Days turn into night, nights turn into days, and my fucks are on the curb once again.
I’m usually up during the house night becomes day and day becomes night, and that’s the best time to dig up some fucks and shovel them over onto the curb. If you’ve been looking for some fucks because your fucks have run out, come on over and pick from my pile, I have thousands of them I’ve discarded.
I honestly love where I work and I love the night shift. However, with the major shut down I had this last week, I could never gain the courage to return anyone’s calls when they called me for a shift, fearing 1) I’d have to work a day shift right after classes (that’s much too much social interaction when I’m stressed and 2) because I just couldn’t talk to anyone.
Classes makes it impossible for me to attend the team meetings or even cover shifts for it.
That’s a lot of guilt I carry. These people are nice. The last thing I want is for them to think I’m disinterested in something I care deeply about. How do I express that kind of dedication when I have trouble holding and following even the simplest conversation? I guess I should just be blunt and say it.
I think the combined strength of guilt, sleeplessness, and stress puts my guard up around them. I’m convinced all they do is gossip about how unreliable I am or how they shouldn’t have hired me. Did I tell you all I feel like they set up cameras in the office to watch me at night? I’m pretty sure they set up cameras in the office to watch me at night. I’m pretty sure they review the tapes and talk about how much of an ass I am and that they’d wish I quit. At one point I went in expecting to be fired.
Some people call this paranoia, and I used to as well. Until I sat down and thought about it the way someone at my work would see it.
Paranoia doesn’t always result from “irrational thinking”. This is stemming from my own insecurities with people in general. It’s stemming from the fact that people are not routine, you can never guess what they’re going to do, and that already bothers me. I worry people would exploit a weakness in me if they saw it because it’s a dog eat dog world, right?
Paranoia is a term for categorization. But the deeper you dig, the more you see it’s not always irrational underneath, not as much as it seems on the surface.
It doesn’t feel like that every night and it didn’t last night, probably because I was in the common area and kept out of the office to give some company to someone struggling with panic and anxiety. If there’s one thing I wish I had every time I panicked, it was company. Even if it’s just someone to sit there and talk nonsense with. I’m a horrible conversationalist, but I hope it helped at least a bit.
I hate people misreading my intentions because of my behavior, and I never can know the thoughts in their head without bluntly asking “hey, you think I’m a dickhead or . . .?” and that doesn’t seem like a very appropriate thing to do.
I would like to be reliable, I would like to make a call without it taking every ounce of my energy, I would like to be able to feel I can handle all the administrative stuff during the day shifts, but I’m not at that point in myself where I feel I can. Not without it taking every moment of my time in my head and outside of it. And if that happens, there will be nothing left for school.
The state of my mind balances on a fine thread across a deadly canyon. It takes an extreme amount of precision to keep it balanced
This new insight gets more interesting the more I type. It pays to think about things in a different way. For those of us with mental health struggles, be careful not to get stuck on categorization and labels; those just tell you surface behavior. It doesn’t provide insight on a deep level. You really think everyone’s brain that disassociates, or hears voices, or sees things, or things like the feeling of being monitored or watched is solely because their brain is sick? Give me a break. The brain doesn’t do anything that isn’t for a reason. If it operated without reason, it would take up such a tremendous amount of energy and space you’d have no room to even be alive, let alone conscious.
You know yourself better than anyone. It just takes a little bit of introspection. You know those “crazy” theories that say psychosis actually has meaning in the end? Well, the theories aren’t so crazy.
That being said, my fucks are still on the curb. Regardless of insight, the fucks will always pile up until they start leaking out of orifices that don’t need to be leaking, and I have to shovel them all off onto the curb.
The night after I made that post about my uncomfortable obsession with my car (a.k.a my child), I was driving down a street at 40 mph with my boyfriend and we hear a deafening “THUNK!”
The sound of metal cracking against metal continued with each rotation of the tire over a small dip or rock in the road.
Panic, panic, panic. But I kept cool; I’ve been driving around in cars that suddenly fall apart all my life. A little thunk is hardly something to start crying and calling the tow truck. In fact, if you do that, you’re going to feel like more of an idiot when you learn you probably could have driven it home and saved the hundred dollars.
I do not have free roadside service, so . . . that’s a fuck that can go out the window as well.
We pulled over and looked under. Nothing was caught, like I hoped. So the rest of the way I drove 15-20 mph, not giving two shits if someone behind me was in a hurry. I don’t compromise my car for anyone.
That night I was so stressed my head could have exploded. Why, out of all the things, does this have to happen right in this moment?
We took it to the mechanic (where I drove 10mph the entire way this time, with my mother tailing behind me). The front right control arm had essentially fallen apart.
If you don’t know what that is, picture your skeleton. Picture your pelvis and how it holds the lower frame of your body to the upper frame of your body. Now, picture that broken.
It essentially attaches your suspension that holds your wheel to the frame of your car. Had I pushed it any longer, I’m assuming the front end of my car probably would have nose dived into the pavement and I’d have to go to a body shop as well. At the very least, my wheel would have inverted or flared outward, and then I really would have to call a tow truck.
Essentially, my car is a metaphor of life. Things happen suddenly, often bad things which require a good amount of repair, and then you keep rolling until the next thing. And the next. And the next. It never stops.
You can choose whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.