bit of the ol' xanny for major friggin' anxiety far more often than I'd prefer
• um
• probably slept a bit here and there, maybe ate food
• as a result, accidentally lost 10+ lbs
• Ana says that is good, but Common Fucking Sense says mangia, bitch

I've read books, wrote bits, sung more, learned more about myself and stood up for my family with more strength. I've missed friends and family of all categories, cried 'til my eyelids won't work, been scared, been strong, been me. 

Now, I'm going to relax. Because I can and my body demands it. But I will not feel guilty for it. I earned a fuckin' rest, yo! 

*I am still the mismatched, baggy-hoodie wearing child who grew up more comfortable in her older brother's hand-me-downs than anything anyone bought specifically for me. Shit, I still wear some of his old clothes, heh. So makeup & hair styling? More foreign to me than a man waking up suddenly vaginaed. But I felt confident and elegant, and THAT was even more strange. I liked it. Here's proof:

Cold Comfort

There is a flu rooting around in me, so I'm watching movies. A lot of them. Well, maybe that's not entirely accurate; I'm watching Cold Comfort Farm on repeat. It is impeccably cheering and I giggle throughout each time.
Ugh. Blowing my nose is not fun.
Time to take nyquillish goo & watch something...maybe Gosford Park. Must be the accents, I never could resist 'em.

What the What

How in all the gods' names did I end up related to a man who thinks women's fashion nowadays are inviting sexual attacks.

I'd have ended that with the proper punctuation, but I sincerely do not want to know.

Expletive Deleted

I'm out of cusses, at least as far as the VA is concerned. They certainly stunned me today with the callous, rude, insulting way I was lied to by an exceptionally inept asshole.

Seriously, folks; if you've got a loved one or even a liked one under the care of the veterans association, get the the fuck away as fast as possible. They're overworked, understaffed and completely lacking in common human decency.

Buncha dicks is what they are, dammit.

Maybe I'll explain tomorrow, maybe you'll see it in the news...who knows.

Rewind Musings

Looking back on the mistakes I've made (read: men I trusted/loved), it's a wonder I made it this far without going either certifiably insane or Lizzy Borden on them. There was the redneck who had great drugs (which is pretty much how we stayed together), the punk rocker who thought I was his maid (see also: redneck), the one who knocked me up and then said that he'd raise the baby when I died from giving birth (oooh, what a winner HE was), the agoraphobic who was skilled at manipulation and degradation and then, his best friend came along and convinced me that he was the good one, when in reality he was worse for me than all of them combined. And these are just the major ones from my adulthood, mind you. I've made more mistakes than National Geographic has issues, but I'm still here. I'm still alive. I'm still strong, stronger than I was then, and strong enough to know that should any of those I've not forgiven (the punk & I are fast friends to this day, thanks to some reality checks that were sorely needed) happen to cross my path, there will be no hesitation to show them just how strong I am now.

A gal doesn't need muscles to show her strength.

This may seem to come from nowhere, and maybe it does, but I wanted to get it out before I forgot. Not that there's much chance of erasing memories, but each little bit I expel from my head makes space up there for something more pleasant, more positive.

Yesterday, a friend I've never met in person was kind enough to make a little video of him playing the mandolin and shared it with me. He lives in London, I am in america, and my mind is still blown that this kind of technological thing is possible, but the point here is that a man with nothing to gain did something nice and shared it with me.

That is exactly the kind of man this world needs more of, immediately.

Let's trade my exes in for more men like my London friend. Let's do away with the abusers, the manipulators, the tricksters and the rapists and replace them all with wonderfully kindhearted men who don't need muscles to show their strength either.

Here We GO

Back around that ol' mulberry bush of testing for MS! Last week I saw my neurologist and this week I'm to schedule my MRI and blood work again. My brain doc did the normal reflex tests on me and whoopsie! When he tapped my right elbow, my left arm shot out and almost punched him! That gave me a much needed laugh. Prior to the appointment, my anxiety decided to throw a big ol' party and I had to be xanaxed up until the day of, which was a calm day. Weird. My brain is a weird ol' gal.

Since my brain doc didn't say anything about MS one way or the other, my depression hamsters started telling me that I don't really have it, that I'm just imagining it, that it really is just the "worst case of fibromyalgia" my docs have seen, etc, but it then occurred to me that he can't say anything until he sees my brain scan. There were dots in my brain before, and now we've just got to see if they've enlarged. His grunts and raised eyebrows made me believe those damned hamsters, but this morning I realized that he could just be extra concerned for my health and unable to admit it.

I hope that's why he was so grunty. Getting diagnosed, finally, would be a huge load off of my shoulders. Telling myself it's 'just the fibromyalgia' only makes me angry and sad, because there are so many things going on with my body lately and they're not things I've experienced in the years since my fibro diagnosis, neither are they things my brother has experienced since he was diagnosed even more years ago. SO! It's either MS or I've got goblins inside throwing raves.

Let's hope it's MS. (Goblins probably don't pay rent.)

Plug This

I'm not even sure what to write here, but if I don't stop crying, I'm going to go mad.

How's that for a dramatic opener...yeesh. There have been, in the past month or two, rapid changes in my health. Of COURSE this is about my health, that's all I fucking think about lately. More signs of MS, more proof that my body is fighting me from the inside, blah blah blah.  Every time I start to talk to others about it, I end with that: blah, blah, blah. Because who the hell cares, right? I mean, outside of my family and few close friends. I'm pretty sure they're sick of me crying and being hysterical, but hey! at least it's a different kind of hysterics, right? Eh.

