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2013, cyd, new
cydniey

Dear Diary, Crazy Cydniey has Had It

Dear Diary,


The following rant applies only to people living in Las Vegas that I have to deal with “IRL”.


I have had it. Let this be my manifesto, my open letter. I’m done. I am sick and bloody buggery tired of the following:



  • Having every promise made to me broken

  • Being lied to constantly “for my own good”

  • Being held to account for every thing I do and every reaction people have to me while no one else, none of the “sane” people take any personal responsibility for themselves.

  • Being discounted and disregarded.

  • Not being told what is really going on in MY life because reasons.


I’ve had it. No more. Online, I demand, or require, a modicum of respect, and I try in all areas of my life to earn that from people. IT DOESN’T WORK IN PERSON. People are asshats. They have no concept of what they are doing at any given time and just disregard folks, because reasons.


And meanwhile, I am held brutally responsible for everything including how people react to me. If someone calls me a “nutball” behind my back, it is my fault for making them think that about me. Whether I did anything or not. And every promise made to me is broken. Every damn one. It’s like the world just tells me what they think I want to hear so I won’t get “crazy”, and then I just won’t remember their commitments to me. I may be horribly late with my shit, but I DO it eventually. I keep my promises as much and as hard as I can.


And I’m sick of people going off on me to vent, and then denying it and turning it around on me, because I’m crazy and who will believe me?


SICK OF IT!


I have been working my ass off for 35 years to get better. I have ingested poisons, I have been shocked with electricity. Why is this not enough for the world to just relax and tell me something true? I suppress my feelings and sit quietly and “take it”, and I’m not doing it anymore. I’m tired of people starting fights with me and then I end up having to apologize. Enough!


Why is it that people on line get this, but people in my face are oblivious? Is it the teeth? What?


This is giving me a complex, I may end up in therapy over this shit, it’s gotten that bad.


And the next person to ask me if I have been taking my meds because I had a negative reaction to their dumbfuckery, is getting stabbed through the heart. While I am on my meds.


It was pointed out to me that for many many years, I have just sat back and let other people make decisions for me, and when I make decisions for myself, they get scared. And I’m just not going to do it anymore.


I want an answer, am I going to have to move to Pittsburgh or have Kelli move out here to take care of me? Is Doc going home to take care of his mother, or not? Now he says she’s in Tennessee. I don’t believe him. He hasn’t called home since he got back from his dad’s funeral.


Just like he told me, angrily, that UBER was $40 to and from work, each way. It’s not even that expensive in a cab.


STOP LYING TO ME!


Don’t tell me the cat fixed when the cat is not fixed and he pisses all over my stuff. Don’t tell me you are going to go get my prescription filled while you are the only one taking it because you need it more than me, and then don’t go get it for three weeks. Just fucking don’t. Don’t tell me the scooter is going to get fixed, don’t tell me someone is going to come over and help take care of me, don’t make me count on you, because I can’t.


I just used my illness to save his job. Literally. I manipulated my doctor to get some forms to save Doc’s job because he took too many days off, and it wasn’t to be with me, helping. I did that for him. And it made me feel like shit, because my doctor and I are supposed to be better to each other than that. He has a code of ethics, as should I. But I did it. And I let him use my illness to get out of all kinds of shit. He’s used me as a scapegoat to the point where most of his friends hate or fear or mock me. You would think, maybe, as a side bonus, not the reason I did it, but as a “thank you”, maybe, he could give me a fucking break and tell me what the next year is going to bring to my life and where my fate stands.


That’s just an example. It’s not just him, and it isn’t Kelli. It’s him and the other people in our lives. I am so tired of it. I want to run away from home. Fly out, meet up with Kelli, grab her nephew, and go underground. Just disappear.


It’s all piled up with the realization that I can either ride out this horrible grief process and hope it ends and just suck it up, or leave him. Those are my choices. They may not seem bad to you, they probably seem really trivial, but they are mine and they do not make me happy.


And that’s where I’m at. He finally went to bed. Not without a parting shot, but he finally went to bed. I’m going to be spending a lot of time in the studio in the near future. He didn’t even thank me for bringing his stuff in out of the rain and piling it in the middle of my studio, where there is no room for it and me. Nice.


At least I don’t have siblings that talk to me.


2013, cyd, new
cydniey

Dear Diary, Something Something Clever

Dear Diary,


I’m doing well with this no-coffee, or restricted coffee thing. I’m drinking more than a gallon of water a day, and maybe 4 cups of coffee at the very top of the bad-day-spectrum. Now, let’s hope my metabolism takes a clue from this, and the added activity/stretching/walking, and turns on. Because I’m consuming about 800 calories per day, I have been for about 2 months. No significant change in my size. My belly has shrunk a bit, and I can fit into my 36″ waist jeans, but I’m wearing a pair of 38s right now because they don’t pinch me.


In fact, today I am just dressed for comfort. Big, boho tunic (that clashes with my hair), and torn up jeans that have been sewn and patched back together. My bra should be here by the end of the week. For now, I am wearing my newest bra, it’s the wrong size, but it fits me better than any of the others. I can’t wait for the new one to get here.


