tinhuviel: (Star Trek)

Before I begin writing this, I want to make something abundantly clear: I am not actively suicidal. Suicidal Ideation is one of many joyful experiences served up by Depressive Disorder. So, let's get that straight. No need to call emergency services. I just need to purge all of this, so it doesn't go any further than unbidden flash thoughts.

After six hours of fitful sleep, my first thought when I woke up this morning was, "I'm thin enough now, I could walk to Rogers Bridge with Smidgen and Toby, and we could jump in the Middle Tyger River. That way, we'd never be a burden or worry to anyone ever again, least of all ourselves."

Off and on yesterday, as the funds just poured out for very damned little, I caught myself considering the peace oblivion would bring.  I have placed strain on my family out here, and I'm being a pest to my friends and Tribe for rides and money.  I've drug my two homebody furbabies all over hell and half creation to establish a relationship with my mother that never was meant to be.  I can't eat properly, I'm always in pain, and honestly, I'm lonely.  I feel like I've lost the ability to be (or act) normal in a social situation.

I've felt more like a throwaway than I have in months. And I know it's that damned chemical imbalance in my brain interacting with the uncertainty of my future, but being intellectually aware of what's causing it does not prevent it or alleviate it.  I just have to work through it.

It truly is like having a monster living in your mind and, despite your efforts to stop it, it just continues to gnaw away at your will to keep the thing at bay.  No one needs or wants a life in upheaval but, when it happens to someone like me, it can be a life-threatening situation.  You become a threat to yourself.  That's why so many people I know who have Depressive Disorder are hardcore about keeping certain routines.  If you find a routine that brings you peace and doesn't rock your psychological boat, you're going to hold on to it with a fierce passion and, if that routine is upset, it can send you into a tailspin.

I'm in that tailspin right now, and I'm doing my best to pull up.

But I'm scared.  And my feelings about losing Aunt Tudi aren't even trying to hide right under the surface. And it's gonna get worse before it gets better, because I'm going to have to bunk with Blake in the old house until I can find another place to live, which means she'll be calling me in the night.  And it's that main thing that drove me to so much self-destructive behaviour before I left for California.  To be back there even for one day is almost unbearable to imagine, but it's going to happen whether I want it to or not.

I feel like my solar plexus has turned into a gordian knot, and my heart is beating funny.  My entire body is responding to the stress and depression, and I'm afraid I'm going to fall ill, when that's the last damned thing I need right now.  I've already got a urinary tract infection that I'm trying to beat on my own, because I can't afford an urgent care right now.

What's worse is Smidgen's back leg weakness has magnified.  I'm hoping it's just arthritis and the stress of travel making it worse, but she's old and I'm afraid it might be something more serious.  And I can't take her to the vet.  Of course, my mind instantly went there - that I'm going to watch her die because I was too sorry to take care of her.  Why do I deserve to live when I can't properly make the lives of those I love have some measure of quality?  If Smidgen dies, I am going to be beyond devastated, especially if I find out I could have prevented it somehow, if I had only done more or been more.

My helplessness cannot be measured.  I'm doing everything within my power, including writing this, to make sure hopelessness doesn't also get to that point, because I'm not sure I'll survive it.

tinhuviel: (Spork)

As most of my longterm pals here on the Cliffs know, I underwent a Rouxen-Y gastric bypass operation on 22 March, 2004. For any newbies thinking of having the surgery or scoffing at me, thinking I took the easy route out, do not delude yourself that any part of it is a breeze. You have to go into it with the mindset that anything can go wrong, from your not surviving the operation, to your body developing health issues directly related to GBS. The procedure is a tool that you must be emotionally and psychologically prepared to use safely and correctly; otherwise, it would have been all for naught, and I couldn't imagine such a horrible end to what seemed like my last, best hope.

My surgeon, Dr. Paul Ross warned me that I would have excess skin and probably a lot of it. He explained that, as he understood it, no insurance company in South Carolina, be it workplace insurance, Medicare, Medicaid, or anything like that covered that surgery. In SC, the skin removal was considered cosmetic and, if I decided I wanted it or I very much needed it to avoid constant skin infections, the surgery would be self-pay.I made my peace with that information and proceeded, because my genetic history combined with eating cheap and not wasting anything (this is one of the reasons why so many people at or below the poverty level are fatter than those with extra coinage.) had me hurtling toward an early death. And it wasn't just death. It was the constant pain I was in, especially my knees, and the vitriol I had endured from 1st grade and on through college. I wasn't in it to look good, because I never thought about my appearance. I'd had family and peers to keep me abreast of how "chunky" I was. The Paternal Grandmother Unit made my clothes, because we couldn't find outfits in the girl's department that would fit me. What few clothes we could afford to buy had to be found in the "Husky Boys" department. The last reason I wanted the surgery was my appearance.  My self-worth as far as my looks were concerned had been eradicated years before I had ever heard of the surgery.

