Memento Grandesco

Okay kids, I need to talk about the pills. (tl;dr : I cried today and puppies are God)  The pills I take to calm my itty-bitty slice of mental illness. My diagnosis and prescription are for anxiety disorder, but the pills aren’t helping. At least, I’m not sure. Today was a very rough mental health day for me, I didn’t get anything done.  But I cried. It was nice to have a good cry. Once it was over, that is. During the cry all I could think about was how I’m worthless and talentless and no one will hire me and nobody should date me and my family probably all makes fun of me behind my back. In my head I heard a combination of my dad’s and an ex’s voices telling me that I made this bed, and now I’m going to lie in it. More like die in it at this rate, says my emo little brain.  So here’s me, trying halfheartedly to put up Christmas decorations for my mom (because before I moved back in with them three weeks ago my parents had no reason to put up all this old shit so they had no holiday cheer, like at all, how dare) and I just can’t do it. There’s no cheer in me. There’s only sinking worthlessness. So I cry. I sit down on the kitchen floor and I’m just having a nice early afternoon sob with my coffee when my parents’ beloved puppy, whom I call The Princess, starts whining and pacing until she walks over and starts licking my eyeballs. That’s right, my eyeballs. Not my cheeks or chin like normal. Nope. This skinny bundle of fur and teeth FUCKING KNOWS I’M EMOTIONALLY ALL WRONG BECAUSE DOGS ARE ANGELS AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY WE HAVE TWO DIFFERENT WORDS FOR THAT BECAUSE THEY’RE THE SAME THING.   But, back to the pills.  Today was not an anxiety attack. Today was just a cry. A year ago I had trouble telling the two apart, but not today. There is so much stress in my life, and rightly so, but while my brain is telling me on repeat that I’m doing the right thing, the weight of my choices is crushing me. The worthlessness won’t go away. It eases up sometimes, sure, but it’s still there, humming discreetly like a ceiling fan. It’s there before every little task around the house, every single sentence in polite conversation with Dad. It asks me twelve questions at once and demands and answer before I can proceed, it’s a scary A.I. that ovverrides my boards until I can pick a solution and then it follows up to make me check my work. And I can’t even write about it! I tried. I’m just so frustrated, and angry, and scared and embarrassed, that everything comes out mean. Like this post. And I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired and I know that it’s all my fault, really, I get it - But I want a damn break from this heavy heart while I work my shit out.  I envy nutters and sociopaths (like Trump, and several of my old bosses) who don’t give any fucks. They don’t let people walk all over them out of politeness, and they don’t think twice about the money they’ve wasted or the people they’ve hurt and just keep on fucking around. It would be really cool to have that emotional entitlement for even just a day.  I know when my friends post a really personal story like this, they ask for cute fluffy animal .gifs or funny memes, but that won’t make me feel better. You know what I wish? I wish these damn PILLS would make me feel better without side effects, or at least make me calm enough to actually stay focused and commit to small chores, but magic doesn’t exist in this world so I guess if you need me I’ll be sloshing through this shared Millennial-perpetual-existential-crisis lifestyle one “it me” post at a time.