Things that skeer me

I was looking through the Chive today (thechive.com - too lazy to code) and they did an experiment where they had everyone send in a photo of what scared you when you were small. I immediately thought of two things that hadn't crossed my mind in years. Remember the six million dollar man? we have the technology...There was an episode called the death probe. The death probe was this thing:

No matter what, it kept coming and killing. For some reason, I convinced myself that when I was outside, it was going to come lumbering up over the hill and kill us all. Kittens, I was ten years old when this episode aired. Ten.

OMG, I just thought of something that makes me feel marginally better about being a big tit baby. Anyone remember the song about Bigfoot and how he was coming to get you, you better lock the doors? My little brother was in our car listening to the radio when that song came on and scared the living bejeebers out of him. He locked the doors and was crying his little heart out. So while I'm out creeping around trying not to make any vibrations for the death probe to pick up (that's how it found you), I come across that hot mess. Laws, we were some messed up kids! Hmmm. There's one for the therapist. (note to self: find a therapist. Quick.)

Anyhoodles, the second thing that sprang to mind? - this little feller:



Charming, yes? He is Zuni from the Trilogy of Terror. He ate a lady. With his big ole teefs. Really fast, like a piranha. There were other scary parts of that show, I'm sure. I don't remember them. Only him. And how wee he was. Wee enough to fit anywhere in my bedroom. Dresser drawers, closet, under the bed. Hell, under the pillow. And FAST, my he was fast. So fast that even the dog wouldn't be able to save me. And he could jump really far, like from the dresser to my bed.

So...not a lot of sleep for little me after watching that. I have no idea what my parents were thinking, or if they even had recognizable brain activity at that point. Six Million Dollar Man I can understand. You don't expect that to be scary. But when a show is called "Trilogy of Terror" it's a pretty safe bet that it's probably scary.

Now that I've given you a glimpse into the wasteland of my psyche, please do share. Tell me something that scared you so I don't feel like such a goober.

I don't think I'm going to make it

Not through the whole summer anyway. I just can't do it.

One of my goals this summer was to see if I really needed the depression medication, or if I am using them to hide from real emotions. My intention was to go from April until September medication free and see if I could regulate my moods on my own. I've been paying attention to how I feel, what makes me anxious, what angers me, and how I react to each stressor. Not well, my friends, not well. My reactions are all over the chart, from "eh, ok" to "OMFG, THIS IS THE END OF EVERYTHING!!!!!".

And they're very rarely appropriate to the situation. My nephew had the temerity to ask me where to put the net after he finished skimming the pool. This resulted in a ten minute lecture on responsibility, complete with yelling.

At a ten year old.

Who did nothing wrong.

I'm short tempered with Silas. He's getting ready to go to kindergarten next month, which is going to be a big enough adjustment for him without adding a snarky, bitchy mother to the mix.

Yesterday was the clincher. I walk out of the laundry room carrying a basket. SweetieDarling is standing in front of the stairs. That I need to walk up. This affront to my person is simply not acceptable and I break down into a mushy, melty pile of sobs. So I'm standing there crying on my nineteen year old daughter's shoulder. I start to tell her I'm sorry, that I just don't know what's wrong, when I catch a glimpse of her expression.

Then I flash back to my own nineteen year old self. Who is standing there holding her mother while she cries for no reason. And I remember thinking, 'for the love of god why doesn't she just get her shit together and get some help'. (apparently I was not a compassionate child) But my nineteen year old self was right, and even though my daughter didn't say it (she's nicer than I was) she was thinking it. And she's right.

I haven't been doing anything I used to enjoy. I've let the house decline into something that will warrant a visit from Kim and Aggie. I haven't been taking pictures, taking the dogs to the lake, swimming, gardening, blogging, nothing. I've been sitting around staring into space feeling sorry for myself and I'm done.

I start taking proper care of myself today. And I start getting myself back today.

Dear innernetz, please excuse my absence due to...

...general lack of anything nice to say. Did your mother ever tell you "if you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything at all"? Since I haven't had anything good to say about anyone or anything, I've tried to keep my yap shut.

