I was going to tell you all about the awesome four day weekend I had this weekend just past.
I was going to tell you about bookstores and masturdating and parks and recreation and old fucks and Buddha by the rhododendron and fishing and fiction.
But no.
No.
I can’t do that right now.
Because fuck me, that’s why.
I let the doc put me on geodon. It’s an antipsychotic. Hear me out. I had it on good authority that it could, in fact, help with the mixed episodes I’ve been experiencing a lot lately.
Problem is…turns out I’m allergic to the shit. Severely.
I’ve been throwing up for 2-3 days straight, no chaser. Seriously. I chased it with anti-vomityourgutsup juice, and I vomited the anti-vomityourgutsup juice out.
Big ass rash spreading across the back of my neck.
Bubbles on my arm (blister).
Dizziness and worsening headache.
Confusion. Randomly stopping myself mid-thought or even mid-sentence.
Itching.
Massive edema.
Fucking. (Yeah right. No such luck.)
Torn up guts.
Itching. Did I mention this COOKIEMONSTERFORSAKEN ITCHING?! MOTHERFUCK, I ITCH.I’d pay somebody to scratch my itch, but I think that’s called solicitation.
Anyway. The one thing it geodon DIDN’T fuck with, clearly, is my ragingly filthy mind. So there’s that. And also my cookiediction. Me want cookies. Now. (Also. May I borrow someone’s kids so I can “not” teach them this lesson by what is obviously The Real Cookie Monster, please stand up?)
The one thing I DIDN’T get as a side effect was the heart-racing arrhythmia. It’s a damn good thing, because if that box had gotten ticked, he was going to have to admit me. My heart was not only NOT racing, it was lower than he’s ever recorded it. 42. I think? OH MY GOD, MY HEART IS THE MEANING OF LIFE?! I KNEW IT!
Anyturtles. My GP said I met every single other criterion for the Rare and Severe reactions. Yay me!
A man once told me I was rare. Now I know what he meant. RARE AND SEVERE AND FUCKED UP.
I kid.
Mostly.
Except I don’t kid. You kid. Keep the kids over there. Because I’m MANGRY.
Because.
Because.
On top of forvomigen, the nausea med he gave me that doesn’t work, he also gave steroids. Lots and lots of steroids that I have to take for six fucking days.
He asked if I had any issue taking short-term steroids to stop my allergic responses and wipe out the rash. I said no, except Hulk. He was mildly puzzled, then laughed when I said YOU know….then I made rage face and said Hulk Angry! Only some of that actually happened. I’ll let you work it out.
So I’m on steroids for a week. And I’m sweating and angry and itching and sore. AND NOT FOR ANY OF THE FUN REASONS.
And I can’t make my brainhole focus on the things I WANTED to write about.
Fucking fuckstick douchecanoe handledick. Oooo handledick. New one. That works a myriad of ways, that one.
Anyway. I’m gonna fuck off outta here.
Just wanted to say Hi.
Just wanted to say I’m Pissed Off.
Just wanted to say I Miss You.
Just wanted to say Bye Fuckers, Because ME MANGRY.
Oh. And for what it’s worth? Either I was on one of my upswings already, or geodon was actually helping me. Because starting the drug coincided with the start of a major uptick in my moods and mindset. So. Let’s hope it wasn’t the geodon. Because now I’m pissed that I can’t take it anymore. WAAAAAAH. Look at me. Crying like a bitch. MANGRY.
P.S. If that mangry music isn’t your thing, mute it and watch. Because Sully Erna is in Fine Fucking Form here. Shirtless. Shoeless. Perfect jeans. Yum. You know what? I’ll take my steroids with a side of Sully. (Unfortunately, that’s the only good part of the video. The rest of it is wrestling or boxing or nascar or some other lame shit where grownass boys beat each other up for money.) (Hey, don’t start in on me! I told you I’m mangry! It’s in the title! FUCKING STEROIDS. GRAWR.) (But now I’m sleepy and itchy and mangry and hungry and sweaty and ARRGGGHHHHHHH I SAID GOOD DAY!)
P.S. Numberonius Twovicus. How about a preview of last weekend, hm?
I wanna write something here. I really do. I have a real craving to sit down and blog. But nothing is coming to me. Nothing. I’m also having trouble reading, focusing on words and keeping them in memory long enough to properly process what I’ve read. And that’s upsetting, because I deeply value what I’ve found here: the solace and camaraderie of this community are pretty fucking epic. I can only hope that this shithouse feeling will pass.
Look at the little sack. Just fucking sitting there. Being sad. What a sad sack.
In the meantime, I’m gonna update you on mental health mumbo jumbo. (Dudes, I’m totally gonna belittle it and use words like “crazy.” Trust me when I say I know how deeply important it is to monitor and treat mental health issues. But I tend toward self-deprecation. Hell everything-deprecation. So yeah.) (I’m also in a kind of grrrr mood. Should I have led with that? I should have led with that.) (Wait, I kinda did with the title, huh?) (I mean, that whole “sad-sack” thing was kind of a dead giveaway.) (Please disregard these parentheticals.) (Someone come here and make me stop it.)
I grow weary of talking about depressing shit (I mean, depression is pretty fucking depressing, don’t ya think?) (And who wants to talk about that shit all the time? I sure as fuck don’t.). But right now, it’s what I’ve got: a big fat steaming pile of depressing shit. So I’m gonna update you and maybe (hopefully) get some of this worked outta my system. Where to begin, though? I guess there’s only one place to begin.
