It's been a month since I last wrote here. The moon has come, gone, and come again. (Giggity.) Women who were PMSing the last time I posted are pissing everyone else off once more- though honestly in the last thirty-plus days I haven't had much time to give a damn about anyone else. The life, she's been crazy.
The month started on a high note. I got a new job, started it, and loved it. For two weeks, I was the chipper, well-medicated girl slinging booze in an uptown supermarket. The drunkies loved me, and I loved them. Except when they smashed bottles of gin all over my floor, or argued with me about bringing carts into my liquor store. (Seriously? Giant basket on wheels vs. alchy, the alchy loses, and that makes us ALL losers.) For all intents and purposes, the job was perfect. I got to feel useful, doing consults for housewives and teenagers on what to mix and how. The business was good, but not too heavy, so there was no crazy stress. Sure, the building was a little hotter than I'd have liked, and the pay was abysmal, but holy shit. I could handle it, and I didn't want to kill myself or have an aneurysm in my sleep so I didn't have to go to work.
I should have known that it was too good to be true. That I wasn't going to be allowed to have nice things for long. And lo and behold...
First they told me I was getting moved to toys. That's cool. I can handle that. Instead of peddling liver failure to the masses, I'll be helping kids spend their parents' money. Only then the schedule came in, and my ass was listed under "deli clerk." Now, last time I checked, the legos and the lunch meat are nowhere near each other. I was confused. Surely there was a mistake.
Oh no. No, no, no. Hell no. Because I am Roxi, and I can't have nice things. Without so much as a "Bite the pillow, I'm going in dry!" I was plucked from a department I loved and dropped in the same seething cesspool of loathing that triggered my meltdowns in the first place. I tried to work through it, but after two weeks- and being told that in spite of my protests, I would be stuck there, and there wasn't anything they could do for my requests to be moved to a less stressful, chaotic department, I flipped out and walked out. Never to return.
(I shredded my preferred shopper card for the store and everything. Fuck those people. I'll go to WalMart.)
In less dramatic, blatantly psycho parts of the week, I started making costumes for my girlfriend and me to go LARPing. (Live Action Roleplaying. Like that movie Role Models. Fake elf ears and all.) I'm a terrible seamstress, but I'm having a blast with that. It's one of the few things I've found that takes my mind and focuses it. I don't have the racing thoughts, or the whirling gyre of fear. It's just me, a bunch of material, and a needle and thread. (And at least two kittens, but they're a constant in all of my life's equations, and can be left out of informal notation.) The plan was for us to go kill a dracolich this weekend, but... She has to work. And I had to work, before I threw a tantrum and stormed out of work. (If "screw you guys, I'm out" counts as a tantrum. And I think it does.)
So now I'm applying for unemployment. Had a massive breakdown in my therapists's office today, to the point where she was frantically scribbling out requests to send to medical about upping dosages and adding meds, and Freya knows what else. I've had crying jags in her office before, but this was the first time I went full on hyperventilate/rock/shake at her. Lessons learned: (1) Take morning meds WELL before going to any appointments and (2) If she didn't believe me about the meltdowns before, now she does. Hopefully, something gives soon, because my rent and bills are sliding and I don't know how much more charm and supplication I can throw at my problems.
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