I had tried every diet then known, and nothing worked worked past the maintenance portion of whatever plan I trying. The screenings for GBS in the late 90s and early 00s were intense. I had to go through a bevy of tests and even talk to a psychiatrist, who as an utter prick. Still, I held in my knee-jerk reaction of weeping and shutting down. By the end of all poking, prodding, unprofessional antagonism, and appearing to be appropriately worshipful of the insurance company BMG offered, I was deemed a good candidate by the doctors. At the time, BMG offered Cigna Insurance, who refused to approve the surgery and told me to go to Weight Watchers for six months, then they'd revisit my claim. But, with the year change, BMG dropped Cigna and went with United Healthcare. The doctor sent UH all his paperwork, my current comorbidities - deteriorating knees, chronic pain, skin infections, clinical depression, and sciatica. Thankfully, I had not yet developed diabetes or heart issues, which were prevalent on both sides of my family. Within a week I was approved.

I made one promise to myself as I was wheeled into the O/R:  No matter what happens, I will never regret getting this surgery.  There have been moments of difficulty, over the decade since the operation, but I've never broken my vow.  In early 2011, I was prescribed a medication the doctors said would help with my depression and insomnia.  I can't remember the name.  It worked for the insomnia for the first week, then I was back to square one.  It didn't do a thing for my depression. They kept me on it for three months and in that time, I gained 60 pounds, despite my increasing my exercise and adding even more protein to my diet.  I stopped the meds and was beginning to lose the weight I'd regained when Aunt Tudi died.

Since August 2011, I have not paid much attention to what I eat or if I eat.  I lost the rest of the side effect's weight plus 20 more by doing nothing but lying in a foetal position on the love seat and watching reruns of Law & Order: SVU.  And I did not stop losing weight.  I ate whatever was available when I had any appetite at all.  A lot of what I did eat just came right back up.  There were days I just didn't even try.  The only time I felt enthusiastic about anything was when I'd look at myself in the mirror and see how truly gaunt I was getting, because I wanted to disappear.  I began to fall down a lot.  There were times I couldn't even stand up.  My blood pressure kept tanking out on me, and my anemia got worse, because I stopped taking any of my vitamins.  I had 0 fucks to give, so why bother with any of it?  In mid-August, 2012, I began vomiting copious amounts of blood and could barely raise my head.  Aunt Janice had me rushed to the same hospital in which Aunt Tudi died.  I couldn't even stand for an x-ray of my stomach, probably because my blood pressure was 62/35.  I had developed an ulcer because I'd been eating aspirin for my Fibromyalgia, headaches, arthritis, and injuries from falling, even though I knew GBS patients are supposed to avoid that like the plague.

A few months later, at the end of February, I attempted suicide by taking all the meds I could find in the house and washing them down with Vodka.  Obviously, I survived.  I spent some time in the hospital and one of the doctors I saw was concerned about how ill I appeared and had some labwork done.  Everything was fucked up.  He asked me about my eating habits, and I told him the truth - that I ate when I thought about it, but I rarely thought about it.  He asked if I was taking my meds properly, and I told him that I was not.  I only thought about the day Aunt Tudi died, and I had no desire to engage in Earthly matters that always end up being senseless and not worth engaging in.  He asked about my weight, since he knew I was a GBS patient.  I told him about the medicine that made me speedily gain a lot back, but I'd since lost it all and more.  When he asked how and I told him about my great invention, The Grief and Stress Diet, consisting of curling up on your love seat and watching TV without moving except to maybe go to the bathroom, he told me that what I had been doing and was still doing was attempting passive suicide.  Those who engage in such behaviour usually don't realise that's what they're doing.  They just want the world to stop, but may fear doing anything proactive to make their final dream come true, so they just stop.  It's a slow, painful way to go, which is also a motive for those who feel they've irreversibly damaged someone or something they dearly love.  It's a kind of capital punishment for the crimes they perceive they have committed.