She’s the One They Call Dr. Feelgood
I followed through on the psychiatry appointment on December 21. And then she made me see her again on December 28. And now I have to see her again this Saturday, January 9.
The first appointment went a little something like this:
I show up fifteen minutes early, because that’s how I do.
Dr. Feelgood shows up forty-five minutes later (a half hour late to her own fucking practice hours).
Meanwhile, I suffer and ponder murder and pyromania, my rage significantly exacerbated by the concert-volume country music pumping through the speakers. “It has to be that loud sugar. How else’s people gon’ not hear each other’s sessions? This here’s a small office,” explained Rodeo Rhonda, chain-smoking, Wrangler-clad secretary extraordinaire. (It was clear whose turn it was to select the radio station that afternoon.)
I shared the waiting room with a fellow crazy person, who made me wonder what the fuck I was doing there. That crazy motherfucker changed seats at least once every five minutes, all the while yammering on ninety to nothin’ about how this bitch better not dare take him off his drugs. “I will turn that bitch’s desk over! I will throw a fit until she agrees that I know more about panic disorder than she does! She won’t take away my disability!” (This was his first session (with Dr. Feelgood), too, by the way. I don’t know much about panic disorder, but I’m pretty sure the dude was at least verging on panic – except he was super smiley and laughy. He was also pretty fucking nosy – he kept sticking his head to the wall and shushing me while he eavesdropped on Rodeo Rhonda and her conversations with the other patients trickling in. Also. He diagnosed me as Bipolar 1, since I was nervous and couldn’t stop bouncing my leg and fidgeting. He declared me manic and told me what drugs to ask for. (Don’t worry. I didn’t lend that any credence.))
After two other patients had been called into see Dr. Feelgood before either of us, Panicky Pete had a moment of clarity. “Hey! What time was your appointment for?!” “Mine was supposed to be 4:00,” I returned. He started laughing and (literally) smacked himself in the forehead. “Lemme guess, yours was for 4:00 as well?” Yep. Turns out, not only were both of us scheduled for 4:00, but so were the two people who ended up being seen ahead of us. They were established patients – and they get seen first, no matter who shows up first or what your appointment time was. Nice, right?
She was pretty quick with them, and then spent a good half hour with a drug rep. I was pretty fucking wound up by this point. And none too keen on the woman in whose hands I was about to place my mental health. (I will add here, about Panicky Pete, that I’m thankful for him. I would not have waited an hour and a half had he not kept me occupied and chatted-up. My anxiety was fierce enough to propel me right out the front door, that is until he started talking to me.)
After a solid hour and a half wait, it was my turn.
I didn’t get to say a lot – well, that’s not exactly true. Uhm. I didn’t get to do much free-talking. She had her forms and checklists, and she asked lots of questions. In my replies to her, I was essentially able to share everything I’d hoped to be able to share with a counselor (except the self-harm – I just reread that post, and that’s the one thing I see that didn’t get mention).
I had to fight her a lot harder than the counselor, to keep from being hospitalized. But I prevailed. And she finished a forty-five minute session with diagnoses. And drugs. I’m not sure how I feel about any of it.
The Diagnoses: Bipolar II, Major Depressive Disorder, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
The Drugs: Lamictal, Lexapro, Lithium, Vistaril and Clonidine. Oh and over-the-counter Vitamin D3 5000 IU.
Yeah. That’s a fuckton of drugs, yo. A fuckton. And, as I said, I’m not sure how I feel about any of it. But to keep my ass from being admitted to a psych ward, I had to agree to take the drugs.
I took the drugs.
The second appointment went a little something like this:
Dr. Feelgood asked whether I was feeling better. I informed her that I was not. And that I was actually even more tired than before, and still depressed and crying and magnetized to my bed.
Dr. Feelgood says, “hmmmm.”
I informed her as well that I was having major sleep disturbances, same as I had when I was on Cymbalta. I wake up all throughout the night, sometimes hourly, sometimes with difficulty falling back asleep.
Dr. Feelgood says, “hmmmm” and ups the Clonidine and writes new prescriptions for two more weeks of the drugs.
No mentions are made of hospitalization this time, and she says she can wait two weeks to see me this time, instead of one. But y’all, I can’t fucking afford to keep this up. Not only the cost of Dr. Feelgood’s appointments, but also the fucking lab work that she says I’ll have to regularly submit to for monitoring Lithium levels.
The third appointment is this Saturday. In the meantime, I still feel like shit. In some ways, I feel a lot fucking worse.
Bitchplaint #1 (I couldn’t decide between bitching and complaining. Hence bitchplaint.) Anyway, Bitchplaint #1: Lithium. I didn’t wanna take Lithium. I still don’t wanna take Lithium. I don’t think I need Lithium. I’ve never. EVER. Had full-blown mania. Seriously. NEVER. And I told her that. Now I realize that Lithium can be used to treat more than Bipolar I, but I still don’t think I need it.
Bitchplaint #2: My hand is shaking. A lot. Like, I dropped a glass of water in the kitchenette at work yesterday, because my hand jerked.
Bitchplaint #3: I haven’t had a full night of sleep since December 21. And I’m sick to death of waking up multiple times a night.
Bitchplaint #4: I’m fucking tired. And not just tired from lack of sleep, but lethargic. I could pass out at my desk. Right. Now. And in the rare moments when I feel well-rested (snort…that’s funny), I just feel this general lethargy and malaise. Kinda goes hand in hand with giving even less of a fuck about anything now than before I was drugged.
