Ocdbloggergirl's Blog: OCD, Life, and Other Misunderstandings

More Mental Malaise, Less Donald Trump

Old Blog Exclusive: My Weekend — July 18, 2011

Old Blog Exclusive: My Weekend

Cover of "WordPress For Dummies"
Cover of 'WordPress For Dummies', Dummy

Since I want to continue writing here too, here are my thoughts on the weekend.

I am a jumpy sort of lass. I humiliate myself with a screech when my friend suddenly falls against me when sitting next to me. My friend tells me I suffer from “hyper vigilance.” And?

The same day, my mother runs the leftovers home so that the pizza won’t spoil, but she seems to take a while returning to the book store where she deposited my friend and me (Hey, fun quiz! Is the word ‘me’ correct or is it ‘I’? Not like I don’t know or anything, just seeing if y’all are alert!). I begin to assume my mom’s met an unfortunate end, of course, so I call home. Mom’s alive! Yay! Apparently, Philippe had jumped onto the counter and began begging for more canned cat food as he  does several times a day, so that helped delay my mom. My friend lectures me about being independent. Hey, my mom’s more or less my only family member and after she actually gives up the ghost I’ll be alone.  Which means I’ll die a cat lady or a bag lady or something.

Now that I know my mom is still among the living, I grab up the 800 page WordPress for Dummies monstrosity I’d been trying to absorb in 10 minutes or less, plus a dollar bin book on writing fiction and head for the counter. I know my mom wouldn’t approve me buying the $35.00  Wordpress book, on our credit card to boot, better to buy it and ‘fess up later in the evening (I have to confess stuff to my mom, a compulsion). I feel safe buying it now that my mom wasn’t dead, because in the back of my semi-sane mind, I think that had I not known my mom was alive and I bought the book, it would somehow kill off my mom as punishment.  Where are the men in white coats, right?  

My friend continues on the “independence” talk and my mom returns.

The next day my friend and I play Rummy at her house and I win. We watch Real Stories of the ER as we play and some guy has a cockroach stuck in his ear and the little f****r was biting the mans eardrum. This results in me going into labor and giving birth to a new phobia. 

 I help shampoo her computer room’s carpet, a new experience for me. I think a mixture of being tired and the Fabuloso we used on the carpet gave me a headache. We watch some of Gremlins. The channel the movie is on suggests the film may not be suitable for kids under 7. That movie scared me to death when I was the mature age of 7.  I think they edited a bit of the splatter in the blender  and microwave as the mother killed a couple of the gremlins in household appliances. I couldn’t bear killing something in a microwave, even a murderous Gremlin. Funny though, I have had  terrible visuals of putting a cat in the microwave. I have no desire to do such a thing, but the thought of it happening is enough to make me worried. When you have OCD, it’s vital to learn that harm obsessions are just thoughts that pass through the minds of kind people. Luckily for me I worry more about causing emotional harm to people than physical harm. At any given moment I’m afraid someone is mad or have hurt feelings because of me. 

I go to bed on my friend’s futon, the one you have to sit on carefully or one of the armrests falls off. I have a dream that may inspire a poem.

When I get home, Casey Anthony has already gone into hiding. My mom thinks wherever she is now, her attorney is boinking her. I hope not for his sleazy ass’ sake. There’s  a part of me that feels bad for Casey simply because so many people want her to die a horrible death. I believe God will make her pay on this earth. Being so hated will be a prison in itself  because she won’t be partying much. I doubt her sociopathic mind can fathom all the consequences of being notorious. I can’t believe Jesus would want people shouting “Kill her!” or even denying her a table at a restaurant. I smell a Casey Anthony post coming one day to my new site.

Hoarders: A Hoarder’s After Christmas Christmas Tree Special Videolog — January 15, 2011
Morally Bankrupt; or, I Really Wanted That Barbie Doll — September 4, 2010

Morally Bankrupt; or, I Really Wanted That Barbie Doll

So we’re back to my regular sort of post. I sometimes worry that I will one day not be able to come up with something or will totally end up never writing another humorous word again. I don’t even set out with ideas for humor in my posts for the most part. I just fall into it and lots of times I am not sure how it will be received. Maybe tonight is the night I lose my ability to make mundane incidents humorous or interesting. But they say write for yourself and it’ll all come out OK, so we’ll see how I like it .  Say, we should keep a tally on what I think about the direction this post is going,  It’ll be like the director’s commentary version of  a film on DVD. Morally Bankrupt -The Director’s Commentary. What the hay, why don’t y’all have a capital time as well? Take a sip of your favorite 40 oz. malt liquor beverage each time I say something that could be remotely construed as humor, regardless if it’s truly funny or no. Or if alcoholic beverages aren’t your cup of tea, perhaps take a puff from  the blunt you must smoke in order to truly understand my very deep writing. Or if neither  tickle your fancy, might I suggest a sip of  Wal-Mart brand add-to-water fruit punch like I’m drinking. It all works just fine in a drinking game I’m sure. Let’s begin!

