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

More Mental Malaise, Less Donald Trump

My Lyft Driver is Related to Me — February 8, 2019

My Lyft Driver is Related to Me


The strangest thing happened to me on the way to the shrink. I think my Lyft driver is related to me through marriage.

I was running late, like super late. It was 12:30, and I was supposed to be at the shrink’s at 12:30. I took too long in the bath. I called the shrink’s office, the anxiety in my voice making my already child-like voice pitch up three times higher. I told the receptionist I was running late, was on my way, and I’d be there in 10 minutes. Please don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me, kept going through my head.

I usually take Uber when in need of a cab, because it’s cheaper. This day, however, Lyft ran a special, so I ordered a Lyft.

My Lyft driver was really nice. I could tell straight off he was gay, as there was a slight lilt in his southern accent (don’t be mad I said that, OK?). He knew exactly where we were going, too, Shrinks ‘R Us. He’s been here before, that voice in my head said.

“Which way do you want to go to get there, because that road goes straight there,” he asked.

“Whichever way you think is best, sir.”

He was an affable guy, and we did the usual cab conversation in our short drive. I asked him how long had he been driving for Lyft.

“Two years. I got laid off from my job, but I just finished my degree, so hopefully that will be able to get a job in that.”

I asked him how long he lived here and he told me he was originally from Boone, but had lived here for 11 years.

“Boone?” I said, excited. “I was born in Boone!” That started the conversation. I told him how my family hailed from a little area on the state line, an area only people from that area in the NC mountains know. He knew exactly where I was talking about. Exactly. 

So, I told him every family name I knew about. It turns out his family may be related to mine by marriage. My second cousin Diane married someone with his surname. It may have been one of his father’s 15 siblings. I’m not joking.

I told him I only lived there for the first two and a half years of my life. Mom wanted out. “Everyone talked about everyone there and were very judgmental,” I said.

“That’s the truth,” he said.

I was sad when the ride ended. Here I am, Lisa, who sometimes almost forgets she’s a member of the human race, sitting in a car with someone linked to my family. It was positively surreal. I took a good look at him before I left, which is different for me, as I rarely look at people.

I haven’t seen a relative since my mother died in 2011. I didn’t tell him that my family disowned me. Maybe it was my mom, and then by default, me, they tossed in the garbage. They knew I was different, and didn’t want to be saddled with me, too.

When I got home from Shrinks ‘R Us, I looked up my kinsman on Facebook. Fortunately for me, his Facebook is open. My assumptions were right and then some. Yes, he is gay. Yes, he no doubt has been to Shrinks ‘R Us, because he’s severely depressed. I wish I could friend him, but I won’t because that would be super creepy of me.

I wonder if his family disowned him too. It is highly likely, if they’re like the remaining members of my side of the family. ‘Gay’ would be up there in unpardonables. Next to being a democrat and interracial marriage. I wish there was something I could do for him.

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Pillgrim’s Progress — July 17, 2018

Pillgrim’s Progress

Recently, I got a new nurse practitioner for my psych meds.  She seems nice enough: mid-fifties, doesn’t seem burned out, doesn’t feel it necessary to speak  to me as though I were a dim-witted 10 year-old, so I like her just fine. Julie has some experience with OCD sufferers according to her blurb on Google, and she seized on the fact that I was still sub par. Always anxious and paranoid of everyone in my neighborhood,  I’m just a regular Ms. Congeniality. She wanted to try me on Risperdal or Zyprexa, and decided on the former.

when I finally had the courage (and my $3.00 Medicaid co-pay) to try it, I looked upon the tiny brick-red pills with a mixture of trepidation and  psycho hope. This could be my missing link to making life worth living! Maybe I can be normal now or fake it. Maybe I can stop hating myself  and having  ideation pop into my head.

The risperdal has helped some. I feel less terrified around my neighbors.  I think a medication would have to put me in a coma, however, to stop me from checking  the front door for an angry missive or an eviction notice twice a day. I still feel like I could lose everyone and everything I love in an instant. Everyone I love dead in a pile like Hamlet.

Sometimes my depression just  slaps me when I least expect it. Sometimes I regurgitate everything in my head. I hate being a  sub-standard person. I sometimes feel like festering trash of the

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

caucasian variety.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

, and se

September Update — September 24, 2017

September Update

Bleeping September, but I’m still here, and as charming as ever. Today is the 5th anniversary of me moving in here. Just me, my mom’s ashes in a plastic box, and a laundry basket with what the fellows allowed me to have. The rest was either confiscated or in my storage unit. Oh how exciting it was to me that at 34 I was finally on my own. No one to threaten and lord over me anymore. When you had been through all I had in the expanse of one year being alone completely lost its sting. I missed my ex-roommate for a long time, but he and his drag queen boyfriend had become menacing monsters to me.