Bitchplaint #5: I’m dazed and confused (sing it!), and sometimes dizzy. Y’all would not believe how long this is taking me to write.
Bitchplaint #6: I finafuckingly got the edema from arthritis under control. And guess the fuck what – I’m swelling like a motherfucker from something I’m taking. And who knows what, since she threw five drugs at me at once!
Bitchplaint #7: I know you’re supposed to give these things time. But fucking fuck fuck! It’s been like three weeks now. And I still feel like hot buttered shit. Worse, in a lot of ways. When do I get to start feeling better? Or, hell, at least back where I was!
Bitchplaint #8: This probably goes back in with #4. But fuck it, we’re here now. I’m committed to #8. Hi #8. This one is that I’ve cracked maybe half a dozen real smiles or laughter since December 21. Some things have amused me, intellectually. Like, “Hey, this is hilarious. I love this kinda shit.” “P.S. Why the fuck aren’t you laughing? Laugh! LAUGH!” Nope. Not happening. And that is perhaps the most unbearable one of all.
Between now and Saturday morning, I’ll come up with some eloquent way of expressing my concerns to Dr. Feelgood. Crossing my fingers she listens.
~
To top it all off, last Thursday (as in: seven days ago, AKA NYE) I was hit with one of the more severe migraines I’ve had in a while. I’ve had daily (not kidding) headaches since I was little. Sometimes they turn into migraines. My father said, “a head like that’s supposed to hurt.” My mother filled me with Tylenol and, when that stopped working, Excedrin Extra-Strength. Daily. Multiple times a day. Fast-forward to now, and I still live like that. Managing headaches. Trying my best not to take BC powders (which I graduated to a few years ago), because I know they’re bad for me. Then ending up in tears at work, so I buckle and take one.
Well, last Thursday I was waylaid with the migraine from hell. And I spent the next four days in bed. The rest of Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. I took nothing for my head in all that time. I just lay in the dark, crying and thinking decapitation would be an improvement. I had to call in to work on Monday, which I simply do not do. Since it hadn’t abated at all, I went to my doctor. He had his nurse administer two shots (one of which nearly made me faint, for realsies), then prescribed some pills. I don’t even really know what they are, just that they don’t work. Which, I suppose, is all that matters.
So, here I am seven days later, with a headache from hell. It still hasn’t gone away, though it has (somewhat) lessened in severity.
This shit is not improving my mood.
~
So Dr. Feelgood better not give me any lip on Saturday! Because I’ll! I’ll! Crumble.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell y’all about the MRI. But only if you behave. Which remains to be seen.
~
This post brought to you by:
Lithium. Say it with me, boys and girls. Lithium! Hooray!
And thecheekyhousewife, who prompted me to dig into my draft and get this bitch done. Because it’s been like a week since I posted! Y’all go check her out. Anyone with a tagline that reads, “Bend Over And Grab Your Ankles, 2016. You’re About To Get Spanked.” is a worthy read indeed!
I did it. I went through with the therapy session on Thursday. Reckon it’s past time to update you. But you should know, going in, this is going to be a bitch of a post. Avoid it if you need to.
Have some Portishead for your listening pleasure. This is what I’m listening to while I force myself to get this out.
~
Pre-Game Panic Attack
The appointment was for 1:00 PM on Thursday, so I was at work all morning leading up to it. You’d think that would be a nice distraction, but it wasn’t. Queen Bitch has impeccable timing and went on her worst rampage yet this past week. (I’ll save work for a separate post to try to keep this semi-coherent.) So I don’t know how much of my pre-appointment nausea and vomiting was from therapy anticipation and fear and how much of it was the extreme stress Queen Bitch had me under.
By the time I got myself to the counseling center, I was a bundle of nerves. I smiled at the receptionist and filled out my paperwork. Thankfully, I was alone in the waiting room. I had so much pent up anxiety, I felt I could literally bounce off of the walls…and not in a fun way. Imagine severe chest pain, heart racing, rapid breathing, roiling stomach, my leg bouncing up and down ninety to nothin’, mouth chewing on a hoodie cord, eyes scanning the room for every minute detail, hands twisting and squeezing each other. That was me, pre-therapy Thursday. It took everything I had to stop myself from bolting.
Off to an Anticlimactic Start
The counselor finally fetched me from the waiting room at around 1:05. (Yeah. That pissed me off.) Let’s call her Diane. Tall, blonde, forty-something Diane. At least she’s older than me, I thought. They nearly placed me with someone who graduated this past May. I cringed. Maybe it seems superficial, but it’s far less about age and more about experience.
Anyway. Friendly enough, on the surface. She smiled and shook my hand, led me to her office. While the waiting room makes the building look new(ish), Diane’s office was poorly appointed. Seriously, her chairs and couch had tears in the upholstery. I kind of approved, because I don’t want to be therapized by someone with a mahogany desk and all leather furniture. She said I could sit anywhere – I just took the chair facing her desk. I asked permission to place my wallet and keys on her desk, then shoved my fists in my hoodie pockets and willed myself to not bounce my leg and look around the room like a crazy person.
I began relaxing a bit at this point, because Diane spent the first few minutes filling out paperwork. A differently formatted document with the exact same information I’d already filled out at reception. Full name? Address? Social Security Number? Bust size? (Kidding, she didn’t ask for my social.) (Got you again. Look, it’s a good sign that I’m at least trying to joke, right?) Then she went over their policies and her personal qualifications. Twenty years as a counselor with this same group. Good sign, right?