(Cut! Here’s where I yelled cut because it was 2:30 am and I yearned for the comfort of  my pillow. Pretty lame movie so far, isn’t it? Bet you’re wishing you rented Twilight instead.

But anyway, ACTION!)

It’s Sunday and I decide I will spend much of the afternoon at the pool….You know, before a hurricane sweeps us all away later this week, or worse, makes it impossible to use the pool from debris. For breakfast, my mother is preparing a new end of the month masterpiece of cookery: Pancakes made exclusively of  flour and water, garnished with margarine and homemade brown sugar syrup -apparently we’re out of Aunt Jemima too. While not exactly IHOP, it does  very well when you’re craving something sweet and semi-tasty at the end of the month.

(CUT! That ain’t nothing, really in the annals of  Budget Living. Mama smoked her last cigarette last night, so this morning she took tiny bits of tobacco that fell out  into the pack and started chewing them in her mouth. She said that it tastes terrible, but you get a tad of nicotine. It reminds me of this woman I used to know named Candy who lived in a trailer park……and had no compunction to pick up cigarette butts off the ground to smoke. Um yuck, but I didn’t share this recollection with Mama or remarked “could she get more ghetto/trailer if she tried?” I deemed that since she’d been several hours without chaising ‘Puff the Magic Pall Malls Dragon’ that I would keep such observations to myself.)

(Back again, really should try to start blogging earlier in the day, so that it doesn’t take a week to write something. Exhaustion and my penchant for becoming distracted work against me, plus I’ve always been the slowest at any damn thing imaginable, but oh well. Y’all got other blogs to read as you anticipate my next words, right? Oh and hurray, first of the month passed. Cigarettes and other vital hurricane supplies got. I didn’t figure this hurricane would amount to anything.  I was sitting out on my lounge this evening and the wind picked up -so I adjourned to the covered patio in the hopes of not being whacked in the head. Though who knows? My head is indeed somewhat addled to begin with, so perhaps being bonked on the head by  a stray pine tree branch just might be the cure for knocking my brain cells into place. But anyway, back to the ‘film.’ ACTION!)

Yeah, Sunday. Pool. There. While I’m bobbing about in the deep end, I listen to a curious conversation. I believe the woman’s original aim was to sit in her floating lounger and read, but it didn’t seem to matter to Mr. Horny Ex-Con. He set her as his object and talked and talked. There is one thing to be said about being a bit less than comely, and that is that such crap seldom happens to you. In fact, the only guy I ever had trouble with was a drunk, simple-seeming Mexican fellow with one reddened cheek (punched or skin condition?). He kept advancing on me and tried to mess with me, to which I screamed in the most hateful voice I could muster, “Leave me the hell alone!” and left the pool.

Mr. Horny Ex-Con proceeds to relate how his life has gone “since he got out as he put it.  He says that he spent nearly a decade in prison and there were plenty of homosexuals and guys who did the homosexual thing while in prison, but no rape because everyone from particular states looked out for their own. That was interesting to know , so it wasn’t Oz, but he never said what he did to merit 10 years in prison. Somehow I doubt it was jaywalking, especially if he’s the roommate of who I think he is, who’s an “Evil One” indeed.

I nearly laughed when I heard him say, “All the women I’ve met since I got out in March have turned out to be lesbians.” Bwhaaaaaaaaaaaaah ! I think just about any girl would suddenly claim to a sapphic bent if he was talking to them. Not that he was ugly, no he ain’t, but what the hell do you do to go to prison for 10 freaking years? The woman was finally spared his wooing by his admission that he needed to pee. Did Romeo and Cyrano have such hurdles to overcome as a full bladder at an inopportune time? I sometimes think that I’m not missing much by no one dying of love for me or lusting after me from my observations on these matters.

Now to my hideous lack of morality, my great sin almost committed. I would have done it too had a couple of variables not interfered with my depravity. Really, it is pretty bad. So here’s my confession:

Some little girl left her Barbie doll at the pool and did not come back for it by closing time. So I approach the Pool Matron and say, “Um PM, do you know whose Barbie is that?” She doesn’t know.

