I thought perhaps this blog needed a new post, since the last left everyone hanging as to how I’m managing my med withdrawals. The horror must be in taking the meds themselves, because once I started tapering down I felt much better, not worse; no ill side-effects. And although the pharmacist recommended that I take a full, two weeks to get off of them (since I was on the highest dosage allowed), I did jump the gun a bit and allowed myself only a little over a week. I’m happy to now say I’m completely off the damn, soul-spirit-mind stealing drugs. Good, freaking riddance! I wish I could say I feel 100%, but alas…I don’t think I even know what that means. It just is what it is, I am who I am, and unfortunately my normal is probably never going to be the definition of actual normal. I do know I’m back to being the best that I can be though. Know how I know? Well…the bitch is back.
Yes, that is what I am, and dare I say that I’m back to taking charge round the ol’ hovel, taking names for my shit list, and taking few prisoners. Once the meds started wearing off and I regained my mental faculties back, I found myself looking around, narrowed my eyes on the Old Man, and said, “Oh, hell noooo, pal! You didn’t think you were going to get away with this forever, did ya?” I reckon myself to a wasp nest that’s been slumbering for the last year, while the Old Man has been teasing it with a stick. Time to come out and play with the big, bad man who wields the wood. Like most men who can take advantage of a situation, he will…and did, so now I’m calling him on it. I don’t feel so broken anymore. He’s been ignoring my needs and the needs of our home, and frankly, I think he’s got some s’plaining to do. In an odd twist, I’ve noticed this last week he’s been in a much better mood while kissing my ass and making repairs to the house, so I have to wonder if he’s happier living with the bitch. Things that make you go hmmm….
I guess I’m just a chip off the ol’ Mickey in that way. (That being my mother’s nickname she picked up as a country western singer. Her real name was Gladys, but she said it put a bad taste in her mouth after being tormented as a child with names like ‘Glad-ass’ and ‘Happy-bottom’, so Mickey it became and stayed.) My mom was the first, self-proclaimed bitch I ever met, and she wore the tag well. There were movers and shakers, and then there was, well…my mom. With her high-pitched yell that set teeth on edge, and her nails-dragging-on-chalkboard nagging, she got shit done when she wanted it, baby. And hell hath no fury like a ‘Mickey’ scorned. Mom had no problem slapping the smug smile right off of a face. That being not just limited to us children, but includes the bullying, neighbor lady, with the foul mouth who thought herself brave enough to cuss Mom out. ((shudder)) Silly lady, tricks are for kids! Yep, she was one helluva woman, and I doubt there is anyone who knew her who’d say different. She was incredibly beautiful, gifted, and ballsy; generous to a fault, and never failed at standing up for friends or family. (She literally went to my junior high with the intention of smacking around one of my male teachers who had manhandled me, and only by an act of God was he fortunate enough to be out that day and it be the end of the year so mom had time to cool off over summer vacation.) And although she suffered depression and mood swings that could make the most rational person dealing with it lose their mind, it was forgiven her, because it was considered part of the total package. And aren’t most creative, gifted people a bit eccentric and nuts, anyway? Ever met one who wasn’t? I guess that’s reason enough to cut myself some slack too. 🙂 Tooting the old, Pissy horn again, aren’t I?
Mom’s birthday was Sunday. She would’ve been 87. Sadly, she passed away in 1988 and wasn’t here to celebrate it with us. Her memory is ever-present though. She was unconventional and stood out from the crowd. The kind of woman that women-folk would whisper about under their breath, because of her foul mouth, try-everything, and fear-nothing attitude. The kind of woman that other women wish they had the guts to be. The kind of woman that I’m proud to say she wanted me to be. And I am trying. The depression eventually got the best of her and she found herself weak and succumbing to it. I guess that length of her footsteps I don’t care to follow. Nor would she want me to. The real difference between my mother and I is I now live in a world where depression is recognized as such and not just considered an ’emotional spell’. This knowledge might’ve saved her too, and many others like her had it been available then. I intend to make use of it. So anyway, “Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you and miss you, and hope I’m still doing you proud.”
Well, that’s Pissy’s post for today. I still have my head above water and am sucking in every breath I can muster. Things are much better than they were, but hopefully not nearly as good as they’re gonna get. I’m optimistic, anyway. Hope all is going good for you as well. Kick up a little sand in the litter box and raise some hell. I promise it’s good for the soul. 😉