OK so I’ve looked at my previous blog entries and it looks like on about June 20 I started feeling downward. I’ll have to keep checking back, but it confirms that I’ve officially been at less-than-zero emotionally for almost 2 months. Has it really been that short, because it feels like longer? Ugh. Well, maybe we’ll see when my soul successfully climbs out of the dark, cold rabbit hole and into the tree house. I feel like some sick twisted groundhog peeking out to see if winter and depression are going to linger a few more weeks. Fuck.
Today I had the morning sickness, which is really stupid because I’m not pregnant and I’m a guy. It’s stress and shit. I tried really hard either to vomit or not, I didn’t really care which. I ended up not. But when I was a kid I had a really evil teacher who genuinely hated me, back before they diagnosed PTSD, and so it was that in the beginning of the school year I’d puke every morning for about 2 weeks, settle into the changes and the new schedule, and the symptoms would stop. Fuck me. Did the trauma of moving from the classroom of the nicest, prettiest teacher I ever had to the classroom of the meanest ugliest bitch the world has ever seen start my cyclothymia? Anyone? Does trauma induce lifelong shit like that? Another damn thing to research.
Fuck her anyway. I was little, young, naive and stupid and in my innocence I didn’t know there were people who were hateful bitches. I was too young to understand why anyone would be so mean, nor wise enough to respond with any of the brilliantly sardonic vitriol you see lurking in my heart today, to tell her just where she could shove a cactus. I was too young to understand there were a variety of places she could have put it, even. I swear to you, I did nothing to deserve her shit. She said a bunch of mean things to me personally because I was the one who needed special treatment due to medical issues, she had me all alone in the classroom while others went out for recess, and just treated me like you’d expect a mean, hateful crone to treat a small, trusting child: abusively. Fucking ugly bitch. My consolation is, she’s dead and rotting in hell now.
The native psychobabble involved “just” toughening up, and if I needed some help with my nausea they offered an acid blocker, maybe Tagamet, at first, and then recommended antacids. This psych-le continued through the remaining years of high school, college, and graduate school. It hits me anytime there is trauma or change, and there appears to be no permanent cure. Except stability, which life doesn’t offer until I win the mega-lottery jackpot and stabilize from the shock of not having to endure work bullshit, commuter bullshit, bank and bill paying bullshit.
A guy could get used to sleeping in with his happy, secure wife, home-schooling his happy (or spoiled) kids, not feeling deprived, not having to wait for things I need, donning the disguises, and going out somewhere for a late brunch. Like fucking London, where they get the concept that breakfast should include lots of different food types and not a cup of coffee and get the hell out unless you have more money. Or the southern United States, where one can find in certain establishments, copious breakfasts including American biscuits, grits, and other delicacies. Brunch there might even include ridiculously sweet iced tea. “Why, yes, Ma’am, I would like a spot of tea with my cup of sugar!” Maybe, on a whim, what the hell, have a mimosa or a screwdriver.
If I’m on some kind of fucked calendar cycle, since the kiddies are back in school maybe it’s that grade school adjusting shit again. We’re not up to two weeks yet. I still feel the nausea (physical), and the worthlessness and stupidity (emotional) wolves nagging and biting my soul, which really sucks. I don’t remember what Mrs. Crone deCruelle Cabot-eur even said to me (Cabot femelle, see your French dictionaries, you might learn something new unless you’re already smarter than I was a minute ago, but you probably are), but I can speculate she called me what these FUCKING voices in my head are still saying to me.
God, I just had a flashback to a much later high school creative writing episode, in which I expressed some of this and then wrote a suicide note in my sophomore year, oh, so long ago. Have I really been dealing with this that long? Obviously, the will to live was stronger, and remains a motivator as I have no desire to end it. I never shared the suicide note with anyone and don’t remember the contents. At the time, I re-read what I had written, on a kind of autopilot writing what-I-feel-right-now setting, realized what it actually meant, made a firm decision, and burned it. In retrospect, I wish I had saved the note just for the purpose of having it for the record.
Anyway, bitch, I’m still here and you’re not, so your demons win and mine lose, so fuck you. There’s that rage. Hmm. On second thought, don’t fuck you; I think you’d be more miserable being ignored, and left alone. Yeah I’ve never felt that depressed again, but sometimes close. I just hope it is your fault, and not hereditary so my kids never feel that way.
I still have an upset stomach. But I’m stronger than that, and a lot more. I think I’ll buy a lottery ticket again. They haven’t won in the past but all I need is one winning ticket to be a winner. Ha, apparently “cabot” is derogatory slang, not to be found in a proper dictionary…
And now you’ve peeked into one of those dark windows of my soul that explain why I’m completely fucked up. I admire your courage (from “coeur,” that’s another French thing). And I’m sorry. But hey, if I can’t vent in a blog, it has to go back inside, to rot my heart, through my stomach. Fuck that. My stomach is upset enough already, and I didn’t have time for a proper breakfast.