When your pharmacist cannot keep up with your demands for your criminalized medication (literally the only thing that makes you not want to shake apart and vomit on a daily basis but can be discontinued indefinitely at the drop of a hat with no physical withdrawal symptoms) and feels really badly about it sometimes you end up with a jar of homemade cannabutter in your fridge as a free “I’m sorry and value your business” gift and this is how you find yourself googling “easy cannabutter recipes” at 9 o’clock Monday morning because this is how you’ve chosen to live your life.
And when I say “you” I mean “me.” But if you have any easy to make recipes that use cannabutter hit me up.
Not sure if the introduction of psych meds has stolen my ability to enjoy anything at all, if it’s the lack of THC (which I honestly didn’t realize was so useful in keeping my anxiety at a 2 instead of a constant 8) or if my brain has just gone KERPLUNK again.
Whatever the reason, it sucks not being able to do anything without a) panicking about it to the point of not being able to do it/being severely impaired in the doing due to panic or b) having to be so shitfaced drunk to do it I’m a danger to myself (and others).
Nothing about any of this is remotely OK.
And that’s been the story of the last month. Hurrah.
So like. After a year-18 months of radio silence, The Medic (he’s a cardiac cath lab RN now, but he will always be The Medic here for me) contacted me today. We had a FB video chat while he took a shower and bummed around and I drank wine and got increasingly warm and shed my clothes. And while doing that we also had a reasonably deep heart-to-heart about our frustrations with hookups and the dating scene and living alone and trying to carry our own shit. We did a little mutual showing off, but no orgasms were had during the call.
I just. I mean, it was nice and no-pressure and good to talk to a kindred spirit but like, WTF? I mean, he never flat-out ignored or cold-shouldered me but he really hasn’t been forthcoming since he moved across the state (which I now know was for a job and a girl; only one of which worked out – and I leave you to guess which one) so I’m just like, WTF? I mean, if you want an agony aunt that’s also gonna show off for you that’s cool, ‘cause you were a good fuck and always gave at least as good as you got, but this “out of the woodwork” shit is kinda shifty.
In other “I can’t believe this is actually happening to me” news, I can’t tell if I’m short of breath because this is an anxiety thing, or if my sinuses and lungs are so junked up that I simply can’t process air.
So last week was basically like getting kicked in the chest repeatedly, spitting out the blood and asking for another.
This week has been a little smoother, mentally and workload-wise but today my body completely gave up on me and brought back the vomit-comet of months gone by. I know when I’m licked. I tearfully apologized to my coworkers and turned tail for home.
I am going to rest today, I am not going to be eaten alive by anxiety and mania, and I am going to finish this week like a fucking winner if it is the last goddamned thing I do.
How do people manage to have full and productive lives? I stg I don’t understand. I guess not everyone spends the majority of their waking hours fighting against a shitlord brain. That probably saves a lot of time and energy and stress. Must be nice.
Went to my parents, brought the cat, beer and h’orderves at the neighbors’ tiki bar while playing with their German Shepherd, back home for dinner, back up the the neighbors for more puppy time, back to the parents, caught the cat, come home, shower, relax.
The only way this day could possibly be better would be if I were getting laid tonight, but even so everything is still such a win I can hardly care about that.