Chemical Dependency ~ The Legal Kind (Part I)

I’ve always been a worry-wart, high-strung, stressed-out kind of person.  I landed in the hospital for a week of tests toward the end of my Kindergarten year.  Seems the rigors of cutting stiff waxy milk cartons with little rounded-edged scissors (really an impossible task for anyone!) and the stress of trying to figure which hand to put over my heart every morning for the Pledge of Allegiance (I have a curious difficulty telling my left from my right) ended up giving me extreme stomach pains.  They thought I might have ulcers at the ripe old age of five.

I was the queen of angst before angst was a word.  I dreaded new situations, hated being out of my comfort zone.  I quit jobs when they got too scary and left a high school friend roommate-less when I chickened out of going to college the year after high school.  I spent several more times in the hospital, with perplexed doctors trying to figure out what was causing my acute stomach spasms.  I kept plodding on the best I could, not knowing life could be any different.

It wasn’t until six years ago that I learned how different life could be.  I had reached a stress level so debilitating that I couldn’t function.  Oldest Son had just graduated from high school.  I was trying to plan a nice party for him.  I was secretly worried about him going off to college and probably losing the scholarship that he had been awarded.  But none of these things alone could have accounted for the overwhelming fear I was experiencing.  I was at an age where I could blame hormones,  and assumed I was in the beginning stages of menopause.  Whatever was the cause, I needed help quickly!

Big Daddy made an appointment for me.  He was worried.   After several appointments of talking with a counselor, and them learning of my dad’s family history of depression, I was put on an SSRI.  I was highly skeptical.  There was no way a simple little pill was going to pull me out of this funk.

Tea Parties and Snarky Moods

I’m very antagonistic today. I don’t know why.  I’m glad to be off work and I feel good about getting things done.  But everything I see today is getting me worked up and ready for a fight.  I don’t know why.  But I do know this–I’m not going to write an original post when I’m feeling like this.  Instead, I’m going to divert you over to Oldest Son’s blog.  He is quite good with words, when he’s in the mood.  Yesterday, he attended the local “tea party”, one of many going on throughout the country.  The sheer number of people that went out, even in our rainy weather, gives me hope that people still do care about our country and want to restore it to the fine place it used to be, the land of opportunity that our founding fathers envisioned.

If you read the comments on his post, this is just one example of me having to say what comes to mind, even if the comment has nothing to do with me personally.  I don’t often do that.  I also commented on people’s Facebooks today, when normally I would just roll my eyes.  Like the kid that said “Go Philly.”  And I said, “Philly sucks.”  Because they do.  And on another one, I just let spill decades of irritation, but of course, in one short sentence.

I’m just feeling snarky as hell.  Is it menopause?  Is it residual resentment at the last-minute a-holes that brought their tax returns in right before the deadline?  Seriously, if I owned the joint, I’d charge them a flat fee of at least $50 just for bringing their crap in after April 8th.  And these are generally the people that don’t even give you all the information you need to do their return.

Whatever it is, I’m going to spare you all.  I’m going for a walk.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll have something uplifting to say.

On Things That Piss Off Mama

Well, luckily the joyous holiday season is behind us now and I don’t feel compelled to be all warm and fuzzy.  Because it would be really hard.  I’ve been gritting my teeth all week because Youngest Son, who is definitely no wimp, nor a whining baby, is still suffering miserably with his damn wisdom teeth extractions.  He should be back to normal by now.  But the poor kid developed not one, but TWO, freaking dry sockets.  Even though his dentist assured us that it wasn’t all that common.  He stopped in the office yesterday so they could pack the holes with something to alleviate the pain a bit.  When the nurse informed the dentist that Youngest Son was out of pain pills, doc said, not too nicely, “Aw, he doesn’t need anything.”

Luckily, and I don’t care whether this is kosher or not, we have some extra pain pills lying around.  That’s because, unlike what it seemed this dentist may have been insinuating, we don’t take pills if we don’t really need them.  So when we’re done hurting, we may have a few left over.  I can understand how doctors may need to be careful.  There are a lot of people that would lie, cheat, and steal to get their hands on certain meds.  But like Youngest Son said, it was the way doc said it.  Like that Youngest Son was trying his patience or something.  When actually, we waited a couple days longer than when they said he should be feeling better before we even called.  Like, doc could have put it much nicer, and said, “I think you’ll be okay.”  Which Youngest Son would have been ok with that because he wasn’t even asking for the damn pills, maybe just a little kindness if there was no way to get actual pain relief.

So, like any good mama, I can’t stand to see one of my babies hurting.  I’m feeling actual anger over the situation, because I can’t do anything to help him.  And it’s so unfair.  On top of it all, I think I may be approaching “the menopause.”  It may partially explain the recent night sweats, although I’m still quite impressed with the healing qualities I’ve experienced with a good full body drenching.  Last night, when I was screaming and cussing at my new Black & Decker food processor, because it’s so unbelievably stiff and almost impossible to properly seat the bowl and lid (and then again to unlatch it after you finally DO get to use it), Big Daddy finally came in to see if I needed help, but did his best to keep his distance.  He and Youngest Son have been exchanging looks, and I heard someone mention the name Kitty Forman under their breath.  Do you know Kitty Forman?  She was the mother on “That 70’s Show,” who drove her family crazy with her menopausal mood swings.  I can tell you right now, I am nothing like that.  I have not hit the giddy manic cycle yet.

Then this morning, in the newspaper, I read about the wonderful Ponzi-scheming scammer, Bernard Madoff, trying to pass off some of his ill-gotten assets to his family members and friends.  Despite the fact that he knowingly swindled millions of dollars from his unsuspecting victims, wiped out retirement funds and charity endowments, the sonofabitch is restricted to his posh Upper East Side home.  Nope, no jail for Bernie yet.  Even though the petty thief on the other side of town is locked up pronto for a crime worth an infinitesimal fraction in dollar amount.  And, while some of his poor victims don’t have enough funds left for a decent retirement, almost-free-as-a-bird Bernie is mailing off expensive watches and diamonds worth more than $1 million to his kids.

“Sentimental personal items,” his wife innocently professes.  Like they had no idea this million dollars worth of assets should stay put under the terms of a court-ordered asset freeze.  Like they couldn’t find some inexpensive handmade trinkets or photos in their home with sentimental value to send to the kiddos?  Like don’t they feel that every penny of their ill-gotten gain should go back to the ruined accounts of their victims?  This is the same thing OJ Simpson did with his assets when he lost the civil case against the Goldmans.  Luckily, OJ tried to snatch the items back, in a criminal manner.  And so he is finally in jail where a criminal belongs.  And where countless other schemers, profit-skimming CEO’s, and deal-making politicians belong.