I’m A Mess

This past year and a half has been very difficult for me. I had five surgeries within 14 months, starting in 2016. It’s why I haven’t really been blogging as often as I’d like. I won’t bore you with the details of the surgeries but they came in such rapid succession and that’s what has made me go from anxiety with occasional panic attacks to my current state which has transformed to severe anxiety with frequent panic attacks, including the dreaded anxiety attacks first thing in the morning.

I didn’t take as good of care of myself as I should have with each recovery from surgery and it’s definitely taken a toll on me. I feel so anxious all the time and my body still feels like it’s in recovery mode. It’s been frustrating for me because I’m still not 100% physically and the frustration leads to anxiety which leads me to have panic attacks.

If you’ve never had a panic attack, you’re very lucky. Mine starts out with feeling a sense of dread. My heart starts pounding. It’s difficult to catch my breath. My mind starts racing. I feel dizzy. My heart gets to where it feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest. I feel like I’m going to give myself a heart attack. The sense of dread increases. My heart’s beating so fast, my mind is racing, I’m feeling dizzier, and there are times I even get so worked up that I throw up from the anxiety and panic. It feels like I’m a prisoner in my own body and want nothing more that to escape myself.

So, for the past 18 months, my anxiety has grown to where it can be debilitating at times. I’m getting more concerned now because this is the time of year that my depression starts rearing its ugly head.

Since I cut out all news out of my life last month, the anxiety has become a little more manageable. I’ve been trying to ride out the panic attacks without reaching for my xanax prescription but that can be really difficult. Hmmm, would I rather feel like I’m in a fight or flight state of panic for half the day or should I take something that I know in 20 or so minutes will have me feeling more in control of my thoughts? But, I don’t want to have to depend on medication every time.

The problem is, I still have an ongoing medical issue and while I’ve had two surgeries for it where I thought both times that I’ll finally be feeling healthy again and won’t have to deal with this problem anymore. Low and behold, once I’m confident it’s finally not an issue anymore. the fucking thing pops back up. I feel like there’s no end in sight and my ENT doctor has been calling this “unusual and rare”.

He seems to be at a total loss about what to do and mentioned sending me to Boston. For now though, he’s waiting to see if medication will help. I know it’s not going to because in the past it never did.

I’m just feeling so frustrated and at a loss.

What I’ve been missing is writing. I know that’s something that will help clear my head and help my anxiety while also giving me an escape from these ongoing medical issues.

I just don’t know if I can still keep up the blogging, not that I’ve really been keeping it up that often. But, I’ve been blogging for over seven years now and I’m not quite sure I can completely let it go. So, for now, I figure what the hell, even if I don’t have much to say, I should just write anyway. It’s such a nice vacation from my anxiety ridden mind and the physical pain I’m still in.

So, now you know what’s been going on since last year. It feels good to clear the air and talk about the terrible time I’ve been having.

I know I’ll get through this rough time but right now it feels like it’s going to last forever. I’ll leave you for now by saying thank you for listening to my issues.

I’ve got issues, you’ve got them too, so give yours to me and I’ll give mine to you.

Your welcome for getting that song stuck in your head.

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Basketcase

Dear laundry,

I’ve been trying to bite my tongue about this but I’ll just come out with it. Why do you gotta be such a dick? You fill up within hours of me finally getting the laundry done for the week. It would be nice to let me bask in the “I’ve got all the laundry done, hallefuckingluluah!”, glow. But, nope. I’ll slide open the dresser drawer, put the clothes in, and a minute later, you’re laughing in my face with the basket halfway full within minutes.

During the winter, it’s especially hellish because my husband has thick, flannel lined everything where only one of his outfits takes up the entire clothes basket. We live in New England after all, and for half the year, our clothes are super bulky.

Oh, joy!

It seems the colder it gets, the longer it takes me to get around to folding the laundry. Actually, I take that back. It always takes me a long time to fold the laundry.

I’ve tried keeping up with the laundry by doing a load every day but that just makes me want to burn all our clothes and join a nudist colony.

So, I do the laundry in one big haul over the weekend.

Friday rolls around. Oh, what the hell. Let’s get a load of laundry started because I want to get a leg up and it’s usually around 8 pm and after a few glasses of wine. Anything sounds fun after a few glasses of wine. Even laundry.

By 9 pm, I’m about ready to drop dead from the insomnia I’ve dealt with all week and leave the laundry in the washer overnight.

My husband, my very sweet husband, I might add, lets me sleep in late on the weekends since he knows I deal with insomnia. I get up ready to tackle the several more loads of laundry for the weekend.

Kidding.

