I’d be tempted to slap someone, myself*. Ever since my sister’s suicide almost fifteen years ago, my mother has used the adorably** pithy line that “suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” Last weekend, my brother attempted suicide***. If Ma uses that line in my presence ever, ever again, I might not slap her, but I will certainly make sure she understands that I never, ever want to hear it again. Ever. Never****.
*This week, I’m tempted to slap everyone, so threats of slapping are a dime a dozen, for what it’s worth.
**Yeah, my daughter calls it ninja-level sarcasm.
***He’s okay, but not okay enough for me to kick his butt yet. He scared me so badly, and I love him so much, and I just need for him to be okay.
**** I’m not as good at making footnote symbols as Skald. I should learn.
So someone cleaned it up between 245 and 330 pm. But it still smells like pee in there, and I bet if one of those CSI luminol lights were shone around there would still be visible piss stains on walls and floors. But no icky sticky puddle.
I am a nurse. Every nurse has their “thing” that squicks them out. For many its phlegm. Not a huge fan of phlegm and respiratory tract secretions but I would rather deal with that than the smell of old urine. What’s worse I am pretty sure the mad elevator pisser is diabetic.
The bright spot in all this? My husband and I now have an in-phrase. “Who pissed in your elevator?”.
Sorry to hear this** Lacunae**. Sending out good thoughts to you and your brother. I am sorry to hear your mother is so insensitive. I can’t believe she would say this, how awful. I hope your mother never goes through a soul sucking, paralyzing depression, but if she ever had she would back off her comments. I also wish madrabbitwoman’s “friend” would also develop her sensitivity muscles, either that or get a clue.
You are too smart to hang around with ignorant people like that.
Offers lots of huggles to everyone who needs them.
Bill is still in Oklahoma. I had a very nice pity party which included chocolate, wine and crying on cats. What? If I’m going to have a pity party, I might as well tick the cats off too. I’m over it, though.
As part of my pity party, I couldn’t sleep in “our” bed, because it smelled so much like him…oh boo hoo hoo. (I was on a roll.) I went upstairs to sleep. At one point during the night, I woke up to pee, started to get out of bed and realized that there were FOUR cats curled up next to me.
Of course, I froze in place right away. Not because I am afraid that Steve the house feral would attack me but because Steve was actually sleeping next to me and I didn’t want to disturb him. When I finally had the choice between bothering the sleeping cat and peeing the bed (and a serious cramp in my leg), I tried pushing the cats on the other side away and getting out without bothering Steve, but he took off for his cage.
The reason Bill is delayed in Oklahoma is because of protesters. Who drove their jeeps and pick-up trucks to BFE so they could chain themselves to heavy equipment to protest the Keystone project. And get arrested by police who have to drive to BFE, and then the protesters will have to get people to drive to BFE to drive their vehicles back to the police station or whatever.
Bill sent pics and we both laughed at how all the protesters chained themselves in dramatic poses, but all had pillows under them.
I’ve tried to explain to my mother that the difference between her version of depression (yeah, drank a bit much after my father’s death, couldn’t cope with the daily details for a bit,) and clinical depression is the difference between a headache and a migraine. Yeah, both hurt, and seemingly are the same type of pain, but there’s a matter of degree. You’d think that someone with three children, all of whom have suffered depression (and attempted or succeeded at suicide,) would eventually realize that she doesn’t understand the depth of the degree. (Big Family Secret: Our father also committed suicide by overdose. Mother doesn’t consider his to have been a “real” suicide, though - more euthanasia - because he was, in fact, suffering from terminal cancer. But it could just be that there’s some genetic component, don’t you think? :rolleyes:)
I’m bipolar and I don’t bristle easily at ignorance by now, although for a while I did. You learn over time that you’re not the one with the problem. Not just with mental health issues either, but anything under the sun. I’ve developed a bit of a mental “oh, you’re stupid, now it makes sense” approach to hearing people talk out of their ass. And talk they will.
All the smartest people tend to never be the loudest or most verbose people in the room. It’s almost like they know things others don’t and have learned to keep it to themselves. Educating the ignorant is a futile task and it’s best to just smile, nod your head and watch them flounder.
North. Or south, but the protesters were on the northern part of the project. Back when Bill and I first met, he was working on an oil line here. People would chain each other to cactus in protest. They tended to remeber their pillows, but usually forgot that cactus have spikes. That’s probably because bar and restraunt cactus are de-spiked.
(You do know that BFE means Bum Fuck Egypt, right? Slang for the middle of nowhere?)
Fuuuuuuck this person in the eye! I know some people don’t ‘‘get’’ mental illness, but life is too short to try to train them. You deserve loving and supportive people in your life.
So, I’ve ripped my entire goddamn apartment apart looking for my wedding ring. Went through all the garbage piece by piece, all the furniture away from the walls, tore off the bottom of the couch, and nothing. The only conclusion at this point is that the contractors stole it.** I knew where it was, I know they moved the table it was on, and I know I noticed it missing as soon as they left.
So, we’re in the process of filing a police report. And yeah, I know I’ll probably never get it back.
**I trust people way too much. My first thought was, ‘‘Oh, of course nobody would steal it, it’s my wedding ring and they would know it was important to me.’’ Like I just assume every potential thief has empathy about who they’re screwing over. This is the second or third time in the last year that someone has taken advantage of my trusting nature, and I’m just goddamn sick of it.
I understand that there are a lot of environmental concerns when it comes to Keystone. Chaining oneself to heavy equipment in protest is not only a waste of resources, the newly aquired criminal record is going to be a problem going forward.
That was funny, thank you. I loved it.
So, the weather is beautiful. I know my way around and I’ve stopped cringing when I get on the freeways.
I thought that I’d take myself for a ride. You know, just follow my front tire for a while. Found my leathers and geared up. Unhooked the trickle charger, pushed bike out of the garage, put my helmet and gloves on, hit the start button and nothing. It didn’t even click.
I’ve only had that 5-year battery for a year, so I pulled it out, found the receipt and went to the Harley dealer to exchange it.
I put the new battery in, the bike started. Now I’m concerned about shorts and stuff so I spent almost an hour checking everything and its all good, but I’m crabby and not in the mood to go for a ride anyhow, so I pushed it back into the garage, hooked it back up and then noticed that the lights on the trickle charger weren’t lit. I checked the cord and saw that when I pushed my toolbox against the wall I knocked the plug out of the socket. :smack: I am such an idiot at times. :smack::smack::smack:
Its rainy and I have a sick kid and I’m tired and our carpets were cleaned this morning and are taking forever to dry. Hubby and sick boy are lying down watching cartoons. I hate Sponge Bob and fairly odd parents. Actually I don’t mind them, but the voices are annoying and carry all through the apartment. I want to nap but my choice is the living room couch with cartoons, or clearing the stuff off my bed. Which means putting it on the damp carpet.
I’ve swung from depressed to 90% angry/10% depressed. I hate myself for not being able to pull the trigger and potentially fix my life. I am a complete failure outside of the workplace, and I fear the effects of this miasma of anger are dragging me down there as well. I am distracted by my ire to the extent that it’s becoming impossible to concentrate.
Yeah, I’m a whiny bastard, and yes, I’m in therapy.