And here comes the inevitable list:

- muscle spasms that make me think there are tiny little ravers inside of me dancing to every noise

- feet and legs that don't always respond to my brain saying MOVE

- a bladder that also doesn't always respond

- partial blurred vision

Those are the newest members of the cabaret here in good ol' Body Central. Tomorrow I see my neurologist again to restart the tests. Maybe this is the year I get a diagnosis, maybe not. I hope I do, because not knowing why one's body is trying to destroy oneself is a hell of a way to live.

Someone, anyone, send that little dutch boy to plug up my tearducts. 

Less

Less stress. Just enough less to help me erleichda.

*bandaloops off into background*

Hamsters

When will this pass?

Depression hamsters.

They burrowed into my brain and heart and, much like certain wasps, are eating their way out one pathetic organ at a time.

I call them hamsters because those wee little cuties are something I know I am stronger than, something I can put back in the cage and walk away from.

Soon.

Norm Al, Nonexistent Neighbor

I'm taking back what health I've got these days and working to make it grow.

I post this as a personal kick in the ass.

Mustn't ignore my own pain to alleviate the pain of others.
Mustn't treat myself as lowest and least.
Mustn't let the depression hamsters nibble me into nothing.
Mustn't listen to the berating & hating in my head.

Must get back to my normal. None else but my own funky little version. That Norm Al? He doesn't exist.

Loo Math

1 incontinent
+ 1 irritable bowel
+ 1 Crohn's
------------------------
We NEED another bathroom!!!



This math brought to you by the letter AUGH

*snortlol*

Oh, haiku, my love
Nothing makes me feel like you...
Word innuendo

Saving Syllables

For as long as long,
I have used haiku to calm
myself down when stressed.

Here are a few gems
to brighten a day or two
hatched from my brain bits:

Anger solves nothing
Beating about the bush, though,
kills two birds, not one

That made no real sense
But this one should repair that
Use a wrench, monkey

Now my mouth is curled
Upward, a touch at the ends
Dammit, I'm smiling.

Haikus make me grin
Nothing can be wrong knowing
My brain still makes these.

Too Much!

Too much bitching! Not enough giggling! Therefore, I give you my two favourite bits from the genius that is Malki! at good ol' wondermark.com to brighten the day. Or my day. I don't hear crickets exactly, but I know they're out there.

Fucking Flower

Being constantly sandwiched between negativity, anger, frustration and more anger is not good for my health, or anyone's really.

If not for one fucking person's refusal to help, this would be easier on us. One fucking person. It's been made clear that possessions are far more important to said human, so here we are, getting angry and frustrated and hopeless and said person just doesn't care.

I hate people sometimes.

I hate that it's solely up to the hub and I to be the caretakers here. That we're the ones getting up three and four times per night to check on pater, clean his accidents, make sure he's not face down on the floor (like last night). That Said Person is standing directly in the way of some saving throws for us.

I hate that I'm a delicate fucking flower and unable to be a caretaker.

But mostly, right this minute, I'm kinda hatin on that Said Person and their fucking vanity.

Caretaking

No one really explains how hard it is to be caretakers. Of course, no one explained how to be a caretaker when one is presently being taken care of, either, so there's a whole lotta flailin' going on here of late. Until last week, no one had told us that there is dementia going on but now that we know, much has been explained.

No one sure hasn't been busy.

Now the days are spent keeping pater from falls, illnesses, confusion (when possible) and making sure he eats, takes his meds, checks his blood sugar levels and, of course, keeping his mood elevated. The hub makes his dinners daily, cleans up his accidents, picks him up when he does fall (which is far too often), handles the laundry, works his ass off, takes care of me and the burgeoning menagerie here, handles the household chores that require mobility and has to cuddle with me when we're not exhausted.

I married a superhero.

Luckily, the VA has stepped up their efforts to get his health under control but, with less than one week on the books for that endeavor, it will take more time and obscene amounts of red tape to get things really going in earnest.

There's not much real point to this post; just a record of days. A venting, perhaps, or - dare I say it? A bitch session.

PickitupPickitupPickitup

My sticks keep dropping, figuratively speaking. Very frazzled. Too much, much too young. Stress.

If I could still dance, I'd give all my money to The Specials if they'd come over and sing & dance with me. That'd be an excellent thing. I doubt they, or anyone for that matter, would perform for $16.22.

Ah, well. Cosi cosa.

High Anxxxxietyyyyy

You can thank Mel Brooks for that title, as well as the rest of his brilliance, heh.

I can thank ______*_____ for my anxiety today. Since the pater falls almost daily now & the va has been of less-than-zero help, I've taken it upon myself to make them re-admit him to their hospital. Now, they can theoretically provide transport for him to get to the local regular hospital, but they want me (who no longer can drive) or my husband (who works from 4am to 7pm) to drive him the hour & half so they can decide if they'll keep him.

Now, I know it is Not So Wise to disparage our military, et al, but for the record? I'd like to send a big ol' Fuck You to this VA we've got here. They've been throwing pills at pater for months now, after they released him waaaay too early on, and now are just fucking with us, it appears. Oh, he's got an appointment tomorrow? Well, fuck you very much for even telling him! That goes for the other Twenty Three Goddamn Times, too.

Buncha fucking jackasses.

I just cannot fathom how they thought it was a good idea to send him here. And then decided months later to give him a wheelchair. Like, did it NOT occur to them that, if he needs a chair, maaaaaybe he shouldn't be released?

What in the actual fuck is going on with them? Really!

Obviously my hackles are up over this mess, which is why I had to take my anti-anxiety meds today. As a direct result of the VA not doing their job, pater is slowly losing his interest in life and health, which leads me to more worry and caretaking on a dangerous (physical, for me) level which then fucks up my own health, lather rinse repeat.