It’s all I have to properly function like a semi-productive human in the morning. I don’t seem to fully wake up until 2 pm on the weekends because I’ve been doing tedious, mind-numbing shit all week. Just making sure my kid gets to school in the morning feels like I’ve run a marathon.

So, laundry.

I look forward to thee as much as I do constipation.

Never!

And there you sit, overnight, in the washer because the wine made me feel like I’m queen of the world so I will tackle these several loads of laundry.

Oh, but what’s that? My husband is going to throw in a “quick” load of his work clothes after putting the other load of laundry into the dryer. Meaning, he’s going to throw them in the damn washer, start the damn washer, and take off doing everything except the damn laundry he just put in the damn washer. I know I shouldn’t complain and that’s more than some husband’s do but seriously. Seriously?!

I want to say thanks for making me do an extra load I didn’t know existed and that you will now forget it until Sunday night.

This laundry isn’t going away no matter how much I try to conjure up my fairy godmother and the woodland creatures that help around the house in fairy tales. This shit isn’t doing itself.

Finally, with two cups of coffee, I get the momentum to conquer this tower of dirty clothes. And then… then, I’m like fuck this shit by the last load of laundry that’s finally finished on Sunday evening. The “quick” laundry load my husband started on Saturday morning has long been folded and hung up.

I just can never seem to fold that last load of laundry. I have good intentions to fold it and put it away but that dies off day by day.

It starts like this:

Oooh, I’m a nice, fresh load of laundry straight out of the dryer. I want to be folded.

And I’m like “Eh, I’d rather watch “The Handmaid’s Tale” again or “13 Reasons Why”, I’ll do it tomorrow.

Monday morning comes around. After being awake for a few hours, I turn on the dryer for a couple of minutes to de-wrinkle the clothes. Then, I fold them and put them away.

Kidding.

I forget about it. Until, later that night when all I have left for my underthings is my period underwear. That’s when I know I can’t procrastinate much longer. When I hit that part of my panty drawer, I know it’s time to get serious about laundry.

So, I turn on the dryer again and put it in the basket. I’m so close to folding that last damn basket of damn laundry but what happens? There’s usually some excuse for my 8 year-old to get out of bed 50 times a night.

I push the laundry basket to the side of the closet and tend to the hummingbird. Finally, I just want to crawl into bed and fall into a coma.

Tuesday. The basket is still sitting there.

Wednesday. I’m in quite a pickle because I’m on my last pair of period underwear.

Thursday. Time to fold. But, the clothes are so wrinkled and have been sitting there so I’ll deal with it later. I start a new load of laundry. I even actually dry it, fold it, and put it away. And yet, there in the corner of the closet is the basket of whites that is begging for attention, wanting to be folded and put away.

Next thing I know, it’s the weekend and more damn laundry. That poor basket of clean clothes that has been sitting in the closet are there until Monday.  I want to just throw them in the dryer but there’s usually someone in this house, my husband, who mixes the dirty clothes with the clean clothes basket.

I know there’s an easy solution, just fold the damn laundry in the first place, but that’s no fun. So, I wash it again and this time, I grab a few things out of the dryer and put them away because it’s past bedtime and I will end up lying awake in bed for a few hours before I get up and watch Teen Mom 2 on the DVR instead of folding laundry.

I’ll fold the laundry in the basket tomorrow. Or maybe by next Saturday.

Definitely by next Monday.

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I Thought I Was So Cool With My Cassette Player And Smurf Tape

When I was about 8 years-old, I was given a cassette player. It was during the height of smurf popularity in the 80’s and I was given a smurf tape that I played over and over and over again. Singing the smurf songs at the top of my lungs made me feel like a fucking rock star.

Now, when I come across pictures of myself during that time, I was a total dork. But, at the time I thought I was so cool. Yeah, sure. The picture of me in a mullet hairdo and an obnoxious Cosby Show sweater tell me otherwise.

I soon graduated from the smurfs to Rick Springfield, then my biggest loves of all… John Taylor and Duran Duran. Those were the days.

I didn’t understand the level of annoyance that playing those cassette tapes over and over must have caused my mom.

I have an 8 year-old and my eardrums are being tortured by Kidz Bop. I’m now understanding what my mom had to go through with my musical phases.

We listen to the Kidz Bop satellite station most of the time when we’re in the car. I can’t even put into words how much Kidz Bop annoys the fuck out of me. It’s almost as bad as my daughter’s Calliou phase, although I don’t think it’s possible that anything can annoy me more than that little asshole.

But, Kidz Bop is up there.

My daughter has even schooled me on the names of the Kidz Bop kids. Yes. I now know which one is Brianna. Okay, I don’t really but when we see her in a video, my daughter excitedly says that’s her and I just say mmmhmmm.

I never knew so much about parenthood was about pretending like you know what the hell your kid is taking about, shaking your head in agreement, and saying mmmhmm.

