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I need support. Period.
Zyprexa Story Time
Tonight, I have to power through Zyprexa 10 mg instead of Ativan 0.5 mg because the bottle looked similar in the dark. The one time, failed in the ER with severe neuroleptic symptoms that were so severe I don’t remember any of it or coming home, medication is swirling in me.
I feel the need to rip out IV’s not there and scream about how I said this would happen. I can’t really tolerate Compazine so this is hell I control here for peace alone.
I woke the next day of my last ER hellscape like it was a dream. A horrific, life changing dream. Imagine working up the nerve for an immediate therapy session for you and then throwing your spouse on with that one and another one to ensure all aspects of support are covered just to GO to the ER like her PCP said.
I just took the med that failed my last ER trip where I would have only been able to get a CT of the head. I don’t remember the scan and I’m claustrophobic as heck.
Tonight I took that med and the Ativan 0.5 mg my kind attending at Union Hospital prescribed for me and send a script for. She did it with the instructions never to touch the Zyprexa again. Doing so was my error, but here I am.
I decided to focus the side effects of Zyprexa with 50 mg Diphenhydramine and Ativan and push through the spasms and EPS since my airways are find and the chest spasms are more lateral than midline.
I organized my meds and documentation critical to me into the beautiful secretary my grandmother sat at. She would be proud. My organizational skills supersede most people I know.
When my daughter is anxious, she loses execution function so I’m organizing ways she and my support system (if we find one) can better assist me when my breathing changes from pain. As a nurse who was so organized in her med systems that other nurses eventually had to train with her, I’m good here.
God prepared me for this role as organized, sick person; person who can no longer type well on her phone and her manic typos take forever
When I’m anxious,” I need a job to do. Yesterday I was panicking and my daughter came up to me and held my face in her hands.
She said, “Mom. Mom, I have a job for you to do.”
I said “I can’t.”
“Mom, close your eyes. This job needs you to find the charger to my phone. In the drawer in the living room, where is that charger?”
“It’s in the green elongated Tupperware container I made because I loved that Home Edit show, but Joanna Gaines is better.” (I got them both at Target so my brain went to my happy place ♥️😆)
“Thanks!”
I snapped out almost immediately.
My daughter is amazing. My BP before was 233/166 at times that day so she saved her mom’s life. I’ll never disbelieve that. She probably has many times. She is my manic peace.
In her storm, I try to blaze through my meltdown and pivot to mom role. The mom mask is one that rarely slips off so I can assist her. I am sometimes the hole in the side of her Titanic. (Stupid Jack could have fit on the door, Rose!)
Thanks for reading this and sharing my story and maybe my GFM.
***If you know a specialist in diagnostic medicine send this to them. We need assistance***
Be Kind. I am experiencing compartment syndrome. I need assistance now!
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The Dedicated Field Hand
The Farming Spoon A man is spotted laboring in a field trying to dig a series of holes with a bent kitchen spoon. As he works, his aging face, shows decades of frustration. He mumbles that he has always felt frustrated, but no one ever cared. He labored anyway because he is a hardworking man.
The exhausted laborer used to have more energy and enthusiasm, but this work was very difficult to do. This job, he was forced to do. This job always required a shovel and the shovel should have had a blade and a handle. The handle should have a grip and the collar should not wiggle when the blade hits rocky ground.
Inside his boyhood heart, he also knew his hands should be gloved to prevent blisters. To him, that no longer mattered because his hands had grown so calloused, he didn’t feel the same pain he used to feel. Using the spoon made its own callouses and those callouses produced protection as well as demonstrated decades of hard work. The knotty fingers showed the damage in himself, but the callouses others felt when he tried to touch them.
The man knew which tool he needed, but it must have been locked away somewhere on the property and accessing it meant being humbled or humiliated and asking uncomfortable questions. It also meant he had unfamiliar work to do exploring the grounds.
The diligent, but weary worker, had never been taught how to ask questions safely. He was met with barking bosses and his former colleagues had consistently left him abandoned in the field to do all of the work alone. It was better to do it alone, anyway. No one could convince him it would be any differently.
Historically, exploring the grounds, had only ever occurred when the worker was most frustrated. Unable to see all that was around him with his peripheral vision being clouded, he had never successfully managed to find the shed the shovel was even stored in. He knew the shed existed, in theory, but he had never seen it for himself.