As of the 13th, it’s been six years since my mom died of sepsis. There’s so much I want to tell her, but  I am happy to be on my own as much as I loved her. I really want to tell her about Donald Trump, about everything that’s happened. She wouldn’t believe me.

This December, I will be turning 40. One of the things I regret most in the world, besides being an asshole, is not jumping at the opportunity to land on the dick of my former elementary school crush. At least I wouldn’t be the dreaded 40 year-old virgin then. The only other people who’ve asked for some were pervs that one couldn’t be sure wouldn’t kill me. Thus is my fate for being ugly and shy. It’s truly a shame, because I think given the opportunity, I could’ve been adventurous, and I’ll leave it at that.

My therapist gave me the news that her entire office will  be shutting down, and that they don’t even know why. I’m going to hold out for a while before I look for replacements for my therapist and shrink in the hopes that they will  find another situation. It has nearly taken 3 years for me truly to start trusting Pepper. I am not big on change and I know it will be hard to set up a rapport with someone new.

It didn’t take any act of congress this year to get my new lease signed.  This is really a funny thing because my neighbor across the street had me convinced that management was conspiring to get me. People allegedly think I have 16 cats and that either the cats or me had to go. I feed several strays in my neighborhood, so that is likely how it all started. But , I surely believed my neighbor, especially since the kids of the ‘hood kept picking on “Cat Lady.” I suppose I should have found her suspect when she postulated that someone swimming in the ocean had caused the mold stains on the pool, that it was actually salt water algae. First of all, can salt water algae live in freshwater, let alone chlorinated water? Truly rumors suck, and I must remember not to believe that dotard across the way (thanks, Kim Jong Un). My mind always conjures up scenes of being homeless or in a home. People don’t get how obsessed I am with that, and they can’t understand unless they have been through something similar.

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Summertime and the Living is Sleazy — July 28, 2017

Summertime and the Living is Sleazy

Everything is going along awesomely adequate. I’m avoiding the elementary school bastards who keep calling me “Cat Lady” by going to my apartment pool earlier in the day. I’m swimming everyday, and while I doubt I’m losing much weight, maybe it will tack on a week or two to my life. I’ve gone to the beach a couple of times and the impressive community pool when our pool wasn’t open. I finally got a reduced bus pass, so that I can go more places and live more life in our redneck paradise. I dread autumn, but hopefully I will get a membership at the YWCA for the winter. I cooked out for the second time in my life and didn’t burn down the joint, so  I’d say that was a win too.

On a sadder note, I lost my Dondee. His health began to go downhill around March and July 5th his heart just stopped. He didn’t even have time to hide and he had been acting as normal as his “new normal” was. He was the closest to my mother and the sweetest cat I ever knew or will ever know. He is buried next to his brother, Phillippe who I lost in May of last year. Both were around age 15.

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Dondee is the smaller black cat The other black cat is Phillippe. The calico is Lil Mookie. Ca. 2014

 

 

I still wonder if all my neighbors and management have it out for me. They might, or they might not, but then again they might. That is my number one obsession now. My second major obsession if you don’t count fear of angering everyone, is what is happening in Washington, DC. I’m afraid the other shoe will drop faster than you can say, “McCain is a douchebag.” I imagine block granted Medicaid, cuts to disability, being homeless and unprepared for life without the dole. I’m being honest. I don’t know if I could hold down a job with my problems, or if I’ll crash and burn.

Speaking of problems and buses, waiting for the bus one day downtown, I met a man with schizophrenia. He asked me when his bus would come and proceeded to tell me he’d just got out of prison after 22 years  for killing a man and that Jesus killed people all the time. I wasn’t really scared of him, though I bet he could have been telling the truth about being locked up. Who knows. I was glad when we went our separate ways.

Hope you’re having a great summer or winter wherever you are!

Dependent Evermore — May 17, 2017

Dependent Evermore

I like to blame my mother for my personality disorder. She’s dead, so she won’t take it personally; besides, it’s traditional in psychiatry. My father, the drunken spermatozoa, no doubt helped, but I never met him.  His absence gives him a free pass, and he is also dead. I suppose I could blame God for making me of a species that desires companionship. The fact that I’m human sometimes makes it hard to distinguish the blur between pathology and normalcy.

If you turn back time to the 2010-2011 me documented on this blog, my life and strife was my mother. I wish she were still with me. I miss her unconditional love very much. There are no substitutions. Everyone else pales in comparison. BUT. She didn’t prepare me for this world. Maybe it was that I was her only child, but she insisted on doing everything for me, and if she didn’t, I probably asked her to do it for me. Maybe it was the two years I completely isolated myself from people my own age, ages 13-15, and I just never caught back up socially.