Fuck, man. Some days it is a struggle.

Buh

Damn depression hamsters are back. Or are they squirrels? Whatever they are, they're back with Loud Voices and I'd really prefer if they'd Fuck Right Off.

This morning at the farmers market, I got to pet an alligator and hand-feed a butterfly that was in my hand. In My HAND people. It was overwhelmingly beautiful, so of course this bitch started crying; guess I can cross "crying in public" off my list of What Not To Do In Public.

Fuck the rest of this day, though.

Well, okay; fuck the results of a fine day as seen through my damn head.

I'm off to finish Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children (Ransom Riggs), which just happens to be fantastically brilliant and utterly entrancing.

With love and squalor,
Esme

Not Remotely Sponsored, yo.

I am about to toot a Large Horn in My Honour:

Thanks to Coursera.com I am presently taking a free course all about fantasy & scifi in literature, and it is fascinating! If you're looking to broaden your mind and find new friends all over the frigging planet, head over and sign up for a course or, if you're like me, seven courses. Hehehe.

Namaste, bitches.

Second Chances

The hub & I are sitting in the car waiting for a Certain Bridal Chain to open so I can be fitted for a bridesmaid dress. My last experience at said chain was filled with judgement, rudeness and anger, and that was before I found myself on the four wheels of fury.

Let's see how today will go:

It's not looking good; the manager has given me no less than five pissy looks and we're not even in the door yet.

Huzzah! The young lady who took care of me was excellent, sweet and totally accommodating. Success!

Now I just have to dress like a girl in a few months. That's the real issue, hehe.

No Rest, Too Wicked

I'd like the title to be more true than it really is; I've not been wicked, nor even just a smidgen ornery. I've been in bed, mostly; resting, resting and of course, resting. So can anyone explain how I woke up from several hours' sleep with a busted ankle?
No?
Me neither, but I wish I'd been there for it, must have been a good time.

My Rights, Your Rights

My news aggregates lately have been FILLED with bits and bobs regarding Women's Rights, and the Christian/Republican/WhatTheWhats trying to destroy them.

My question is not why, nor how, but what would possess this rather large group of idiots to try this exercise in stupid in the first place? Do they not know that they came from a vagina?! How the...what the...stupid. So much! However, would this mean that in the near future I could lobby for legislation to have all men keep their errant dicks on a leash?

I mean, really now. This vagina in my lap (so to speak) is mine, and nothing written on paper or spit from the mouths of knaves will change that Absolute Fact.

Get out of my vag, guys. It's reserved for my husband, my tampons and any small humans that may have been grown there by me. 

Oh Man

Today was another episode of Cap'n Xanax here, which entails chasing down my post-dental visit man so he doesn't wibbly-wobbly his way to a concussion. It is exhausting, but it's also quite hilarious. He knows both of those facts, so I'm not slandering his character. Just giggling quietly to myself now that he's asleep, dreaming of kitteny mountains.

Hehehe.

Guh

Too much pain, too much rain.

I've got a hundred thousand things to write but the fibro is beating me down.

Pater may be returning to hospital, he's in shitty shape and doing nothing about it. Fucking lazy. Bah.

Morpheus

Not much sleep happening here. Got 40 minutes this morning, 20 minutes this afternoon. That adds up to purple monkey dishwasher.

Discarding

Writing has been on my mind lately, but not much actual writing has occurred - except here. Which isn't at all a bad thing, as any writing is good. GOOD. Durr.

Jeez, my brain is just not working today. Well, scratch that; it was working this morning when I had to let my Eloquent Angry Bitch out to play with a stupid, stupid oil company who fucked us over recently. Maybe that was my daily allowance spent, who knows.

Sometimes I dig through my old drafts and notes to see if anything worth writing about is stashed away in there, hiding from the light. Some old stories and prose are in there, never to see the sunshine. Today I tried to find something in there that would goad me into action. Instead, I found records of my dreams and (more often than not) nightmares from last decade, all there, waiting for me to relive them. My therapists have all had this proposition in common: keep a written record of my dreams, always. Now, I dabbled in dream reading for about oh, gosh...twenty years now. My therapists interpretations have always matched mine in many more ways than not, so I don't feel like I'm a shitty dream reader, but I'm obviously not an expert. That said, one of these nightmares I'd so horrifyingly preserved had every symbol and sign that screamed GET THE FUCK OUT, YO that I am now embarrassed to admit I hadn't left that situation even a year later. What the hell, me? Yeesh. However, this served a purpose, one which I will finally tell you because even I'm boring myself with all of this preface shit.

I am so glad to be who I am today. 


There are so many ways my existence could have gone, each more terrible than the last, but I made it to thirty fucking five years old with nothing actually horrific in my present life. Sure, it would be nice if I wasn't disabled, and yeah, maybe it would be easier if I wasn't clinically depressed, but you know what? I'm not dead, I'm not living on the streets, I'm not selling my body and I'm not in jail. These are all definite plus marks in my book, and probably in my Mommala's as well.

Once upon a time, I was asked by my therapist to write out a list of each trauma I'd experienced, whether it was abuse or self-inflicted, something I'd witnessed or something I'd blocked out. I did it. I wrote that list. I wrote every frightening thing I'd ever been privy to and then promptly curled up in the fetal position and cried for about three days. But you know what happened afterwards? Nothing.
Not a goddamn thing. No bad news, no attacks, no break-ins, nothing! But it wasn't until today, after reading that dream journal, that I realized my past has nothing - NOTHING - that will creep out of dark corners and bite me. No one will ever beat me or throw me into furniture, no one will rape me, and no one will ever be able to subjugate me, ever again.