“Do you think it would be OK if I take….Oh, nevermind.” Pool Matron’s little son grabbed the coveted Barbie. “I just thought I might…..since it’d been there all day….and the pool being closed tomorrow….but maybe someone will come back for it.”

So the little boy and his mother spared me from what in retrospect can only be conceived by me as sorta-kinda-maybe stealing. Now, to be fair to me a little, I recall last year Pool Matron saying she threw stuff away that got left behind, so with that logic, I’d hoped to have that pretty black Barbie doll (I love ethnic dolls the best, so sue me).

I consider myself a moral to beyond moral sort of woman, so my mind began the deserved attack upon me as soon as I left the pool. “Thief! Stealer of children’s playthings! YOU SUCK!!!”

My only solace is I looked at the pool the next morning and the near-purloined Barbie was not to be seen. I bet Pool Matron’s kids took her home that night. At least it wasn’t me.

I nearly had a similar temptation a few weeks beforehand. I was still cross at the little rat bastard that took my goggles after I specifically asked him to return them when he was done. Well, someone left goggles at the pool overnight. The next day I saw they were still there, and I thought to myself, perhaps if they are still here by the end of the day it would be OK to take them and the person who left them won’t come back. So I borrow them for a set of laps, then returned them to where they sat. By the end of the day they were gone, but sort of doubt that they were restored to their rightful owner. But at least it wasn’t me lest the  poor soul who lost them came back. I am not a believer in “Finders Keepers,” but it seems as though I need to remind myself. I’m not happy.

(Cut! That’s a wrap!)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HiKPZRFnIIM&feature=channel

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vAX37IIJ4O0&feature=channel

The Most Idiotic Thing an Obsessive-Compulsive Could Ever Obsess Over; or, How to be a Twit on Twitter 101 — July 30, 2010

The Most Idiotic Thing an Obsessive-Compulsive Could Ever Obsess Over; or, How to be a Twit on Twitter 101

[tweetmeme source=”OCDbloggergirl”]
 

 

It is seldom I ever check to see if anyone addressed me on Twitter, but I did a few nights ago and a full state of panic ensued. You see, I’m about as popular on Twitter as the Bubonic Plague was in Europe, so once in a while will do to see if anyone ‘atted’ @lisaexclaimed. Truthfully, I’m generally too shy to initiate a conversation myself anyway. But that night I found a couple ‘ats’ at me from a couple of days ago. Uh oh.Basically folks were mildly miffed at the automated updates this stupid site updated my account

 

 

 

 

with every 4 hours. The site is free if you agree to let them post their ” Get more followers” advertisements and add certain followers. I wanted people to follow my blog, so thought what a great idea! Um no. Besides, most of the new followers I gained were people trying to sell me something, probably not blog readers. I tweeted back to the complainers my apology and vowed I would remove myself from the site  posthaste . 

 

But it didn’t feel good enough.

So I direct messaged one my contrition.  I’d hate to upset this fellow because he does the funniest tweets, though I seldom say anything, just read.

I tried to direct message the other dude, but he unfollowed me.  :0(

Still not good enough.

So I tweet to the world:

To everyone sorry about that  followers site, it was way out of hand…retweeting like every 4 hrs their damn site. Once again pardon about 2 hours ago via web

And yet, still that awful all is not well with the world feeling. Back to tweeting:

Ok, I know this is dumb, but still really feeling awful about that site. I didn’t think about them retweeting their stupid promo evry 4 hrs

Nope….Still feel bad:

I know I’m obsessing here, but upset about that stupid site, said it would get me more followers.i wanted more readers 4 my lame ass blog about 2 hours ago via web

Ackkkkkkkkkkkkkk!

Ok, gonna stop worrying about it, I just don’t want everyone mad at me. It’s my friggin’ OCD eating my brain about 2 hours ago via web

And then…

Fuck an A. It’s still tweeting about getting more followers. Changing my password. Maybe that’ll stop it 3 minutes ago via web

And Firefox flagged the site as a phishing sight, though it could be a  false  report I guess. Joy. To be fair I read that it would update every 4 hours , but it didn’t register just how old that would get, especially since I don’t update my every move, though I totally think people would be interested in me going outside to get the mail or sitting in my living room.

Every now and then, however, I miss good fodder for the Twitter, little vignettes of what weird-ass people my mom and I are. For instance, the other day my mom came into my room holding a styrofoam cup with her hand on top of the rim. She had been walking down the hall of our apartment building. “Look what I found clinging to the wall out in the hall! I hope he hasn’t got into some poison. “

I looked and gushed my appreciation. “Awwwwwww! I love those!” Now, a normal person when asked which insect is her favorite would say butterfly, ladybug, or dragonfly…..All wonderful critters, mind you, but my favorite is the praying mantis.  Look at those big, endearing extraterrestrial eyes,  how she sways her giant legs. She’s a real character, but she just might bite off your head if she’s hungry (like Sarah Palin or a televangelist). Yum!