I've taken myself off of my crack anti depressants and have had a bit of an adjustment, as is to be expected. My psychiatrist supervised this little endeavor, btw. I am finally to the point where I am accepting that not everything is going to go the way I want it to, and am dealing with that in a much better way. I have stopped being an ass and learned to monitor and control my moods.

I think I was on the prozac out of sheer laziness. Truly, I do. It is so much easier to take a pill than to actually think about how I'm feeling and my reactions to situations. I understand that people need the medicine and can't live a quality life without it. But I think I was taking it to avoid having to deal with any emotion other than oooh, pretty!. When I read blogs from people who go to therapy every week and actually work through their issues, I am so filled with envy. That they can do that incredibly hard work, lay themselves open to inspection (even from themselves) and learn from it inspires me.

I've started with a bit of introspection meself. So far, I have realized the following:

I am lazy. I didn't used to be, but I have always tried to find the easiest way to get the result I wanted. Now I'm just 'the hell with it' or my favorite standby, 'who cares?'.

I am mean. I think I always have been, but have been too polite to let my true light shine. In my dotage, I let her rip. Viciously, with no holds barred, to the detriment of anyone around me. But honestly, some people just need to be told.

I have a huge sense of entitlement. I deserve whatever I want, whether I worked for it, can afford it, or need it.

In the tiny little dark part of my brain that I try not to let out often, I think I'm better than some people because I'm educated. Sad, but true. Even sadder? No one in my immediate family is educated.

I'm not all bad. I love with my whole heart. I'll do anything to help you. I try to anticipate anything that might make your journey easier and provide it.

When I took my little sojourn to the ocean to ponder life's mysteries, one of the decisions I made was to try the summer without medication. To take life on armed with only my wits (sad weaponry at best) and intelligence (slightly better, still lacking). I need to know that I can be nice and personable and normal by being willing to work on it and making a decision when I wake up in the morning to appreciate the day instead of choosing to stomp around in a huff snarking at everything that breathes too loud.

So far, so good.

Well, good grief

I've missed my own blogversary! It was a year on Feb 23. So have a glass of something on me.



I've been having a little R&R here:






A bit of soul searching, if you will. No place better for that than my feet in the sand. But alas, it's now back to the grind.

I will be asking for opinions on the decisions I've made and the changes I'm contemplating. If everyone could put on their best 'wise one' expressions and prepare to counsel me, that'd be just peachy.

Peachy keen, even.

We have confirmation...

...that I am a total goofball. There is absolutely nothing wrong with his eyes, just like you said. (you are soooo wise!) It was decided amongst the professionals that I have a bad case of the google-itis. I've been advised to abstain from any and all medical websites for the rest of forever.


He was looked at by his pediatrician, who, just to shut me up (because I was all 'you're sure, absolutely positive, swear on your mother', etc....), sent us over to the opthamologist for a little look see. She dilated his pupils and had a good look around. He's peachy and he was thrilled to get to use the cool "look through" machine. I was entertained all afternoon as he stumbled around into things because his pupils were dilated.


That picture shook me up. Probably a combination of having always been a little worried about his eyes (he can move them independently and it skeeves me out), having read a novel a few months ago about a little boy who had that disease, and then reading the msnbc article two days before I downloaded that picture. It was like the perfect storm I tell ya. All the factors needed for a complete mommy meltdown.

So thanks for being kind and patient and only rolling your eyes when I wasn't looking. I do appreciate it. You (and my good friend Ms. Xanax) helped me get some sleep when otherwise, I would have paced all night.


Now that we know Silas' eyes are fine, guess what I need? BIFOCALS!! You'll notice the capitalization, bolding AND italics? I can't believe it. I'm only 29. (With 12 years experience) At least I can get new glasses now, and keep them on instead of only needing them to read and then not being able to find them because they're on top of my head and who would think to look there? (see, good side to everything)



Awkward change of topic:


Saturday was my 10th wedding anniversary, and also my 41st birthday. If you've been around here any amount of time, you know that neither of these events inspired much of a celebratory atmosphere. We went to Olive Garden for dinner and I had a glass of Sangria. Did you know Sangria has alcohol in it? I did not. until it mixed with my prozac and I passed out. I didn't wake up in a panic attack on Saturday night, no sir. I wouldn't have awakened if you had burned my feet with a poker.