I made it this far, and goddammit, I will make it further. 

Etiquette

It would appear that there are enough stupid people on the planet to warrant this notice:

Handicapped Accessible Bathroom Stalls Are NOT Phone Booths. 

You read me, bipeds? Oh, I know; not all of you do it. It's okay, I understand. No, no, you go ahead and tell your friend allllll about the shoes you're wearing, I don't need to piss or anything. What's that? You have a right to privacy? Well, dearheart, I have a right to PISS IN A FUCKING BATHROOM STALL. 

And you? You have the right to fuck off. 

Goddamn morons. 

There was a staff member at the location this took place yesterday who, gods bless her, she pounded her fist on the stall door and berated the asshole! As I rolled out (after using the shitter, finally), I stopped to thank her, and to say the following:

"For every ten assholes, there's one awesome person, and I am glad you are that awesome person." 

See, she didn't have to harangue that phone-dick; she did it because she actually knows what is right and what is wrong. She renewed my faith in humanity, one badass punch at a time.

Next time you see someone using a handi-stall as their personal sitting room, embarrass the ever lovin' shit out of them for it. If that doesn't work, come find me - I'll take care of it. 

Day

Today is Father's Day here in the us. I'm sure you can imagine my joy.

The hub is taking us + pater to see the guy who really raised me, the one who kissed away my booboos, taught me to ride a skateboard and how to be Me, the best parts of me. He's the one who stayed up all night when I cut my wrist badly, which was his idea (note: you cannot, in fact, see your own butt by sitting on a mirror. Lesson learned.), but he also let me read his prized Thor comic book, which is one of the Very Best Memories of my life.

Happy Father's day to my best and only big bro, Jay.

I love you!

A rare day

I am home, laying on my bed, relaxing after a lovely and wonderful morning with my Mommala. She is awesome.

When I got home from our jaunt, I see that the hub and his cat are both crashed out on the couch and the pater is snoring in his room.

It is so nice here, just now, with no one else awake and no chores to do for the moment. I can just sit in our room and do what I want, which apparently is to blog about nothing but a good day, so far.

Zero

It has been repeatedly brought to my attention that pater has absolutely no respect for my husband or myself.

So that's happening.

Condescension, laziness, dishonesty, seemingly purposeful untidiness and an arrogant attitude are not the ways to endear oneself to others, especially when you're starting out in the negative.

At what point do I choose my and my husband's health over the pater's? My therapist says to tell him to Get The Fuck Out, so at least I'm not delusional.

We've a few hours respite, I'm off.

Why I'm also called Stummy Dubborn

I came by this moniker honestly and easily, which isn't the best thing ever. My heritage is Italian and german, but I was raised by the Italians. Thus, stubborn. My brain cashes checks my body can't cash. Thus, dummy. See also: sawdust for brains.

Today, I earned it once again by trying to pull a light cord I had no business reaching for, slid on the floor and plowed into the bed corner with my kneecap. There's my tale of whoa, slow down there dipshit!

With love & squalor,
Esme

Bad Math

Mucinex + tramadol + zoloft = bad combo. Almost ER worthy, but not quite. I'm finally able to lay down after 17 hours (?!) of side effects. 'night.

Week Two, No Casualties

Good: Hub has been working his hot ass off making our house look like a home, and so far it is beautiful! Today was the first day of our local farmers market and we scored a bunch of cut veggies and my own lil' rainbow chard plant! A dear old friend of mine who happens to be an editor and writer took a stab at reading my novella from a few years back (NaNoWriMo, google that shit yo) and thought it was good! This excites me in a brainy, nerdy way I cannot explain, but it's universal I think.

Bad: Looks like I've got tinnitus (pulsitile?) which is added to My Big List of Bullshit Body Bummers, aka my MS symptoms list. Eh; not really bad, but not good and not ugly, either. Speaking of which...

Ugly: The lawyers office called, again, harassing me about my therapist's unwillingness to cooperate, again. I got pissed fast, and tore into the gal on the line. I've now explained ten actual times that he won't work with them. They keep badgering. I keep yelling, then hanging up and fucking crying, of all things, because I'm so frustrated with them. After the years and years of bullshit I've dealt with, I can't honestly say I blame him one iota! Bunch of savages in this world*. The patience that hub & I have put forth to accommodate and care for pater has juuuuuust about run the fuck out as well. If one has diabetes, one would think it paramount to monitor that shit, right? Well, pater feels differently. Of course. Have I mentioned he's a republican scientologist realtor? No? Well, there's at least 30% of why we don't get along. He's also got vertigo and won't do the simple fucking things necessary to control it, so I'm up all night listening for when he gets up, to make sure he doesn't crash.
I'm barely sleeping, barely eating and barely scraping by. I cut again. Bedrest has gotten way, way past old. These are the things I know I know.



Heh. Gotta find the humour, else what's the point, right?








*You win 100 internets and some snoogins if you got the reference!

Deep Breathing

Brain,

I don't know why you insist on asking him his opinion of your artsy fartsy crap. He always hates it, and he always will. Stop asking.

Grow From Love,

Common Sense

Shitty Days Made Good

To combat my Ultra Shitty Mood, I try to be silly. Making silly faces, telling bad jokes (to myself or the cat, anyone who'll listen really), listening to big band music and generally embracing my inner 5 year old.

What works the best and fastest, though, is sending ridiculously silly lolcats to my friends & family (via text or email). Wanna know why this works so well?

Spreading joy lessens the weight of my my misery. So go try it for yourself.

Ausfahrt.