What?

Then my mom took the mantis outside and tried to find her a decent spot somewhere the cats wouldn’t get her. Tweeted, all that condensed would sound like ” Mom found a praying mantis, showed me in a styrofoam cup, then let it go.” Interesting stuff!

The day after my Twitter meltdown, the twitterer I direct messaged , told me “Nothing to be sorry about, my dear. You’re awesome!” He is so cool. My online friend, Sandra,  also sent me kind words of comfort, before I heard back from Direct Message Guy, which eased my nerves quite a bit. 🙂

(Mantis photo taken from bestpicuregallery.com w/o permission!)

31DBBB Day 1: Write an Elevator Pitch — July 27, 2010

31DBBB Day 1: Write an Elevator Pitch

[tweetmeme source="OCDbloggergirl"]

Your humble blogger  decided to take the  SITS Girls Problogger Challenge on Blogfrog.com. I’m late as always, but better late then never….and I  can’t afford the e-book they’re plugging. For about $15.00, I can learn world domination in the blogging world and gain an extra reader or two. But since it’s the end of the month, alas, I must remain in obscurity and somehow stay afloat on my Community College French Fries Degree.  But I do have a library book out on blogging now, a classic…..from 2002.  So they didn’t have Twitter or electricity back then, but the author seems very positive about her blogging experience.

My first mission is writing a short and a longer “elevator pitch,” something that’ll make the masses flock to my blog like ants to molasses or something. Dang, what can I write about this little hobby of mine that my mom and my best friend don’t get at all?  I’m obsessed with tapping my brain for whatever guts and matter that will leak out into this online bucket. The gunk runs slow into this bucket because  my thoughts are going too fast that they get clogged in the spigot and I must do something else because it’s all too much to write in 1000 words or less. I feel it must all get out, but my attention wavers very easily, always has. Jump here, there, what else should I be doing and am I doing it just right? Every time I click “publish,” I feel relieved and accomplished at the same time. Plus, heck, I have a terrible urge to confess my life, so there you go.  Then writing also helps me with my loneliness and anxiety, and  I’d like to think if other weird people come across this junk,. they’ll feel better too.

So let’s do this pitch thing already. I am rather sold on “OCD, Life, and Other Misunderstandings.” It was a recent addition. Sort of hoping the search engines would catch my blog and reel it in on some soul looking for OCD stuff, hence setting forth my twisted plot to  dominate the anxiety disorder blogs and be Head Head-Case. Ain’t working yet. I’m more stuck being the bathroom attendant in the blogosphere than Queen OCD, but thank heavens for the 31 DBBB challenge!

Anyway, if I were to change my ‘elevator pitch’ it would be something like – OCDbloggergirl: A Blog on OCD and Life  Fueled by a  Confessing Compulsion.

Well, it’s the truth.  Girlfriend likes….Nay, needs, to tell someone, especially if she’s feeling guilty, which is about 75% of the time. So might as well amuse somebody with it. Plus,  I just really like to write, and what subject do I know best? Myself. Yay!  But I think “OCD, Life, and Other Misunderstandings” best describes this blog.  ‘Cause my life is dominated by my perspective and actions as a person with OCD. But my life isn’t all about obsessive-compulsive disorder, so the other parts of my weird self and the world around me puts the ‘Life’ part in my tagline. ‘Other Misunderstandings’ just refers to everything I cough up, because the world itself is often a mystery.

Which do you prefer, if I might ask, on the tagline/ pitch?

OK, now for the bigger “Elevator Pitch” I’m supposed to write. It will be a sort of mission statement:

OCDbloggergirl: OCD, Life, and Other Misunderstandings is a blog chronicling the life of  a 32 year-old woman dealing with obsessive-compulsive disorder,  an anxiety disorder affecting about 2% percent of the population. The author wishes to expose what life is like with a mental illness many don’t understand and the struggles of just being different in general. By blogging about her unusual way of life and whatever else comes to her mind, the author hopes to help those people who consider themselves marginalized by society to feel less alone with their struggles. The blog’s other goal is to reach an audience who will actually read the author’s musings for sheer entertainment value and to maybe even elicit a laugh or two.


There.

