The Big O: Overwhelmed, That Is

 

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

What did you think I was going to say with that title? Get your mind out of the gutter! That sort of thing is Lil DeVille's territory, not Ornery Owl's. If you'd like to get your mind in the gutter, head over to Lil DeVille's Amazon author page.

https://bit.ly/LilDeVilleAmazonAuthor

A wise soul once noted that people are overwhelmed or underwhelmed. Nobody is ever just the right amount of whelmed. Why is that?

Anyway...

When I began writing this post, I had in mind to share some sort of philosophical treasure with the world. Instead, I will perform one of my idiotic ADHD tricks, which is what often happens when I attempt to write an admission of vulnerability or advice post. Oh, look, a 

VORPAL RABBIT!

You thought I was going to say squirrel, didn't you? Silly you!

Yeah, I already lost interest and/or thought twice about admitting vulnerability.

It isn't that I don't think people can tell I'm a hot mess—that's pretty obvious, at least if you ever set eyes on me or read anything I've written. My reluctance to share my vulnerabilities stems from the many times I have been victimized for such decisions. 

In any case, I'm feeling overwhelmed. We have a new (as of last September) refrigerator that isn't working and a 25-ish-year-old dryer that went kaput. I'm not as upset about the dryer. It functioned well over the years, with a technician being called in only once to repair the door. Since it's warm weather, I can hang clothes over the banister, and they'll dry. Before the weather turns cold, we will purchase a new dryer.

I currently cannot prepare foods such as yogurt or dishes with significant leftovers. I like to make large portions of chicken or roast and use them in recipes over the course of a few days. We've had to cram the essentials into a mini-fridge because, like I said, our new refrigerator already went belly up. Before I continue, heed my words.

Never, and I mean do not ever, buy an appliance from Hisense or Mora. They are the same company. They make subpar equipment. Their support line is abysmal. The actual people I've spoken to are fine, but their system sucks. There is no way to bypass the automated support robot at the beginning of the call. This means you're sitting there for at least five minutes with that stupid thing. 

Then, who knows how long it will take them to get the part and have the technician out here? I have to have my phone at my side like a lovesick teenager, hoping my crush will call. At almost 60 years old, I need that shit like I need catastrophic organ failure. I just want the damn appliances I purchase to fucking WORK for more than a few months. Of all the one-star experiences I've had, this one is the one-starriest.

I can't forget about you, Colorado Department of Revenue.

My tax refund check was cut in mid-May. I anticipated its arrival at the end of May. However, it may not arrive until the middle of June. Now I have to haunt the post office like a lonely kid waiting for a letter from a pen pal who may have stopped writing. Yes, I'm dating myself. I always date myself because nobody else will go out with me! Ha!

Let's not leave you out of the mix, AmeriGas. There is one drawback to living in a rural area: propane is a suckass, expensive fuel. We have weatherization people coming in next week. I hope they can help us insulate this building so that we can lower the thermostat in the coming winter. 

Grocery prices are ridiculously high, and I get $1600 per month from Uncle Sam. If I don't do some kind of work, Medicaid will only pay for my Medicare B premiums but no medical services. I've opted to perform my own podiatry because, without Medicaid, it costs me $50 a pop to see a podiatrist. If I had to return to the ear doctor, I'd have to pay out of pocket. 

Not sorry, but fuck everyone who doesn't think we need a universal healthcare system in the US. Yes, I know countries with universal healthcare systems have problems too. That doesn't mean the US doesn't need a universal healthcare system.

I had a horrible night last night. I kept waking up screaming, "NO!" I can't even remember what I was dreaming about, but evidently, I'd had enough of whatever it was. 

It was probably a non-functioning refrigerator, a busted dryer, or a tax refund check standing in the distance, mocking me like some asshole leprechaun thumbing his nose while gesturing to his pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

Ornery Owl Has Howled Into the Void

So I'm gonna let Bartok take this one.

A to Z Challenge 2024: Killers!

 

I’ve gone through much of my life feeling like there was a noose around my neck.

This sensation is caused by laryngospasms, which, in my case, are primarily caused by anxiety.

Because my throat was tensed up so often due to stress, I developed vocal cord dysfunction.