What’s the point of this post? Besides killing time waiting for the maintenance guy to put some freon in my air conditioner, I guess it’s just to say that I’m miserable, and thought I’d bring everyone along for the kill-joy ride. My main problem, besides it being 85 degrees in my apartment, is my fear of my friend abandoning me. I got really upset over the weekend, she berated me, which made everything far worse, so I stayed in be for a couple of days. I fed the strays by my house, but I didn’t feed the strays by a doctor’s office.. I think those cats get fed everyday, or virtually everyday by the doctor, but it was still bad of me not to go. She won’t forgive me and I feel lost without her. I just feel terrible and weepy. I feel like life is hopeless without  her, and that’s probably my personality disorder. We talked all the time and she’s virtually withdrawn from me. It’s driving me crazy like when my ex-roommate (ca. 2012, for those of you following along at home) would give me the cold shoulder.

Blogoversary the 7th — March 24, 2017

Blogoversary the 7th

Still here. Though not prolific,  I’ve been at this for 7 years now. God willing, I will keep at this blog until incapacity or death takes me out. I was 33 when I started, and will be 40 in December. I sometimes read back on my old posts. Lisa, circa 2010, was such a different person from Lisa 2017. In some ways, I truly feel my writing reached its apex in the first two years here (while my mom was still around, my biggest supporter). I sometimes find myself writing stuff worthy of Lisa 2011, but it is what it is. Had you told me during the course of this novel , that my mom would croak, I’d end up living with a drag queen and a pathological liar, end up in a mental  hospital, live in a nursing home for a couple of months, and finally come to living alone in an apartment complex I had lived in when I was 8 years-old… Well, I’d have been horrified to say the least. If you had told me that Donald Trump would be president one day, I’d have believed you were the greatest bullshitter.

I still feel as though I stand on the precipice of disaster at all times, especially now, with Trump and Paul Ryan trying to butcher the dangling safety net. I owe my apartment, medicine,  and healthcare to Medicaid. While I doubt Trump’s “fix” to Obamacare will pass, it’s terrifying to think of block grants. What if taking care of people on disability becomes superfluous? What if one day I’m blogging homeless?

  Here’s to a new blog year that happens to not be catastrophic. Thanks for hanging in there with me!

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2016: Blood, Sweat, More Blood — November 30, 2016

2016: Blood, Sweat, More Blood

Is it just me, or has 2016 gone down as one of the most awesomely horrendous years in history?  Well, post-plague, post-Hitler, post-mom croaking anyway. It was bad. Can it get any worse? Probably.

I’ve been treated for bed bugs three times, the last time was today. They aren’t all dead. I fully expect a bed bug or two to  outlive me, enjoying the last flowing drops of my lifeblood on my death-bed. #Optimism.

Philippe, my cat of 15 years, died in the early morning hours after Mother’s Day.  A friend kindly offered to allow me to bury him in her yard among her feline deceased. I wrapped Phil’s mortal remains in a sheet, taped him up in a box, placed the box in a vinyl laundry bag, and boarded the bus for her house. No one knew on he bus, but someone was singing  Amazing Grace, a funeral favorite in my family. #Icantmakethiscreepynessup.

And well, Donald Trump  got elected. I just knew he would. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe it will just all be a real hoot. Maybe under the narcissistic, sociopathic facade lies a heart of gold. #Seigheil.

My Mom and I Waited for Calamity — September 13, 2016

My Mom and I Waited for Calamity

Mother’s dead five years today. The ache is dulled, but there. I feel it should be an eternal darkness over my soul as a justice to her and to atone for my flaws. Why did it end this way?
We worried about each other always. My mom fretted if I stayed at the pool after dark lest someone come molest me. The gazebo they built out at the back of our complex, she begged me not to go lest someone molest me. When I’d talk about how I’d like to have a driver’s license  to go to things at night, like fireworks at the beach…You shouldn’t go alone.
Don’t go too far from the shore. Don’t even taste alcohol. It’s in your genes!

And the big joke was that I was worse than her. If I couldn’t find her in a store, I panicked. If she went out alone, which was rare, I’d warn her to lock her doors and be careful. I was sure she’d die in a car accident. On the rare occasions I went over to a friend’s house overnight, I’d call twice . If she dropped me off for a day somewhere, I’d call to make sure she got home. My greatest obsession was my mom.
I miss her advice. I miss her always on my side. But I’m also glad to be free. Free from her worries, free from mine over her.
I’d give back my liberty though to be with her again , but it’d be nice if we could’ve been less dependent on each other the next time around.

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Dead in the Park — May 2, 2016

Dead in the Park

stock-photo-tombstone-and-graves-in-an-ancient-church-graveyard-159270173I just finished checking on my friend’s cats while she was away, and as the bus drove over the expansive bridge, the driver and a passenger began remarking on what was going on below.