The pater has been here for 5 days, and has already tried to drive alone, at night, to the casino...which resulted in him hitting a curb, blowing a tire, walking with his cane up a goddamn highway until a police officer picked him up and brought him home.

You'd think that would be a lesson learned, but no; he's out on his own right now. Says he's getting coffee.

Coffee ain't 45 minutes away. It's 5 minutes, in traffic.

__________________

I sit corrected, he has arrived. That's one point for him.

Zoinks, yo!

List tiiiime:

Huge lightning strike on next block!!!

Gi-fucking-NORmous black spider ran across the room!!

Precipice of panic attack all day!

Fuckity fuck!

Thank you and good night!

The GOP and my Vagina

I just sent yet another message off to my state Governor, Tom Corbett (Pa-R) with the following text:

Dear Governor Corbett:  Please, please, PLEASE stop thinking that your political/religious party have ANY RIGHT to dictate what I do with my own personal vagina. YOU DO NOT. If you can show me on my vagina where your "PROPERTY OF" stamp was placed, we'll talk. Until then? STAY OUT OF IT.
With thanks and much stunned head-shaking, A Registered Voter.

Now, what have YOU done today to fight the war on women?  Go here, find your people, and tell them to stay out of your vagina! 

Delays Can Be Helpful

Ugh. I am teh nauseous. Stupid flu goo. Anyway.

I don't know if anyone reads this shit or not, but either way I'd like to say thank you. I need this place to think and remember and plan and organise, because the fibro fog is frequent and the symptoms of MS are adding up slowly. So, thank you for letting me put my shit out here and not flaming me into a ball under the couch.

Dad & I spoke a few times today and he sounds good! Even joked about how "off" he was, and the only issues we had were with the fact that the hospital somehow lost his hearing aids (which HOLYCRAP he needs, heh) and he couldn't hear a goddamn thing I said.  The news with him is that they're doing more tests to find out why he's lost a shitload of weight in a short time, as well as what's going on with his vertigo. It is crazysauce up in this family, yo! And by crazysauce, I mean we are a mixed up lot of ailments, oddities and issues, much like most of my sauces. Bazinga! Since he's having more tests, they're not releasing him yet. This works out because with the family stuff, the flu shit, the flu shits and the shitty flu, we've not had the chance to get him a dresser, etc. for his room. He's got a bed and, if he's lucky, I'll whip up a mural for him in there. He loves bi-planes, so maybe one of those will wind up on the wall somewhere.

The lawyer's office called back, and tomorrow I'm supposed to hear from my actual lawyer. My fingers are not crossed, nor my toes or eyes, because if my life has taught me anything it was to Not Get One's Hopes Up! Also known as, shit happens - frequently.

My mood has improved, however, which is a combination of some smart ideas and some stupid ones, but the latter will always heal over and the former will be added to my silver ribbon box. (for info on that, check out thebloggess.com and her brilliant silver ribbon idea.)

It is way past my bedtime, but the fatuous flu has filled my flat friggin' front with funk, so I'm phlegmin' it up in here, friends.

Long Days, Longer Nights.

Since my last post (and edit), things have sped up in extreme slow motion for us. My father is being released this coming weekend and I caught, then gave, the flu to the hub. He's asleep next to me now, softly snoring away. Hopefully he snores away his fever, too.
I was able to say a final goodbye to my uncle on Friday, along with our immediate family and some very old friends/prior neighbors we've not seen in years. Joyous reunion, fucking shitty circumstances. So it goes. I wish I could make it all better for my aunt and cousin.

I can't.

But I can be there if/when they need me, with hugs and love, just like always.

___________________________

In other newsishybits, my lawyer's office sent a letter and called to inform me I have a new hearing in October for my disability case, in Maryland. Um. I thought that was over, but hey! Surprise. After explaining to the nice, also flu-ridden young lady there that I absolutely cannot go to Maryland and that I'd requested the whole thing moved up here repeatedly, she said someone else will call me tomorrow.
We'll see.

The reason I can't go there is simply that the pain involved in a car ride of even a few hours will lay me up in bed for days, even weeks if it's raining. My ol' bones & muscles plain can't handle the jostling, rumbling ride any route that direction would take for anywhere near the length of the drive in minutes, which I'd be counting until I couldn't count no more. If I somehow win and am awarded the disability coverage from the gov't, I'll eat my fucking hat.

Just in case, I'll be over here crocheting a rice noodle tam...

It has been one long, long fuckin week, spent in bed with tea, tissues & tofu.

Let's hope next week is better.

...

My mother called me shortly ago to say my uncle died. He's had kidney failure for a long, long time now, so I have hopes that he's in no more pain. He wasn't unwell, though; that's why I am stunned.

Hug your loved ones extra, and be sure they know they are loved.

*we just returned from the animal hospital. My aunt & cousin had to put down their dog due to inoperable tumors the fucking day after big Bill died. What in the actual fuck is going on here? My heart aches for them.

Weight

Dad moves in this week, apparently. Still have to buy him furniture, rearrange his room and the kitchen, buy a regular wheelchair ramp + threshold ramp, get his room wired for cable, set up the tub transfer seat, change his mailing address and buy his food & sundries.

See those two little words waaay at the beginning of the post? "This week"? Yeah. The VA gave dad notice of that on Friday; previously it was two to four months. Thus, stress!

Also the cat got out last Monday and I chased her three blocks and barely made it home on one cane and and and UGH DUDES. Sometimes it's just too fucken much, you know?

Surprise! Bed Rest.

