Oooh, ouch. That sounded a little too scary. But hey, you might notice you can see some posts you hadn’t been able to before. In my own very awkward way, I was hoping to show how I empathized, and well, yeah, you’ve gained a level of my trust, as stilted as it sounds.
The rest of you know what’s going on, for the most part. The first bit is just the usual about domestic woes in poverty and the government safety net etc. etc. etc.
Cimmy is in the process of recovering everything she had in a lost wallet. This has made it very difficult to do any grocery shopping. I know some poor people like to use cash, but… I don’t. I prefer to track everything electronically and a debit card makes that much easier. Checks were (and have been as Cimmy had to use a few) a morbid hassle, especially when we had our checkbook stolen a while back.
We were hitting eating out pretty hard. So yesterday morning, we decided to go to the farmer’s market. Oops. I forgot to realize it was held in the morning, and there we were after 4 P.M. So we went to a nearby “ghetto” (for lack of a better word) department store– I hadn’t been in for a long time, and wanted to see if it was any better than our other choices– like Wal-Mart. But first, we went to a nearby taco wagon, because we were all starving. Cimmy and Princess put their money together for three teeny tacos. $3.75 in total. Not much, but for that cheap, not bad.
We roamed and roamed and wound up getting a hiking pole (my adjustable cane was still too short) and a “baby boat” for my son. We had been at the pool here at the complex, so she was thinking of it. We left with Princess in tears because she had left behind her bank at the taco wagon and of course it was taken. She had but a quarter left in it, but for our 6-year old, who gets her money mostly from our recyclables, I’m sure she felt it was a lot. (Her bank is now a plastic empty peanut butter jar.)
Cimmy was exhausted and tossed off. Those of us awake were still pretty hungry. We tried to make a meal out of saltines, salsa, and left over fry sauce. Then I remembered we still had some frozen veggies, a box of mac and cheese, and at least one can of tuna. I made them up, added extra cheese sauce, some butter, and… leftover fry sauce. Thankfully, my ladies enjoyed the meal (I was sick of Princess turning her nose up at stirfry) although we had to badger Princess to completely eat it.
It was near midnight when Cimmy cleaned the kitchen. I helped as best I could loading the dishwasher, having unloaded it earlier. I figured I would go get groceries then, so we would have something to eat for Sunday. She logged into our credit union banksite– “Down for System Maintenance”. Gah. So I figured I would buy a bare minimum, and instead of her initial suggestion of corn mush, maybe we’d make a loaf of cornbread in the bread machine.
Went to the grocery store– probably shouldn’t have gotten food for my midnight munchies. I figured I was still within my limit, but the register said I wasn’t. My card ran fine– I just silently hoped Cimmy could transfer money in time. I got home, credit union website was up again. She transferred some money so I could get groceries another day and pay our water service bill.
I’m writing this all at 02:26 because I’m still manic as ever. I hate that. Edgy, irritable, and therefore snapping at my daughter, and the neighbor kids. (Another story.) Can’t sleep. Trying to think of a way to jolt the doctor and my new med nurse into getting me stabilized again. Mental health here sucks. It sucks in most of Eastern Washington. One of the biggest reasons we haven’t moved back to my in-law’s hometown area is that it especially sucks there. There are so many roadblocks to trust– doctors playing musical chairs, counselors/case managers with baggage, and most of you already know about the weird stunt my last med nurse pulled.
Again, May is Mental Health Awareness Month. I want to cry, because I think no one really honestly gives a fuck. My family (and extended family that isn’t lost in their own baggage) feels powerless to help me, and … I just don’t know how to describe anyone else.
I’ll most likely miss church. It is important to me. This ward is much better than one’s I’ve had in the past, and I’m still wondering how to explain to ecclesiastical leaders how sick I really am– because… I haven’t. I really don’t want to go back inpatient to show just how bad it is– and y’know, the last time, it wasn’t for them… it was because my doctor, the med nurse, and my counselor were once again too stupid to take me off a drug that was doing harm.
I guess I wasn’t more aggressive because… I really hate have meds changed/adjusted/whatever. I mean, I want to get well, but I smell another med change coming up. I hate side effects. One drug I had to get family members to come in on and say, “He’s forgetting to breathe; he’s shaky” if not “He’s dying, damnit.” One made my heart race. One numbed out my cognitive processes– hard to think, hard to feel any emotion. Two made me delirious. One made me angry.
Oh yes, by the way, I do belong to the Mental Illness group. But like hell will I post there because I found out those posts were indexed by Google. I’d like to choose who I tell this shit to. My apologies, however, if this has darkened your day.