Faux Pas a le Wanker et La Douche Terrible du Fail Epic d’ Defense — July 19, 2010

Faux Pas a le Wanker et La Douche Terrible du Fail Epic d’ Defense

Hi,

This post  was started last night, before being assured people don’t think I think they’re wankers, but  I like the title and was almost done with the post, so here it is…

.Oops, went and offended folks. Meant well. But did it anyway.  They seem to think I think they’re wankers and now they think I’m a douche no doubt. I feel reallyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy bad.

La Douche Terrible feels culpable if someone she knows is getting beat up, and well, La Douche Terrible  made terrible  douchiness on le blog of other bloggers and made le fail epic at defending someone. La Douche Terrible  decided she was Jeanne ‘d le Fucking Arc, mounted her white steed, and chargeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Et hit a wall. Le ouch.  Fin.

"Want a piece of me? Here I come!....Non!!! Oops, there I went. Ouch! I want mon maman, s'il vous plait."


Going to be honest here. The person I defended has always been cordial to me. That’s reason one.   Reason two, I genuinely like his writings and was terribly sorry anyone made  him feel bad. Reason three, however, definitely goes to Team OCD. I feel a need to atone for whatever reason made him unsubscibe from my blog. Did I offend him? What did he find objectionable about my writing, or me for that matter?  Was it ’cause I’m mental? I cuss like a dockside prostitute in my writing? My writing is lacking? I’m boring? My writing is too long?

Reminds me of  when I was in college.  To pass expository writing, you had to have an essay examined by 3 teachers and if 2 out of 3 passed you, you passed the class.  I  passed by 2 out of 3, but did I care? I was too busy wondering why the enigmatic third teacher failed me. I probably could easily tell you why  now if I saw it, but I don’t have it and I don’t even remember what the essay was about, just that it was timed and they gave you the topic. I’m lousy at anything timed,  deadlines, etc. I passed classes like geology and math by the teachers liking me….I was less socially anxious in those days. I was good at logic I remember, but numbers and I are bitter enemies.  I think  my geology paper was on tsunamis or something like that and my teacher liked it because I wrote it in a “creative” way, replete with the word, “treatise” in the title, and he never gave it back to me. My geology teacher and I had a similar outlook on life and he sort of adopted me…..Dude knew what I was thinking most of the time, plus sort of looked out for me because he knew I was a tad more delicate than my peers. To this day, I believe he was the only person who really “got me.”

My math teacher was a crotchety older man and this woman in class  wanted to get him fired. I knew she was a nasty person, a slithery snake of  a woman with fire engine red hair.  And she latched onto me. I could sense she had a personality disorder , I just knew it.  She approached me, got me to sit with her near the elevator and told me what she planned. I forget her exact words  but she would talk about how basically she and I were smarter than everyone else, more artistic.  You and me,  us against them, we’re better than they are was the jist of her conversation. ” I’ve gone to a university, and I know how a class is supposed to be.”  Well, why are you at a community college,  I wanted to ask, but she was around 50 years of age, so perhaps she returned to school.  She would ask me if I know what such and such meant a couple of times.  “Yes,” I replied. ” That’s because you’re smart. ” And she told me how she was going to talk to the dean and get the man fired. Now may it be said I didn’t particularly love said math teacher, but get him fired? I knew it wasn’t because I was smarter, more likely I could be easily manipulated. I look kind of dumb, my voice is child-like,  and a bit on the super gullible side, but I wasn’t quite as ignorant as she thought.

I rushed to my geology teacher almost in in tears and let him know the nefarious plot against his fellow professor just because she didn’t like him. I thought if I let her do it and so unfairly, plus his age might be against him finding another teaching job, it would all be my fault. So my geology professor warned him of psycho-broad and to watch out. I couldn’t warn him myself, no way! So thank God for my geology professor, my protector.

Well, the psycho-broad, was given to towards thinking herself above everyone and anyone, the perfect narcissist. I wish they could bottle that sort of self-confidence and give me a prescription for the amount in her pinky, but it was this superiority that proved to be her downfall. Psycho-Broad marched herself to the dean’s office and when asked if she had an appointment, she told the receptionist she was a friend of his. Needless to say, the dean was not amused. They had words and in the end she was asked to leave the college for good. How many people can brag that they got expelled from a community college? Obviously  she could. The dean perhaps had been appraised of the situation beforehand, but anyway she now was gone and I got thanked by my math teacher. No one thought bad of me. I think  even other students disliked her. I think I did the right thing, I hope. I didn’t want anyone to get in trouble.

I really did try in that math class, but I still wonder if my grade was pushed up a couple points from D to C.

