If there were a way to capture a screenshot of what’s happening inside of my fucking head right now, I’m positive it would be immediately flagged as inappropriate content and banned by whoever those prick-people are who have actual jobs judging what gets banned from social media. It would look like a fucking battlefield-except there would be no bodies nor blood-only wounded thoughts: some shattered into millions of fragments, desperately dragging their amputated, decapitated bodies in every direction-never to make any sense; some held captive as prisoners in shackles by the enemy- Denial; some are innocent children-abandoned, confused, and seeking purpose; some are cowards-hiding from their own shadows…too terrified of what would happen to them if they stood up for themselves. A brutally poetic setting, I can assure you.
I don’t really know how to explain what’s going on with me lately but I’m feeling 50 shades of all fucked up. Granted, I didn’t close my eyes on Friday night working on my Pokemon cake order.
And with regards to this cake let me just say one thing: fuck you Pikachu. You made my life hell. You came out way too fat and I think you’re the cause of my current drama, if not a major part of it. Also. My Jeep. Traveling with this cake gave me enough anxiety (on top of being sleep deprived) that I literally think my heart did not beat the entire drive.
Thank God this was for someone special! But judging that I ended up sleeping all through this afternoon, I can’t honestly blame my sudden almost-meltdown on sleep deprivation.
EVERYTHING has just bothered me for zero particular reason. Things that I’m usually pretty chill about you know? Like my mother-in-law popping in this afternoon right around the time I woke up and wanting the Earth to swallow me. Or like my daughter having accidentally tripped while holding a RED glass-bottled nail polish (of-fuckin-COURSE it had to have happened to be red!) and my dining room currently looking like a murder scene; and every time I even look in that direction, my immediate wanting to crawl to a corner and into fetal position so that I can scream into my knees.
The sight of piled dirty laundry is something that I’ve become comfortably immune to since the offspring came along and annihilated any hope for any kind of “routine” in my life ever again; but not this weekend. The mere sight of Mount Fuckmylife nearly brought me to my knees (in prayer position..sickos) I could sense J-Dawg up there all high and mighty like “Yepppp come on girl. Come to poppa. I see you. You’re giving up and you NEED ME NOW don’t ya boo?!” but it just wasn’t the time because Jesus does all this miracle crap but this laundry is beyond him. And the guy’s busy I get it. So if anything, he should be thanking me tonight in his prayers. We’ll call it even big guy. No need to thank me. Just save me a spot if you’re book ends up proving to be non-fiction.
What? This isn’t the Jesus ya’ll pray to? Well. Shit. To each his own then! This is the only version of Jesus I’m getting on my knees for (you can totally be a sicko NOW).
My 77 year old grandmother decided to purchase bras for me at Victorias Secret. You’d think- wow! She’s the sweetest! But when she showed up and “surprised” me with two 36 triple-D bras, I think I got so angry I closed my eyes just to break through brick walls with my little fists inside of my head. Are you fucking KIDDING ME. First of all, she’s seen my bras. I’ve never been more than a C even at 9 months pregnant and she does not have Alzheimer’s yet. She’s as clear as the fucking windows in my car that people look through just to make my life impossibly uncomfortable. Secondly, I’ve lost 18 pounds in the last few months. She’s also not blind. So I’m pretty sure I lost my shit and overdid it with her when I
was trying to failed to “explain” all-of-the-things that were completely fucked with this situation, but I’m just so out of it lately that there’s no stopping me. I’m on a batshitcrazy rampage and this will NOT end well for me.
Then, I regrettably stepped foot into a damn shopping mall. Three steps in and I was transformed into The Unapproachable-Lady-With-Resting-Bitch-Face-Syndrome-Who-Will-Stab-You-In-The-Eye-With-Her-Starbucks-Straw-if-You-Even-Think-To-Cross-Her (hide your children). This complexity that I have with crowded public places- it’s a huge part of what has led me to self-diagnose my anxiety and bipolar-ness. I literally can’t deal. I break into a fucking profuse sweat. My hands shake uncontrollably. I avoid eye contact with almost everyone by staring at the ground until I’m forced to look at the person I bumped into because I’m THAT asshole who’s looking at the ground instead of where I’m going which by the way- attracts me more attention than if I were to somehow master the art of Blending-In-With-Humanity. I get awkward and fidgety if I’m not occupied doing something.. anything: like looking through clothes I have no intention of trying on or purchasing; or spending money on things I don’t need and will probably return in a few days- but hey, I needed a distraction in the moment so fuck-it-for-now. It gets so overwhelming sometimes that I have to lock myself up in a dirty bathroom stall, just to fucking breathe and question my stupidities. Do I answer myself you ask? I do. And that legitimizes the problem…the fact that I can have two-sided conversations with myself.
Also, I’m having some issues with grammar lately and I’m doing some basic bullshit refresher stuff on like, semicolons and commas and “-” and “…” and THAT is also frustrating me because I don’t usually stress the politics of this stuff but I’m trying to take my writing and this clusterfuck blog serious so… Ok I got that off my chest. My NOT triple-D chest.
Life is just an undercover shitshow. When I’m home, I just want to go out but once I’m out, I want nothing more than to come home and wrap myself up in a fucking blanket-taco and never be human again. The blanket-taco struggles are serious.
Long rant short, I’ve found a trillion reasons to be a total and absolute bitch to absolutely everyone- and I feel zero reasons to apologize for being misunderstood. That’s EVERYONE ELSE’S problem, not mines. Can’t they see I have enough of my own shit? Now I have to stress the fact that I’m the cause of other people’s stress because they can’t read me? Well fuck! I’m tired of having to explain my sorry internal dramas to “normal” people like my fiancé- who will *never* understand this “deep” stuff no matter how much he loves me. He’s far from perfect but no matter how much he knows, or how hard I try to justify certain behavioral, emotional, mental dilemmas that I’m experiencing in the moment, he just doesn’t get it. I’m just…. dramatic and “cute”. And it’s so FRUSTRATING when someone considers that my confessions and my cries for help and my need for someone to actually listen is all “CUTE” and giggly.
It’s also frustrating (and infuriating) for me to have to explain why I’m “writing” again. Or why I need a “blog”. Or what the “point” is. Or why I have to spend so much time on this “thing” when I could be spending time with my family. Or when the answer to every single answer or explanation that I give is like a rip and dip quickie: “Well. You should consider getting some help…” OH!!! for fuck’s sake.
It’s draining. When people just don’t get it. Like REALLY get it. Especially when I myself, don’t fully “get it” either. I hope my tone hasn’t come off as angry because I’m more mellowed out and kind of down than angry. Maybe it’s just my fucking hormones. Maybe I’m missing something that I’m not ready to deal with. Maybe I’m in some kind of deeper denial than I’m ready to publicly admit.
Maybe I’m pregnant and I need to abort mission Maybe I need to eat more- I really haven’t been eating well at all. Maybe I need space. Maybe I need more time to write. Maybe my writing will land me in a strait jacket. Maybe I need more caffeine. Maybe I need less caffeine. Maybe… just MAYBE.. I’m tired of pretending everything is MAYBE ok. Maybe life is just mediocre and it’s not enough for me.
Maybe I need fucking sleep.