10:52AM, my neurologist’s office.
Man, I hope that fish eats some more rocks. That’s hiLARious when he spits ‘em back out.
I’d really like a fish tank. Salt water, tho. Freshwater fish poo too much. Shit, I’d probably kill them. Then I’d be depressed for months.
10:55AM, my neurologist’s office.
BUBBLES! BUUUUUBLES! BUBBLE BUBBLE BUBBLE!
Man, fish are hilarious.
11:05AM, my neurologist’s office.
Fuck, this is gonna be some shitballs news. I really should’ve put this off another day.
OH, hell, he’s asking me a question about my headaches. LOOK AWAKE. Nod. Yeah! Nodding is always good. WAIT, I just told him my headaches are getting better. RETRACT, RETRACT, RETRACT.
11:10AM, my neurologist’s office.
He really does look like a cowboy from a spaghetti Western. Wait, what the hell does “spaghetti Western” mean? Either way, he totally does.
Shit, more drugs. And these side effects. If the headaches won’t kill me, the treatment fucking will.
11:12AM, my neurologist’s office.
Is he still talking about side effects? I’m getting depressed. I know, I should think about something else.
Why is Jessica Simpson, reported to be due “this spring” so huge? I don’t believe it. I bet she’s popping out a kid any moment now.
11:17AM, my neurologist’s office.
Did Jay-Z and Beyonce REALLY shut down an entire NICU for their baby? That’s some bullshit.
hums, “it’s a hard knock life.”
11:22AM, my neurologist’s office.
He’s yelling at me for not getting a blood test done. Fuck. What was the test again? I love tests. Just yesterday I took an IQ test – I’m pretty sure I failed.
Should I tell him about my IQ test and ask if that’s what he wanted? NO. Bad call, SHUT UP BECKY.
11:24AM, my neurologist’s office.
Damns. More drugs. And a side effect that can kill me – another one. Lords.
THINK OF THE BUBBLES, BECKY. BUUUUUUUUBLES.
Not working. Imagining my funeral.
People better be crying at my funeral. None of this – “celebrate my life” bullshit – I want tears. REAL TEARS. I will PAY people to cry if I have to.
Shit, I wonder what the going rate is for funeral criers.
Hrms. Would I find them on Craigs List? That seems to be the best place to find ‘em. Fuck. They took out Craigs List personal ads. Fuck. Now I’m gonna have to find a real job.
11:36AM, my neurologist’s office.
Ooooh! My brain is rewiring itself to become better at circumventing my migraine meds. That’s almost robotic.
Wait. No. That means my brain is becoming resistant to it. That’s not good.
11:42AM, my neurologist’s office.
Woah, he gave me a lot of instructions and all I can think is: “when is Jessica Simpson REALLY having her baby?” This is not good.
When my crotch parasites came home to discover that my house, had, indeed been turned upside down and two formerly ugly rooms now had lickable colored walls (hey, purple’s a fucking flavor, dammit), they were impressed. I could tell that they had no idea what “painting the walls” meant, because they assumed that somehow The Guy on My Couch and I had painted pictures to put on the walls as well. And if they had any idea what sort of artistic aptitude I have, they’d have known better.
I have to admit, however, that I did appreciate being taken as someone artistic for a moment – even if it was by a four-year old.
Well, the rooms were a gigantic success. Not only am I no longer Furious George when I stare at my walls, slack-jawed and thinking, but they’re actually pleasant to be in.
Of course, there was an unexpected side effect. The moment my children realized that The Guy On My Couch and I hadn’t actually painted pictures, but changed the color of the walls entirely, they began to clamor for us to change their bedrooms, too.
Their bedrooms – two of the rooms that had BEEN previously painted by Your Aunt Becky. Of course. Two of the four rooms I’ve painted, and they wanted to repaint them.
I managed to stall the boys who are in a fierce deadlock between Purple and Green, but my daughter, o! my daughter, she chimed in, asking me to paint her room her favorite color. My heart, of course, grew three sizes and melted into an ooey gooey pile of mush on the floor right at my feet.
That tiny voice said, “Mama, I want a PINK room.”
Oh, my heart. My heart forever walking around outside my body.
Pink has been my favorite color well into my late twenties (I’ve now decided on a more grown-up “blue” as a favorite color, but only barely). As a tot, I loved pink – which horrified my hippie mother, who would’ve preferred that I like a nice brown burlap. I’d have shot someone dead for a pink bedroom (presuming, of course, I had access to a gun, which, hippies don’t like).
Under normal circumstances, I’d have fallen over myself to make this happen. But the room she lives in now? It WAS painted pink. A pink I couldn’t stomach. That room remained shut until I got pregnant with Alex, at which time Daver painted it a nice soft yellow.
My daughter is a rational creature, though, so I knew I could appeal to her logical brain.
“Okay, Mimi,” I said, hoping she’d forget it all. “Would you like me to paint your room instead of buying you a birthday present?”
“YES!” she screamed happily. “I want a PINK ROOM.”
For days, she told everyone we saw – including strangers wandering the aisles at Target looking for baking powder as well as the cashiers at Target – that she was getting a pink room.
So there you have it. For her third birthday, my daughter is getting a pink bedroom. Bubble gum pink if she has her way, which she will. You’re only three once, after all.
I will SO miss that yellow.
Just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing…you sound down.
Trust me I know how you feel. Seasonal depression much less clinical depression sucks! Add to that the fact I was off my Lexapro for 5 days and I was a step below Charles Manson..LOL! If you need to vent, I’m here!
Hang in there & take care!
Oh Prankster, my Prankster, you’re making me cry here. It’s funny how that works, isn’t it? I get all, “whatever,” whenever someone says something shitballs to me, but the moment someone is kind, I do the Ugly Cry.
The answer is somewhere in the middle – I’m up and down.
It’s January – my daughter’s birthday, which is always a massively triggering event for me. I feel so stupid to admit that, like I don’t have the right to be upset. She’s the girl that lived! I know in my head that she’s fine, but I see her disfigured head and the scar that grows each time she does, and my stomach drops – I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. I’m left panting and panicking, my throat tight. The nightmares I can’t quite shake.
On the other hand, I’m beyond happy that I’ve made a teeny step – she’s getting the birthday celebration I’ve always wanted to give her. I’m having more fun putting together a Sweet Shop themed party than any adult should….but that PTSD monster is always lurking close at hand.
I’ve wanted so badly to come here to my own space and tell you all about it (you are, after all, my family, Pranksters) – but it all comes out a random jumble of letters and words that lead to nowhere, and I’m more frustrated that I can’t seem to do what I love most – write. The words don’t come. The sentences make no sense. The paragraphs don’t flow. It’s just gone.
I know the words, the words will be back – but there will still be this gigantic pile of things I can no longer speak of. I hate feeling like this whole host of things I need to share most must go unspoken. Someday it won’t matter. I know this, too. And yet, it’s been all I can do to breathe. And keep breathing.
This too will end. I know.
But tonight, tonight I am decidedly not okay. Thankfully, tomorrow is another day. It will, perhaps, be better.
I have hope. Indeed, it is all I have.