Mabee. Maybe not. I’ve got a lot of motivation to write when I hold the topic of anxiety in my mind. It’s the cruelest fucking disease IMHO. Get’s a lot of us. And there are two ways of keeping the tyranny at bay that I’ve tried. One is being rigid. One is being medicated (but then you end up realising you don’t have thoughts that are YOU. And I’m not anti med’s by any means. I’ve got a great SSRI: Trintellix  Robbie Williams takes this.
He credits this medication and therapy for saving his life. I started the new year taking Trintellix but I was worried I was getting fat and losing motivation to get to the gym. So I stopped.
And now I feel like shit and I think I’d rather be unhappy with my weight but happy with everything else in life and not neurotic as fuck. Okay. Less neurotic. It will never go totally because I’m genetically female and cursed with bitch-arse hormones that take you out in all sorts of unexpected ways.
Fuck, Robbie’s a dote.
If I had a need for two husbands I’d want him to be the second. A second wife would be more useful though. Women clean the toilets. Men keep everything else clean if leaned on (which is a great leap forward for evolution) but I’ve never known a man to clean the Shitter. I’m sure you are a few of you beautiful souls out there but I’ve never lived with one. 🙂
Yes, I could totally do with a Sister-wife.
Oh fuck, let me bitch about toilets for a bit. We’ve got a big house and I have to keep six of the fuckers clean. We added two after moving here because four fucking toilets isn’t enough right?
The insanity of first world problems.
So my skin looks like shit. (Hormones and worries about money.) Your average first world worries. We’ve got a virus in the house. I’m up worrying at 4am because I forgot a children’s birthday party today to take my twinnies to. (Now yesterday. Sunday 18th) And I forgot my oldest’s Ortho appointment on Friday.
And the world hasn’t fucking ended. I’m just a bit of a dipshit. But I can be so crappy to myself. I would never treat a friend as badly as I treat myself. I beat myself up incessantly. And others make fuck-ups and I let them off the hook and/or think their escapades are hilarious. Most likely I’ve been along for the ride going right back to my twenties.
Met a lovely Mental Health Caregiver in John Muir, Walnut Creek. 
Pretty atrium right? but I was in no fit condition to appreciate the view 🙂 I was admitted to acute care. To my motherfucking surprise; I was worse than I thought I was.
Drank too much (not in one go but I was letting my self care go; it was the Holidays, and my sodium and potassium levels bottomed. Bad for a woman with a history of a head injury) Low sodium can lead to seizures and low potassium dicks with your heartbeat.
I was fine after they gave me some Ativan and good nutrition for a few days. Really.
Sorry if that is TMI but whereas some folks are introverted; I’m an extrovert and am at my best when disclosing all. And I write like a coked up maniac. I write some good shit. 🙂 I hope It will help someone struggling.
Haha I will tell you about the time I was detoxed (reluctantly) a year previous in the next post. I got a butt shot of Ativan. Had a wee sleep and discharged myself five hours later.
And the hilarious encounter with an SFO cop. (Did I tell you I met two FBI agents detoxing 🙂Â
Fuck, back to the ICU incident. that was the most boring of all the stints I’ve done to clean up. No one else to chat to. It’s just one vegetable to a room. And nurses are too busy (bless them, to talk) And the shitty feeling of knowing you’ve got yourself in a pickle rather than being slapped around by nature like I was with a stroke a decade previously.
Talk about being a vegetable and wanting to get back to life. Over a decade ago. That is shit to worry about. Not the random everyday shit. I was pumped full of morphine and unable to lift my head for days. Completely paralysed. And the mindfuckery of having a head injury. More about that in another post.
Okay. Back to the medical health caregiver. She said to me: Before you go to bed at night, tell yourself four good things about yourself.
It’s so fucking hard to remember. I’ve tended to go to the other options to beat anxiety. Stick cake, booze or nicotine in my face to get the world off my back for a while. Or rigidity. The childhood thing: “Step on a crack and break a back”.
Let’s all be nice to each other going forward. And ourselves.
I got scared shitless by my experience, and I’m worried about losing friends who might read this (I always make sure there is a responsible adult caring for the kids and mostly I walk the dog, stay off the grog but I do slip),
But honesty beats the fuck out of struggling and not putting it out there. A good doctor friend of mine said: “Monique, everyone has stuff and in this neighborhood, there is a lot of alcohol abuse.
She totally let me off the hook knowing I was putting the fucking effort in dealing with bad mental health and I will tell myself bad shit to keep dangling.
I know others in my neighborhood who have kicked this Fatal Attraction to the kerb. It will be okay.
Oh fuck I just rechecked my calendar and along with forgetting Ozy’s ortho and a birthday party, I forgot my fucking mammogram.
Just one more thing to stress about. At least I’m current with the smears. (Gross as fuck are smears.) I have an aversion to anything but for toys intentionally bought and fully paid for up my
V-jay-jay:
I’m trying to make you laugh here. Humor is the best medicine.
Maybe I should just get the tits lopped off. (Except they’re exceptional and it cost me $20k to get the implants and fix up the abuse childbearing had inflicted on my body (a tummy tuck and by the way, while you’re stitching my stomach muscles together; lets add 350cc’s of silicon to the titties ) Having kids. Breastfeeding.
What we women do! Oh Fuck; you guys are awesome too. But can you imagine clamping a child to your nipples and all the fucking hassle that goes along with that?
🙂