My most embarrassing moment this past week was when my daughter and I were driving home from the library. Whenever I hear Ed Sheeran’s song, Photograph, I tear up every damn time. No, I’m not ashamed of it! That’s a really great song and nobody can tell me any different. Nobody, I say!!

The radio was playing a Kidz Bop version of the song. I thought to myself, “Oh, please. This is going to be awful.”

Two minutes later, tears were rolling down my face.

Damn you, Kidz Bop!

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Shoo Fly, Don’t Bother Me

I don’t like my psychiatrist. I’m sure he’s an okay guy but he comes off as really cold. But, I deal with him since I don’t really have any other options.

I usually dread going to his office and leave there more stressed than when I went in. I’ve been having some severe anxiety and frequent panic attacks for months now and it feels like I’m slowly suffocating under the weight of this anxiety.

I was pouring my heart out to this psychiatrist at my last appointment and he started eating a banana. I always laugh at the worst times. Nervous laughter. Seeing him eat a banana combined with me feeling very emotional and in tears combined with the phallic shape of the banana combined with my mind is that of a 12 year-old boy equals laughter.

He gobbled down the banana while I composed myself and the tears started coming. He starts swatting at the air and I try to continue talking to the spastic display in front of me.

He took notice and said “It’s a fruit fly. Go on….”

At this point I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I had been practicing what I wanted to say to him for weeks. And, there he is, swatting with both hands with his arms flailing about.

I’m trying so hard to keep a straight face while he continues swatting at this fruit fly. I went back to being an emotional mess and my head was down. When I was about to tell him something really difficult, he slapped his knee and said “Got it!”

I looked up to see him wiping off the remains of the fruit fly in his hand.

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WTFuckbook?

I’ve written before about how much I can’t stand Facebook but I just can’t quit it. I can’t quit you, Facebook! You bastard!

I certainly had plenty of moments of over sharing on it and there’s really no point in this sentence since I forgot where I was going with it so let’s move on, shall we?

A few posts ago, I mentioned a married family member who needs to eat a sandwich and quit fucking other people. She’s been jumping on other dick faster than I go through a box of tissues during allergy season which is all year for me so boo for that. Not her dick jumping. My allergies. Actually, boo to both.

I’m on Benadryl so I’m not making any sense.

Anyway,

This family member went back to her husband and now they’re constantly posting gag-worthy FB status updates. She’s been cheating on him throughout the marriage and even admitted she has no reason at all to stay married because she knows she’ll continue to cheat.

They are always tagging each other if they put up a puke song about their love or anything from pics of them together to rants about how the husband isn’t putting up with anyone messing with his woman or driving a wedge between him and her.

Bless his little heart. If he only knew that the “wedge” he’s talking about is the men Mrs. Dickjumper jumps on.

These FB updates can be creepy as fuck but for some reason people are eating it up. One post that made me think WTFuckbook? was when he took a photo of how he spelled out “I Love You” on their bed that just a few weeks before was where he caught her in there with another man.

May I just add that “I Love You” was spelled out in bullets.

Um.

Hmmm.

I love You spelled out in bullets on the bed?

Is this a thing I didn’t know about? People loved that post and had comments like “how sweet” or “nothing says I love you like bullets”. Granted, they live in the South and are gun enthusiasts but…

He spelled I Love You IN BULLETS. This is like being in the middle of a creepy as fuck Lifetime movie. This isn’t normal in the world I live in. If I came home to that, I wouldn’t stop to take photos. I’d run out the damn door.

He also made a big heart on a wall with post-its.

The dude would be screwed if he fucked with my post-its. That’s definitely where I draw the line. I’m OCD about having post-it notes around the house in case I need to write something down. If my man used up my post-its, I would freak and make him put the post-its back together.

Then, I would post a picture of it on Facebook. #blessed

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I’ll Just Pretend We Don’t Have A Government Right Now

Dear fellow earthlings,

Please help us here in America. I’ve had to ban myself from watching any news because I have been having such high anxiety. It feels like the world is going to end.

I feel like I’m a passenger on the Speed bus from hell except Keanu Reeves isn’t here to save the day. Every fucking hour, some crazy shit seems to go down in the political world and even though I’ve banned myself from the news, I still see it on the celebrity gossip sites.

All I’m asking for is some juicy gossip to take away from this shitstorm happening to this country.

Here’s a summary of the last seven months. All aboard the Speed bus!

Sean Spicer says the numbers for the inauguration was the biggest that was ever seen, period.

*grabs on to the sides of my seat of the Speed bus*

White supremacists are in the White House.

Muslim ban.

Um. Um. Holy fuck. *grabs a hold of my seat even tighter*

The Cheeto-In Chief tweets delusional, crazy shit.