I’ve been doing this for a long time, okay? And I’ve worked with every age group, but I no longer work with children. I did for many years, but I had to give that up. I work with people like you now. And don’t worry. You’re perfectly normal. You’re definitely not crazy, right? You’re not crazy. You’re just sad. You’re here because you’re sad.
I hope it doesn’t offend you when I use words like “normal” and “crazy”…
And just like fucking that, she’d formed her opinion and diagnosis of me. I walk through the motherfucking door, am able to show up and shake her hand and be calm and civil. And I’m just sad. Nothing more, nothing less. So glad this process was so fucking easy.
Then she grabs her little legal pad and starts in with her own standard list of questions, the answers to which she notes on her pad:
Have you received counseling or psychiatric treatment before? No.
Do you work? Yes, full-time. What do you do? I sit at a computer all day. Oh, do you like it? Yes, it’s so much fun.
*chuckles* Relationship status? Well, it’s like this… Children? No.
Parents? Married/divorced? Living? Location? Uhm. Uh. Well. Uhm. See. Well. *breathes* They divorced when I was little. They’re both still alive, last I heard. Uhm. Uhm. I think. Maybe. I think. Maybe. My mom is maybe in town again. My father lives in _____. I see. And what sort of relationship do you have with them? I don’t. *fidgets*
Siblings? One brother and one sister.
…
…
Do you want me to give you more details? I’m not sure how detailed you want my responses.
She then went into this long spiel explaining the two different ways of approaching counseling: starting from the past and working forward or starting in the present and working backward. She said that people usually had a preference, but she doesn’t. She just looked at me, and I just looked back.
All this time, Diane has been looking down at her phone. Look at me, ask a question, look at phone, note my response on the pad, look at phone, look at me, ask a question, look at phone, note my response….forget what she asked me and ask me again. Yeah.
I finally broke the awkward pause with something like:
Well, I’m not in any danger. I mean, if you want me to start by talking about my childhood, I’ll do that. If you’d rather hear about what’s going on right now, I can do that, too. I don’t know what I need or what’s best, really.
On Unprofessionalism and Suicidal Ideation
It was at this point, this crossroads of sorts, where she finally asked me what had led me to be there that day. She had her checklist and wanted to go by rote, and I wanted to know what we were doing and why. So she asked me. What led you here?
I’ve been depressed for years. And while I managed it best I could for a long time, it’s spiraled out of control over the last couple of years. And now…and now…my thoughts have gotten so dark that they scare me.
“Tell me what you mean by ‘dark thoughts.'”
Suicide. I think about suicide every day. And. But. Well. You see, it’s not so much that I want to kill myself. It’s that I don’t wish to be alive anymore. I don’t want to feel this way, but I can’t seem to make it stop.
“I’d call that danger.”
I’m sorry?
“You just told me that you aren’t in any danger. And now you’re telling me you think about suicide every day. Ongoing suicidal ideation is serious danger. Do you really think about it every day? Do you have a plan?
Well, I mean I think stuff. Bad stuff. You know. But I don’t have a plan. Like a specific plan. You know, written down. I don’t have a plan. No. And I would never do it. I would never act on it.
“Then tell me what you think about. Specifically. Tell me exactly what goes through your mind in your so-called dark thoughts. What do your suicidal thoughts look like?”
Well. I mean. Okay. Okay. There’s a gun. In the closet. And. Well. I think about the gun. And I think about…you know… (I’m crying now, talking softly. twisting my hands so much they’re throbbing in pain.)…I think about how it would affect other people. And I don’t want to make it hard on someone who finds me and has to clean up after me. So….so I wouldn’t do it in the house. I’d go outside. To the backyard. And…and I’d do it there. So I wouldn’t make a mess of the house or damage it or make it hard to sell after I’m dead. You know? That’s not really a plan is it? I guess that’s a plan.
But I wouldn’t do it. I’d miss or something and end up disfigured and living in a convalescent home.
She wrote “gun” and “plan” and something else on her pad. “You have a gun in the house?”
Yes.
“What else do you think? Are there other ideas?”
Well. This one. This one’s really bad, and I don’t…I don’t think I should tell you. It’s horrible. (tears are streaming down my face) But. Well. I imagine. You know. I imagine getting in my car. Getting onto the interstate late at night. Driving dangerously fast. Turning my headlights off. Closing my eyes.
But I would never do it. I swear I would never do that, because it would hurt someone else. It just pops into my mind completely unbidden.
“What else? Is there more?”
My arthritis medicine. I get it in three-month quantities. I’ve thought about taking them. All of them. At once. But I know that’s useless. I would just end up with my stomach pumped.
“Stephanie, your name is Stephanie right? Those are plans. Specific plans. And you are in serious danger.”
Somewhere in the middle of all of that, she interrupted me. She had been looking at her cell phone off and on the whole time, and at some point – while having me detail my thoughts on suicide – she interrupted me. Told me to hang on, and then texted her son.
I told her again that these are things I think about, but I’m not choosing to think about it. And I fight so hard not to entertain those thoughts or allow them to linger. But they rise up, unbidden, and I can’t always will them into silence.
On Reasons to Live and Hospitalization
“Everyone has to have a reason to live,” Diane pronounces. “You’ve demonstrated you’re strong and have a will to live. You made the appointment. You drove yourself here today. You kept the appointment. All of this was done of your own free will. Tell me what you live for. Tell me the positive things that you cling to in order to keep going and keep those thoughts at bay.”
