I’m going to dump. It takes a great deal of effort to keep my writing somewhat structured and on point, or even a tiny bit coherent. It’s the complete opposite of the way I think, and even the way I speak, which has caused plenty of frustration. Even more frustrating is every single thing I talk about, somehow comes back to my limitations, not always by my design. I suppose that’s bound to happen since I’ve got “I’m fucked up” tattooed on my forehead.
Maybe it shouldn’t bother me that people are constantly asking me about my broken bits, and giving unsolicited advice. I’ve been sick long enough, that in their minds, a sick person is who I am. It’s basically my career, and my (un)livelihood. But even though they see me this way, show concern, and offer advice, I make them uncomfortable. And despite 98% of what I write about here being health related, I don’t like to talk about it with my people who knew the superhero version of myself, pre-sickiesick, because it only adds to the awkwardness. It’s like they’re afraid to say the wrong thing, or afraid that I’ll crumble and die at any moment. I’m sensitive, but I’m not fragile. If I break, it’s my fault, not theirs.
I haven’t seen my best friend in over a year. I sent her an email on her birthday in November, but have yet to hear back from her. The last time I spoke to her in person, she admitted to feeling like an ass around me because she never knows what to say. I’m still me. The distinct things that make me a Kara are still very much a part of me. I haven’t died. The situation has just changed. I told her she doesn’t need to say anything, I like spending time with her whatever the fuck we happen to be doing at the time. I guess she took ‘say nothing’ to heart, because that was the last time I heard from her. Maybe I said the wrong thing?After that, I started to put the brakes on conversation with friends if it landed on the topic of my health. It complicates things too much, and being the most socially awkward person on the planet, I can’t afford to repel the remaining people who miss my face.
Making plans is also a stupid process. I’ve got this nifty internal risk vs. reward algorithm running 24/7. I can’t do anything without giving it some thought first. I mean, I can, but making sure the consequences are worth it usually comes into play. Would I risk my ass for a trip to the Korean BBQ? Probably not. Would I risk my ass to be within spitting distance of the stage at a Puscifer concert? Yes, I definitely would. I’m a person who gets off on spontaneity, so this whole nuclear meltdown mental checklist I have to run through is a drag.
I’ve practically been twisting manchild’s titties trying to get him to seek out fun with me. One day out on the town may put me out of commission for the next 3 days, but I can plan for that. I want to spend that precious energy on something that’s mutually beneficial. He’s handling his depression the only way he knows how; by spending money that he doesn’t have. We have more crap than I know what to do with (mostly because no money has been spent on furniture to house said crap), yet it’s going to be a miracle if the refrigerator and pantry don’t remain barren until his clothing allowance comes through, whenever the hell that is. Dietarily speaking, I could live off of protein powder and mayonnaise, since it fits my macros, but…uh…no.
Speaking of depressed husband, we had the kid conversation again. Sort of. I read the story of the ‘baby fight club’ – some evil slunt decided she’d coerce toddlers to fight one another while in her daycare classroom. I read the headline and was very much amused, and said something like “at least babies are bouncy”, then owned the fact that I’m an awful person. Then shit. He wants kids, but for him it’s a fun until it’s not fun anymore, then hand off the responsibility to someone else (me). I’ve babysat with him before. Who’s the one to set limits with the germbags? Not him. His entire adult life may be ruined by my apprehension to procreate. I have plenty of reasons to believe having kids is the worst fucking possible idea for me, but I’ll spare you the long list and give you one. His Mom. Never mind all of the other stuff. I see how she judges her own daughter who’s trying to raise two little clones. I’m Beelzebub as far as she’s concerned. I don’t know that I’d want children, regardless of the situation. I didn’t before, I don’t now. The only thing that makes me consider it is the possibility I’ll regret not doing it, although that’s much easier to deal with than realizing I hate parenting more than I hate centipedes, and that moronic fucker with the combover who’s pretending to run for president. That would be most tragic, and a guaranteed way to ensure that said child is fucked up.
He’s here, but it still gets lonely, since he’s rarely emotionally available (which may have something to do with me being unscrumpavailable – I withhold, so he does too. Who fucking knows. Depression is depressing). And there’s a lot more work to do because I’m constantly picking up after him so I don’t trip over his crap and break my other leg.
Last year sucked, but home life was completely STRESS FREE. Hey..does anyone want to babysit him for a little while? He’s good with cars. Buy the parts, and he’ll fix the problem in a weekend.