(Image above was taken from nndb.com w/o permission)

The Things That I Obsess Over the Most; or Let’s See How Howard Hughes-ish a Gal Can Be — July 17, 2010

The Things That I Obsess Over the Most; or Let’s See How Howard Hughes-ish a Gal Can Be

This is one of those posts unburdening myself because I’m anxious, so probably won’t be the best post ever, but oh well. Here is a list of things I fear:

1. My worst fear is harming someone. I’m not one of those obsessive-compulsives who thinks she’ll kill someone somehow -much. Though butcher knives and guns in the house would scare me if we had them, because I’d imagine going crazy and doing everything I would never ever want to do. I am aware that is silly, I’m not suddenly going to do anything totally against everything I believe, but you see all these people who go nuts on TV and it’s enough to send me into a terror. I usually know I’m not going to go  crazy, that it is OCD trying to upset me. More real in my mind is the fear of causing harm by accident. What if I ran over someone someday? What if I   could save someone and somehow I don’t ? It’ll be my fault.

The obsession I worry the most about though is my fear of causing offense or hurting someone’s feelings. Most of the  time it’s all upstairs, but it scares the hell out of me. You’d think  with everything going on in the world I could find something better to panic over, but that scares me. Probably one of the roots of my social anxiety issue is this fear. Online, offline, in the air and under the sea I’ve done someone wrong I fear. I’m never good enough. I even fear that bad phrases will rush out of my mouth or I’ll write something awful and it will be…..well….awful, you know? Though I don’t have Tourette’s, unless you count that stupid brain puke flowing in a stream throughout my brain. I’m scared I’ve upset someone, and I wouldn’t deliberately, and now I don’t what to do……..I think I’m being irrational, but can’t help it.

My therapist says it’s because I’m a kind person that I have all this stuff go through my head. Why I worry about others, let others take advantage of me…etc. It makes me really wish I had that “F.U., buddy” mentality so charming among people. I am way too sensitive. I cry like a wuss if someone is nasty to me lots of the time. Can’t watch certain things on TV because it upsets me too much. I didn’t cry the other day, but since they  did one of those re-enactments of the events of this local murder victim on a cable show my friend and I watched at her house, I had the unpleasant feeling of  feeling what he was feeling a bit. Not good. Not good at all. If they had just said his body had been found all beat up, showed some blood, etc. I wouldn’t have been so upset, but they showed what they did to him before he died, the anticipation of death he must have felt. It was too real. Then on the local news they interviewed his mom who watched the program. Ugh. I was afraid she was watching it, and the fact that I’ve been to the places in the story just weirded me out. 

 I’ve been too sickeningly sensitive since I was in my middle teens and it’s a curse. Trust  me.

2. My mother’s death. I am afraid my mom will die some awful way. I’m afraid she’ll die in a car wreck, or be murdered, or die of a disease. And if i survive her death, that I won’t be able to bury or cremate her. It happened to us when my grandmother died and without help we wouldn’t have been able to bury her.  I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to afford a roof over my head, though my best friend would let me live with her permanently…..but I’m afraid we wouldn’t get  along living together because we are pretty different in a lot of ways and I’d want to live alone I think. If my mother died the only person who will ever love me unconditionally will be dead. Though in a way my best friend and I have never had a difference so bad we’d walk away from one another forever.

3. I’m never going to be loved.

4. I’m going to die alone and without setting the slightest mark that I was ever here in the first place.

5. T he flaws on my face. I scour my face for hair everyday and spend a significant time feeling for  it, thank you  Paxil that stopped my period for a couple years (a rare side effect that happens in like 1 in 10,000 people) . You can’t see  them much,  but I feel and pull to the point I’m sore and bleeding. Heck , for a little while I was shaving myself three times a day until Mom got onto me. If I imagine a man kissing me, the first thought will be of my face, even before thinking of my weight. One of these days I’m going to the laser people, so I can worry about other flaws.

6. That hell is real and I will be expected there.

7. That I will be accused of something and won’t be able to prove I didn’t do it.

8. That I have a hidden disease that will be fatal, but am too afraid  my doctor will tell me I have a disease…..so I just avoid going to the doctor and will not go unless I’m dying. My stomach hurts and I secretly wonder if  it’s from radiation off my netbook.

9. I’m sometimes afraid if I’m alone in public  I’ll panic, faint, and/or die. Or say the wrong thing.

10. I’m afraid I’m going to be attacked because I’m not vigilant 100 % of the time….that isn’t entirely irrational here at Shitzville Apartments trust me.

