Dreams. I have dreams.
Note in advance: This is one of the worst blogs ever. So, go suck an egg, Betsy.
So, last night I utilized the old-school cowboy technique of numbing my pain with copious amounts of alcohol. Before you go thinking I’m an alchy (which I admit I probably am)–last night I was attempting to lessen the extreme amounts of agony I was enduring due to one particularly bitchtastic wisdom tooth that won’t leave me the fuuuuuuuuuuck alone. I was always so damn adamant about ripping those chompers out for compensation at one of those research studies you always read about–but as the champion procrastinator I am– I just kept holding off. And finally I woke up one day and, like, literally all of them were poking their spiky daggers out through my swollen gums. So, there goes that genius idea.
But, they had not been too much of a hassle to deal with–more of a nuisance than a quasi-emergency. Until yesterday. And now I’m almost debilitated by the incessant dull pain–coupled with the sharp scream-inducing pain of actually attempting to chew with the rebellious little calcium man. I’m a lefty when it comes to my mouthin’ habits. I smile with the left side of my mouth. I talk with the left side of my mouth. And naturally I grind up my foodz with that side too. And it just feels…so wrong…so foreign to attempt this process on the right. Some sort of weird betrayal. Just.Cant.Do.It.
So, I’m sticking with soups. Soup. Motrin. Alcohol. Good music. Distractions. All somewhat helping me. But, not enough. I want a breakfast taco, damnit. Mal just chopped up a shit ton of delicious lookin’ delicacies in a very professional Top-Chef manner. Bell peppers. Potato. Onion. Tomato. Egg. Etc. Etc. And of course it’s all being wrapped up in a super duper fresh and amazing HEB flour tortilla. Fml.
ANYWAYS. Paxil is good for nothing in my opinion. I believe I am on far too low a dose for my ailments. So, I just have to deal with all the side effects while still feeling almost entirely anti-social and, well, crazy? I know what you are thinking. “Go to the doctor and get a different prescription you loser moron.” But, then you are missing the whole point–I CAN’T DO THAT BECAUSE I’M TOO INSANE AND SCARED OF PEOPLE TO GO TO THE DOCTOR. I almost had a panic attack whilst in the waiting room the first time I got on these godforsaken crazy pills. It was just too much. Admitting defeat? Unheard of. I am iron woman. Hear me rawr!!!! I can keep the evil at bay! Here here!
Note the lack of appropriate transitional phrases or flow of any kind….
So anyways, the side effects are weird and awful–for the most part. Weight gain? Check. Decreased libido? Check. Increase in sweat production? Uh, yes. I wake up sweaty every morning. Super duper vivid crazy dreams? Double check. It’s just a bunch of fail wrapped up into one teensy easy to swallow daily pill. AND THE WITHDRAWALS. Don’t even get me started on that hell. I’ve tried unsuccessfuly to wean myself off that shiz about six times so far in the past year–all leading to my inevitable break down about day 4…of rocking back and forth in a corner, hoodie pulled tight up to my eyes, foam practically coming out of my mouth, stuck in this world chock full of outer body experiences, intense bouts of vertigo, and an inability to determine if sleep or woken consciousness is a better option. FACHING SUCKS, MAYNE!
So anyways, back to dreams.
I haz them. In bookoos. I’ve legitimately had dreams that were straight out of pulp fiction magazines or directly plucked from the cheesiest of sci-fi B-movies. Giant mutant grasshopper kind of thing.
But, last night was one of the worst. I’m failing to remember details of the saga at the moment. It will come back. But, I distinctly remember a single scene–a single segment of a nightmare that dragged on for hours…. something that is going to haunt my woken hours for months to come.
I’m the kind of person who is most affected by the fear of rejection–the fear of not being good enough for someone–the fear of not living up to standards. And this dream touched upon all of those deeply embedded phobias.
The bulk of this series of events centered around my mom deciding that I was a complete and utter embarrassment to our family. My dad came in one day when I was shooting baskets at my old high school gym and pulled me aside from the rest of the team. He had tears in his eyes as he confessed to me that as of that time I was no longer a member of the family. My mom had decided that I should be cast aside, that they would let everyone know that I had passed away–that I needed to change my name. I asked him what had spurned this on? What had I done wrong? I’ve always been a good kid. I was a star in high school. I am smart. I am clever. I am a sweet girl. What happened to change this? And my dad admitted that my mom refused to accept the gay issue–she said that my options were to undergo a sex change and be somehow “normal” by dating a woman as a man or to be banished forever (like Sully in Monster’s Inc!).
Now to some lezzie brethren I know that being transgendered/transsexual is not that far fetched of an idea (or farfetch’d if you are a pokemon fan lolz), but for me it is so far out of the question. I am a girl to the bone. I like to dress like a tomboy, but not once in my life has anyone ever sir’d me! I’m a lady and I love being a woman. So, to me my only option was to leave the Smith clan forever.
As soon as I got home that day my family had packed up all of my belongings–bed included. On the front lawn was this mini-shrine dedicated to my loss. In the middle of it was an envelope with 450 dollars (give or take) from my dad to help me find my footing on some other plane of existence. I went inside, with much trepidation, scared to death to face my mother. Every trace of me had disappeared. My room had been overtaken by some other girl’s belongings. I was just a blip on the radar at that point. Someone long since forgotten. Someone impossible to love any longer. Someone who had had their opportunities handed to them on a silver platter–only to knock the hand that feeds them away time and time again.
I wanted to walk to the beat of my own drummer–and now I had my chance.
But, I had no where to go. I begged Mal to pick up her life and start over with me somewhere else–somewhere new. I would return to college and become the person I knew I could be. But, her eyes swollen with pain and grief, she had to decline. Her roots were here. Her family was here. And who was I to displace her? I’m just a failure all around. I’m a girl with problems oozing out of every pore. I’m someone who can’t walk in a straight line to save her life. I’m the one the T&S song “Back in your Head” was written about. I’m a piece of shit. I can’t blame any of them. But, it was a shitty dream.
And then when I woke up I was swimming in a pool in my old neighbor’s driveway with a specimen of every single dog breed–all 350 of them. I liked the beagle and the poodle, but the ibizan hound was being a bitch and a half.
Anyways, I’m leaving before I make even less sense. Peace.