Because my Sunday night recap/update haven't decided what to call it yet post got pre-empted by my meltdown post, I'll leave you with the funniest pic I saw this week. Peace out, poppets.

Please tell me I'm crazy

Poppets, your mission for this day, should you choose to accept it, is to tell me that I'm mad as a hatter. A few sandwiches shy of a picnic, that I have finally, after putting up a heckuva fight, lost my tenuous grip on the last vestiges of my sanity. If you could do that for me, I would appreciate it, because I have managed to freak myself completely out.


I have always thought that my son was too good to be true. Always. After what I went through to get pregnant with him when he was finally here I couldn't believe my fortune. When he turned out to be the easiest baby ever, I was elated. After failing my first three children in every way imaginable, and having to live with that guilt, I thought surely that this chance to redeem myself was just to good to be true. When he practically weaned and potty trained himself, taught himself how to get dressed, and was just generally the best kid ever, I couldn't believe my luck. I know I'm making him sound like the second coming but he's just that great. I could go on for pages about his accomplishments, how smart he is, blah blah blah, but couldn't we all? My point is I've never felt that I deserved him, and I've been waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under me for five years. Because the rug always get pulled, or at least bunched up enough to trip me.


Would you please tell me that these two pictures look nothing alike? Pretty please? Because the first picture is of a little girl with retinoblastoma, which is a cancer of the eye. It was found because of that reflection in the picture.

Can you see why I'm freaking out? I can assure you that we'll be at the pediatricians office when they open in the morning, but maybe you guys can help me at least sleep tonight. Of course, that'll be after Dr. Google has his way with me.

Is there a doctor in the house?

I wrote what would have been this post a while ago. Then I read Heather's post and I couldn't publish mine. Because it would have seemed as though I plagiarized her. What spoke to me was when she says she thought of ways to crash her car just enough to spend a few days in the hospital. And that is what let her know she needed help. That paragraph woke me up.
Because I have done the same thing. Only my calculations weren't designed to insure my injury. They were designed to make sure I wasn't only injured. They were designed to make sure I was dead.

The way this came about was quite insidious. I never really realized what I was doing. Just toodling along in my expedition, the thought would come to me. How hard would I have to take this curve to go airborne right about here and crash into that wall? Then later, I would find myself at Ford's website checking on crash ratings and safety features. FYI, the expedition? A fecking TANK.

Before too long, I had figured out the exact rate of speed, velocity, angle of impact..everything I needed to know that I would not emerge from that crash with a heartbeat.
And I did not find anything unusual or alarming about this.

I have made an appointment with a psychiatrist for next week. Obviously, I need some med adjustment or changes. Some talk therapy probably wouldn't hurt (ya think?). It seems I've been in a downward spiral for some months now. I actually sat up and took a look around today. What I saw frightened me. While my son has been well cared for, physically and emotionally, I have apparently sent everything else to hell in a handbasket.
Poppets, I just don't care. I just don't care that the carpets are filthy. I just don't care that the bills haven't been paid. We don't need no steekin' lectricity. I just don't care that I haven't renewed my business licenses, insurance, and whatever the hell else I've let slide. I just don't care.
My lawn looks like the house is abandoned. I've not weeded the flower beds all summer. I didn't even fill the pool this summer. The pond is clogged with algae. There are scary things growing in the shower. I just don't care. I'm scared to check my voicemail. I don't know why. I cringe when the phone rings. I don't know why. I jump when the door opens, when the oven timer goes off, when someone walks around the corner in my own house. I don't know why.
When I manage to sleep, I wake up in a peculiar way. Imagine that you're sleeping and someone is standing by you. Now they grab you by your arms and start screaming in your face. The feeling that you would have from that, the adrenaline rush, the pounding heart, the fright. That's how I wake up several times a night.

So, I have made an appointment for a check up from the neck up. Hey, at least I'm not tore up from the floor up! yet, anyway. We'll have to see how those meds work.