Ugh, I made a terrible lapse in judgement. I showed myself how ignorant and selfish I am. I’m afraid it’s unforgivable. I forgot my phone was off and sat it where I promptly forgot where it was. it was a stormy night so I should have been more vigilant in making sure my friend who lives at the beach.got home safe. instead I lost myself in a book for two hours before I made sure my friend got home. I feel so terrible.
Every time someone treats me as though I am less of a human than she or he is, I feel rage. Look right through me, assholes. Ask in hushed whispers if I’m slow. Fuck you. How fucking dare anyone look down on me. Even if I were slow as you think, does that mean you can’t act as though I exist? Maybe it’s the American way. Fat white trash slobs with childish voices and the inability to look people in the eye should be kept away from decent folks. They should die so us rich people no longer have the burden of their existence.
I really shouldn’t have been born.
The day was agonizingly beautiful. The sky was an endless robin’s egg and the bright sun bade me release t
he bonds of my apartment walls for the worthier pastures of mass transit and dumpster treasure. What is 87 F (31 C) for those of us seeking adventure, the Holy Grail, and something besides potato chips in our cupboards? Apparently, 87 F is a lot, as I felt all 220 pounds of my glorious body begin to broil medium well in the afternoon sun. Three huge bottles of dish washing liquid, Lisa Frank magnets, and a squished bottle of generic fruit punch and I began to feel the ill effects of heat exhaustion setting in . Outrageous fortune beset me yet again when I realized the bus I boarded was air conditioning free. Once I got home, the effects of my romp, plus the thoughts in my head erupted. And I vomited. In the trash can by my bed. In the commode. In a bucket of Pinesol by my commode. In the bathtub trying to calm down.
“Either I got heat exhaustion or that tooth that had that mild abcess is going septic,” I told my friend.
But back to vomiting. In the yard waiting for my friend to come get me. Desecrating a Walmat plastic bag in the car on the way to the hospital. And once in a nifty vomit bag as the wheel chair I was in made too many jerking movements -but I apologized to the waiting room as any genteel southerner would. I vocalized that I wanted my mom, never mind that this section of the waiting room was where I finally was away enough from my mom to shed a tear at her impending demise back in 2011. Now, four years later, Lisa the Stoic, is replaced by OCD Lisa chanting a mantra of “I’m so scared.”
Then the nurse, while taking my medical specifics gave me a pill, Zofran. Zofran, named for the ancient Greek god of Emesis and Refusing to Suffer in Silence. I was fine in 15 minutes. Not sepsis. Not this time, Mom. I felt like an idiot as my panic subsided. I’ve vomited many times alone without alerting the media, but the heat exhaustion, sepsis in the tooth scenario weighed deeply in my mind along with other anxieties. I asked the triage nurse if it would be OK for me to go since I felt so much better. “Absolutely!” She said with a trifle more enthusiasm than necessary. But here I am a month later alive and well, and I see they’ve moved the entrance to the emergency department, probably they’re hiding from me.
Yes. Get a grip. Must rally. I spoke to my nurse. She was pretty oh boy ad nauseam but she did get me to calm down. I got to get back into a routine. Of course I’ll check on Giselle later. She’s going through some shit. I will try to be everything to everybody. I will try to be more like my mom. I will try to tell my depression that I will stay up awake so Giselle won’t be able to sling that at me. I will be so likeable and so sans reproach that no one will ever dislike me or look down on me again. I will force myself to be worthy of everyone or die trying.
I don’t want to die and I don’t want to live. Maybe I should pray for an accident and the wishy washy decision will be out of my hands. Maybe I can eat myself to death. Maybe when my tooth is pulled I could take aspirin and bleed to death.I likely won’t but it’s a thought. Maybe. I’ll just chomp down on tons of fast food and hope to keel over.
Could I maybe go a day without someone being mad at me?
Oh OK. Guess I’ll snack on a couple benzos and try to go to sleep…
I have a new friend. Her name is Giselle. Giselle is almost perfect, except for two things. One is she thinks most people around here are ignorant and backward (she’s not altogether wrong by a long shot, but that’s another story). Second, she has a horrible temper, the kind you never know when you’re going to set off. The kind of temper that you know if you weren’t such a miserable failing fat fuck, you would probably not see.
I don’t mean this sexually, of course, but almost from the happenstance day we met, I pulled out my heart from my chest and gave it to her. Have you ever had such a fast emotional bonding to someone. No, I’m not meaning John Hinckley level to Jodi Foster either, just fixated. I would be happy for her if she met her soul mate and made friends more on her level than my miserable excuse for a human being could offer her.
But sweet heavens, her temper, and my pathetic attempts to make her happy and hide the effects her words have on me. Just one text from her with four dots ending the sentence and I knew she was still angry at me from the previous day’s indescretion. Four dots that mean I’m a lazy fat fuck without her ever having to vocalize such words. I’m on my way to the therapist’s and I’m steeling myself for the inquisition. My therapist can tell something is rotten in the state of Lisa, though. I averted my eyes, curled into myself yet she can still see that I’m shaking. Shaking! What a distasteful state to be caught in, one I try never ever to show. And slowly, my therapist makes me spring a leak, something I’ve never done in front of her before. My tears are streaming like a tearful sow snorting into a tissue. My physical stamina was the issue Giselle had said in vague insults a normal person could handle. That I could “walk around a little, but hey don’t take my word for it, I’m just an LPN.” I had gone to bed earlier than her and missed an important question she asked at two am. Hence my stamina at issue. The words that sent me into a sniveling sobbing ball of rotundity was a physical task she needed help with, “I’m sure you will pitch in a little….” Dots can say what words won’t. Miserable, Lazy Fat Fuck. My interpretation.
I don’t cry in front of people. My mom lying dead in CCU, I wiped my tears away in order to not upset my friend nearby. “She doesn’t know how upset you get does she,” asks my therapist. “It’s because you try to appear ‘normal’ around her, right? She doesn’t know how your mental illness effects you, that you shut down?” I want her to feel that I am normal, that I am her equal, so she will never one day say again, “No offense, but I don’t see how I can continue talking to you as an equal.” I want so bad to be worthy to breathe the same air as she, but my emotional stamina is even worse than my physical.
As you may have noticed of late my brain is really glitching up, like I’m trying to connect broadband internet when my brain runs on Windows 95. Every time I feel happy, i’m readying myself for the inevitable downward turn. Every time I think someone could truly like me for me, my brain says it won’t last. The last time I saw my therapist, she even told me I try to appear normal and hide just how bad my issues are. Can you imagine how much fun that would be to tell anyone I’m with, just what my brain is telling me:
I hear my neighbors talking, so they may be talking about narcing me out to my landlady, who, by the way, thinks i’m M.R.
I’m going to the mailbox. Hope there’s nothing in there that spells out I’m about to be homeless and penniless.
I think the clerk in the store is watching me so I don’t steal something.
If you lose something I’m afraid you’l think I stole it.
If I’m imperfect I think you won’t like me.
If you’re mad at me i shut down completely and think that you’ll never forgive me and I will be alone forever or should just drop dead.
I know my blog has been about as fun to read as being stabbed with a rusty needle, being devoured by characters from Twilight, and drowning in a bucket of stale urine. Today is no exception. I feel like giving up. Everything is going to hell. Jesus might have flown out of this earth, but I’m going to be stuck here or wind up in a home somewhere. I always fail. Always.
I wish I was somewhere where I could never disappoint anyone again. It seems no matter what I do or how hard I try nothing I do is right. Ever.