It is pretty friggin great to be living in the future. My body is uncooperative, yet here I lay in bed, typing on a computer that (almost) fits in my hand, sending my piddly little words to the internets. I can't get to the mailbox, but I can watch news from across the planet.

On days like this, I am comforted by our collective human desire to See What We Can Make. We made so many things that assist and include, and both of those are vital to folks like me.

I leave you with these wise words of yore:

CrickCrackCrunch

Those are the sounds my bones are making today because they apparently missed being tense.

In other news, it looks like my father's stupid fucking repossessed car is not being sold until this weekend, not last, which means my wild fucking goose chase is back on. My dad's memory is shit lately, he's doped up on pain pills and has trouble concentrating, so of course, he's the one who has all of the information needed to get this stupid fucking car* back. I've also got to renew the registration, schedule payments for both the lease and insurance, and ascertain if it is out of inspection yet. Once I get the magic code from him, I get to call two places to confirm that they both have said code and release forms, then schedule when in the next TWO GODDAMN DAYS my husband and I can go get this stupid fucking car. Let's hope it is within my driving distance limits.

Enough with that shit, let's talk about happier shit.

The VA sent someone out yesterday to install grab bars in the shower for dad, but hey! they will help me also, and were free. Huzzah!

I made a skirt out of an old Motley Crue tee of my cousin's, and it looks awesome both in and out of ol' Jack Burton.

Somehow I taught myself how to scallop crochet, and am making delicate little lacy collars for my boring old plain tees.

The borough office confirmed with me today, via phone, that we do not need a permit to cut our own trees down in the back yard. I am hopeful that this is not going to fuck us over like the last time they said we didn't need a permit.

Easter was spent with my mom, gran, aunts, uncle, cousin and hub, and it was very nice. We are a loud Italian family with a long history of mangia mangia mangia, so I was very thankful that my mommala made me a bunch of vegan/gf foods. She spoils the hell out of me, and I can't imagine a better mother. She is the shiznit, yo!

And finally, this little fuzzball has been very lovey lately. I suspect it is due to her new habit of pissing outside of the litter box, which in turn is due to my hub's open invitation to all nearby homeless kittehs to come over for free food. Le sigh.

But hey, she's damn cute.

That'll do it for me for now. Therapy today, which means I get to dump all the rest of my brain-shit-balls onto someone who gets paid to listen. 

*I have intense dislike for this stupid fucking car, because my father bought it when he had no money to pay for it or any bills, etc. I know it is not the car's fault. Hush.

Extreme Stressover: Weepy Edition

There is no shame in crying, right? Right. I try not to do it, though, because I'm kind of an asshole who feels weakest when crying. It's stupid, I know. My therapist and I have been working at it for a while now. So. I've been crying like I'm in every lifetime movie EVER lately and I would like it to stop. My eyes are being leaky due to the stress in dealing with my father's hospitalization, terrible bookkeeping and impending move into our house. (and my own depression, etc) I'm not gonna lie to you, Marge; this is not a welcome change in my life. It is the Right Thing to Do, though, so here we are; the fibro-foggy disabled gal is in charge of things.

Yeah, that's a great idea.

You know what else is a great idea? Building a trebuchet in the yard. No one else seems to agree...

Go get some sunshine. That's what I hope to do.

Achievement Unlocked!

Sunshine: acquired
Nommy Salad: acquired
Ridiculous Lol gifs: watched

Changes

Yes, I changed the background. Yes, I am aware it is not the cheeriest image. Yes, I like it.

Hrmm.

Why do we automatically close ourselves off from others when we're depressed? That's kind of when we need them most, right?  Ah, but the stigma, oh that dastardly stigma of actually needing another human being. Of not being invincible. Being weak.

Well, folks, I'm gonna tell you the truth: I am fucking depressed. No shit, you might say! Yeah, yeah; well, sometimes I have to spell it out for my own sake, and you get to come along for the ride.

I used to move around a lot, serial monogamist and all that comes with it. Each time I moved, I hoped I'd finally feel Good. Like I belonged in this life and it wanted me around. And each time, just after getting settled, I'd be right back to my ol' pal depression and all the stupid things he tells me.

"You should totally cry yourself into a ball, that'll fix you."
"Let's punch that wall a few hundred times!"
"Ah, fuckit; no one would notice, and if they did, they'd forget soon enough."
"You're worthless."
"Useless."
"Give up."

He's a right fucking bastard asshole, that one.

So I take the pills, I talk to the therapist, I reach out to people but my shyness/depression/whatever the fuck forces me to scuttle away and hide or they're just not fucking interested, which I can't honestly blame them for feeling.

Hell, I don't even know how my hub has made it this long dealing with me.

But he has, and if HE can put up with me and my various shit, then I damn well can too.

Thank You Jesus Tyson

I just felt the need to post that watching Mike Tyson on Conan tonight is goddamn hilarious.  He really does find himself funny. Also, his story of religion and Jesus was touching. In a dirty way. 


Huh huh huhuhuhuhuhuh *poW*


In other news, I got a few more free classics from Kobo tonight...which is what I've done each night for the past week. Nothing is grabbing me lately, literature-ly. After Edith Wharton's "House of Mirth" and more Frances Hodgson-Burnett than I can list, plus a few Andre the Giant-sized handfuls of other Ladies Novels (aka, shit that happened so long ago you think it's going to be utterly irrelevant but holy crap, it is just dang interesting) and maybe I'm burned out. 


To that, I say something my dear ol' friend Becky once taught me: invraisemblable! It is highly unlikely that I've suddenly stopped enjoying the style of fiction I've been lapping up for a long time. My guess? Depression. That dick is following me around like a stalker with no clue about stealth. 


