My Cheeky Blues

I am having a struggle today. I hesitate to write about it because in comparison to people I know, (and basically the whole rest of this seemingly Godforsaken world) I have many blessings to count. Matter of fact, I’ve been counting them all week since Monday when I found out my driver’s license was suspended. Guess what? Even motherf@#%ing GHANDI had a blue day. I’m having one, and I’m going to throw a leash around it and take it for a $#@damn walk.

First, let me tell you a little sad story from childhood to set the tone, and also because I will refer back to it later as a metaphor for all of my #wompwompwomp, aka Muc, short for most unfortunate circumstances. Nobody has immunity.

One day, while playing at a neighbor’s, a dog came up to me from behind, put his happy little paws up on my shoulders and festively started hopping. “Weeeee!” thought my lonely innocent young child mind, “Cha cha cha cha cha ChA!” And I gleefully giggled in delight as me and my little buddy conga’d our way across the yard, that is until the mother came out, wiping her hands on an apron as if she had been whisked away from baking , and yelled over to me, “Valerie, don’t you let that dog do that to you!” in her perfect New England accent. In that moment my joy melted into shame. I was only 6 ,and I didn’t know that the dog was trying to hump me, or what that even was. I just knew that it was wrong. This memory is crystal clear. A most unfortunate circumstance, indeed.

While I have made great strides in my recovery lately, I am not without trials. I feel a country song welling up in me. A very awkward country song.

Let’s talk about stuff you should not play with due to the risk of painful consequences, shall we? Number one, horny dogs. This applies to both the canine and human variety. Number two, Poison Ivy. Especially if you are highly allergic with a natural flair for the dramatic, like me.

I had brought a bunch of sticks and dead vines home from the farm to create my next sculptural project. I was enamored with the way the vines coiled and threw myself into placing them just so, thinking they really added something special, like little decorative flourishes. I was all kinds of up in it, let me tell you. I spent an entire day happily enjoying my work and giving thanks to God for all the good feels.

Later, I began to itch. Mind you, I had just come off a round of Prednisone and antibiotics for a nasty infected itchy rash caused by holly leaves. I hate to feel itchy more than I hate puking. At least when you throw up you feel some relief. The only thing that would quell my discomfort and very vocal misery was another trip to the Dr’s office and another round of steroids, this time with a Cortizone shot. When I realized I had been playing with Poison Ivy, (yes, even the dead vines contain the oil that causes the reaction…who knew?) I felt the same kind of shameful embarrassment that I had as that naive child, and when telling my boyfriend what I had done I said, “I may as well have been rubbing the f@#$ing sh!% all over myself! I’m just gonna go find me a horny dog now and conga around the neighborhood!” to which he laughed. Humor helps me keep from pity-partying-till-I-puke, and ain’t NOBODY wanna see that, especially while burdened with an itchy rash!

During this time, my Mom had another surgery to remove a small tumor in her bladder, I fiercely battled my fear and Anxiety, realized I was doing a job that did not utilize any of my skills, and questioned how I was going to make ends meet. Then there was the Wonder Woman-shielding against the crazy-making chaos of a certain family member who was telling me I needed to see an allergist, because I’m probably allergic to everything, like her. Um, no. Just some plants and her lack of boundaries and verbal abuse, thank you very much.

I now hate oral steroids or any kind, for that matter, because they made me angsty and super snacky, like The Hungry Hungry Hippo. I’m still working through my vanity issues, so feeling like a big ol’ fatty didn’t help matters. What could be a better time to give myself bangs? Oh yeah. I went there. My awesome hair stylist did her best to fix my mess, but despite her magic skills, at the end of the day it was just me. With. BANGS. I had sworn them off years ago, realizing I did not have the face for them. This is how I knew I was not myself. It was another most unfortunate circumstance- Fatty Bananas with bangs, no steady income, getting my Moms will done the day before her surgery, driving a car on it’s last leg, 80 miles round trip to the farm and back several times a week, and struggling to get out of bed. The bangs, though. Ugh. At least I was getting out of bed.

Then Monday happened. I have not been able to drive for a week now. My dear friend is dying in hospice. I’ve been consumed with thoughts of her and the pain that her family and friends are dealing with. I have wanted so much to hold her hand and send her off with my love. Feeling helpless is not a good place for a person with Complex PTSD. The resulting avalanche of triggers has left me paralyzed. Warrior down, people!F#@*!

It is just my luck that I answered a question on my license renewal form honestly, never realizing it would raise a red flag that would entail having two Drs fill out paperwork that has been denied two times now because neither Dr knew anything about that ONE time I dozed off at a traffic light. I called the DMV and they said all they need is a note faxed on letterhead corroborating the date and that I am no threat as a driver. (Glad they can’t consult with my daughter, who thinks I suck at almost everything.) I was told to call them as soon as she faxed it and everything would be cleared up. I made this known, at first, by a call to her office, and followed it up with an email. It is now Friday and I have yet to speak with her directly. Not for lack of trying, as you can imagine. Several calls a day and a few more emails and today after trying FOUR times it went straight to voicemail. This is my psychiatrist! She of all people knows that feeling helpless is my biggest trigger!

I finally sent one last email today, saying that I was no longer apologizing for inconveniencing her, for the consequences weigh much heavier for me, and that her refusal to take my calls or do the right thing and call me, was very disappointing and unprofessional. Then I asked the DMV how she could back me up on the date if I never told her about it, but they said it didn’t matter, because they just need her to write the note to put in my file. They said it should be simple for her to do. As of 5:46 today (Friday) they have received nothing.

To top it all off, the one thing that I had to get excited about was a complete bust. Seven inches of snow predicted last night and we got nothing. A frigid cold slap in the face! An opportunity to see my horse and the farm in the snow, because Smithfield did get some, squashed. Unable to do the only thing that sustains me through rough times, I am officially at my limit. I want to go to sleep until all of this cruelly unnecessary trigger BS passes. I want so much to be rid of these afflictions.

I can do nothing other than realize that healing is a journey, and it’s fine to shutter down in order to save myself from the storm. And looking on the bright side, it’s a good thing that I can’t drive right now, because if I went to the Walmart and had to fight to get those stupid #@$!%$#@&%$#@× plastic bags open, while the stupid #@!$^&^$#@× register tells me to “please bag your items”, that would surely be the end of me.

Hello, little black cloud. Goodbye, will to decline the pity party invitation. But $#@! it. “V” is also for VENT, and I am already starting to feel better.