Sometimes I think I might just make it after all, but before
I can throw my beret up in the air like Mary Tyler Moore, another appliance
breaks down or my ears start ringing (usually a benign D flat due to allergies
but I get a little heart attack thinking my meds are off and I’m about to hear
voices again) or some little letdown happens—this week it was my trying to
score a sub teaching job on the last week before I’d be dropped from the roster
for not working enough. I tried so hard to work; I arranged childcare; I got a
ride; then there were no sub jobs that morning. I cried like a motherfucker.
Stuff like this is foreground against a background of the usual anxieties—will my
husband come back from his psych appointment this time or will he be committed
again (he’s been tossed in the hospital only twice in the past year—I tend to
worry), will my disabled daughter be cared for when I’m gone and when will
those ABLE accounts open up in banks in Louisiana so I can start saving up for
her, will my son's six hours of testing this month show that he has autism like
we’ve suspected all his life and what does that mean about me that I haven’t
really addressed his issues until now—his therapist told me to forgive myself
because I’ve been triaging everyone else wounds but I’m wracked with guilt. As
I type these words, there’s a rat in the kitchen and my husband set a live trap
out for it. The two cats also have an eye on the rat. Poor rat—I identify with it.
It really has no escape—it had the great fortune to escape a recent flood in
the creek to seek shelter in a house with killer cats, two dogs (who will chase
it but really don’t kill) and a trap with cheese. Like that rat, I’m offered all sorts of
options—they all are stressful and even the one with cheese looks like a trap.
REFRAME your circumstances, say some therapists. Be like fucking Viktor Frankl. Or the opposite message—don’t forget to grieve. You’ve
had it rough. Process your feelings. Don’t keep it all bottled up. Acknowledge
the pain. Mourn your lost self, blah blah.
I’m so fucking over this hard life and I just want to go see
Star Wars The Force Awakens this weekend with my family. I’ve already warned
everyone that I’m going to cry like a bitch because I love the whole stupid
fantasy that much and all the old actors.
Been reading lots of Carrie Fisher stuff about her bipolar 1
lately, identify so much. Didn't have her safety nets of course (wow, what fun
it must be to be that rich and that manic) but still, when she writes about her
illness it's like OH YEAH, THAT'S IT. I didn't self-medicate as severely as she
did--that's one issue this family doesn't really have (knock on everything--we
have so many other problems besides addiction). I'm having such a whiny spell
right now of "what if"-- what if I had been diagnosed early before
getting a spotty work record and so many false starts and feeling so miserable
for decades before hitting the right drug cocktail, what if I hadn't had a
spotty work record, what if I had been able to pay into Social Security instead
of using a fake social security number because I was undocumented until 1999
and might be able to qualify for actual disability benefits today because I
have a legitimate disability--then again, all I hear is "try harder"
"pull yourself by your bootstraps" "don't be dependent." My
bootstraps have snapped so many times from being yanked upside my crotch now,
and I've tried so hard. I'm dependent. Like a lot of people, I'm dependent on
government money, on the kindness of others, on fantasies of Star Wars and
myself evolving from Princess Leia into General Leia. I'm dependent but I'm
also pretty dang strong; I've come a long way; I run a household, have inspired
some students, and I haven't shot up anyone this week, ok? My illness is who I
am; there are people out there who want disabled people to change or fake it
instead of accommodating to us. There are people out there who are scared of
us, who judge, who really think we’re that violent (we’re more likely to be
victims of violence than perpetrators) or put a strain on the economy with our
lazy ass entitlement and need for fake ass pills. I actually had a perfectly
nice person tell me a couple weeks ago that I would be just fine if I had a
placebo pill instead of my anti-psychotics and continued with my yoga and tai
chi. I was never so glad to be well medicated or I would’ve punched his sorry
ass face. Nah, I wouldn’t have punched.
Before meds, I did do a lot of tossing wine into peoples’ faces for dramatic
effect. Nowadays I still sob a good bit.
I’ll keep you posted about the rat. I’m pretty worried about
him, like I don’t have enough to be anxious about.
ETA--rat update. The rat is dead. It either made a break for it and dropped dead in the hallway (from stress of being preyed upon by all our pets?) or it was shaken to death by Leah the catahoula. I was outside teaching Olivia the pit bull down-stay and Ichigo the orange tabby was watching. Momo the black cat was asleep. Winky doesn't hunt. Max found the rat outside my study door, soft and newly dead, with no rigormortis and no Momo signature wounds. Leah was the only animal in the vicinity. She's never killed before though. I'd seen her growling where the rat was last spotted, though--all the animals were on the poor thing's scent. I'd've dropped dead of a heart attack myself. Let this be a lesson to me. At least it went out running for freedom, like Butch or Sundance, instead of starving to death in the kitchen cabinet.