So when I moved out here and found a physician, the first thing she did was draw blood and have me give a urine sample.  It wasn't long before I was getting an urgent call to come in and see her.  She wanted me to start taking vitamins again, and urged me to at least try some protein shakes, because I had let on that almost everything I ate, what little I ate, I usually lost shortly thereafter.  She said that I was close to entering starvation mode, like an anorexic person, and I needed to do anything I could to pull myself back from that threshold.  It mostly went in one ear and out the other.  My teeth had already begun to feel the brunt of my vitamin and mineral deficiencies, and vomiting at least once a day, without fail.  It has now gotten to the point where the doctor is demanding I come in once a month for a B12 shot and I must get labwork done every three months.  She groused that I was just a hair away from Malapsorption Syndrome.

I'm trying to remember the things she told me I must do.  I keep up with the calendar in typical OCD fashion, which is constantly.  I'm still not eating as properly as I need to, but the extenuating circumstances are the issue in that matter, so it's not of my subtle slide into anorexic thinking.  Still, though, I'm doing the best I can, and plan on getting a hotplate and pot and pan so I can properly cook vegetable dishes, now that I can actually chew.  Yeah, my passive suicidal behaviours did in my teeth, which were never good, thanks to my dad's genes.  There were complications in getting the dentures properly aligned so, after a year of eating soft food - mostly instant potatoes that I can whip up in my microwave - I can now begin to relearn how to chew with the faux fangs.

Another thing the doctor discovered after seeing I had gained over 20 pounds in two months, was that my thyroid had finally died.  Having been diagnosed with Hashimoto's Syndrome back in the 90s, I knew this was going to happen eventually.  Once I got on thyroid medicine, though, the weight has been coming off.  My only exercise resource here is walking, but much of it is very hilly.  The more I walk, the more my back feels like it's going to shatter.  About that, I was also diagnosed with spondylosis that is pinching four discs in my back.  My pain doctor mentioned month before last that she was glad to see me losing weight, as that would help take stress off the problem areas in my spine.

And I got to thinking...  The medical care and programs made available to disabled people here in California are like the polar opposite of South Carolina, so I took the chance and called my insurance to see if panniculectomies were covered in my policy and, if so, how much the copay would be.  As I mentioned here a couple of weeks ago, I was informed that the surgery has to be precertified and, if it were approved, my portion of the bill would be $264.

So, yesterday, I went to see this dude, one Dr. Jason Hess, to whom Dr. Denysiak had referred me.  After an examination, he said he wouldn't see any problem getting not only a panniculectomy approved, but also an abdominoplasty, since the insurance I have has covered the surgeries for patients who had far less skin to get rid of.  I should know in two weeks or less.

One more thing about the gastric bypass surgery and how my actions years later could have easily killed me.  On the morning of 1 July, I decided to take a walk with Toby.  Toby refused to cooperate, pulling out of his harness several times, so I brought him back to the house, then headed out again.  But I forgot my water.  Where I wanted to walk, though, a little convenience store with some Mexican name, has lots of water, and I figured that would give me incentive to reach my goal.  En route, I found a homeless elderly lady working on her cardboard sign for the day.  It wasn't even 10 and she already looked hot, miserable, and defeated.  I didn't have cash, just my debit card, so I offered to get her something to drink and bring it back to her.  She thanked me and assured me she'd be right where I initially found her.

I was gone for hours.  I missed a turn somewhere - this neighbourhood is like a maze - my voice navigator wouldn't work, and the sun prevented me from seeing the phone screen.  The only things I can recall about this adventure gone wrong is that, at one point, I collapsed in some shrubbery in front of an apartment building, and the tenants came out to see if I was okay.  I told them I was, but I wasn't.  I sat there for about 15 minutes, got up, and started calling for Toby, as I thought he'd run off.  I remember a soccer field.  I remember a dude who refused to give me any directions to a store or fastfood joint, just so I could pull myself together, and he told me I looked and acted like a drunk and to keep away from him.  I finally swallowed my pride and called the Mother Unit, who sent Matt to try to find me.  Eventually, miraculously, he did.  I had walked almost 4 miles, making a wrong turn every time.  I never saw the old lady again.

