Big-ole


It’s becoming impossible to tell how I feel. It’s even more impossible to keep trying to care to discover how I feel. The line between real shit and manufactured shit is disintegrating. You like that? That’s my fancy way of saying something ain’t right.

I digress.

A list, because why not:

Things I currently worry about:

  • Something happening to my children.
  • Something happening to this baby.
  • Something *not* happening to this baby and knowing again how fucking no-sense-making something happening to Tallulah was.
  • How awful it is that the above is a thing I have to worry about.
  • Why we aren’t married yet and what, if anything, does that mean?
  • If his reasons for the above are really just excuses.
  • Wondering how a naturally insecure person feel secure while struggling with depression and anxiety and just breathing?
  • Thinking of and being annoyed by all the cute, pithy, zing-y bits of advice designed to cope with the above.
  • My job, and why I don’t want it.
  • Frustration at my inability to stop hoisting my own petard.
  • Disappointment over having another child that I’ll just have to hand off to a day care or babysitter so I can continue working at this job.
  • Where to enroll my youngest in school, and the implications that come from each choice.
  • Finding whatever it is I should be doing with my life, whatever the hell that means.
  • Wondering if I even have the ability to recognize whatever *it* is when I see it.
  • How much of a damn relief death will be.

Anyway. I thought writing some of this down would help. Seeing the words, blah blah blah. But, it doesn’t. It’s just more of the void. Void-ier every day!

I asked him if he thought ECT was worth the disruption, he doesn’t think so. I get it. It’s a hell of a disruption and as the treatments spread out, the payoff was less noticeable. But then what is left? Restarting the magical journey of all the drugs again? Going through this one and that one and the side effects and the increasing anxiety and disappointment of still not being right? Doctor appointments, psychiatrists, therapy, pills, or doctor appointments, psychiatrist and ZAP!

All with a newborn plus three other kids and also while trying to plan a wedding?

Ha.

I think the answer here is get over it, Kim. There is no solution and there is no relief. You aren’t dead and you still gotta do everything.

Still feels odd that death remains the best thing I’ve got to look forward to.

About me

I am great.
This entry was posted in Death, Lies, Nonsense, Stress, The Only Shit That Means Anything. Bookmark the permalink.

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