“Someone must’ve died. The police have been there so long now, ” said the driver. I seen them there three hours ago.” The driver and passenger speculated on the nature of the wreck that I couldn’t see from my vantage point. Alcohol. Drugs.

“I can’t say nothing,”replied the passenger. “I lost my  license going  180 in a 70 mile per hour zone. Just the other day , the cops got a woman going down wrong side of this road.”

The truth of the matter is once you leave the mainland and are on the island, alcoholics are as plentiful as the ocean surrounding the island, or at least it feels like it.

I’m going to see what there is to see, I think. I am obsessed with the morbid in case you might have missed that about me. For the first time in my life, I walked over the bridge instead of riding over it, and it’s scary. It’s about 100 feet to the unfriendly water below, the area where the river meets the sea, swirling and dark. I clung to the railing, afraid I’d be seized by vertigo and fall back into the traffic whizzing by. What a vulture will do to spot death. There it was in the park by the river. An SUV hit a tree by a sharp curve in the road.  The SUV’s  whole front end up to the cab was crushed in by the tree, and the remains of the vehicle were charred from having been on fire. Police were milling around the taped off area,  cop cars and fire trucks blocked the road nearby.

Wow.

Later, I found out it was a mother and her young children. Miraculously, the mother and one child were saved from the fire by a good Samaritan, who ended up being burned badly himself. The youngest child, a 1 year-old, was killed. The district attorney is treating it as a criminal matter.  What a terrible  world where such bad things happen. I hope the baby didn’t suffer, and that the district attorney is merciful.

Bed, Bug, and Beyond — February 21, 2016

Bed, Bug, and Beyond

Hauling cast-offs from your neighbors’ trash is kind of like autoerotic asphyxiation:  It’s all fun and games until you’re well hung.

Oh yes, I’ve hung myself  well. Cimex lectularius, aka the bed bug, has taken hold of my home and lecturously clung to me, tying my noose in a rust colored bow. A creature smaller than a pencil top has wrecked my life emotionally, socially, and reduced me to semi -penury.

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S’up?

 

There are two things to do when you find you have a bedbug problem. First, tell everybody! Brag to your 1.5 friends that your previous state of having no blood relatives has been remedied by playing host to a growing family of consanguinious creatures. Your 1.5 friends may become .05 friends that are willing to touch you with a 10 ft. pole, but now you will have many bedfellows who find your society delicious.

The second thing is watch how you become as popular as a prostitute with mouth herpes on a Tuesday night. Watch as your friends inspect their domiciles as you wait with bated breath for the horror that your new family might have jumped  ship for tastier fare. You will begin to see your bug relatives in every speck of dust, feel them, and itch from them when they aren’t there. You begin to wish for a bolt of lightening to strike your apartment and incenerate your tiny family. Your new relations are about as well esteemed to you as  your Appalachian cousins, but unlike your cousins, your bed bug family won’t abandon you. Lucky you.

 

I began suspecting when I killed a tiny blood red critter  walking its merry way across my pillow. It’s a baby bed bug, I inwardly squealed. No, came my angry reply to the voice within, it’s a spider mite tracked in by one of my cats. I told my psych nurse about the sighting and she agreed with my surmise.

A few nights later, I saw another insect, chubby and waddling. That’s an odd looking cucarocha.

And then December 26. D Day. I saw a bug close enough for me to grab  and I captured it alive in a pill bottle.  Oh dear God, that sure looks like an unfed bed bug. The poor little thing couldn’t keep itself right side up and flailed about so pitifully I had to stop looking at it.

I drew a bath and stripped off, afterward using jackets to keep me warm  on the couch and benzos to lull me to sleep. It’s going to be a great new year.

Much of the next day I stayed on the couch, deep in the depression only suspecting bed bugs can do to you. You know no one will want to be around you anymore, that your life is over until your home is napalmed. I looked online for stories of losing friends due to bed bugs. Of course there’s stories of lost friends and one Yahoo Answers contributor answered to the fearful friend of a bed bug sufferer, “just get new friends, eww.”

I took my prisoner, who had croaked on its own accord to a nearby exterminator. I caught one of the guys towards quitting time, and he turned up the bottle, made a face, and replied, “yeah” when I asked if it was a bed bug. I promptly went to McDonald’s and ate two Big Macs.

What is worse than a bed bug problem, you might ask. OCD, bed bugs, and mingling your worst fears into that mix. I feared telling my landlady for fear of being evicted, because around this  time last year I was threatened with eviction. I feared telling my social worker for fear of losing the assistance  I get on my rent.

Both scenarios led to the same conclusion in my mind,the trifecta of  my worst fears, a game show called Rest Home, Homeless, or Dead. Continue reading

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