After that incident, I didn't feel right for a few days.  I kept blacking out, I had to hold on to whatever I could when I made my way through the house or to the bathroom.  I couldn't bend over without getting swimmy-headed, and then the Migraine from the Inner Ring of Hell came upon me and decided to linger for three days, leaving behind nausea and auras to keep me company for two extra days.  Once I was able to look at the computer screen, I began hunting for reasons a person would suddenly become so confused, unbalanced, and feel as though a seizure was about to come on, and I found something very interesting.  Apparently some people who have had gastric bypass surgery develop seizures a few short years afterward.  Most of the time they are associated with hypoglycemia, which also causes a person to fall down more than stand up, and behave like an erratic asshole.  Confusion is also a player in this Olympic team of NOPE.  This could be why my neurologist has not found the cause of the seizures I started having 4 years and 4 months since my GBS.

Finding all this out, you'd think I'd give in and say I regret having the surgery.  You would be wrong.  The surgery allowed me to help Aunt Tudi more.  I recovered swiftly from my knee replacement because I was half the woman I used to be.  I'm no longer gawked at wherever I go (unless, of course, I'm acting like an escaped mental patient).  I've gotten to travel, and hope to travel more.  It has made it easier to go vegetarian and is the reason why I haven't had to get my right knee replaced before the preferred age of 50. Everything I do is much easier than it was before the surgery.  I wouldn't be able to sleep on this wee bed with a cat and dog if I hadn't had the surgery.  And if the surgery ends up having a hand in my death, I want the record to show that the malapsorption and defenciencies that may have led to my death were the result of my actions, or lack thereof.  The gastric bypass surgery did not kill me; rather, the tool I chose to accept, I later used against myself, even though I didn't realise what I was doing at the time.

If I die, I die.  There will be less of me to cremate after Dr. Hess has his way with me with Aetna's blessing.  I hope I don't die any time too soon.  Whenever and however I die, I shall do so with no regrets about the gastric bypass surgery.

tinhuviel: (RepLogo)

We would go up to Craggy Dome at least once year to pay our respects to Granny.

The last two times I visited, it was to add Aunt Tudi's ashes to Grannys. I went back up a couple of weeks later, broke my camera, got lost, and finally got back to Janice and Uncle Michael's.

I want to go again.  One more time.  I need it.  The only other place I could imagine being happy to die there is Craggy Gardens in Asheville, NC, and magick that is Avesbury.

Visiting the area from which we scattered Granny's ashes in 1993 seemed to bring a kind of peace to Aunt Tudi.  She might have started the journey a little down in the mouth, but crazy music and dangerous coffee took care of all that.  And it allowed us to have the fun, I'd like to think Granny would have wanted us to have.  The one solemn moment was when Aunt Tudi would retouch the black cross on the stone from which we launched Granny.  I could always tell when she needed some alone time.  I never thought I'd be making that drive by myself, intent on tracing a Pentagram beside the cross.  Aunt Tudi was not a Wiccan or a Pagan, but she grokked it in a way a lot of self-proclaimed Witches are at loss to understand.



I want that sensation of flight and try to spin onto my back like a bag in the wind, so I can face Nature's painting masterpiece and maybe even glimpse the spirits of Aunt Tudi and Granny, as they stand to welcome me after gravity has had its dark way.
I need to go home.

Tree

Apr. 11th, 2015 10:29 pm
tinhuviel: (RepLogo)
tinhuviel: (Asthma Hound Chihuahua)
I'm typing on Janice's computer. I begged her to let me borrow it, and she did, but will need it back on Wednesday.

Why did I need a computer? Because the new one I got promptly locked up on me and had to be shipped to Hewlett Packered to be repaired. I was using my old computer, which had been acting wonky for some time (I dislike Dell products, I really do), but it gave me the Blue Screen of Death last night. Nothing I did could rectify the problem.

With the car issue and, now the computer issue, I've really just about had it. Dunno why, but the Mighties seem hellbent on destroying my sanity and my will to live. I'm tired of seeing Aunt Tudi fade away every time I close my eyes. I'm tired of finding out I may have about $30 for food a month, since I'm finally eating a bit more since 2011. Guess that grief and stress diet I was on is ready to be reinstated now. I'm tired of begging for rides and made to feel guilty because I have to go somewhere. I'm tired of the dogs making a mess every single day and I'm tired of cleaning it up or not cleaning it up.

I'm fucking tired. I've come to the conclusion that I'm nothing but a serious fuck-up, a burden to the folks around me, and a source of depression to my friends here. No one needs me. Probably, no one wants me. I wouldn't want me either, if I were anyone around me.

