I know I wrote a love letter to my new BFF Topamax at some point recently. I’d go through my archives but all of the punctuation looks wonky when I do that and then I get stabby because the only way I know how to fix that is to do it by hand. For all eight hundred of my posts.
Like I don’t have anything better to do than, you know, that. I’d rather pluck my leg hairs with my teeth, thankyouverymuch.
And I do loves me that drug, trust me. Today, for the first time in 5ish months, I haven’t had to take anything for my head and that, trust me, is something that kind of makes me want to pop a celebratory Vicodin.
I’ve been sort of downplaying the side effects though, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life it’s this: the more attractive you are, the crazier you are, cheese in a can isn’t natural, hot dogs are proof that God loves us.
The only thing we can control in life is how we react to situations we’re put into.
I can, for example, choose to take my fucked up childhood and use that as a crutch, as a means to justify my bitterness, my feminism, my hatred of the world, the reason no one loves me or the reason that I hate addicts or people who mock addicts or people who are successful where I am not.
Or I can say, WOW, that was fucked up, have a good laugh, try to remember that at the end of the day we’re all–even OUR PARENTS–only human. And human beings? They fuck up.
But the Topamax is slowly eroding my memory, which, while it can be the butt of many jokes at my expense, and I’m certain it will be, because OBVIOUSLY, and I do expect to get it back, but for now? I can barely remember to wipe my ass. Come to think of it…
The problem with this isn’t that it’s now making me a total nutter with the attention span of a gnat, it’s that no one expects it from me. It’s like going to a steak house, ordering a fillet, and then getting served a stir-fry (this was, come to think of it, the same analogy I used to describe my BlogHer experience!). Totally unexpected.
You can call me a lot of things and make most of them stick, hell, I’ll HELP you call me a lot of things, but absent minded is nowhere on that list. Self-deprecating, fiercely loyal, unable to use a comma to save my own life, totally self-absorbed (dude. I write a BLOG), all of those fit, but having to adjust to having a memory bank so full of holes that dust is pouring out, now, I barely know how to handle it.
The symptoms, the doctors say, will subside. And I’ll adjust. I’m getting a real! live! day! planner! because I cannot fucking stand having a calendar on a PDA/phone/computer, no matter how many times I’ve argued this with Dave. Running tally on this particular argument is 597 and he’s STILL not convinced me.
I’m also making folders in my Google Reader because I realized with 464 feeds (and counting) there is no way I can possibly keep up with everyone every single day and still manage to stay sane. Well, okay, so there’s a good debate there as to if a person who calls herself “Aunt Becky” can ever call herself “sane,” but you know. I do want to stay connected to all of you, but I need some tips as to how.
So, this, my Internet friends, is where Your Aunt Becky turns the tables neatly and asks you how YOU manage to do it all? Do you have any tips for me on how to get and stay organized?