Decades of digging holes with a kitchen spoon had made him a professional, by all accounts. He had always dug holes this way. He knew exactly how to hunch over. He knew how to angle the rusted spoon and how to haphazardly bend the spoon back into shape in a pinch to get the required work done.
The work he performed had to be required, these days. The significant effort the job took demanded those stipulations. His resources were more valuable as his energy had been depleted. There was simply less energy to draw from, even if the desire was still there. He didn’t know if the desire had remained.
He knew how to keep the sweat out of his eyes like no one else, but the sweat no longer bothered him the same way. His tired fingers were going to write a manual on how to perform this routine, but there was no one standing by to give it to so he kept his manual to himself.
Inside his heart, the amazing man knew his former routine no longer produced the same results around him. Time met effort and had worn it down to almost nothing.
When asked why he wanted to keep using the spoon, the dedicated man unable to recognize his own face replied, “I have always done it this way. This has always been who I am.”
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The Second Scream
They’re in the freezer Without pouring my entire soul out, one year ago today, the last words I screamed at a very loved one were, “You owe me a massive lifetime of apologies. Until you do, go fuck yourself.”
I could hear how impactful it must have been, but I didn’t need an explanation anymore. I had set terms: apologize and until you do, go away. I didn’t say it very classy, but it was a kid screaming inside me.
At the time, my voice had only ever gotten that loud one time, that I can remember. The words were also said in anger to a loved one during an autistic moment where I felt completely abandoned. That first time, I didn’t know that kind of traumatic response even lived inside of me.
I was fortunate to process the scream I let out the first time with a trauma therapist. I was fortunate it was put into immediate perspective for me. Knowing why I rage screamed about a trauma from age 11 in my 40’s didn’t make it less likely to happen again.
Once that anger came out, I felt empowered for the first time even though I felt no control. At least I was heard and that would have to do. I had legitimate need to be protected and it seems my anger gets angriest when protection isn’t a part of love.
I must have been heard because that first person hasn’t spoken to me since I screamed for the first time. I don’t live in the attempt of wondering why. It’s futile trying to understand the communication habits of others.
The second scream that came out, my words were said with more forethought. Hard to believe. I don’t find the cuss to be overly helpful, but I haven’t regretted my second scream. I said what I should have said over a lifetime. I just accidentally said it much louder.
I was raised to submit. Submission means I continually existed to suppress some thing about or for me; Some need, some desire, some part of myself that had to be diminished, muted, restrained, disciplined, and it had to be squashed and done without being questioned. Only it wasn’t slutty clothes, it was everything. Submission was the goal.
When the bridle first comes out of submission’s mouth, apparently it likes to scream, “fuck you,” a lot. It does eventually clean up its language.
A year later, the second scream wouldn’t be so loud since I’m healing. If I could repeat one year ago today I’d say …“You may never understand why you owe me a lifetime of apologies, but since I’ve decided that you do … I’m saying goodbye. I really do love you and I now love myself enough to stop engaging. I learned how to make those Peppermint Patties, but you’re the only one I know who loves them so I only made them once. They’re in the freezer.”
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Are You a Resentful, Hurt Person? I was and I’m Working on It …
Serenity is just a fancy word for “not feeling miserable in your feels.” Lesson for me today.
I have a friend who says …
“Poor me. Poor me. Pour me a drink.”Even without booze, the saying is about self-pity, expectations, and disappointments.
Your Peace of Mind is directly inverse to your level of expectation. One goes up as the other goes down.
Your resentment is not inverted to your level of expectation. Resentment and Expectation are weary travelers on the same road inside your Peace of Mind.
Resentment and Expectation are weary and now ANGRY because they don’t want to keep walking, but they just cannot seem to settle. They are hitchhiking children who desperately need to nap.
Expectation leads to self-imposed chronic disappointment & false entitlement. Or true entitlements you hyper focus on and eventually obsess over because you don’t think your true entitlements are being met.
Side Bar: Do NOT take this as advice to stay in a harmful situation. If your house is on fire, accepting the warmth of it will eventually kill you. Accept what you can’t change, but change what you can. You have to live to enjoy the Peace of Mind. End side note …
Peace of Mind really only exists if you’re not actively burning to death Eventually you become the problem and not the observer of your own injustice. Eventually, you’re the disappointment in your own life.