So now it is up to me to deal with it. Again! Because much like my painful, pointless period, it is going to be a regular occurrence in my life; unlike my period, it will never actually end. 


Dammit; I meant to be all perky and shit here. *thinks...thinks...!*


Well, what you can't see is my stiff back and upthrust little skittle-titties. They're still sort of perky since they're so dang small, so THERE is your perky. 


I will save you from the shit.

Uhhh, What?

I just had a full-on sob fest due to hearing Death Cab's Follow You into the Dark on motherfucken SCRUBS.

There's been some stress going on in here (and by "here") I mean my brain). I need to relax. Um. I need to learn to relax. I think I may be afraid to, though. When we sleep, we are resting and relaxing, awash in whatever our subconscious plays out via dreams. My dreams were mares for a Very Long Time and of late, I'm afraid to dream.

This has turned into a squishy introspective, so I'm going to leave you with this:

Make silly faces in a mirror (or with a kind soul) until you laugh so hard you pee a little.

...

goddammit so hard.

...

GBU

The Good:

There is sunshine.
Our Dogwood tree is pre-blooming.
There was a purring, warm, fuzzy cat perched on my hip.
I've got a lovely home and someone to love & care for/with me.
The garden plants haven't started peeping up yet, but they're trying.

I was lucky enough to see my bff and his wonderful, fantastic kids this past weekend.

The Bad:

I slept on the couch again last night due to poor planning. (fyi: putting a printer on a wheelchair seat and forgetting to put it back when finished = no way to get to bed for me)
My insomnia gerbils were almost gone - alas, they are back.
I am depressed and PMDD'ing and so tired.
Did I mention the PMDD?
Everywhere hurts.
Even there.

The Ugly:

In recent weeks, I became slowly aware of an apparently repressed memory. There were no fuzzy lights, or streaming camera effects to go along with this memory. There are, however, varying degrees of anger, shame, guilt (for nothing, as I did no wrong) and sadness. It is one thing to be assaulted. It is another if that assault is sexual in nature. It becomes a horrid thing when the perpetrator of said trauma is a relative. Who was so drunk they don't remember anything.

Thing, thing. THING. The more one uses a word, the less that word retains its meaning.

I was a thing. More times than I care to number. I still am a thing, in the minds of many.

A disabled thing, a thing with a hole, a useless and worthless thing, a thing to be used, a thing to abuse. A thing to kick, a thing to throw, a thing to beat. Thing, thing, THING.

I am curious if my lifelong guilt complex is related to my thingness. If, by treating every other human (and many inanimate objects) as better than myself, I encouraged the behaviour. I devalued myself, which inadvertently gave silent permission to the world to devalue me too.

If I am to blame for all of this, then...I don't even know how to end that sentence.

Just Keep Swimming

If I can make it through until tomorrow, the past 96+ hours of pain will have been worthwhile.

In other news, the hub says no to my idea of cutting my legs off above the knee.

Melty

I can't get out of bed. My muscles are all - ALL rebelling against me in an attempt to turn me into mattress. It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to p, and of the dang mailman was on a set schedule (I have to mail my therapy check!). He kind of breezes by when the mood strikes, it seems.

But the bigger issue I'm having is how to get up so I don't piss myself.

See that? That's the glamorous side of being disabled. I know you're jealous; it's okay.

Not so Bitchy, Mostly.

I am very, very stressed out, my dot is crazy-heavy, and my insomnia gerbils are just fucking with me lately.

So what do I do when I am this tightly wound? I look at things like this:

(via greenleaf dollhouses )

Tiny things that I can manipulate and control and design and hold in my hands. Probably doesn't hurt that my favourite book to read in grade school was "Five Dolls and Their Friends"  which, thanks to my dearheart friend Greg, I have a copy of to reread. 

Also, Dawn of the Dead is pretty good for watchin' too. 

Fnurgleshlermp

My brain, she won't turn off.
She won't go to sleep, either, and is presently sending hunger pangs southward. Hungry-hungry-headache is next, so evasive action is required...but not easy.

HolycrapIamtired.

Dad dad dad dad dad dad (me) dad dad

That title is pretty much where my head has been.

Because otters.

the little things

My wee little joys of late:

- turning old bottles into vases
- watching Betty White on Conan
- hub treated me to a sims 3 town pack, so I'm a slightly happier nerd
- Daft Punk
- grilled asparagus with olive oil and bragg's
- 30 Rock and Raising Hope episodes on demand
- guided meditation
- Oscar Wilde

Auugh So Much Thinky Time

I spend too much time thinking about the past
-or worrying about the future
-or reliving bad experiences in the hopes that magically, everything will be okay
-or feeling guilty over imagined scenarios
-or fretting that I forgot something or repeated myself due to the ailments
-or apologising for things I have not done
-or waiting for the big bad karma ball to drop from the sky and crush all of the things that I hold dear or have pride in, simply because I think deserve it.

I need to spend more time laughing, loving, forgiving myself and living in the moment.

More Dad

No stroke! Hooray! Possible head trauma induced dementia...hrmm. He's being moved to an inpatient rehabilitation VA hospital, as he's a veteran, and had some med changes which were welcome, in my opinion. He's been a bit off of his game for a long while now and needed a wake up call. Being diabetic is no joke, and watching that one eats regularly is really goddamn helpful if one wants to be healthy and alive.

He'll be at the rehab for a few weeks. We'll sort out his next move in the next week or so, and try to accept that there are certain things we simply cannot do for him here. If I wasn't disabled, it'd be a whole different story! He'd live here, hanging out and drawing with me, or reading together (which is usually when he "rests his eyes" for a long snore-filled snooze). But since I am, there's simply no way to give him the proper care he needs.