I looked at her, my cheeks tear-stained and my eyes clouded, and I said…
I got nothin’
I don’t have family. I don’t have friends. I hate my job. I don’t want to get out of bed in the mornings. I feel sad when I wake that I made it through another night. I got nothin, Diane.
Well. I recently started blogging. And the people I’ve met there, online, are amazing and have offered so much support.
And. And. (crying and practically whispering) I have this…this vague hope that just won’t die. This vague hope that maybe, just maybe there’s a brighter future for me. A happy ending.
She scribbles “internet” on her little Stephanie page and says, “I’m talking about real life here.”
Church? No. Social club? Like a book club? No. Bars? No. Professional memberships? No. Work friends? No. Family contact or support? No. Really? Nothing? Nothing.
She spent the rest of the time between trying to convince me to be hospitalized (she lacks the authority to have me admitted without my consent) and defining “thoughts,” “feelings” and “behaviors” to me. Like I’m a fucking child and don’t know the fucking difference.
Again she told me I’m only sad, and there’s nothing deeply wrong with me. “You’re not crazy; don’t worry.” I tried to tell her there’s a lot more to it. I told her that sometimes I have wild mood swings and get very hyperactive, sometimes happy hyperactive and sometimes angry hyperactive. She said, “Oh, everyone does that. You’re not one of the crazies or you wouldn’t be here today.”
She really wanted me to consent to hospitalization. She said she’d take me in her car, right then and there. She said that no matter how hard people fight their thoughts, that if they’re persistent and ongoing for as long as mine have been, eventually everyone follows through.
Thoughts. Feelings. Behavior. “It is unavoidable. Eventually those thoughts and feelings result in acting out in a behavior. You can’t escape it. It’s ingrained. It is inevitable.”
But I stood my ground. In order to keep her from calling a psychiatrist and having them admit me against my will, I had to agree to some things:
Get rid of the gun. Or lock it up and give someone else the key.
Email her Thursday night telling her I had done so.
Show up for an appointment next Wednesday at noon.
Get a notebook and log my feelings. Like a motherfucking four year old. I can tell her my feelings. I know my feelings. I know my thoughts. And I know my behaviors. Stupid fucking shit.
As yet, I haven’t done any of those things. Though I have made a note in my phone, which I open occasionally and add a time and feeling to.
On Medication
She also told me that medication is unnecessary. That too many people are medicated, and it usually gives you brain damage. “You don’t need medication, because you aren’t crazy. Crazy people have brain damage. That’s what it is! It’s brain damage! But you don’t need it, because you’re normal.”
But. “Seeing as you’re suicidal, medication may not be a bad idea to get your moods regulated. Then during talk therapy, I’ll teach you TFB through CBT and you’ll get right off that crazy person medicine.”
I told her I have an appointment with a psychiatrist on December 21. She was shocked, saying it takes months to get in with one. But my insurance company found one for me. Apparently she’s only going to diagnose and medicate, though. So I don’t know how I feel about it. I’ll at least keep the appointment, though.
Final Thoughts
Diane is crap. She laser focused on one thing and refused to hear anything else about me. And her plan is bullshit and so was her motherfucking brain diagram she scribbled to show me that I’m behaving like an animal on instinct rather than a rational human being. But I know I need help, and if being accountable to that nonsense-spewing unprofessional moron helps me even a small amount? Then it’s worth it. For now.
I just rambled a buncha shit, y’all, and probably forgot most of it. But I just couldn’t muster up the strength to write sooner. To those of you whom I’ve worried, please accept my sincerest apologies. I’ve had an absolute week from hell, and I’ve pretty much been in bed since I got off of work yesterday. I’ll do my best to catch up on emails and things soon. I miss reading y’all, too!
I’ll be back on the upswing soon, you’ll see. (I believe that. I have to.) Maybe a music party tomorrow or somethin’, hey?
Thank you all so much for your thoughtful messages and support. As always, you’re the bestest.
This is the one and only thing I’m going to say about today’s events in Paris on this blog: I’m here, as ever, for diversion and release. I have no intention of turning this into a political blog. The thoughts and feelings I have about what’s going on over there – and anywhere else with suffering and terror – will stay with me or within the confines of one-on-one conversation.
Hop Aboard the Crazy Train: A Meet & Greet
So. What I’d like to do, for those who are of like mind, is call for you crazies to come forth and meet one another. I’m still new around these parts, but I’ve already met some Kick Ass People here. And some of you are a similar level of crazy as me. And I think you fuckers should meet each other and introduce us to Still More Kick Ass Crazies.
Here’s what I would LOVE to see happening in comments (y’all are the best fucking commenters on EARTH, FYI):
Please feel free to post links to any of your own crazy posts. Or your about page. Or whatever.
Please post links to any crazies that you think the rest of us should be introduced to. We wanna meet some new people in this bitch, too! And the bestest Meet & Greets have people linking themselves AND other people!
If you don’t curse and don’t want it on your own blog’s comments…please feel free to mention that you only like to watch the filth (pervert) and don’t bring it to you. I totally get that. (I try to behave in others’ comments. Please slap me when I forget my manners.)
Please click each others’ linkies!
This my first time trying one of these. I think it’s needed tonight, to bring some levity, if only to my little corner of cyberspace. If it works out, I’ll see about making it a semi-regular thing. I’ve had so much fun meeting you crazy bastards that I’m greedy for more!
P.S. You can post here as much as you like, as many links or over as many days. I may post some this weekend, but I doubt it will get buried too far if at all. Go crazy! Please.