11.  I’m afraid something upset me when I was 4, but  I don’t quite remember. It’s probably  nothing. I’ll explain sometime, but it isn’t really anything all that bad.  But it probably did mess with my mind a little if it’s even true.

Anyway, I feel better. Though I’m still a bit worried. I will try to write  a better post when I am more myself.

 

http://www.ocfoundation.org/whatisocd.aspx if you want to know more  about OCD ‘n junk.

Visit a Vet and Your Therapist. — June 10, 2010

Visit a Vet and Your Therapist.

Just when you think things are going ok and that you might be able to stay out of the pawn shop just one month, someone goes and kicks your cat.

Granted it wasn’t on purpose, but the cat was kicked all the same.  You see, Mama was in a hurry  to use the can and there are two doors to said can; one being the entry from the hallway, the other opens into the master closet.  As I stated before in one way or another, I am not about to be on the cover of Martha Stewart Living. So when I throw dirty clothes into the master closet for later washing, theoretically, the clothes are supposed to go into a hamper.  Said hamper in said closet is usually overflowing with dirty clothing, however, so I tend to aim, throw, and let my discarded clothing  fall where it may. And this is how the tragedy began.

My mother, in her haste to close the closet door, kicked a pair of black shorts that were obstructing the door. Unfortunately, Babee Dondee was curled up on that pair of shorts. Babee Dondee is small and black except for the occasional white hair here and there, so he was perfectly hid on that  black  background. My mom’s swift kick made hard contact with shorts and cat.

Mama felt terrible, placing the blame on herself, though I think if it is anyone’s fault, it’s mine since I’m a total slob and it was my shorts left there by me. She apologized repeatedly to Dondee and I think he realized Mom didn’t mean to do it to him.

But whoever’s fault it was, it became obvious Dondee needed medical attention, because he still limped this morning and wouldn’t emerge from the closet.  I hate taking my cats to the vet, Dondee especially, since he is absolutely terrified of riding in the van in his carrier. He cries the five minutes it takes to get there, and is an awful thing to hear, especially when you can’t  tell him what is happening in a language he understands.

The vet who saw us is a man in his 50s, whom I distinctly get the feeling likes animals more than humanity, or maybe he thought we meant to do it, and I feel horrified and guilty in his presence. But I think (hope) he knew we didn’t mean to, because I doubt the average person who abuses animals takes them to the vet afterword. I tried not to avert my eyes as much as usual, lest the doctor  think we meant to do it and mistake my social anxiety as guilt.

In the end, nothing was broken, but his nerves in his shoulder were inflamed. He received steroids for that and antibiotics just in case he was bit by something instead of my mom’s kick because his temperature was up.

My mother gave me the joyous task of settling up with the receptionist since I had the money, but I knew it was going to be more than I have. And so it was. I’m too chicken shit to say I don’t have $195.00, so I beckoned my mom over and show her the invoice.  Mama explained the situation and that we’ll be back as soon as possible.  $96.00 down, $99.00 to go. So we take Dondee home, grab up some pawnable merchandise, and back out we go.  Meanwhile, one of the maintenance guys told us the pool passed inspection and will probably open today. Great, figures the damn thing would finally open and I’d be on the……nevermind.

I think the receptionist was pleased we came back as soon as we did, and hopefully, since we brought the money back so fast, that will give us a gold star in character and somehow show them we don’t abuse animals. Lord.

Then, this afternoon was a trip to my therapist. Now my last trip to see her, she kinda sorta almost yelled at me, or was very firm.  Well, at least it worked. Plus my mom, my best friend, virtually everyone on earth, also wanted me to do what I did. So I did and I feel the better for it. Guilt and elation, anger, guilt, then elation again. Some things that are easy  for other people are much harder for me. I meant well, though.

My therapist was glad I went out with Green and that I had no real problem with talking to him or the Hippies, that I didn’t freeze up. She wants me to contact him again.

She isn’t so happy I’m so nervous-acting, I don’t think, because she asked me when I last saw my shrink. It was a couple months ago and she couldn’t up my meds, but thank God, my depression lifted a lot since.  I went from life-sucks-just-let-me-die-or- something  to life-sucks-less. Good enough, man. Party!

She seems to think my little perfectionist  bent  is a tad maladaptive. I can’t stand my inability to do everything just right. If I feel I haven’t done things perfectly, I will go into a rage at myself and go take a nap. One thing goes wrong, EVERYTHING is wrong. If I raise my voice at my mother, I will get angry at myself, feel I’m a failure at life in general….and go to sleep.  Every morning I wake up and promise myself  today I will not make a mistake. Doomed to failure, but I can’t stop. I’ve done this off and on in some form or another since I was a small girl. Nothing I would expect of another person, but I  can’t stand  my lack of measuring up to normalcy.  Oh well.

