Have you ever been too pissed off to sleep? Like, you can hear the blood rushing in your ears and you can’t breathe? I’m so annoyed at this very second that I think it will be a minor miracle if I don’t have a stroke before the sun rises.
It’s too cold to sleep in our bedroom. I used to like it cold as hell in the bedroom but lately for some reason I do not. Sweety thinks the window unit needs to have the room at 64 in order for him to sleep. Who give a shit if I can’t sleep? It’s not like I sleep worth a damn anyway so why the fuck should I be even remotely comfortable?
It’s gotten to where I usually sleep with Bean in her room but her bed has totally fucked up my back and I thought it would be nice to lie down on my own bed so when Sweety leaves for work (and I can turn off the air conditioner and be comfortable) maybe Bean will sleep in past the sun rising and I can get at least 90 minutes of sleep before the dogs start barking and wake us all up. As it is, Bean is now in her room and will be rising as soon as the sun’s rays lighten her window and then I’ll be chasing her all day. On a side note, I’ve decided to tinfoil up her bedroom window tomorrow. I don’t care if it looks to the neighborhood that I’m raising a meth addict.
The best part about her waking up a little after 6 a.m.? It’s not like she wakes up happy. Oh, hell no. That would be too pleasant. When she wakes up early she’s a little asshole for two to three hours before taking a nap if I’m lucky. Sometimes she just powers through the assholiness and won’t take a nap. It’s awesome.
I’m guessing being angry is better than being suicidal. Last Tuesday? Last Tuesday was a very bad day in my head. I used to play a game a work called, “Pretend you are quitting today!”. I would organize my belongings as though I was never coming back and would pretend all day that it was my last. For some reason, I was down in the fucking dumps in a manner that I’ve never been before last Tuesday and played the suicide game. I couldn’t focus for shit and was just crazy anxious and panicky. I’d been having thoughts of “Well, we all die someday anyway so what the fuck does it matter when I go?”. So I decided to plan my day as though it would be my last.
I thought I’d take Bean next door so I could do what the fuck ever it was that I was thinking of doing without her around. The neighbors didn’t answer their door so I told myself that I could just plan everything and if I still felt like total shit the next day…well, then I could polish the plan some more. I figured out how I would do it then I decided to be nice and not leave the house a giant mess so I tidied up around here. I also typed up a list for Sweety of different online passwords and logins for things he’d need and put it in with his important papers. Coincidentally, he needed to go through those papers later in the day and I got quite the hairy eyeball when I explained that the paper was there just in case he ever needed it. Then I made him put it back up.
I was seriously considering committing myself. I have never felt so off before.
I was telling my therapist about all of the above and then some and she said to me, “What will you do if you start feeling this way again?” My reply was along the lines of I guess that I’d go to bed and pull the blanket over my head. She told me that the correct answer would be to call her. I told her that I thought of that but didn’t want to bother her. She asked me some other things and I think I saw her wince at one of my answers. I’ve concluded that my train of thinking is off the fucking rails of correctness.
I feel stupid for feeling out of sorts. I feel like there’s no real reason for me to feel so shitty when there are people worse off. And it irritates me that I’m so angry and weepy. Sometimes I am just fucking mad. Like crazily mad. Then something will happen and I can’t quit crying. I’m fucking waffling between the two right now. Ugh.
I was just messaging with my sister about something we’re going to have set on Mom’s cemetery plot. We’re going to have a granite outline laid on top (It’s called coping. I had no idea what that was called until today.) and once that’s set, I’ll go up there and make it look nice. Mom was a huge fan of cement yard art. I imagine we’ll put some pretty rocks in there and then decorate on top of it.
I found out the other day that Mom’s husband already has a girlfriend. I remember when his aunt died after an extended illness and he was so upset that his uncle had a girlfriend 6 months later. I happen to know that Lintball was trolling on match.com less than 2 months after Mom died. I sincerely hope that he sells the house and moves away soon. The idea of someone else in the house along with him makes my stomach hurt. One of my favorite insomniatic fantasies is deciding the path that I’d splash gasoline all over the house before flipping a cigar on it. I’m really mad that he’s alive and she isn’t.
Sweety has commented on my lack of blogging. I just feel too pissed off. I feel bad coming here and just ranting. But that’s how I feel. Maybe now that I’ve keyboard vomited this all up I’ll feel better. I started this post an hour ago and I’m significantly less stabby than when I started. This is a good thing.