1. My face is swollen beyond recognition. Q called me Mask this morning.
2. I have a rad limp because I tripped over my fucking asshole cat while she was trying to get my attention to give her some kitty treats. Never ever let your cat try those temptation treats….you will regret it. that shit is straight up kitty crack.
3. my eyecircles are down to my mouth and are the color of a ripe plum. I think I have been sleeping a total of like 3 hours a night due to my lovely dog Alabama who spends her nights practicing her karate kicks on my kidneys. When I woke up and pissed this morning it took me a second to realize that its actually my pierod that started and not that im pissing blood which is what I assumed from the god awful pain.
4. Speaking of Alabama, she is a fucking bed hog too. I get maybe a fourth of the bed and my back is so jacked now I cant stand up straight.
5. I have a stress rash all over my arms and legs so I am constantly itching myself till I bleed like a crackhead.
6. Due to the rash, I have to wear flowy linen clothes that don’t touch my body. I mean turns out I like these clothes, but I look a bit like a bag lady.
7. My hair hates this weather so it is a huge ball of frizz that I cannot contained because seems my dogs have eaten all of my hair ties. So I have to wear one of qs stocking caps to contain my brillo pad head and it makes me look like a man.
Like a crooked old man with a limp and a swollen purple face with a seeping rash in linen clothes. And no, im not happy to see you, that’s a tampon in my pocket.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
Ok, lets talk about it. I see a therapist. Granted, I’ve only been to see him twice counting today, but still I go. It’s a different kind of thing. I mean, a lot of people are embarrassed or ashamed of going and don’t want anyone to know or to talk about it. For me, it’s the least embarrassing thing I’ve ever done, and everything I talk about to this guy is honestly what I would tell the random stranger who makes the mistake of asking me how I am today. I tell everybody everything, and I invented the concept of too much information. So why stop now.
My therapists name is Bruce. He won’t let me call him Batman. Not only do they have the same first name, their last name starts with the same letter. Its perfect! I told him that I “respect and dig Batman. Dude dedicates his life to helping people. He’s a guy I can really trust with all this fucked up shit in my brain. He’s been through a lot and I could see how he could understand the crap others have gone through. So let me pretend that your Batman Doc, and help me help you help me so I can get the fuck outta here.”
He told me he’s going to have to see me weekly for awhile.
Oh well. Guess its best I start off with the crazy so Batman knows what he’s in for.
Obviously, I call him Batman anyways. I mean not to his face, cause I don’t want him to like purposely fuck with me and mess my head up because I’m a dickhead who cant respect others or anything. But in my brain, I am having a hour long conversation with Batman about why I can’t seem to love who I see in the mirror or why I cant allow that person to be happy.
I don’t want to be a martyr. I don’t want to keep feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want to keep whining about shit to my friends and family. I don’t want to keep adding up all the shit in my past and giving myself an excuse to be miserable. I don’t want to miss out on anything because I cant get out of my bed or leave my house 3 out of the 7 days a week. I don’t want to worry about the shit hitting the fan and not being able to handle it. I don’t want this panic and worry and constant pressure to make everything around me ok when I cant even breathe. When did I become this? When did I become a person that doesn’t just open a busch light (with lemon) and say its all good? When did I become this person that I cant even stand?
Batman says that I have to stop putting myself last. I don’t even know how to do that. I don’t even know how that would work. But he says, you cant really help anyone until you help yourself first. He said “you know that speech the flight attendant gives before you take off? About how in case of an emergency and you need to use the oxygen mask?” I nodded and said yes. “well,” he said, “if you are traveling with a child or someone who cant help themselves do you aid them with their mask or put yours on first?” I immediately told him I would assist other people around me first, then help myself. “nope.” He said. “you always help yourself first. What good are you to others if you cant breathe?”
Batmans got a point.
This week my homework is to stop trying to control everything. Im supposed to look at everything I stress and worry about and really judge what is actually within my control and what isn’t. to see that maybe we worrying and freaking out isn’t helping, its hurting. I mean maybe it doesn’t help to call q at work and tell him i have a feeling that the house is going to burn down and maybe we need to build an escape route for the guinea pigs so they don’t burn up in the flames.
Maybe.
Dog, grant me the serenity.
My therapists name is Bruce. He won’t let me call him Batman. Not only do they have the same first name, their last name starts with the same letter. Its perfect! I told him that I “respect and dig Batman. Dude dedicates his life to helping people. He’s a guy I can really trust with all this fucked up shit in my brain. He’s been through a lot and I could see how he could understand the crap others have gone through. So let me pretend that your Batman Doc, and help me help you help me so I can get the fuck outta here.”
He told me he’s going to have to see me weekly for awhile.
Oh well. Guess its best I start off with the crazy so Batman knows what he’s in for.
Obviously, I call him Batman anyways. I mean not to his face, cause I don’t want him to like purposely fuck with me and mess my head up because I’m a dickhead who cant respect others or anything. But in my brain, I am having a hour long conversation with Batman about why I can’t seem to love who I see in the mirror or why I cant allow that person to be happy.
I don’t want to be a martyr. I don’t want to keep feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want to keep whining about shit to my friends and family. I don’t want to keep adding up all the shit in my past and giving myself an excuse to be miserable. I don’t want to miss out on anything because I cant get out of my bed or leave my house 3 out of the 7 days a week. I don’t want to worry about the shit hitting the fan and not being able to handle it. I don’t want this panic and worry and constant pressure to make everything around me ok when I cant even breathe. When did I become this? When did I become a person that doesn’t just open a busch light (with lemon) and say its all good? When did I become this person that I cant even stand?
Batman says that I have to stop putting myself last. I don’t even know how to do that. I don’t even know how that would work. But he says, you cant really help anyone until you help yourself first. He said “you know that speech the flight attendant gives before you take off? About how in case of an emergency and you need to use the oxygen mask?” I nodded and said yes. “well,” he said, “if you are traveling with a child or someone who cant help themselves do you aid them with their mask or put yours on first?” I immediately told him I would assist other people around me first, then help myself. “nope.” He said. “you always help yourself first. What good are you to others if you cant breathe?”
Batmans got a point.
This week my homework is to stop trying to control everything. Im supposed to look at everything I stress and worry about and really judge what is actually within my control and what isn’t. to see that maybe we worrying and freaking out isn’t helping, its hurting. I mean maybe it doesn’t help to call q at work and tell him i have a feeling that the house is going to burn down and maybe we need to build an escape route for the guinea pigs so they don’t burn up in the flames.
Maybe.
Dog, grant me the serenity.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
bustin out
When I was in 7th grade I got a training bra. I had no boobs. All the girls in my class and the two grades above me did. So I stuffed each side with a few cotton balls. Hey when in Rome and all that shit. Anyhow, one day at p.e. my class was playing basketball against an 8th grade class when one of my "boobs" fell out. The boy who was guarding me had long hair. The boy guarding me was cute. The boy guarding me said something fell out of your shirt. I stood there horrified as he picked up my "boob" and looked at it. It's warm he said. I turned bright red and scrambled for what to say. I told him my sister and I were wrestling that morning and she shoved a handful of cotton balls down my shirt. I must of missed some when I was taking them out. I said. He smiled, handed it to me and said, "its weird she taped them together. And drew a nipple on them."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)