The Saga Sorta Continues

This subject is somewhat strange and uncomfortable for me to talk about here. I've always viewed this as a place to make people laugh, and getting serious has always seemed so ... attention-seeking and possibly irritating to people accustomed to me not ever being serious. Even when I do talk about something heavy, I try to make it amusing. Okay, I'll stop apologizing for this post. Read on.

So do y'all remember when I lost my shit last year and sent myself to the ER and then in-patient on Christmas freaking day?

Well, I definitely felt better for awhile. The anti-depressant seemed to be helping, I felt less anxious and I had no desire to go back to the place I'd been with vodka.

But that didn't last longer than about five months. It started out slowly, then it took over, like a thunderstorm. I was back to that same feeling of cracking apart I'd felt back last December - except this time, I didn't have gallons of vodka to blame for my instability.

I didn't know what to do. Most of my life, people seemed to view me as though I wanted to be a giant, chaotic pain in the ass to everyone around me. Like I was selfish and petulant and possibly a brat. For so long, I assumed that everyone felt things the way I do, they just controlled the feelings and their behavior better than I did. I knew I had some good reasons to be kinda kooky, but I figured everyone does, so I should quit being noisy because nobody even cares about my shit when they have their own to deal with - in a far less annoying way than I was managing to do it.

I've been in and out of counseling and therapy for decades, and hospitalized twice. I just never had the funds to really get to the point where I was completely functional for more than a few months.

My MIL suggested I contact the mental health place she goes to. It took me awhile to finally call, because I've been turned away so many times before, I felt too fragile to deal with more of that. I called eventually, and the person on the other end of the phone was brusque (that's how it felt to me, anyway) and informed me that they didn't treat what I thought I was dealing with.

He gave me a number to a counseling place. I called, tearfully, and they told me that they don't do anything but counseling - no medications. They gave me the names of two psychiatrists. The first one I tried wasn't taking new patients. I called the second, and I had to leave a message.

In the meantime, I went online to check out the second Dr.'s reviews. The first one was a person accusing the Dr. of trying to sexually molest them. All the rest called him an uncaring jerk. I'd hit a wall, and wondered yet again why I was even trying to get help when it never works out anyway.

I wrote a bitchy message to the original mental health place I'd reached out to. The next day I got a call telling me I should just come in for an evaluation. So I went.

Mere minutes into the appointment, I hit that wall again. Because I didn't have medicaid, I would be put on a waiting list that could be three to six months long. Perfection. He offered to try to get me counseling, without medications being involved. Since I was going to have to wait to see the only non-terrifying psychiatrist in town who was even accepting new patients, I agreed to go to the counseling place in the meantime.

Then, I started talking about hallucinations. I can't believe I'm talking about this in public. Okay, I hear voices. They seem to mumble from the next room, they never tell me to do anything, I rarely catch a word or phrase being said and they only seem to happen when everything is quiet and I'm trying to sleep. Sometimes it's just the cadence of speech and other times it sounds like little girls playing. Once, I heard, "what's for dinner?" Keep in mind, everyone else is asleep and there are no televisions or radios playing.

Also, in the past year, I've started seeing detailed, realistic images of things, while my eyes are closed but I'm still very much awake. For as long as I can remember, I've always seen colors and patterns and a strobe light kind of thing with my eyes closed, or when it's very dark with my eyes opened. When I told the therapist that I'd always assumed everyone sees lights and patterns when it's dark, and said, "Doesn't everyone?" he sorta half-grinned and I was like "Well, that's a no."

What do you people see when you close your eyes?

Anyway, it's at this point that the therapist was like:

He said he'd be able to get me in to see one of their psychiatrists sometime in December, and that because I would be in their system, I was automatically eligible for the counseling.

By the time I got home, I had a message telling me that my psychiatrist appointment would be mid-December. Not ideal, but far better than a three to six month wait. Then I got another call, asking if I'd gotten the message. I said, "yes, I wrote the appointment time down." and he was all, "Well, it's changed. Can you come in this Friday?"

Friday. Fucking this Friday. Hell yes I can come in on Friday. He also set up an appointment with the counseling place, so ... I seem to be all set. I'm not even sure what to do with that. It's weird to have something actually work out.

I celebrated by punching a hobo. Just kidding. I punched a vagrant. I think he liked it.

I'm sure everyone must be curious about what the hell is wrong with me. Since we should all stop being afraid to talk about stuff like this, I'll tell you what he said: "major depression with psychotic components" and "heaps of PTSD". Also, borderline personality disorder. Believe me, it's the most fun anyone could ever have.

I'd also like to say a huge, public thanks to all the real-life friends who reached out to me when I threw a fit on my Facebook status the other day - you were all supportive and didn't react as though I was just being a loud attention vacuum. Thanks, guys.

I've since learned that the patterns and lights I see in the dark are closed-eye hallucinations and while they're not extremely common, they're innocuous. So if any of y'all have them, don't worry that you're inane. Unless you're trying to eat plastic fruit right now. Then you should seek help.

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The Immaculate Conception Of Little Dizzle

I make a lot of foolish choices in movie viewing. This is due partially to insomnia clouding my good judgment, and partially Netflix suggesting things with what seems to be a sinister algorithm, bent on tormenting the easily swayed.

This title sat on my list for a few weeks, until finally, I gave in to it. "What could a Little Dizzle possibly be?" I mused.

*sigh*

The story begins with a young man, Dory (Marshall Altman) sitting on some craggy rocks at the edge of the water, reaching for a message in a bottle. He falls in, retrieves the bottle, then cuts himself smashing it open. The message reads "Fuck You."

Nice. That'll give anyone a scorching case of the Mondays.