Some Inspirational Jams, Hand-Picked for the Occasion
*The protagonist of this true story tale of whimsy shall be referred to as Eduardo. (Make sure to roll the “r,” or the fake name loses its charm.) His true identity shan’t be revealed. I assure you this is quite necessary, as I would meet a certain death were I to reveal it.
**Eduardo insisted I refer to him as Company Man rather than Company Lizard. He called me specist, but I think he’s just being sensitive. I say we should refer to him as the Company Being and be done with it. He told me to stop being an asshole.
This is a true story, except for the parts that aren’t almost all of it.
~
Chance Encounter with a Company Man
I first met Eduardo the night he appeared outside my bathroom window. I was startled, to be sure, but immediately smitten. As soon as I laid eyes upon him, I clasped my hands and gave a sopranic* shriek of delight before dissolving into a mass of giggles. (*Sopranic is definitely the adjectival of soprano; trust me on this.)
He hadn’t meant to blow his cover, and he blames me for the Lavatory Rendezvous. You see, he’s drawn to the light. It’s a serious weakness for someone in his line of work. But so long as the bathroom light beckoned into the darkness, Eduardo was my prisoner and I was in control. (Eduardo is an opportunist, you see. And nighttime lights provide a veritable buffet of light-drawn insects.)
Before we parted, I asked Eduardo to pose for a photograph. He tried to refuse but knew I would have my way so long as the light switch was in the up position. But he did adamantly protest a portrait. I readily acquiesced; after all, I wouldn’t want him being taken out. So long as I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup, there remained plausible deniability. Besides, he said, his belly is his best side.
Eduardo, fearlessly and shamelessly exposing his soft underbelly. He asked me not to tell you that I pet his belly through the glass. Oops. Sorry, Eduardo.
Eduardo returned every night for weeks after that initial encounter. Drawn by the light that I switched on at dusk and left on until bedtime, summoning him to the window.
I learned that it’s tough for a lizard (skink, whatever) in The Company. Shower times are particularly problematic. People don’t seem to understand his need to climb the walls and peer down, flicking his tongue at rogue water droplets in hopes that one of them turns out to be a bug. So now he showers alone, but he hasn’t found anyone to turn the faucets on for him. No thumbs, you see.
Besides, he’d always aspired to be an Observer.
The resemblance is uncanny.
I told him the Observers weren’t real, and he said, “You know nothing, human.” This time I called him a specist, but he only snorted in derision. According to Eduardo, the requirements to become an Observer are far more rigorous than those of The Company. But it’s on his bucket list. For now, he just tries to avoid being called a spook. He prefers Company Man to that.
Over the course of our nightly visits, Eduardo filled me in on his life story. He’s Brazilian, which you may have surmised from his chosen pseudonym. It was no accident, that, though he hasn’t worn a ponytail since his days as a capoeira instructor when he used it as a weapon.
We talked about music – he turned me on to salsa and water drumming; I turned him on to the Chili Peppers and LL Cool J. And he spoke of his wandering eye, his philandering ways, hence why he’d chosen this life over settling down and having a passel of lizardlets. I swear I saw a glint in his eye, the tiniest scintillating hint of a tear, but he dismissed it as a shimmering scale left behind from his last meal. I let it go. A lizard man has his pride.
~
It’s been nigh on a month since last we met. I’ve all but given up on the nightly lighting ritual. Try as I might, I can’t help but think the worst.
Eduardo is most certainly floating face-down in the Mediterranean Sea, subsequent to being shot when he had a change of heart in the midst of an assassination attempt. I can only hope that some gruff but kindly fisherman will happen upon Eduardo and rescue him before he freezes to death.
But until I know for sure, I’ll leave the light on.
This anime with the weirdly punctuated name (Steins;Gate – REALLY?!) is supposed to be my jam. I’ve had it downloaded for a while, but I was busy finishing up FMAB (Full Metal Alchemist: Brotherhood…much better punctuation in that one). Barring a few exceptions, I’m super late to anime and only seriously got into it within the last five years.
This semi-wannabe-kinda sorta review thingy should be taken with this in consideration: I just came off of FMAB. And, quite frankly (hi again, Frank), I don’t think anything can or will ever top it. Naturally, after coming off of something of such epic magnitude, the first thing to follow is going to be a huge, flaccid disappointment. (Yes, I meant to say flaccid.) (Yes I know what flaccid means.) (Okay, I’ll stop saying flaccid.) (Prude.)
So. Steins;Gate.
The Premise
“After discovering time travel, a university student and his colleagues must use their knowledge of it to stop an evil organization and their diabolical plans.” (Premise brought to you by a direct copy/paste from IMDb. Because I’m lazy. But I’m no plagiarist – I cite my sources. Hmph.)
Here’s another direct copy/paste – this time from user j4x: “Okabe Rintarou, an university student who refers to himself as Crazy Mad Scientist Hououin Kyouma and his lab’s members work on a microwave device that can transfer messages to the past. Without getting captured, they should get it working in order to beat the evil organization, SERN and stop their evil plans.”
Sounds right up my alley, alright. So I understand the recommendation. Anime? Check. Sci-fi? Check. Time travel? Check. Conspiracy theories? Check. Mental disturbances? Check. Social anxiety? Check. Good vs. Evil? Check. Geeky/pervy techy sidekick? Check. Smart women? Check. I mean, really. There are so many things for me to like about this.
But I’ve had problems with it, and I’m only three episodes in.