I talked Chewbacca into giving Boo a bath yesterday. Well, her head. After he relaxed, he gave her a thorough licking. He got happier and more into it the more she showed she liked it. And she was rubbing her head all over his face and chest, it was so amazing. If they hadn’t both been on my lap at the time, I would have caught it on camera, but you never can catch that sort of stuff, can you? That is one thing I miss about the cams being up, I miss a lot of candid cat moments now that I got to see back then.


It’s been kind of interesting to see who has and who hasn’t responded to my news on FB that I was getting published. I’m not reading too much into it, it’s just that it has brought some silent people out of the woodwork, and I really like that. It kind of makes up for the reception the news received at home. Kelli was very excited, though she probably wanted to strangle me for a moment for having a happy thing happen to me. We’re competing with the world on misery, here. Doc just said, “Oh, good.” Blah.


He’s dead to the world. He actually told me that he is having trouble feeling things. Except anger, apparently, he’s feeling that pretty well. He just seems to have no recollection of it after he flips on me. This is making things strained between us. Words are being said. Feelings are being hurt. It’s not good. This grief thing evades my comprehension.


He went to the store to get me food last night. And got me a day’s worth. Unless I eat four yogurts I hate tomorrow for my meds. That’s the other thing, he bought a bunch of yogurt I don’t like, and said it was for me. He said he wants me to eat something different. So he either buys me food I won’t eat, or no food. And then I whine for fast food, which, at this point, I can only eat Taco Bell because they are the only fast food place that has soft food. Why are people always fucking with my food? All my life. My parents fucked with my food constantly.They force fed me stuff I hated, which resulted in my refusal as an adult to eat anything I don’t like, which is anything good for me. They made me fast for days with them as a child. There was constant unrelenting pressure not to be a “fat pig” like my aunt had become. Now Doc is fucking with my food. Why? Why can’t I just eat? And people wonder why I have an eating disorder? Really?


The wicked wind from yesterday stopped. It blew the temperature down twenty degrees, though. I will be sitting in the sun, today. Speaking of sun, I noticed yesterday, during my weekly look in the mirror, that I have a vague tan line on my chest and arms. A closer inspection shows that my face has received the right amount of color for me to look like I have a pulse from a distance, and not to glow in the dark. It does make my scars stand out, but it is what it is.


Oh, and speaking of fat pigs, Trump may not be the fattest, but he is the piggiest. How can he even imagine that anyone finds him physically attractive? And poor Melania has to sleep with that beast. Think about it, if he let that happen to his face, which was no prize when it was silky smooth, what has he let become of the rest of his body? And, no I don’t believe his doctor that Trump is in peak physical condition. Not even a really expensive suit can hide what he is packing on his skeleton. For someone who is so obsessed with looks, you would think he would take better care of himself. Can he be a true narcissist if he allows himself to fall into such disrepair? It seems to go counter. I would think that if you were completely obsessed with yourself and nothing else, you would want to keep yourself up. If you’re too lazy or arrogant to work out, then by surgical means. I mean, there is no excuse for him to physically look like he just cleaned up for a funeral from the teamster’s bar. That is the one thing that I really don’t get. If your insides are going to be on display and be so ugly, wouldn’t you want your outside to at least look good? It’s not enough anymore to be a fat slob in a pricey suit with a trophy wife. You have to take care of yourself, because that broad is going to leave your ass at some point and you are going to have to find another. Or, at least take some pride in yourself.


That was supposed to be one line. See why I can’t Twitter? I’ve tried, no one gets me. At least here, no one gets me because everything is TL; DR.


17 minutes until I get Doc up with fresh brewed coffee and an energy drink and saccharine tone. And if he snaps at me, I’m going to punch him in the head where it lay on the pillow. How’s that for a reasonable reaction? Oh, and I will be sure and take my meds first.


2013, cyd, new
cydniey

Dear Diary, I Took the Advice

Dear Diary,


I took the most frequent advice I received: I walked away. Calmly, I went out to the studio and made myself a bracelet. When I came back in, he was crying. It broke my fucking heart. But it was better than the rage, more productive, no guilt after. It’s got to be done. He has to let himself feel. He has to let himself heal.


I’ve seen what grief rage does to a person, I’m watching it happen with a friend, who’s friend is caught in a grief rage spiral. And it isn’t productive. And it isn’t conducive to getting on with life and getting used to the new reality. I don’t want that to happen to Doc. So, I feel like I’m deserting him, but it is better for him ultimately, if I don’t provide myself as a punching bag. A thing this morning showed that he is too far gone to reach. I just have to keep my hand out now, until he can be reached. That’s not so much. I can do that. 20 years of knowing this man as a saint and a demon have made me intensely loyal to him. And yes, I do know, but thank you for your gentle reminders, that this isn’t him. I just have to squelch my fear that it will be him from now on, and do what I can, or can’t, to help him.


