3 – morning blow

Was supposed to go to Vegas for my son’s big baseball tourney with Shawn (that guy I’m married to) today after school, I mean, the whole thing’s this really big deal for my kid’s new team n’ my dumb husband’s been like packed to go since last week. Not me though. I felt the disturbance in the force…I knew like Yoda things were not what they seemed. I could just tell by Shawn’s 4AM coffee and jumping jacks wake up call this morning, “fuck it”, I wasn’t going anywhere.

Shawn gets up at 3:45 everyday…for fun. He doesn’t have to, he likes to. Unlike me, I hate the mornings. Depression always peaks in the early hours–science even says so.  All I had to do was roll over in bed, take one look at his exuberant let’s tackle the day face, n’ I knew I wanted blow my head off. Again.

“Gotta get up babe, it’s late already.” He said all too fuckin chipper, then handed me my Paul Newman organic coffee in a to-go cup, just the way I like it.

“Late? Whattya mean it’s late? It’s like 5:52 AM, middle of the fuckin’ night.” I told him all  irritable as shit.

“Wait a minute, how can you be in a bad mood already? Nothing’s even happened yet, no need to be mean, c’mon Kelly.”

Mean.

I hate when he tells me I’m mean, even when I’m being mean. What? Doesn’t he know I know I’m being mean? I wasn’t trying to be mean, it’s just the mornings are brutal when in the lexicon of an episode. My episode was locked in, two weeks in to be exact, and had no signs of calling it quits either.

“Shawn, really? Just give me the fucking coffee and fuck off for 15 minutes, k? Then come back and be happy as a pig n’ shit about this day.” I rolled back over, hot beautiful coffee in hand, and quietly cried to myself. There was a beautiful scene out my bedroom window too–two giant elms stared at me as I cried to them like I did almost every morning this week.  Poor trees, they deserved better than me always dumping on them, I mean, they housed every crow in the county, they had enough nonsense to deal with.

Tears were, no, are especially easy to come by upon waking, but no other time thereafter.  For me anyway. Fucking weird. However, I wasn’t being a total selfish bipolar bitch, I felt so bad I’d put the kibosh on Shawn’s morning, I cried even harder. It really was his favorite time of day.

I drove my beloved child to school, but not before my 15 year old teen daughter berated the fuck outta me for saying I would drive her too—the idea I could handle such a difficult ‘one block in distance between location’ task was just absolutely outrageous to her. Outrageous. By the time the berating and “are you kidding, what the hell’s wrong with you” crap was done, my daughter had like 4 cardiac arrests and a new case of acne. Of course, my super supportive husband came to my rescue and told me he’d handle it from there on, I had enough to deal with (that’s code for “Kelly you’re retarded”). I’m not retarded just so you know. I’m autistic. Not that either actually, just dyslexic.

So there it started really, two kids going to school one block apart and I wasn’t allowed and or capable of dropping one or the other off in one swoop. One block. Whatever. No one was trying to hurt me, they were just being themselves trying to accommodate a person who couldn’t be themself.

I can feel the jonesing for something grip me by the back of my hair, literally, I can feel a hand, a man’s hand at the back of my head, as the three of them bicker over who was to drive the other n’ this n’ that. One block apart, one block.

Part of this craving, the jonesing n’ stuff,  isn’t only for mood altering substances, but for immediate and super in your face intense intimacy. Now. I need it now. Not in five minutes now, not tomorrow now, NOW now, I need rescuing now. It happens sometimes, the rescuing damsel in distress racket, but not today, today I’m left in a snowy tree-well of shame. And that’s how this hustle works.

Only a truly intimate encounter (yes, right now) can alleviate my crippling emotional pain, be it a deeply loving sexual encounter (the 9 and a half weeks kind preferably), or a really connective emotional one. I wouldn’t shrug off an intellectual (as in lets discuss a good book) gig either, or even a spiritual (like the east Indian swami kind) alleviation as well. I need to feel something real on the level only people like me understand, and the real life doings of normal people, as in my family, wasn’t cutting it. And I know that’s really bad and counter-intuitive to my cognitively evolved psyche, but I don’t care right now. I need what I need to feel good now, and I feel anything but good, in fact, I feel downright out of control in desperateness if that makes any fuckin’ sense, so sex, drugs, N’ Ghandi sound real good at the moment.

I wanna cry too, naturally, but I don’t, and we’ve gone over this I know; I’m dried up from the inside apparently since I got outta bed, which is weird cause I’ve already had 4 glasses of water this morning. I look around the kitchen for something, anything to alleviate my mounting anxiety but there’s nothing but an unfilled Adderal prescription and a bottle of cinnamon extract to abuse.

I allow my family to bicker over my lack of navigation skills in my current mental state–don’t say a fuckin word, just blankly stare at’em all like Boo Radley standing in a corner on your porch.

It was decided. I’d drive one kid, the light of my life, my son.

God I love that kid, both of them–love doesn’t even scratch the surface of how I feel about these two divine little beings of my vagina…thank god for kids, truly, they are miracles. But that boy o’ mine, especially, he just gets me.

Drove the-light-of-my-life to school, walked him in on the verge of tears but with no tears of course, and hugged him goodbye; I knew I’d not be seeing him for the next 3 days even know I was one hundred percent supposed to go with him to his Vegas tournament. And as he walked away with his cute little backpack and newly bleached bangs, I felt like the biggest deadbeat parent alive. How could I let my heart and soul down like I was about to? My son, I love him more than anything, I just told you that. I don’t know what’s worse, the feelings of panic and desperation or letting him down—whichever one is worse they’re both no slouches in personal feelings of failure department and everyone knows I’m a great mom, that part of my life I got down at least.

I make a mental note to get the Adderal filled fast, and to binge on 5 cherry oat bars from starbucks before they sell out—that’s what the cinnamon extract was for by the way, helps stabilize insulin when I abuse processed white flour so I don’t get an ass bigger than the one I already got…kidding, I got a great ass if you really wanna know. Didn’t used to though, had the worst ass in the valley at one time, so I worked my ass off for an ass I’d be proud of doggy-style. Bulimia: it really works.

Ha! No it doesn’t, seriously, the opposite actually–makes you fat in the long run. Don’t do it. Gave it up in my late teens then dropped 20 pounds, cause I started eating like a normal person again. Showed some goddamn self love for once, like taking care? Now I just starve myself 3 days at a time and that works infinitely better.

 

 

 

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