I have autism so my sense of justice and what is fair and right is SIGNIFICANTLY bigger than a neurotypical person’s sense of justice or injustice. It makes me an amazing advocate for others. I now see that gift for what it is. (It is also exhausting.)
Decreasing my expectations isn’t easy, but it’s at least something I can practice doing and eventually (hopefully) make a habit from.
I control very little. It felt defeating. I lash out incorrectly or correctly.
I control only myself. I control more than my actions and words. I control my Peace of Mind.
I, alone, control my joy.
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0315 thoughts …
Sarah Brightman moved me I grew up in an environment of religious and intellectual annihilation. If you were incorrect, you’d immediately hear every angle on why you were incorrect.
Depending on what you were incorrect about, your walk with God was called into question.
If one received a B, within seconds, your lack of understanding or usual childhood laziness was mentioned. This quickly turned into a spiritual failure because there was clearly something deeper occurring.
During a period of sexual abuse, I was secretly acting out sexually. This is tremendously common. A family member found a condom in my closet and gave it to my parents.
My father asked me why I had it. I lied and said something about water balloons. My biggest fear was disappointing my dad. He wanted to believe me, but must not quite have.
He took me in our silver minivan and played the Phantom of the Opera. My father is like me, in that he speaks in many analogies. The Phantom represented the temptation of the world. I was Christine.
It was a beautiful analogy and I took it to heart. I stopped having sex by 14. I needed him to pursue the condoms harder. I needed his need to believe to be weighed with facts and seeing what he saw with his two eyes.
One instance of extreme naivety is a fumble, hundreds of instances is a horrific pattern.
I know now that I am autistic and my ability to meter risk and moderation is broken.
I have horrific self-doubt. I’m never confident even when I’m arguing my point. My ability to see myself is broken. I’m working on healing it, but it is taking time with repeated fumbles of never knowing what anything means anymore.
I’m changing.
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How the World Ends?
This is oddly an improvement over January 6, 2021 In my Dream:
MAGA becomes seen as too extreme, even for “moderate” Republicans. Republicans ditch Christian Nationalism. Republicans start to see climate change and we have to unite to save the earth. Even if they never accept responsibility, the pendulum corrects itself. Democrats win. Democracy wins. Climate is saved. Happy day!
In my nightmare:
MAGA takes over. Democrats stop breeding, realizing the planet has like 8 BILLION people on it. We stay brilliant, but ultimately die off. Those who live have their heads cryogenically frozen and are in jars and their Alexa’s maintain them in a lab.
MAGA mates themselves into dominance. The planet surpasses its ability to host those parasites. With every generation, Republicans get stupider. Eventually, they de-evolve and become actual cavemen and stereotypical cavewomen who stay barefoot around the fire pit.
Once Republicans have to re-learn what the wheel is, it’s only a matter of time before they don’t know how to build fires.
All humans die. The planet resets itself.
My nightmare is the planet’s dream.
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My Surprise First Kiss … and my Uncle! 🤨
Age 11 I was 11. It was raining. Listening to November Rain by GNR still makes me think of my first boyfriend, Rob. Rob, my weirdly invested neighbor friend, and my out of state uncle.
Do you mean to tell me that YOUR uncle didn’t drive you to and then witness your first kiss like mine did? One hasn’t lived until they get their first kiss in front of an audience.
It was November 1990. I had met a boy at a wedding that summer. He was two years older than me. He was a secret. He was very nice and was one of the few boys I dated who never hurt me.
I often rode my brown, ten-speed bike five miles to see him during the summer and after school. We snuck tons of phone calls and visited where and when we could. We were old-school. We mailed one another letters. His handwriting still impresses me. I kept all his letters. I keep every letter. He wrote me novels in the most gorgeous handwriting you’ve ever seen.
The wedding that this boy, Rob, and I met at was the wedding of my neighbor’s mom. I never would have met him, otherwise. We didn’t go to the same school. He was two grades older so he was in the Junior High.
My neighbor friend was a horrific influence on my unknowingly autistic behind. Most trouble I got into as an early teen, I got into with or because of her.
One visit, my uncle asked if I wanted to go to the mall with him. He told me I could bring my neighbor friend. They were both a bit rowdy, but she was 13, and he was just something else. I remember going to the mall and on the way back, my friend was asked to give him directions back home. She knew how to navigate. I am rarely the one anyone should ask for directions.