I go to my therapist and psychiatrist on the 27th, so I need to hone my acting because there's no way I'm going back to that place because I'm suicidal. Those people did not help me. It was all an act then, and it's gonna be an act now. Screw it.
tinhuviel: (Pensive)
Ginny suggested I do this, but I feel like such a loser (because I AM) for doing this. But I need financial help. I have no way of taking care of this problem myself because of all the credit issues that came about when my health declined and I started owing so much on medical bills. I need $5000 to go along with the $6000 I have to pay for the repair of my car. Don't ask...it's a long, convoluted story that I am ashamed to talk about. If anyone could help me, my paypal is under susperia5@yahoo.com. Or if you could take out a loan for me, I promise I would pay you back every cent. I already pay so much for shit that has happened this past year, I don't even go to the grocery store anymore. But, since I'm really not eating, that's not a big issue. Anyway, if you can help, that'd be great. If you can't, I totally understand. I'm pretty much tired of all this anyway, so the money may be a moot point at this time.

That said, if anything happens, I'll make sure my aunt has a way to contact you all here on the Cliffs.

I love you all. I really do. You've been such wonderful friends, and I feel like I'm taking advantage of that friendship by asking for this help. I am such a loser. I don't deserve any help, but I figured I'd ask anyway.

Sorry for the ramble.

Gun

Apr. 22nd, 2012 10:34 am
tinhuviel: (2D and 3C)
After two weeks of immobilisation, I'm finally doing laundry and the dishes. When I went to get a dish cloth, I found Aunt Tudi's gun and the bullets. Diane is coming over to get it. I did call her. I'm trying.
tinhuviel: (Here is the news!)
I have not been very chatty lately, at least not enough to put into words what's been going on. The only thing I could deal with was a sentence here and there on Facebook, which is a convenient diversion when you can't talk about anything important. But it's time to come clean about a Thing, so here it is.

Approximately a month ago, I attempted suicide. I couldn't deal with being alone and so very lonely anymore, and watching in my mind's eye Aunt Tudi dieing as I held her hand. Her eyes were so blank and she didn't grasp my fingers in reciprocation at all. She was gone in less than five minutes, but every second of that moment was branded into my mind. Every time I closed my eyes...no, I didn't have to close my eyes...I saw her lying there...dieing. One night, I couldn't take it anymore, hearing her voice and seeing her die, over and over and over. I had only taken three of my Ativan, but on that dark night, the void took my beyond my natural reasoning, and I swallowed 87, the rest of the bottle, all at once. Two days later, I woke up in an urgent care facility that promptly escorted me to Carolina Behavioral Health, a psychiatric hospital. I spent a week and a day there, learning coping skills on how to overcome my loss. I also was placed in drug counseling because of the way I attempted to kill myself. The psychiatric to whom I was assigned surmised that I may be suffering from PTSD, and he explained that some people, especially those who were so attached to the person who passed away, went beyond simple grief and fell into the despereate realm of post traumatic stress and unbelievable depression. He changed all of my meds and prescribed me new ones. I had to see a judge before they would release me from the hospital. But I left feeling much better, with a large list of grief support groups where I could find some solace with those who were going through the same thing I'm enduring. I made some friends there and, thanks to Ambien, I was able to sleep at night and not be in a phantasmic state, reliving Aunt Tudi's last breath over and over and over. I learned how to deal with the guilt of all the things I could have done for Aunt Tudi and all the things I did that I shouldn't have, making her bereft and worrisome. I haven't found a support group yet, but I'm no longer suicidal, although I experience moments of indescibible pain and loss, so all-encompassing that it's almost tangible. My entire body aches from it and I cannot stop the tears that come, pouring from my eyes like a fountain. Never have I cried so often and so hard and unstoppable. Toby tries to comfort me during these incidents, and Smidgen is attached to me almost 24/7, face to face with me, purring in an attempt to stay my grief. So many nights I have fallen asleep hugging my beloved cat as she purrs me into unconsciousness. As always, Chester doesn't give one tiddly bit. He's too old and tired to be bothered with my neurosis, and I really can't blame him. I'm still in recovery and the doctor said I may be in the grieving process for a very long time, considering how close Aunt Tudi and I were. He suggested that I tell people who try to make me get over the whole thing, that everyone grieves differently and that I needed support, not a sermon and not judgement. I've already had to do that with Uncle Michael, and he has changed his tune and simply loves me as I go through this process. I don't want to end up in the hospital again, although they supplied me with amazing food and chocolate milk. It was there that my appetite was jump-started. I gained some weight while I was there, from 202 to 216. I felt like an utter pig, but I didn't care. I've attempted to maintain my appetite and my family doctor suggested that I start a regimen of multi-vitamins and nutrition drinks, just to build my strength back, so I wouldn't be falling all over the place.

