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My Profile
Fairytales for a Practical Princess - 2008-11-30
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11:32 p.m. - 2005-05-09
I am a shit friend. No, not a friend of turds. I am a shit and neglectful of the fabulous people in my life. Why? Beats the hell out of me. But there it is, I’m a lousy friend. I am a turd, therefore I stink. Take that, Descartes! The older I get the less social I become. Perhaps it’s just that the last withered scraps of my heart have dried up and blown away. Alex will be home in a couple weeks and already I’m feeling crowded. By my own kid. Told you I was terrible. Maybe having him won’t be too hard this time, he’s traveling alone. Alex will be my kid again and not Mr Snugglebunny. Nikki won’t be here, barging into my office every 20 minutes to smoke several of those burning tires she calls cigarettes. If she doesn’t want to ‘disturb’ me, she slaps on the headphones and scribbles in her journal. She hums and sings under her breath, hardly necessary for me to get the gist of what’s playing in her discman, the volume is up so loud the headphones barely muffle the sound. So yay, my kid is coming home sans chick. At least for a while. It’ll take a few weeks before Nikki freaks out, quits her job and then spends all her time in tears on the phone and burning up the IM begging my son to save her from her wretched existence. I’m thinking Alex will put up with this for a while and then will breakdown and fetch his beloved. ETA? On or about July 4th. Make book on it. I’m just a bundle of goodwill tonight, eh? But if I can’t whine and vent in my diary, where can I? I can feel my thoughts getting all tangled up in a snarl of hormonal excess. I cannot tell you how much I resent this. It’s fucking tiring! It’s inconvenient. It’s maddening because I struggle and struggle and struggle to stay on the surface and down I go anyway. If I’m not crying, I’m shouting. If I’m not shouting, I’m desperately clutching the arms of my chair trying to keep myself from going out back and hanging myself from the oak behind the chicken house. I’m not kidding. It gets that black. Everything twists inward on itself and I spend a couple weeks out of every cycle eating myself alive. The nightmares spin out of control. Panic attacks. Insomnia. Bitter gusts of self-loathing. Horrible flashback memories of the very worst parts of my childhood. Eating binges. I haven’t started purging yet, but that’s coming. Wild remorse and penance doing. Crying jags that leave my face so swollen I look like I’ve been beaten. All because of the goddamn hormones. I know it’s the hormones. Soon as my boobs start to plump up and get tender off I go to Psycho Land. I get mittleschmerz, the one sided cramps that herald ovulation. I feel that ovary ping and it’s like a starting gun. BANG! Good-bye, decent human being. Hello, demented fretful suicidal frantic nutcase. I am already on the highest dosage of Wellbutrin allowed by the FDA. I take Estroven and high calcium women’s vitamins. I drink milk. I eat too much goddamn tofu. On non-rainy days I make myself go outside for at least ½ an hour. Fresh air, sunshine, wind in my hair, you know, all that happy mind/body shit. I try and keep my sugar levels pretty even, but this sometimes gets away from me. I chant. I try to meditate, it’s very difficult, I’m too het up to concentrate. I provide myself with non-damaging comforts like lovely soaps and reading all my favoritest books. I change the sheets on my bed every couple of days and use the nicest towels after my shower. I buy a new lipstick. And still I get sucked into the whirlwind. I hate it because I cannot control it. I can’t bend it to my will. I behave badly and am helpless to stop it! How much does this suck? I also feel like an idiot. “Look at the pampered white girl in her smug little house bitching about how hard her life is.” “Hey, Ms Spoiled Brat! Wanna try some real problems? Think about mothers in Africa, they and their kids dying from AIDS and starvation and genocide. Think of the people trying to put their lives back together after the tsunami. How many dead? How many homeless? And you’re whining? You’re going demented every couple of weeks because you can. If you had real problems you wouldn’t be flaking out all the time, you ungrateful wussy.” This kind of thinking does not help. So please disregard the next few weeks of entries. Especially the sniveling ones. I felt the ovary ping at about 10:00 this morning and have been racing all day to get shit finished before I disintegrate. Even choked out that dopey thing about the phlox. A futile exercise in hanging onto my normality. I’m off into the whirlwind now, kids. Catch you on the flip-side. Swirling against my will, ~LA
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