Problems I’ve had with it, only three episodes in
Mayuri Shiina is a major character. As the lifelong friend and financier/snack supplier of the main character, Mayuri is around a lot. She works at some cafe where she dresses like a kitty cat and prances and meows for customers. Look, I get it. A lot of pre-teen or even teenaged geeks really dig watching adult anime girls dress and act like helpless little girls in short skirts and tiny little voices. And oh my god does Mayushii have a tiny little voice. It drives me batshit. The character is sweet, unassuming, just darling. Fine. But does she have to sound like an infant? Grump grump grump. Steins;Gate does have at least one strong female character that I’ve met thus far. But Mayuri gets under my skin. I think FMAB spoiled me to strong chicks in anime. To be fair, they haven’t fan serviced her yet. Yet.
Let’s not even talk about the pink-haired coworker of Mayuri. She’s up there in the promo pic. So far, I’ve only seen her in her work costume. With kitten ears and making her hands into paws. So she can act like a cat. And meow. I may have just vomited typing that. Not yet. But close.
There are also these scenes where the mad scientist is hanging out in hacker chat rooms trying to solve his mysteries. (Are they mysteries, or is he crazy? That’s a major plot point, and that is somewhat intriguing. But I’m also pretty sure the answer to that is obvious.) Okabe/Hououin goes into these underground hacker/conspiracy chat rooms, and you (the viewer) are looking at the screen and inundated with lines and lines of chat room text. It’s overwhelming, and I get superanxious trying to read all of it. How are you to know which pieces to pay attention to and which to discard as extraneous information? ARGH! I should have taken a screenshot so you can see what I mean. But I didn’t, and I’m at work. So. Yeah. I kept pausing over and over and over again so that I wouldn’t miss a single line of text. I’m sure most of it was extraneous and irrelevant, but I couldn’t help myself. Text was there! Demanding to be read!
I just haven’t been grabbed. It hasn’t captivated me yet. Is it because of the annoying little things I’m picking apart? Or do I have time to pick it apart and notice annoying little things because it hasn’t captivated me yet?
Things I do Like Thus Far
Itaru, better known as Daru, is the hacker of the top secret future lab. UGH. And I just got a fucking spoiler when I looked for a picture of him to include here. And now I’m pissed! Hmph. Don’t google the show unless you want spoilers. Anyway! Daru is the stereotypical otaku guy. Fat, lazy, geeky, whip-smart with all things techy/computer. And he’s a pervert. It’s funny watching him call Okabe out on his eccentricities and delusions. And it’s funnier still when he tries to make the girls say things like, “his banana is floppy.” I like Daru. Daru makes me laugh, and that’s super important.
I love how weird and eccentric and over-the top Okabe is. His labcoat. His maniacal laughter. The way he speaks into his phone…while it’s switched off. How convinced he is of his delusions. And how real I really think they are.
The time travel. The conspiracy theories. The phone microwave time machine thingy. The gel bananas. The floppy gel bananas. The mean (but not really) super. The time jumps and multiple timelines. Love it.
To Continue or Cut My Losses
Only three episodes in, now is the time to quit if I’m not diggin’ it. I mean, I’ve only put in an hour of my life thus far. And that’s not too bad at all, especially when there isn’t much else demanding my time. But there are things I hate about it…cut and run.
On the other hand, not everyone can be royalty. I mean. It’s unfair to hold all anime up to FMAB or Ghibli standards (puhleeze). It would be akin to choosing your favorite artist or musician and saying that all else is garbage because it’s not such and such artist or musician. We aren’t going to fall head-over-heels for everything. It’s acceptable to just like something, right? But it’s also probably not a good idea to leave a RHCP concert and expect me to swoon over Yanni five minutes later. I mean, let’s get real. For fucks sake.
Yeah. I’m gonna give it more time. It’s not like I’m hating it. So I’ll watch a few more episodes and reassess.
See? That wasn’t so difficult, now, was it? Now to figure out dinner. Decisions suck. Grump grump grump.
Yesterday, I told y’all that my buddy over at wwwpalfitness nominated me for The Versatile Blogger Award. I’m flattered and pleased as punch and embarrassed and and you get the picture! Please check out his blog – fitness folk will enjoy it, but it’s not all about fitness. So there’s something for everyone.
Award Rules:
If you are nominated, you have been awarded the Versatile Blogger Award. You should:
Thank the person who gave you this award and include a link to his or her blog.
Select fifteen (15) blogs/bloggers that you’ve recently discovered and/or follow regularly. (Choose blogs you find excellent!)
Nominate those fifteen (15) bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award, including a link to the original VBA site.
Notify your nominations!
Finally, don’t forget to tell the person who nominated you seven (7) things about yourself.
7 Things You Didn’t Know About Meh:
I once caught a baby possum and brought him inside. I put him in a shoebox and tried to feed him cheese. I kept petting him even when he hissed at me. I knew he was just scared. I mean, he hadn’t had time to get used his new mommy (me) yet. I used baby talk and cried when he wouldn’t eat. He looked so sad. I can’t remember what I named him, and I released him after an hour or so. I missed him so much. When I told my mother about him, I thought she was going into cardiac arrest. She begged me never to do anything like that again.
I did things like that again. And again. In fact, years later, as an adult…a possum wandered up onto the porch of my little two-bedroom rental house. I fed him cat food and delighted in watching (through the peephole in the door) him argue with the stray cat over just whose porch and cat food that was. I tell myself that was the same possum from my childhood. An actual good memory coming back to me for a change.
I like big butts, and I cannot lie. Okay, actually, I just really really like horrible, cheesy songs. You other brothers can’t deny. Also, I don’t have anything against big butts. Except my own. Except it does provide nice cushioning. Except enough with the exceptions.