952 words, I’m shutting up now.


Protected: Drinking with Hippies, Turning Green, and Other Life Affirming Things Thanks to Facebook — June 4, 2010
Princess Rubenesque’s Adventures Downtown — April 30, 2010

Princess Rubenesque’s Adventures Downtown

(Started Apr 12, bothered to finish today. Yay, I’m caught up!)

I intended on going to the parade Saturday morning, but awoke flustered and despairing of getting there on time, so I fell back on the couch and watched the thing on TV.  I was angry at myself for not going…I always go. It was so cool that our local hero was the parade marshal. Such a small, normal looking woman and God only knows how many people she saved when she took that guy down. She once was a police officer at a local beach where nothing happens and now look at her…people around the world know what she did. I bet she wishes it never happened though since she can only walk a bit now. I will reiterate though she is mega cool.

Saturday evening my mother and I went downtown to see the fireworks. We walked 6 blocks to the river, but it was a lovely evening and a pleasant walk in the historic district.  At night sometimes one can see inside their lovely homes, the painted or wallpapered rooms with their  pretentious chandeliers and antique furnishings. The other joy is all the people observing one can  get in, like the actively hallucinating guy who walked past us giving consolation to someone we couldn’t see. With the advent of bluetooth technology it can be difficult to tell if someone is nuts, but this guy’s jerky movements made insanity  a certainty. “He wouldn’t give us any money,” he told his invisible friend, then said, “Don’t worry about him though, man.”

The fireworks were beautiful and I think we had the best view we ever had, sitting in our fold-out chairs in clear view of where they were  shot off.  Then we went to the Chinese take-out for some soup. This joint gave birth to the term “seedy.” There’s always interesting people there. Someone opened the door to yell to a patron that their mutual pal is in jail, but she already knew and was cross but seemed to not view it as being as newsworthy as her friends did.

Soup is a rather ritual-oriented meal, especially the robust hot and sour they serve at Seedy China.  The soup is spicy hot and would not do for the average Anglo to gulp down, but it is the best I’ve ever tasted. In case you aren’t fortunate enough to know how to eat a pint of soup the proper way, allow me to school you on the perfect and essential way. You can thank me later for this vital skill.

Please recall, gentle reader, we did not grow up in a sty and must act accordingly. Unfold your napkin and set it in your lap (if you are lucky like me your stomach is one  large flap and if utilized properly, can act as a ‘paperweight’ for the napkin in your lap).  Take your spoon and begin. Begin from the left and take  sips until you’ve taken a sip by dipping your spoon, working vertically until you’re at the right side of the bowl.  Then put a few of those crisp noodles, at least 3 of them since you really prefer things in 3’s.  Eat the noodles in your soup. Now repeat the entire ritual until you’re done, and if you’re good at it, people won’t even realize you have a ‘strategy’ for eating.

Downtown’s most prevalent establishments open at night are bars, bars, and then bars.  You have to be careful down there because girls have got into trouble, but if you aren’t alone you’re pretty safe, especially if it isn’t really late at night.  So when the drunk chaps rolled up to the red light, two cars of them, I wasn’t worried for my physical safety.

“HEY BITCH!  LOOK HERE! YOU’RE FAT!”

Oh. How. Original. I’m sensible enough not to reply or look at them. As they drive away, to preserve my dignity, I mutter, “Fucking assholes.” But I seriously felt very little. I wasn’t aware of being angry or sad. But then I had one of my bad thoughts, the kind that are very disturbing to someone with OCD. My mind conjured an image of  those guys in an awful car crash, the kind with glass everywhere  and the cars crushed like soda cans. Which immediately upset me because I didn’t want the little bastards to die or be injured and I hoped they got home okay. Then I started to worry. A thought is just a thought, but I don’t like the thought at all. I started worrying as though the thought of them being killed would come true, though I knew I was being stupid.

What if the thought means you want them to crash?  I asked myself. No, and you know you don’t want any harm worse than a hangover tomorrow to happen to them, Lisa, I replied in my mind. But the awful thought of those guys dying lodged into my mind, and I sought reassurance from my mom.

“I wish you could worry about something. No, you don’t want them to crash or die,” Mom said. I really exasperate her sometimes, but I eventually realized she was right. If I really wanted something to happen to them, I would not be worried about it or if I wished it I would know I wished it. Fair enough.

And far as I know, the two cars of  drunken idiots made it home safe and sound that night. All’s well that ends well.

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