My uncle had a big white van that he drove down from Long Island. Before I knew it, we weren’t at home. We were on the other side of town in a neighborhood I knew from the summer. My friend had navigated my uncle to my boyfriend’s house. I don’t know if she was trying to be funny, or if she knew I really liked this boy and this was an opportunity of a lifetime.
My uncle obviously figured out what was happening when he heard two giggly girls in the back seat. He said, “Go ahead,” like he knew my dad would hate it and this was an opportunity I’d never get again. I ran up the hill, rang a doorbell, and had to ask his tiny sister, “Is Rob home?” She closed the door and screamed, “Robby, that girl with the orange bathing suit is at the door!” Remember, it is currently November, so this felt humorous, at the time!
A blond-haired, blue-eyed, nervous 13-year-old boy who was just playing original Nintendo with his brother was suddenly on his porch with me. I don’t know how he got over the audience of my friends and family at the bottom of the hill, but I will never forget what a nice first kiss it was. He somehow knew how not to over or underdo anything. For a first kiss, I’d give it 4.67/5 stars.
I floated to the van. If my uncle was upset or not, I don’t remember! I had just had my first kiss. I suppose I have always been a bit of an exhibitionist. (It’s difficult to tell if you can read my sarcasm.) By the time we got back to my house, my uncle told me that my secret was safe with him.
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The Greatness of MAGA & Being Condemned to Repeat History
Make America Great Again. The “again,” part of that mantra always bothered me. We can almost all agree no one group of people has had it “great,” except for old white men.
In 1905, poet and philosopher, George Santayana said, “those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
As a personal philosophy, we agree this happens. We fuck around. We find out. We learn. We improve. Hopefully, we don’t repeat the same patterns, but we often do.
An entire voting party wants the rest of the world to not only forget history, but to ache for it, if we feel anything positive about the past. We are to ache for it and ask for more lies and white washes.
MAGA legislators are forcing unwilling participants to live in a time period of “again,” when only rich white men could thrive. It feels surreal because it is.
Politics are supposed to advance us in society. Laws and rules are to guide us in a new, more improved direction. We are supposed to use current information AND history to decide our future. Telling us to go back to “Great Again” serves only the American Oligarchs.
It always has. It always will.
I never agreed to Donald Trump’s version of “great again.” Republicans are forcing their “greatness” on all of us. They’re condemning all of us to repeat a history some of us have NEVER LIVED IN at all.
Who are they to speak for all and condemn all of us to their refusal to be present now, currently. The United States was founded under the enlightenment ideals of liberalism and what Thomas Jefferson called, “the unalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”
Republicans do none of those things. Their life causes women to die. Their Liberty causes nine-year-old’s funerals by going to school. As for the pursuit of happiness, the GOP is not a friend of pursuing “contentment,” let alone, “happiness.”
The pendulum needs to swing faster the other way to correct this “greatness.”
Something more needs to be done. Our ability to salute the American flag is falling apart before our eyes. We are not on a “slippery slope.” We are in an avalanche started by greed of one generation being chased even harder by the next.
The evil won’t let up. The evil occurring WILL NOT REST, so the brave and good in us all must rise up.
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Emotional Honesty and Narcissism
I rarely hear women accept they’re dumpster humans, call it emotional honesty, and shit on you by expecting you to accept that they’re never going to change.
I’m not accusing all men of this as I have heard many dumpster human women speak this nonsense, but it seems to be a trait heavily considered “emotional honesty” in many men.
It reminds me of Popeye. “I am what I am.” That sounds like integrity, at first. That “integrity,” in the hands of a narcissist, will make you doubt yourself 11 years later at 0216.
It’s not an honest trait. It’s a trait narcissists use to continue gaslighting you with torturous, belittling, bullshit.
“It feels like home,” when working on shortcomings is a part of your dynamic. If you are constantly adapting for a person who doesn’t treat your emotions with the kid gloves your emotions deserve, it may not be the right home.
Narcissists will try to convince you your tears are emotional blackmail. They will NEVER even check their account balance to pay the ransom.
“I’II work on that,” is what integrity looks like.
“Emotional honesty,” can often be code for, “if you hear this one time, you should believe the words the first time, as you will hear it for the rest of that relationship.”
Heed this warning. You will be gaslit until you no longer recognize who you are, what truth looks like, and how not to flinch when the garage door opens.
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Queen Buttercup Speaks 