Manic Impressive

When I was a little girl, I was diagnosed with clinical depression and ADD. My little brother was diagnosed with ADHD. My mother was instructed to dose us up with prescription medication each day to deal with our respective disorders.

When I was 12, I told my therapist that I didn’t want to constantly talk to her about the sexual abuse I’d suffered. I wanted to talk about school, my friends (or lack thereof), and whatever else 12 year olds have on their minds. She was not impressed. She told me if I didn’t want to talk about the abuse that I didn’t need to keep seeing her. I think I saw her through Medicaid or an HMO…A couple years passed and my mother, brother, and I decided we didn’t want to manage our mental problems with medication.

I got older. I went to Job Corps. They put me on more medication, then gave me a drug test because the medication they gave me made me manic which of course totally meant I was doing some other drugs because there couldn’t possibly have been any other explanation…I’ve had friends who have been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder (BPD) or Manic Depression.

Without my knowing what they had, I’d done my favorite thing in the world: talked about myself. They listened (somewhat) intently, and then proceeded to tell me what they though I had, based on the fact that I was going through things they had gone through.

I know it is detrimental to oneself to self diagnose. I also know that I do not have the money for a therapist. I have one friend who had once claimed to control her BPD with diet, exercise, and a support system. I looked at her as a role model and told myself I should do the same, whether I have BPD or some other ailment. Her story is still being written, but recent chapters have included a collapse of part of her support system, and I think she even mentioned getting on medication. 

Perhaps I shouldn’t look to peers for enlightenment…At any rate, I know I’ve said countless times that I wanted to improve my situation, and you’ve all been with me, reading about my lack of improvement time after time after time. Maybe people can’t change, maybe they can. I know I really should try.

When Freya was hospitalized, the doctor contacted an agency to indicate he felt I wasn’t doing my job as a parent. Most of my friends and family feel that I am doing a great job as a parent, but there are a few who think otherwise, mainly because of my lack of devotion to housekeeping. My home is a safe environment for my children, husband, cat, and self, but I have good days and bad days as far as housework goes. I go through cycles of depression where my housework suffers because I simply don’t give a fuck (DGAF) and bouts of mania where my furniture gets rearranged and the cracks in the driveway get scrubbed with an old toothbrush at 2 in the morning (OCD).

But that agency dropped by on Thursday (in spite of the fact that my file should have indicated that I had explicitly stated that I am never available on Thursdays due to my graduate school schedule).
They dropped by on a DGAF day. My dishes weren’t washed, the carpet needed vacuuming, and there was a pile of clean laundry on the kitchen table. They said there were just there to look at the girls’ rooms (thank deities, my mother, and her girlfriend for completing renovations on Luna’s room just the day before), but they asked about Freya’s health and her doctor visits (which means they evidently didn’t access her records like I’d given them permission to do) and said, “A little behind on the housework, are you?” or something to that effect.

“Why, yes, Yoda.”

Actually, what I said was that my mother had left that morning and we’d had a good-bye party the night before due to her residing in Arizona and rarely getting a chance to visit. I didn’t feel like I needed to expound upon that any further.

They asked for the girls’ Social Security numbers, which bothered me. I told them those numbers would be in the girls’ files, because we have food stamps and Medicaid. The lady said she’d look that up and then call me if she couldn’t find the numbers, but that she needed the numbers to close the case. I respect that, but I also respect my right to not give out that kind of information to random badge-holding people who knock on my door on a Thursday afternoon without doing their research.

I didn’t have to let them in. I have friends who have had this agency drop by their homes; the friends wouldn’t let them in and the people haven’t come back. But I didn’t want to be uncooperative. While I’m sure my friends haven’t anything to hide, I don’t think their tactic would work well for me. I want these people to see that I love my girlies, that I want them both to be happy and healthy. I’m sure some people think I shouldn’t be blogging about this, but at this point everyone I know knows about it and if this agency is Googling me and reading everything I’ve posted, they ought to know how I feel since I lack the assertiveness I should have in person.