I named my cat’s butthole. It’s Senor Stinkerton. I’m actually half lying. I never named either of my cat’s buttholes. Until now. And now, it’s named Senor Stinkerton.
I’m pissed that I can’t figure out how to make the little accent over the n in Senor. Things like this drive me bananas on the daily. If you see things like that, chances are I saw it, too. And, I promise you, it’s driving me even crazier than it’s driving you. And when I miss typos…if I haven’t corrected them, it’s because I didn’t catch it one of the ten thousand times I re-read for editing. I’m sick in the head.
I’m sick in the head. Wait. I can’t use that one. You already know that. Uhm. My favorite band in the whole wide world, in the known universe and beyond, is the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Perhaps I’ll tell you why one day. For now, the why doesn’t matter (except it always matters to me). Just the bowing. Bow down to RHCP. Do it. Now. I’m waiting.
I have this cute little woven hair thingy that I bought in the gift shop of a national park. Last summer. But I promptly lost the little stick that holds it to your hair. So now, I twist my hair up, slap the little woven hair thingy over the sloppy bun and slide a black warrior pencil through it to hold it in place. People pick on me for it at work. And then I forget where my pencil has gone. Like a few minutes ago, but I had to get another because the alternative was to have my messy hair spilling down. And here’s a bonus fact: I like my hair long, but I rarely wear it down. It bothers me on my neck and in my face.
Booyah. Now that’s done, let’s do nominations, or as I shall affectionately call them: nommies. Because that makes them sound tasty.
Nommies:
Y’all I am so new to this. I mean, I’ve been reading blogs off and on for years, but I’ve only just had my WordPress cherry popped. Ew. I can’t believe I just said that. That’s fucking nasty. Anyway. So yeah. I’m gonna nominate fifteen of my new and current favorites that I think the adjective “versatile” suits. (Here’s another bonusbonus fact: this is tough for me, because I live my life worrying about things like hurt feelings. Y’all please don’t get hurt feelings if you’re not here. It would hurt my feelings. And it doesn’t mean I don’t like you. I like you plenty. Will you marry me? Can we paint each others’ toenails?) I’m sharing the award with:
Disclaimer: This post addresses mental illness and suicidal thoughts. Please read with caution and/or avoid if you are wary of triggers. Please also know that this is an outlet for me to vent; it is not a cry for help. We’re all here, blogging, as an outlet for something or other. Sometimes mine will be deeply personal. Today is one of those days.
~
The title of my post is totally telling on myself. (I say totally a lot. Get with the times, man.)
“I’m not crazy, I’m just a little unwell…”
You know. That little lyric from some Matchbox 20 song? I started to be embarrassed:
(a) That I quoted a Matchbox 20 song, and
(2) That I actually kinda liked some of the songs from that one album that time.
And then I said, well you know what? Fuck it! I used to like some Matchbox 20 songs! Kiss my ass! (Yeah, I’m still blushing. Suck it.)
Sometimes (nearly every day) I become convinced that I’m losing – or have already lost – huge irreplaceable chunks of my mind. Do you ever feel that way? No? Fuck me, that’s further proof, innit?
Time for a Tasters’ Choice Moment. So get ready to be made uncomfortable, or just run. Now. And far.
Why do I feel crazy unwell? Allow me to count the ways:
I talk to myself. Okay, look. I’m not the only one that does this at work. I talk to my computer or mumble to myself sometimes when I’m trying to work something out. But that’s not what I’m talking about here. I mean, I stand in front of a mirror and look that bitch straight in the eyes and tell her what a no good piece of shit she is. And then I enumerate the reasons. One by painful, sickening one. And I rage and cry and shake, this wild look in my eyes. It’s sick and twisted and so fucking insanely unhealthy. And I just. Keep. Doing it.
Every single day, I harbor thoughts of death. And I don’t know whether this distinction will make any sense (or any difference) to potential readers, but…it’s not that I want to kill myself. I don’t. It’s that I no longer wish to be alive. Here. On this Earth. With no meaning. No purpose.
Do you ever look at a coworker and (while she’s running her mouth) scream inside your head, “GO EAT A BAG OF DICKS AND JUMP INTO A FLAMING PILE OF FLAMINGO SHIT ALREADY!” Okay, somehow I don’t think this one makes me crazy. I think this one is perfectly normal.
I sometimes sit on the floor, in the corner, at home. Curled up. For an hour or more. Staring off into space and crying. Oh yeah, we’re back into abnormal territory now, baby!
Lately I have nightmares or bad dreams every night. This has been going on for a few weeks now. They used to be more sporadic. But they’ve been every night of late. They’re either really fucked up superscary, dark and terrifying shit. Or they’re really fucked up shit from my childhood. Which, for some reason, my lovely little healthy brain has decided to revisit and replay in sickening detail. Over. And over. And over again. My brain is a fucking asshole.
I need to get back to nature. I’m craving it. Viscerally. I need to get the hiking boots out, dust off the tent and return to the wilderness soon. To remind myself that I have a soul. And to reconnect with it. To commune with nature and be at peace. To feel alive.
*Please know I’m neither soliciting nor hoping for sympathy or the telephone number for National Suicide Prevention. In fact, for those in need, that number is: 1 (800) 273-8255. If you feel that low, call. Call now. I will also kindly direct you to thoughtfully read this.
I just needed to vent, y’all. I really needed to vent today. And hell, I may not be done. I may be back for more. We’ll see.
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