When I came home though, all gung-ho to apply what I had learnt, I was told that Aloysius, Aunt Tud's cat, may have been hit by a car and he ran into the woods. I walked into the edge of the forest where Janice said she had found a cat, but was unsure it was Al, and I discovered, to my grief-stricken heart, that it was indeed Al. That took the wind out of my sails, and I found myself isolating once again, lying on the couch in the dark, watching Gordon Ramsay and Law & Order. One night, after not eating all day, I fell backwards hard, and broke Aunt Tudi's happy face table. I also ripped my right great toenail partially out, and had to go to a foot doctor to have it removed. But it was like everything that belonged to Aunt Tudi is either dieing or being destroyed. I'm at a loss for words how distressing this is. But I'm muddling through it, and actually cleaned the house for the first time since August 25th. I also caught up on the laundry and the dishes. I did all this in one day, and felt like I was gonna go mad from all the work I'd done. I'm not a domestic person, and I'm lazy to boot, so this was a monumental achievement. I've marked the weekend as the time I will clean house. I must get organised.

Today I went to my orthopaedist for the first time since 2008. He reviewed my x-rays and examined my knees. Then he told me that, even though it was preferable to wait until the age 50 to have a knee replacement, I could not wait that long with the horror that is my left knee. He's going to schedule me for the surgery as soon as possible next year. This came as such a relief to me, as I have been in horrible pain with my knees for years, wishing I'd get to 50 without screaming myself to death. Right now, Dr. Keith is my very best friend, my ultimate hero.

Since the death of Aunt Tudi, I have been unable to write. This is the primary reason my journal has not been updated for so long. There was so much I wanted to say, but the words eluded me. This frustration only added to my distress. It didn't help when I found out that one of my favourite authors and writing influences had recently passed away. 2011 has been a bitch and only makes me hope that 2012 brings the Alpaca Lips, so I can reunite with Aunt Tudi and Granny, and all the animals that passed away over the years. I know that sounds like I have a death wish, but I assure you; I'm not going to do anything stupid like what I attempted last month. It's not my place to take my own life when it's obvious I'm supposed to remain here. The medical staff all said that I was lucky to be alive, and I took this as a message from the Goddess and God that I'm to remain alive until they say it's time to cross over. To be honest, I really want to hang around to see the end of the world, if that's what is going to happen on 21 December, 2012. And so I linger and cope with this crippling grief the best I can.

I've gotten three holiday cards so far, and I want to thank [livejournal.com profile] popfiend, [livejournal.com profile] beechelfromhell, and [livejournal.com profile] gunslingaaahhh for their generous cards. Unfortunately, I'm unable to reciprocate because I haven't bought one thing for the horribleday season. I'm officially boycotting it this year, and that seems very logical to me, given the circumstances. [livejournal.com profile] gunslingaaahhh's letter in her card made me cry. It's exactly what I needed at that moment. I love you all, all my online friends, my Tribe, my Ka-tet. Thank you for being my friends. Your love passes through all the Internet cables and satellites, comforting me in a way I'm incapable of putting into words. You're one of the reasons I'm glad the Ativan didn't do its job.

I promise I will try to update the Cliffs of Insanity more often. Perhaps forcing myself to write about anything and everything here, even if it's shite, will be therapeutic. One can only hope.
tinhuviel: (Kowalski)
I just called the sheriff's department in Binghamton to give them all the information I know about Llew and the Bitch Daughter. They said they'd be on the lookout for him and to call them back in a couple of days to see if there are any leads.

Tonight is the night if it can be prevented at all.
tinhuviel: (Default)
I just told Aunt Tudi jokingly that I'd rather kill myself than go to work tomorrow. Then I remembered that I got the 'work work work drudge drudge drudge' mantra from a morbidly funny suicide site someone sent to me.
Popular Suicide
The last of the first group of methods for killing oneself is:
Dead Inside
work work work work work work work work work work work work work work work drudge drudge drudge drudge
this popular method leaves the Body alive but kills the Mind - Soul - Spirit and Creativity

That about perfectly describes life at the big money grabber camp.
I find myself staying up too late because I dread going to sleep. Why? Because I know when I wake up, it'll be time to go back to that place.
You know you hate your job when you fantasise about breaking a limb just so you can take a break and not get in trouble for it.
ugh.

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