Dennis Hopper was more likeable as the villian in Speed. *has panic attack because this fucker is going to get us killed in 140 characters or less*

Comey is fired.

SANDRA? KEANU? Anyone? Who’s driving this damn bus? Where’s the adult here? *braces self against my bus seat on the Speed bus to hell because it’s going to be one hell of a ride*

Tweet, tweet. FAKE NEWS! FAILING NEW YORK TIMES! FAKE NEWS!

What. The. Actual. Fuck? This is what journalists do. People won’t believe this delusional twat bag.

So, yeah. I was wrong about that. People are actually that stupid. *puts head down while sitting on the Speed bus to hell and takes deep breaths while preparing for impact*

Spicer is out. Sarah Fuckabee Sanders “I talk like I’m eating my face” is in.

And, surprise. Someone even thuggier than Tony Soprano; the Scary Mooch is in.

What. The Actual. Fuckity. Fuck?

Scarramouche, Scarramouche, will you do the fandango?

Boy Scout Jamboree.

Oh my fucking god. This is way too Hitler-esque.

*braces self on the Speed bus to hell because there’s a gap in the freeway and we’re all gonna die”

And, Scary mooch’s greasy, slimeball, thug ass is out of there after ten days.

Ha!

We make it across the gap in the freeway and things seem to calm down. There will be someone to do the adulting after all.

But, Cheeto-In-Chief tweets more of his insanity.

*Keanu enters. “There’s a bomb on the bus and it’s orange. It will blow at any time”.*

Seriously, where’s the fucking adult?!

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Where The Fuck Is The Eagle?

We recently went on our yearly camping trip which was much needed and my husband and I just celebrated our 22nd wedding anniversary. That seems so crazy. Where did the time go?

My camping style is renting a cabin with electricity and running water and roughing it for me is if I forget to bring my flat iron.

It was especially great this time around since I had my mom as an ally. Someone to hang out and eat chips and dip, plus watch Unreal, while the husband and hummingbird were out swimming all day.

I actually kayaked with my husband for the first time in ages. The last time we did that, it was early in our marriage and he had this sucky inflatable kayak that would just paddle around in circles. I found it hysterical.

While we were at the lake, we took a boat ride around the area with a guide.

I’ll say it right now, I suck at being a tourist because I don’t like guided tours for some reason. It can be fine in some cases but usually, to be honest, I just don’t care and would rather explore on my own.

So, we take this boat tour and this very nice woman points out the trees, cabins, private islands, eagles, beaver dams, etc. It was nice but for the most part, I just wanted to be back in the cabin, eating chips and dip with my mom. I am not an outdoor person by any means.

My mom and I get back to the cabin and start rehashing the hour long tour we had. We both confessed we didn’t know most of what the tour guide was pointing out to the group.

Tour Guide: The older cabins on the shoreline with their own piers were built in the 60’s. I will now tell you the entire history about this.

In My Head: What did she say about the 60’s? They did what? Should I say something to make it seem like I know what she’s saying?

I shake my head and say “Oh, hmmm.”

Tour Guide: This lake goes into so and so river to the left. You can see it in the clearing by the trees.

In My Head: I see lots of trees but I have no idea what she’s seeing that I’m not. I hope there’s not a quiz.

I shake my head and say, “Really, hmmm.”

Tour Guide: Straight ahead you can see a few beaver dams. See the sticks? Let me pull in a little closer. Now, the dams are more East of us.

In My Head: East? Which fucking way is East? I don’t see any damn dam sticks. Which way is fucking East?

I shake my head and say ” Awww, very nice.”

Tour Guide: On the private island to the right lives the so and so family. You can see so and so’s boat on the shore.

In My Head: Okay, cool. At least this time she said right instead of a direction but I can’t see a boat anywhere and there’s two small islands to the right of us. Scan… scan. Where’s the fucking boat and how long is this damn boat ride?

I shake my head and say “Nice.”

Tour Guide: In the trees ahead is a black mass in the middle where the eagle’s nest is. And, on top of the branch is the baby eagle who’s not such a baby anymore.

Passenger #5: That’s quite a big baby eagle. *Gets camera out*

In My Head: Scanning…. scanning…. scanning. What black fucking mass? Why the hell am I not seeing any of this shit? I don’t see anything resembling a nest. Scanning… scanning. And, where the fuck is the eagle? Where is the eagle? Okay. Now, my husband is also taking pictures of this eagle that I can’t see. Eagle? Where the fuck are you? I’m not seeing any of this stuff that’s being pointed out. Is everyone else just saying they see it, too? Where the fuck is this baby eagle?

I shake my head and say “Hmmm, wow. “

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