I worried what they thought of me when they made that comment about the housework.
My husband thinks being a stay-at-home mom should be a breeze, that the house should be perpetually clean and hot meals should be on the table at his will. He reasons that, because he works outside of the home and I do not that I should shoulder 100% of the burden of responsibility for housework and childrearing. He plays with the girls, brushes Luna’s hair, and does other little things here and there for me and them, but mostly it’s all on me—and I’m not doing it right, apparently.

And now there’s this worry that he’s going to be fired or forced to quit his night job (I think they’re threatened by his potential success as a small-business owner, in spite of its not being a competing business at this juncture) and I’ll have to immediately find a job in the Fort that actually covers $1500’s worth of bills each month plus the cost of childcare, transportation, and (depending on how much I actually ended up making) the loss of federal benefits. I could find plenty of jobs, but would they pay enough and be in my field?

My mother thinks being a stay-at-home mom should be a breeze, that my husband’s expectations of a perpetually clean house and hot meals on the table at his will aren’t unreasonable or anachronistic. Then again, she’s never really done this. She worked hard at one or two jobs my entire childhood. She worked double shifts quite a bit. She worked when she was ill. She worked when she was tired. The housework was up to her husbands (her first and then her second; she wasn’t a polygamist—not that there’s anything wrong with that, all parties consenting and whatnot).

I could do what she did, but I don’t have a labor trade like she had. I have a BA in English and Rhetoric and Writing with a Creative Writing Minor. There are plenty of jobs in my field, if I’m willing to expand my job search to, say, within 12,756.2 kilometers’ radius of my house…Why did I get this degree if the job market is so competitive?

This is no time for existential debate, I suppose, but suffice to say that writing is just in me and I’d have been miserable (not to mention lousy) studying mathematics or science or Canadian studies. 

This morning, at 2a or so, I posted the following as a Yahoo IM status update (which autoposts to Twitter and Facebook for me):

♫It’s just another manic—Saturday? Oh well, time to clean the house at 2a CST. 🙂 

Hopefully the hubs will appreciate the subsequently cleaned house and forgive me for not going to bed.

When he went to bed I was playing Plants VS Zombies on the PS3, and he said something along the lines of “see you whenever you finally cum to bed” only with a less-obvious innuendo.

I got tired of my plants getting killed by the zombies so I got off the game, but I wasn’t tired, and Luna wasn’t sleeping. I found a pencil scribble drawing on her freshly-painted walls and one of her soaked Pampers Easy-Ups and nightgown shoved under her new rug, so I spanked her little bottom, got her redressed and tucked back into bed, scrubbed the drawing off the wall with a wet rag and Comet, then scrubbed the bathroom counter, because it also had a drawing on it; after that the lack of tired was moreso, so I put some music on my lappy and got to work.

Now I’m still not tired but—hey—the dishes are done (not counting the ones husband had on his desk, which I found after I washed everything), the floors are swept and vacuumed, laundry is rotated and clean laundry is folded and put away (except a basket full of too-small-for-Luna-too-big-for-Freya clothes that need to be SpaceBag-ed), counters are cleaned, and you can walk all around my livingroom and hall without tripping on anything princess-pink or noise-making.

I chatted on Yahoo IM for a bit with a friend—the one who watches the girls on Thursdays—before starting this blog entry, but for some reason she’s no longer responding to messages, perhaps she’s fallen asleep like I still can’t seem to want to do. It’s 4a now, and I think the dryer buzzed again. I should probably go rotate that. Maybe, if I shut the lappy down beforehand, I can take a shower and force myself to get a nap in before Luna wakes up. Maybe…

Say Hi To Your Mom–So do you come here all the time? Why are your’s fluffier than mine? I think its time to change my pill, but your soap technique is pretty ill.
P.S. I tried to make a map of the layout of my living room for a graphic to add to this post (and also because housekeeping always reminds me of What To Do When Your Mom Or Dad Says, “Clean Your Room!” but doing it in MS Paint or using ClipArt was taking too long.

I found a nifty room planner on, which I was playing around with when Freya started crying and husband  brought her bed back out of our bedroom griping at me for putting her in there because I totally did it for the sole purpose of keeping him from sleeping after I “got to sleep” last night because I totally want to sabotage his sleeping habits with the inconvenience of having to parent a baby he helped conceive because I’m so mean and evil like that. After Grumpy went back to bed and Freya was bottled, I got back on the room planner thingy, but I guess I tried to do too much too quickly because it crashed.

