Cydniey Buffers (cydniey) wrote,
Cydniey Buffers

We need a code word.

Something like "caddywompass" (take THAT, spell check) or something, llike a safe-word, but to indicate that I am losing my shit and may very well end the week in the hospital.

Because this stuff with Doc has to be my unnatural paranoia, right? My interpretation of him as a sociopath out to make me miserable has got to be over the top . . . it can't be real. I can't actually be living the life I have been narrating. It has got to be delusion driven.

Not a word from him when he woke up about the laptop. Instead, I had a coughing fit. A really bad one. I've been having them the last few days, and running a fever that I have been ignoring. I went in and had a breathing treatment with the nebulizer and when I came back out, I explained that I was pretty sure that I had bronchitis again. He said, "I haven't heard you cough," and dismissed it entirely. I was stuffing cigarettes at the time for him to take to work. I was shaking so bad, none of them were packed down to the filter. I gave them to him anyway, fuck him.

What do you want to bet he brings home that HP piece of shit that I found at WallyWorld tomorrow morning to make peace. And he will have an absolute fit when I tell him to return it. It's a weaker, slower machine than this, I don't want it. It won't be able to handle my software, there is no point in buying it. If he had asked me, I would have told him.

He also told me today that I need to get over my hate for B. He hasn't talked to B in two months. Since the big blow-up. I got this really bad premonition-like feeling (and I don't believe in premonitions) that B had sold, or traded the scooter away. I mentioned none of this to Doc, who would have labeled me hysterical and paranoid (which, guilty, apparently). He said he is going over there tomorrow to talk to him. If he even lives in the same house. I visited B's FB page last night. According to his user pic, he is a gay confederate nazi now. Please, just let him still have the bike. If that bike is gone . . .

And I don't want to get over my hate toward him. The fucker has been bugging me all fucking summer with breaking into the back yard while I've been sitting there, and trying to break into the back yard after we secured it. He's got me carrying a knife room to room with me in case he does find a way into the house, even though I know that is impossible unless he goes up to the roof, dismantles the a/c unit and comes down through the vent. Not subtle. I don't think I should have to get over it. Every text conversation he has ever had with Doc, he has managed to bring me up and use several choice slurs. Doc never defends me, and sometime agrees with him. I've read all of the texts. Do you know how it feels to have your own husband let some creepy, ignorant, POS, white trash, uneducated, cheating, lying, unstable, drunken douchenozzle denigrate you? It feels like shit. And then said husband tells you to get over your anger. Fuck them both.

So, back to "I'm losing my shit." It has occurred to me that I am overblowing this and making things way worse than they are and dealing with a persecution complex and substantially increased paranoia. I REALLY don' want to go on the bus tomorrow. It will be terrifying. I expressed that to Doc, and he said, "I didn't get that at all from our last trip." I asked him, "What about the three days it took me to get over it?" He said, "No, I mean I didn't think it was terrifying, so you shouldn't." Fucking brilliant logic. I should just stop seeing my shrink and let Doc just lay out how things should be. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? I am afraid of people. He refuses to sit next to me on the bus. Last time I got this guy behind me chanting, "n-er, n-er, n-er" over and over again and then hiding behind me when the black people looked over. No one was doing that on Doc's side of the bus.

So, I don't know what to do. I'm seeing my shrink tomorrow, and I have promised I will go. I just don't know if I will be coming home after. The hospital is a mile away from his office. I may just check in there.

I really can't, though. Doc won't feed the cats, the dog, do the dishes, vacuum, do the stuff that needs to get done. It will all just pile up and wait for me to get back. Because Doc is not a responsible person. I'm not, either. We're a bad match that way. It's just that my structure centers around household chores, it holds me up and keeps me grounded. It's not being responsible, it's keeping sane. He's the same way with yard work.

Fuck, I don't want to go to the doctor's tomorrow. I wonder if we could work out phone or Skype sessions. Going out and taking the bus is so traumatizing that by the time I get there, I am such a mess, I can barely remember the list of things I needed to talk to him about. There has got to be an alternative to in-office appointments. He can call in the scripts. I'll ask him about it. Oh yeah, I have to ask him about finding an alternative to the life-saving Cymbalta that is being discontinued by my pharmacy company. I have three months to find one. That's one script's worth.

Why so complicated? I didn't have kids to keep things simple. Jesus what would life be like if I'd had kids? What a nightmare I can't even imagine.

  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.