Brain Blender

No poem today. Maybe later if I can escape long enough to actually write something I’m not embarrassed to publish.  I am struggling with a rhyme scheme and meter.  Not to mention, the topic is me, so, it’s not great to start with.  Whatever.  I’ve been taking my pills faithfully.  I went to the doctor today to report side effects- nausea and hot flashes, which, as I am a guy and not a woman of a certain age and I don’t take that particular number of vitamin B, was not expected.  He is, therefore, changing my brain blender to a new, improved one, with sharper, faster blades.  I can hardly wait to run out of the other med, so I can go back to more nausea and hot flashes and probably helplessly watching my brain turn into watery pudding.

Meanwhile, my family is still critical, lazy, not engaged in any agendas except their own, but they still like to criticize and express how their opinions and answers are better than mine, even when they’re wrong and I’ve shown them their error and tried to provide gentle correction.  I’m the Donald Trump of my family, I suppose.  Sorry, should have advised a trigger warning, as there are devout Trump-haters out there I may have upset.  I’m saying, I am aware that my kids don’t think I know anything; that’s completely normal.  They are both teens, one trying to go away and be independent while still being waited on hand and foot, and the other trying to decide what and who he wants to be, and how, and how badly, he wants to rebel.  I think it’s probably also normal for a woman to decide she’s right and a man is wrong, but it still hurts my feelings a little bit more than when the kids are sassy.  At least some of the time the kids are trying to be funny.

Mrs. M., bless you a million times, but you are the worst, harshest critic I have ever had.  It’s not about being constructive.  It’s about being critical, and after I get it and I know you’re right, you go for the extra, cutting, bitchy dig that demoralizes me and discourages me and makes me not want to do shit, when I almost had a shred of energy to invest in doing whatever it was.  Thanks, and fuck you very much, but I don’t really need most of that.  Don’t wonder why I shut down, don’t wonder why I push away.  You’ve been pushing away for years, maybe I’ve finally learned whatever lesson your push off was for.  So celebrate, Mrs. M, you win. I lose, but it doesn’t matter.  Even when I’m right, or at least trying to work on our relationship, I’m still wrong because of whatever shit I did moments ago while trying to either help us or help you or help me mentally, or whatever shit I did yesterday or a month ago or ten years ago, or whatever shit I didn’t do that you wanted me to do right now right now rightnow rightnowrightnowrightnow.

The problem is, despite the ADD medication you insisted I go on, that gives me insomnia until sometimes 3:30 or 5 AM, and the anti-depressants you insisted I go on, that make me sick to my stomach and have hot flashes, I still have an attention span of a gnat, I still want to do what I want to do, which is the same as what you want but in a different order of priority, I never get to do what I want and I don’t get what I want, I’m still poor and thus far unable to escape the poverty cycle, and I’m still fucking depressed because life is fucking depressing.  And if I don’t do whatever it is I’m focused on I’ll never get it done and I’ll never go back to doing what I wanted to accomplish because something else will distract me or be more important, or I’ll be too frustrated to think clearly, so I’ll never have a sense of personal accomplishment because I’m not doing what I wanted to do, and I am not doing what you wanted me to do to your level of satisfaction.  And on that battle front, you’ve informed me of your disappointment in everything to the point where you expect to be disappointed and I expect to be disappointing and we self-fulfill that prophecy.  I lose, and you get the smug self-satisfaction of winning but remaining harsh and critical instead of loving me the way I want to be loved.  There’s a wide, wider, next-to-impossible gap to bridge between you being harsh and critical and you loving me like I want to, or need to, be loved.

I’m afraid it will require your investment and realization of how cut, wounded, damaged, frustrated, depressed, and angry I am about life, and how you add salt to the rejection wounds and then hit the psychological bruises twice just so they stay fresh in my mind and I want to give up on everything because nothing is working.  And since I run away instead of hitting back verbally (or, God forbid, physically, which I’ve never been driven to so far), you use that as another way of hitting me verbally, adding to my demoralization.  Again, fuck you very much, that is not what those marriage vows you and I took were supposed to look like.

If I, in a fit of mania, do the dishes, walk the dog, take out the trash, sweep the kitchen, do two loads of laundry which means to me wash dry fold and put away (but to you means wash, dry and fold, or leave in the dryer, or leave in the washing machine), and vacuum the carpets downstairs, you want to know why I did the laundry and if I did it wrong, why, and why the bathrooms weren’t cleaned and the floors mopped and the ceiling fans dusted and the upstairs wasn’t vacuumed and why the vacuum cleaner wasn’t emptied and why dinner wasn’t cooked all while I was working for 8 hours during a weekday.  Because I’ve had bigger fits of mania while I was not depressed and accomplished more very occasionally, in the past 26 years.  And why don’t I have a better job that pays more money.  And why I sleep on the couch so often.  And why I don’t want to lock the dog in a cage overnight.  Blah, blah, blah.  It’s never stopped; it’s only gotten worse over the years.

I started reading self-help books: a book about dealing with anger, a book about dealing with clutter, and a book about marriage enrichment.  Because these are what I want help with.  I’m a chapter into each one, and I’ll wait and see, and decide what’s potentially realistically applicable, and what’s ridiculous and impossible, on all topics of study.  Mostly it’s you trying to gently communicate your hopes and dreams for our future and how you think we (meaning I) can work toward those goals, and then overstepping and crushing my spirit, and then telling me yet again how I’m inadequate and a disappointing dissatisfaction, and me trying to explicitly communicate what I want and you telling me to fuck off because you’re not going to do that and then again, wondering why I sleep on the couch so much.

I finished the dishes and swept the kitchen after I dropped a glass on the kitchen floor.  There was a kind of mercy in it:  I hadn’t washed the glass.

Someone asked me what I accomplished this year so far.  I thought about it, and came to realize  that I survived, and that’s about it.  Maybe the progress is that I’m medicating, or maybe the progress is that my soul is that much further crushed, which I suppose, makes it easier on everyone around me.  If they didn’t want me to clean house and if they didn’t need someone to bitch at and tell how they are intellectually superior, more right in their approach to life, and better at everything, and how worthless, stupid, wrong, and inferior I am, I’d probably just end it because I wouldn’t have any useful purpose in life.


Find your purpose and your worth apart from anyone, because no one is going to give you anything but shit.  And if money is involved, get it in writing or you’re screwed.  That’s my takeaway.  That’s my wisdom from 26 years of being worthless, underpaid, underappreciated, and not getting what I want from anyone.  I’m still trying, I’ve survived, and that may be a bigger accomplishment than anyone really realizes.

Sorry for the bitch-fest.  It had to come out.  And Mrs M wants me to move my ass now because her family is waiting on us.  Have a great day if you can, and if you can’t, have an OK day even if that just means surviving and getting through what you can.

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