I went through two months of physical therapy to unlearn the erroneous lessons that stress and anxiety taught my body.

Even now, I have to make a conscious effort to focus on exhalation because my larynx defaults to closing on inhalation.

Stress: it’s a killer, and it will fuck you up. No joke.

Enjoy some relaxing music.

https://odysee.com/@DetenteMeditation:b/detente-meditation-music-2-hours-deep-2:b?r=GTwnGJ4fFBQfzuJgpHVpfKBKaC9b8B16

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In my most recent dream, Kanye West stood there observing me judgmentally as I ran around unable to accomplish anything, and my parents (my father is 10 years deceased) decided to use their gas stove as a storage area for their pots and pans, which I tried to talk them out of doing to no avail. 

It's been a while since I had a dream that wasn't a straight-up manifestation of stress.

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Naughty Netherworld Press: Come As You Are Party: Visions of Kanye West: Welc...:   Image by kalhh from Pixabay This is my latest newsletter. If you aren't subscribed, remedy that lapse in judgment. Sign up here! http...

Bartok is right. Stress is a killer. And when you add Kanye West to the mix, you know you're really screwed.

Fukitol

Oh, if only there were a Fukitol.

I would be at the doctor's office demanding a prescription for Fukitol.

I would buy stock in Fukitol.

I would stockpile Fukitol.

I would give glowing testimonials about how Fukitol changed my life.

I really need Fukitol!

I think Fukitol is one of those Netherworld things.

Of course, in the Netherworld, no-one needs Fukitol, because it's okay to be your authentic, whackadoodie self. That goes a long way to reducing depression.

In the third dimension, AKA "real" life, there is no Fukitol.

There are only antidepressants and antipsychotics with nasty side effects, and I can't take them because they make me even more fucked than I was before. I did not sign up for Mor-Fukd.

Antidepressants and other such pills are touted as being magic wonder drugs that will take a person from depression to farting rainbows and singing with butterflies.

My experience with one such pill had me jumping up on a counter and preaching and scaring the hell out of my son. With another, I felt like my brain had grown little hands and was trying to pick it's way out of my skull. 

Prozac was different. With Prozac, I was completely flat. I mulled over the idea of cutting my arm, not in a self-injury kind of way, but to see if I could feel anything at all.

It is so dismissive to say to a depressed (or otherwise mentally ill, or grieving, or not fitting well into life in hell) person:

"Have you considered medication?"

Fuck right off with that shit.

Most medications and I do not get along. I react badly to them.

My cousin tried every medication combination humanly possible. She still ended up committing suicide.

Add this to your list of shit not to say to people who are suffering/struggling.

"Have you considered medication?"

Bitch, I am mentally ill. I know all too well about medication, about what it's touted as doing, about what it really does, and about the fact that, for me anyway, the cure is worse than the problem.

I also know that being under constant stress and feeling that no-one will ever understand or care about or believe in you will make anyone, whether or not they are diagnosed as "mentally ill," unhappy. Chronic stress is not a good thing. Being in a constant psychic "war zone" will make anyone "crazy."

Unfortunately, one of the first things to go under circumstances like mine (working an average of 48 hours a week and, not uncommonly 60, and sometimes 72) is creativity. 

I miss telling my little tales, even if only to myself.

I miss being able to think.

I don't like being an automaton.

I have to pay the bills.

If you think $20 an hour will do that in this day and age, think again.

Women on both sides of my family live to an average age of 85. I highly doubt that will be the case with me if things keep going at this rate. Not that I'd want to if they keep going at this rate.

The magazines all glibly tell you that "talking things out with a friend" will help reduce stress.

I have no friends because I am an overworked, socially inept asshole. 

Such magazines are inevitably classist anyway. They are directed at Thin, Pretty, Middle Class, Married White Ladies with 2.5 Reasonably Well Behaved Children, who may be having a bit of a Bad Hair Day. They are not directed at someone in the working class, who is mentally ill, has no support system, and is trying to stay afloat because her adult son, who is high functioning autistic and has agoraphobia and depression, still needs her help.

So yeah--sorry if my Stinkin' Thinkin' offends y'all.

On the other hand, maybe I'm too damn tired to give a fuck.

I really need to get me some Fukitol!

~Cie~