Next we find Dory sitting at his desk trying to computer program, yet being actively and violently annoyed out of his precious sanity by some chick at an adjacent desk, yapping on her cellphone about shit so irritating, my brain refuses to even recall what the topic was.

Dory goes freaky nuts, screams at her and smashes her cellphone. Yes, Dory, yes. I am on board. Take me on a hay ride of justice with you.

Naturally, the faceless company is forced to let him go, and Dory is forced to take a job as a night janitor in a large office complex with a bunch of crazy people. The leader of the cleaning crew is O.C. (Vince Vieluf). He's fun I guess. Among the crew are also someone called Weird William (Richard Lefebvre) and an oversexed couple named Ethyl (Tania Raymonde) and Methyl (Tygh Runyan).

One of the offices they clean is a marketing research firm currently testing a new formulation for a cookie that gives the effect of being fresh-from-the-oven warm. Tracy (Natasha Lyonne) suggests to the Cookie Company CEO (Lance Rosen) that they surreptitiously test out the cookie on the night janitors, by leaving tons of the cookies in the trash. Now that I type this, it seems like a completely foolproof plan.

The men on the janitorial staff who've been eating the cookies start experiencing intestinal distress, salt cravings and vivid hallucinations. Methyl has some even more psychotic than usual episodes. They keep eating them, I assume, because their mothers never baked them enough cookies when they were kids. Or they're addicted. I'm no doctor.

Meanwhile, as Dory is cleaning the toilets, he finds something strange, bright blue, and possibly moving. As anyone would do in this situation, he calls everyone over to look at it, at which point everyone delivers their best poop jokes, before flushing it down and getting on with custodial work and cookie eating.

It's at this point I find myself unable to cleverly or delicately explain what the baked treats are doing to these men, so I'll just spit it out. The cookies are making them give birth to blue fish from their asses. The fish have no mouths or noses, so they die soon after birth. I feel it bears repeating that fish are wriggling out of men's asses in this film.

I know, I know.

The end of this thrill ride will make you want to click the remote to almost anything else available and attempt to get on with your life without trying to explain what you just saw. I have failed myself and you. My apologies. Rest in peace, Little Assfish.

I Play Sims Asylum (part4)

Alright, let's do this shit!

Hey, that doofus repair guy found his way in and actually fixed the sink.
For Rev and me, this means cleanup in formal wear.

For Arthur Derrick, this means, uh ... waffle time?

Afterward, I retired to the out-of-doors with my best friend Bunny Walker,
so we could catch up on our mutual awkward standing time.

Here I am whispering sweet nothings into her ear.

Or maybe I was bellowing bitter everythings.

I can be pretty fricking loud.

I hope she makes it off the lawn soon, it's burnt waffle time!

Eve can't abide burnt yummies, so she starts whipping up her own batch.

She's a kitchen magician, you see. She can make an expert batter just by jabbing a sideways bowl with the spoon handle.

Bet you jerks wish you'd waited for these. She probably puts a drop or three of almond extract in that shit. *drools*

The party is over, it's morning and you geniuses have been standing around drinking coffee. This is when bad things happen.

See, I told you. Greg's pissing himself by the garbage can.

The washing machine is just stressing Cory the hell out.

Poor Rev has entered some sort of a fugue state.

Oh, and thanks for laughing at my pain, Husbro. You just wait.

Ha! Don't look so worried, Arthur Derrick. He'll be up to rage at someone someone soon enough.

Just so you know, Greg, that funk is coming from you.

I see you're having trouble stopping all sorts of funk today.

Aw, shit. Too funky. You woke the inmates. They are going to be pissed, my man.

Yep. You've got these two so angry, their lips aren't working proper.

Arthur Derrick, what's ... what the hell are you looking at? You look like Timmy's stuck in a well.

Oh, don't worry about that. Bunny's like a cat, she makes that face when she's comfortable. Go have a chat with her.

Bunny, Bunny ... his eyes are up north.

Great, you got him started. He's offering to write a poem about your boobies.

And, uh ... rub your belly with upside-down palms? That's new.

No man. No way. You leave me out of this strangeness, Arthur Derrick.

I Play Sims Asylum (part5)
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I Play Sims (part65)

Tensions are running high at the Rosenzweig domicile.

All sorts of angry pointing going on.

Poppy's beating up on the toilets ...

... and performing incantations about the trash compactor.

Frida keeps forgetting that she's a vegetarian and constantly grabs the first plate she finds in the fridge.

I think Kayla might be a vampire. Which explains why she's been trying to rip out Suri's organs ...

... but not why it seems so distasteful to her.

Rachel and Suri have been arguing all damned day.

I doubt she wants to smell your fingers, Rachel.

Yep. That's the posture of displeasure.

This tiff has moved to the foyer, and is getting super weird ...

... wildly acrobatic ...

... and tiny. Very, very small.

Rachel's not going to be impressed by this.

Uh-oh, I've seen this move before, Suri. You're just lucky she's not full of Shawarma and raisin cake.

Rachel will be taking the Huggies and uh, whatever cash you got.

We have a clear winner. Suri, this is what you get for trying to tussle with a woman who refused to die.

A birthday is a sensible idea. This group needs some distracting, cheerful cake.

Aw yeah, Charlie! Take this party down town!

Still bald. Thrilling. But the real question is if he's wearing girl's shoes.

Astounding.

Well, that cake didn't do anything to smooth the aggravation.

But at least Stanley's showing deference to his mother. Must have heard about the take-down in the foyer

Poppy has been sending herself on a lot of dates lately, trying to find a proper mate.

But this guy is just not the guy, Poppy.

Unfortunately she's striking out with even a halfway decent guy.
(even if this one seems to cut his own hair with a rusty pocket knife using the side of a toaster as a mirror)

How are we ever going to get you impregnated? *sigh*

I Play Sims (part66)
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