I can’t concentrate for shit. Oh, and the medication messes with that too. Me, before medication: regular as clockwork. Me, after medication: I get one urge per day and if I don’t go right then, the urge goes away and I hurt randomly from intestinal cramps because I made it wait, and then I have to wait and hope the purge urge comes back that day. I hate being irregular. Thanks, doc. This is great. But I’m not writing about that kind of concentration. No, really. I have germ and dirt and sense-of-smell issues and if I never had to go and clean myself off I’d be happier. And no one else is allowed to clean me off either, because I have personal space issues: from eyes to ass, and everywhere in between or nearby, don’t ever touch me without a special invitation. I barely let anyone cut my hair. I hate the burping on an empty stomach too. Gross.
I was going to write a poem about a friend I swore I saw out at a store yesterday, or at least I thought it looked an awful lot like her, but I got distracted with life and work and didn’t remember it until just now, too late today. Maybe Monday. It was in the parking lot and she was in her car and I waved, but if it was her I bet she didn’t know it was me because I haven’t put my face on the internet and I’ve never met any of my internet people out in the real world.
So I was crampy and distracted yesterday when there was work to be done. I don’t feel like I accomplished shit yesterday regarding the list that needed done. And I was crampy and distracted today while I was at church trying to pay attention to whatever it was that the pastor said. Something about trusting in God and staying the course and being self-disciplined, which I know is right, but fuck you for pointing that out, and then And after church, I did fuck all around the house when I should have mowed the grass and cleaned and everything, except I did wash some of the dishes. I didn’t want to eat either, another side effect? If Mrs M hadn’t almost thrown it at me, I probably would have saved it for lunch tomorrow.
I have a whole list of shit to do tomorrow that has to be done, and it doesn’t take a break or end this week until bed Friday or possibly Sunday, whereupon it all starts all over again, and I don’t want any of it. FML. Still need to reschedule with the doctor, not that the meds are doing what she said they could. If they were, I should feel a lot more peaceful. And damn it, I should be able to concentrate and get shit done without it dragging every shred of energy out of me.
The joke that’s closest is where the guy says he’s got a headache and the doc’s response is, You want something to help with that? And the guy says some variation of Yeah, got any cyanide, or got a shotgun, or some other similar cure-all, except our recent loss renders it not fucking funny. It’s not funny any more, but then, nothing much is all that funny right now. I wish I could find something light-hearted but it’s pretty damned heavy right now. Still. Because our current medical practice practices better than they practiced 50 years ago, but we’re not where we need to be, because what they offer now might work in some cases but in others it seems like they’re answering the patient, “Sure, here you go.”
So my hope is, that amid the shit and chaos and other scheduled events of the daily grind, I can schedule some serious down-time, and ideally “down” won’t refer to my fucking depression, may it rot in the darkest smallest, most terrifyingly crowded cage in hell where demons and other cursed souls poke it frequently with rusty barbed wired sporks dipped in shit and strychnine and skunk sweat. And may the crowd in the cell include your depression too if you have it. I want some down time that lets me breathe, and sleep, and feel successful and productive in places I want to feel successful and productive, not just the ones everyone else fucking expects me to be that way. While we’re filling the cell it can have panic attacks and side effects too. Stuff it all in there; we can take weekend tours! Come one, come all, step right up! A complimentary pre-loaded spork, hand sanitizers and a free steak dinner for every visitor!!
The meds are supposed to help me concentrate and not be so depressed when the wave falls into a trough. The weekend tells me maybe they’re not working so good. Or maybe they are: Hope for tomorrow and the week, that’s a positive note to end the weekend with. Someone write it down: Deon expressed one hopeful thought.