P.P.S. Count the number of times I say “because” or “cause” in this post. Count the number of other transition words I use. Are you done counting? Good. Now tell me how unoriginal my transition words are. Through with that assignment? Good. Now look at your nerd-self in the mirror, point, and laugh. 🙂
Have a nice one, imaginary readers. I’m going to talk to my now wide-awake 5 month old baby and guzzle down something caffeinated because it’s going to be a long day… 

Visually perceive Spot run.

Freya wanted to wiggle and crawl and roll in her Pack ‘N’ Play, so I got back online to check my emails and that led to checking Twitter. Whenever I’m on Twitter, if I have time, I like to tweet some of the trending topics. I try to make my trending tweets make sense and apply to the topic in some way, but sometimes I don’t really care so I do a Twitter trend Madlib or something. This time, I decided to try to find a sentence generator through Google, something that could create a sentence with plugged in key words.

Apparently such things do exist, but I couldn’t find them online for free on any of the sites Google suggested. Instead, I found, which turns your ordinary run-of-the-mill sentences into complex masterpieces that theoretically turn your English teacher green with envy. 

I learned many things in my seven years in college (hey, don’t laugh. Many people take a great deal longer and end up with less or nothing to show for it…), one of which was that not every sentence has to be complex or compound or complicated. Say you’re writing an article about an unscrupulous construction company that cut corners relentlessly to balloon their profit margins and managed to not get caught until an elementary school collapsed randomly one day—of these two, which is the most powerful sentence you could put in the article:
Children were murdered.
Human progeny have been obliterated from terra firma due to the insidious actions of these unscrupulous individuals.
Sometimes the most simple sentence is the most appropriate (although, for the record, the generator did not come up with sentence number two; it kept the first one intact).

I tried to have some fun with the generator, nonetheless.

Here is its version of a few nursery rhymes:
Old Mother Hubbard peregrinated to the cupboard to get her poor canine a bone; but when she came there the cupboard was bare, and so the poor canine had none. She peregrinated to the baker’s to buy him some bread; but when she came back the poor canine was dead. She peregrinated to the joiner’s to buy him a coffin; but when she came back the poor canine was laughing. She took a clean dish, to get him some tripe; but when she came back he was smoking his pipe. She peregrinated to the hatter’s to buy him a hat; but when she came back he was feeding the feline. She peregrinated to the barber’s to buy him a wig; but when she came back he was dancing a jig. She peregrinated to the fruiterer’s to buy him some fruit; but when she came back he was playing the flute. She peregrinated to the tailor’s to buy him a coat; but when she came back he was peregrinating with a goat. She peregrinated to the cobbler’s to buy him some shoes; but when she came back he was reading the news. She peregrinated to the seamstress to buy him some linen; but when she came back the canine was spinning. She peregrinated to the hosier’s to buy him some hose; but when she came back he was dressed in his apparel. The dame made a curtsey, the canine made a bow; the dame verbally expressed, “Your coadjutant,” the canine verbally expressed, “Bow-wow.” 
Jack Sprat could eat no fat. His wife could eat no lean, and so betwixt the two of them they licked the platter clean. Jack ate all the lean; Joan ate all the fat. The bone they picked it clean, then gave it to the feline. Jack Sprat was wheeling his wife by the ditch. The barrow turned over, and in she did pitch. Verbally expresses Jack, “She’ll be drowned!” but Joan did reply, “I don’t think I shall, for the ditch is quite dry.” 
Hey diddle diddle, the feline and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon. The little canine laughed to visually perceive such fun and the dish ran away with the spoon!
They didn’t change as much as I’d thought they might. Maybe I should find a newspaper article to run through the thing. Maybe later. I think I’m finally starting to feel tired, and Freya’s wiggled herself back to sleep. Knowing my luck, though, the moment I fall asleep is the moment one or both of the girls needs me. This having husband home thing isn’t doing for me what I thought it would. I’m still primarily the one doing the things that need doing around here. I shouldn’t complain so much. He’s a good man in a lot of tangible ways.
He is a good man –> He is an altruistic man.
Hmm. Those two sentences do not connote the same thing…

Christian Side Hug

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