So, it’s tense. When I heard him get up, I got his coffee ready and put it on the table for him. No reaction. So I pretty much knew where he was. I was pleasant and asked him how he was doing. Grunt. Same as me in the mornings. He’s lucky, in fact, if he gets a grunt out of me, usually it’s a growl. Then I started to tell him about finding taco bell recipes, and he did this cartoon thing of exasperation that completely sets me off, and I forgot myself, and told him just to never mind. He spent the next five minutes trying to make a thing of it, getting louder and louder, and I picked up my notebook and water and went quietly and without drama to the studio for a half and hour. Sketched out a few pair of earrings and made myself a charm bracelet for my right arm. In spire of making tons of jewelry, I don’t have or wear very much. A silver medic-alert bracelet and a distraction Hill Tribes silver hand-hammered chain that matches one Kelli has. Two rings on each hand, all silver. Two bands on the left, a flat moonstone and a Mormon “CTR” ring on the right. Maybe a necklace, I have to fix the two I have. Sometimes earrings. I will actually make earrings for myself. I should make myself a new pair, since people will be looking at my head for a while.


Wow, sorry for the long paragraphs. I hope they are actually on subject. I’ve never been good at paragraph transitions when free typing. Sometimes I go back and try to break things up logically, but usually there is no effective way to do it, so I leave it. Like I will this time.


This house is full of things I can’t eat. I think I’ll make some eggy-wegg salad without the bacon. I can’t chew bacon anymore, even bacon bits. Enough molars have been missing for long enough that the reainers have shifted, leaving big gaps in between where food gets caught. And bacon gets stuck. I tried flossing, but the teeth are all broken and jagged, so the floss shreds and I end up with a mouth full of it. And the bacon still stuck in my teeth. I also can’t eat anything that might poke into my gums. Because again, enough of my gums are exposed, most with half-teeth below the surface, that anything that can hurt, does hurt. Doc asked me a few days ago if I was in pain. Yeah, for like three years now. He handed me a codeine. A few hours of relief every few days, once a week. That’s cool. I can’t ask for more.


A continuing argument we are having, that he will not just call and verify, is my insistence that full dental implants aren’t covered under our insurance plan. They are considered a cosmetic procedure, and our plan doesn’t cover any cosmetic procedures, not even bleaching. And to do it individually would cost infinitely more in medication and time. It would take about 18 months to complete. It would be much more expensive in the long run, even with partial dental coverage for some of it. Like the extractions and surgeries to clear out my mouth. Those will be covered. But I’m not letting them take the rest of my teeth until I have implants lined up as a sure thing. No way. I am not going to have one of those slack jaws that closes too far and squishes my lips together like some hillbilly. No fucking way. I would rather just not open my mouth in public and have a proper profile. My lips are already out of shape from the teeth I’m missing now. I’m shallow.  But I’ve got a crooked nose and droopy left eye, I don’t really need anything else to happen to my face. Unless we can start wearing veils.


Good. I was just starting a second cup of coffee, and I started to feel really guilty for drinking it. So I put it away. That’s what I want. I want my brain to help me so I can lose this weight in 6 and 1/2 weeks. I want to wear my “skinny” jeans and DKNY tshrt that I love so much for my birthday. I ruined the shirt that I was going to paint “Bad Wolf” on. I’ll make another Doctor Who shirt at some point. But right now, the above is my goal. Thin jeans and DKNY tshirt. And no cake. It’s usually a fight to get a cake in the first place, so I’m not even wanting one this year. I end up not eating very much of it, anyway. Maybe I’ll make myself brownies. I can’t bite into chocolate anymore, so brownies would be good. I just can’t eat the crunchy edges like I used to. Ironically, I would dip them in coffee.


Oh, I feel better. I cleaned. Took the recycling out, dishes, all the stuffs. And, since I got my new, decent, cigarette stuffer in the mail today, I made a pack of smokes. I didn’t realize how much pressure I had put on myself with the other stuffer. It hurt my wrist to use, so I couldn’t stuff more than one at a time. So every time I wanted a cigarette, I had to get down on the floor, stuff one and then put the stuff away and go out and smoke. It was really bugging me, and I didn’t even realize it was a constant source of annoyance. I didn’t know until I felt the wave of relief when I went to stuff a smoke and found a pack waiting for me. Part of the annoyance was that I didn’t have my original stuffer because Doc broke it while doing something to it that he thought I wouldn’t notice or something. I don’t know. All I know is he broke my shit and it took two months for him to replace it with the right thing, the original brand. So, anyway, I’m set for smokes.


I actually got old Bagira to play today. He brought me a particularly long pine needle, so I started playfully tickling his nose with it. It wasn’t long before he was batting at it with his paws and biting pieces off of it. I’ve never seen him play. And he didn’t want to stop. When the pine needle was gone, he played with my fingers, keeping his claws retracted. I have only ever seen him hunt and eat and sleep.


Ack, this got long again. See what happens when I have no one to talk to except Kelli?