HEAD BEES
Hello darlings, it is I. Yes me, the one who never bothers to update this thing and instead lurks over her flist like a vulture--just waiting to drop SURPRISE I am still here comments on all of your posts.
I was going to regale you all with the fascinating tales that were our moving experience, but today I come to you with a question.
How do you know when you're crazy enough to seek help?
I am sure you will all delight me with the best of your wit in response to this strictly rhetorical question. But here is the answer I came up with.
When you have a black out and delete persons from your phone and address book...and have no recollection of doing it--but HEY six hours have passed on the clock. Here is a puddle of drool to prove it and the dog hair floating in it just ram home the gravity of the situation.
Delicious dog hair. With a touch of cat dander. Scrumptious.
That was my Monday this week. Brynn. Dear. Why don't you go to the doctor? Or more likely, if you know me at all, the real question is "WILL YOU GO TO A DOCTOR NOW, PLEASE?!" Yes I will, thank you for your concern. Stop internet hollering at me. That is like poking the angry insane badger with a really sharp stick.
The reasons for which I do not go to Doctors first when finding myself passed out on my kitchen floor are as follows:
1. The Fat did it
Yes friends, I will go to that doctor and he will take one look at my weight and say "Forget the random blackout, it HAS to be your [insert jargon that blames the Death Fat]" and I will leave the office having two thirds of my blood taken from my body--all to prove I AM HEALTHY AS A HORSE. Random aside, are horses particularly healthy animals? Is it all that running and frolicking through fields that they do?
This has happened to me before. Ironically during my stint as a synchronized swimmer. I digress.
2. Buck Up, you're not that crazy
When I first started showing signs that I was batshit fucking loco, my parents did the one thing they thought was right--they under reacted. Which is actually incredibly smart, bi-polar disorder and puberty/hormone changes are twins--over react and you get a kid who is medicated for things they do not need to be medicated for.
In fact, to this day, I am still not certain that the head bees are due to issues with my brain or with my uterus. But their downplaying of the emotional trauma I was enduring every single day with the raging anxiety and suicidal depression (no matter its cause) gave me a long lived fear that I was over reacting. A hypochondriac.
That fainting, just blood sugar. No big. The actually doing things that I don't remember while blacked out--again! Blood sugar. Or the head bees telling me to sleep!
And Numero 3. I am Batshit Fucking Loco
Since graduating my anxiety has shot through the roof. I flinch at every sharp loud noise, I can barely hold a conversation. I'm alone. Completely alone on the farm except for Jared's grandmother who is just as BFL as I am. Yes, I acronym'd that shit friends.
So you want me to leave the house to go to a Doctor who will call me morbidly obese and then poke me with needles and then say it is all in my head? Really? Can't I just fall unconscious again instead. Please.
I am planning on starting up my blog sometime next week, about the trials and tribulations of moving to bum fuck sure gotta purty mouth Missouri. YOU SHOULD READ IT, it will be hilarious I promise. Maybe.
Pea Ess: I love it here. It is cold and we live in the woods and there is no horrible neighbors and there are peacocks.
I was going to regale you all with the fascinating tales that were our moving experience, but today I come to you with a question.
How do you know when you're crazy enough to seek help?
I am sure you will all delight me with the best of your wit in response to this strictly rhetorical question. But here is the answer I came up with.
When you have a black out and delete persons from your phone and address book...and have no recollection of doing it--but HEY six hours have passed on the clock. Here is a puddle of drool to prove it and the dog hair floating in it just ram home the gravity of the situation.
Delicious dog hair. With a touch of cat dander. Scrumptious.
That was my Monday this week. Brynn. Dear. Why don't you go to the doctor? Or more likely, if you know me at all, the real question is "WILL YOU GO TO A DOCTOR NOW, PLEASE?!" Yes I will, thank you for your concern. Stop internet hollering at me. That is like poking the angry insane badger with a really sharp stick.
The reasons for which I do not go to Doctors first when finding myself passed out on my kitchen floor are as follows:
1. The Fat did it
Yes friends, I will go to that doctor and he will take one look at my weight and say "Forget the random blackout, it HAS to be your [insert jargon that blames the Death Fat]" and I will leave the office having two thirds of my blood taken from my body--all to prove I AM HEALTHY AS A HORSE. Random aside, are horses particularly healthy animals? Is it all that running and frolicking through fields that they do?
This has happened to me before. Ironically during my stint as a synchronized swimmer. I digress.
2. Buck Up, you're not that crazy
When I first started showing signs that I was batshit fucking loco, my parents did the one thing they thought was right--they under reacted. Which is actually incredibly smart, bi-polar disorder and puberty/hormone changes are twins--over react and you get a kid who is medicated for things they do not need to be medicated for.
In fact, to this day, I am still not certain that the head bees are due to issues with my brain or with my uterus. But their downplaying of the emotional trauma I was enduring every single day with the raging anxiety and suicidal depression (no matter its cause) gave me a long lived fear that I was over reacting. A hypochondriac.
That fainting, just blood sugar. No big. The actually doing things that I don't remember while blacked out--again! Blood sugar. Or the head bees telling me to sleep!
And Numero 3. I am Batshit Fucking Loco
Since graduating my anxiety has shot through the roof. I flinch at every sharp loud noise, I can barely hold a conversation. I'm alone. Completely alone on the farm except for Jared's grandmother who is just as BFL as I am. Yes, I acronym'd that shit friends.
So you want me to leave the house to go to a Doctor who will call me morbidly obese and then poke me with needles and then say it is all in my head? Really? Can't I just fall unconscious again instead. Please.
I am planning on starting up my blog sometime next week, about the trials and tribulations of moving to bum fuck sure gotta purty mouth Missouri. YOU SHOULD READ IT, it will be hilarious I promise. Maybe.
Pea Ess: I love it here. It is cold and we live in the woods and there is no horrible neighbors and there are peacocks.