With that said, I'm trying to take care of myself (the Long and Winding Cold). Anti-bios, inhaler, mucinex, water water water. Sleep, which isn't working out well at all due to anxiety hamsters and insomnia gerbils. There's a chance I could be getting a gorgeous dollhouse for $20, though, and if that happens I'll be in my own little tiny heaven when I've got spare moments.

Thank you, so very much, to the dearhearts who have been giving me strength. My hub, bro, fam and Fartygirl (who's blog you should be reading). Much love, folks.

Now I'm off to rest, or more likely, play some sims 3. Hub treated me to a new town, and it is all alien all the time, so...veena fredishay!

Yeah...

So my father fell five goddamn times the other night, which led to his hospitalization and subsequent surgery. He is doped up to his eyebrows and has been wonky headed for days now.

At what point do I stop worrying that he had a stroke while he was under? That's how my pop died, almost the same timeline of events.

When will my brain cut off and let me sleep more than a nibble at a time? It would be Very Nice Indeed. My allergies/cold are not helping, but maybe the meds my doctor gave me yesterday will.

I cannot save the world. I cannot save the world. I cannot save the world. I cannot save the world. I cannot save the world. I cannot save the world.

Allergic Thoughts

Okay, so yesterday was bitching about fibromyalgia. There have been (far too) many entries about my knees, my depression, my this and my that, but today's topic is allergies.

Those fuckers.

Waking me up in the wee hours, full of goo and weepy eyes, brain dumbed down - and only getting dumber, thanks to allergy meds - aah, there's nothing quite like it.

The positive part of these sniffly, stuffy, squishy little goblins is that they do distract a bit from the rest of my aches, so I'll not hate them - yet.

Off to climb under the pile of tissues, ta.

Fibromyalgic Ponderings

I've read a lot of articles, books, pamphlets and newsletters about fibromyalgia over the past 13 years, since my brother was diagnosed with it while in the military. When I was diagnosed with it, I cried like a baby with a diaper pin stuck in its ass for a bit, then told my memory to bring up all those facts, theories and piles of advice I'd stored and tell me what to do.

Well, it's been a chunk of years since my medical records had that pesky ol' FMS added, and I can tell you that all of those things I read, those priceless pieces of information to help ease the daily pain are fluttering away in the breeze of my goddamn fibro-fog. I'm stupid more often than not these days, can't concentrate to save a baby duckling's life, the depression is creeping back...man, fuck this shit. If this is, indeed, the worst case of fms my docs have ever seen, then someone had better come up with a fucking cure that does not contain fucking lactose with the quickness.

I'm bitching, I know, but that is what this bloggyblog is for; just look up at the page's name if you don't believe me.

You know the dumbest part? I don't even remember what I came on here to post about in the first place.

(And no, it was not about the stupid day of cheap wine and apologetic roses. I hate this fucking "holiday".)

Oh! I remember. I'm pissed because the symptoms of my fms are so fucking fuckled that it is seemingly impossible for my doctors to get any other sort of diagnosis to happen.

There. I remembered. High five to me.

Now I'm going to get off of this computer and do something constructive that won't hurt.

Wee little bitch sammitch

Today was a Good Day. There was crochet time, cleaning time, relaxing time, hockey time (Dear Flyers: please improve your goddamn shootout percentages.), giggle time and silly time.

Perhaps that pile of Good Day is behind my toothache, hungry-hungry-headache & double leg-aches.

Also, a hot bath was had, a delicious dinner, purring footwarmer and a whole book full of Ogden Nash. He wrote most of my most beloved poems and always gives me a hearty chuckle
With his odd timing and meter and winsome habit of swashing a buckle
But I am not as skilled as him,
In writing a splendiferous poem.

Things

I'd been house bound for 22 days until Sunday morning.
Visitors are much fewer and even further in between, with the help of our utterly fuckled sewer system. Sometimes the loneliness gets to be so loud and grating that it overpowers me.
Yesterday I cried for five or six hours, cut myself, cried some more and then the hub took me to the bar for a bit, which was a good idea. There was a lonely looking dude there so I made nice & introduced the newcomer to our friends.

No one should be lonely.

Internal/External Headache

Few things:

Our sewer line, which has been backing up into our basement, is now fixed. No longer must we hold it in or put our used tp in a plastic bag.

Our borough office is decidedly fucking with me by saying the entire conversation I had with them 3 days ago was completely different than it actually was. Um. Right.

I've had a headache for so long that at this point I'm wondering if a non-headache existence was merely a dream.

If I'm correct in my calculations, the last time I left this house was last year.

Wants: sledgehammer, warmth, v/gf french bread.

Needs: interaction, booty, fresh air.

Because I am allowed to bitch:

December. The bitchiest month of them all. The transmission went on my car, which is our only car. Then inspection issues. Arrividerci, $2800.
My birthday was last Friday. Ive been severely depressed. We'd planned a party. The basement toilet vomited all over down there. Cancel party. Hub & plumber friend temp fix it. Hub & other friend temp fix it again. Hub and I temp fix it, again. Plumber friend is back.
I'm trying really hard to find the lighter side of things, but it is goddamn difficult when shit just keeps going wrong.

The good: a dear old friend visited for lunch today, and I made the Best Meal Ever™. Thai coconut soup, vegetable sushi and cold sesame noodles. All from scratch, all delicious, all gone. *burp*. A few nights ago I was given my birthday cake, which was sweeter on the inside.

Life is shit sometimes, but it's not all bad.

Now my throbbing jaw and I are going to make the best of the evening and doodle while medicating.