So maybe I’m not exactly proud of this, but I’m not going to apologize. Before my mom went to the doctor for her sciatica the other day, I called there and explained what was going on with her moods—on the down low, of course. I had to. There was no way I could have a calm and rational discussion with her about it. She came out of there with muscle relaxers and he upped her dose age of her happy pills.
THANK YOU SWEET JESUS!
Of course, that upped doseage doesn’t kick in right away but the muscle relaxers make her somewhat loopy and she’s nicer when she’s loopy so I’m hoping we can ride this thing out on the muscle relaxers till the happy pill kicks in full force. Works for me. A muscle relaxer for her is like one for me, too! 😂
Oh, but now she’s got herself having MRIs and surgery for sciatica and it’s all she talks about. Constantly. Morning till night. For Christ’s sake, it’s only sciatica! I have that on the daily because of all the shit going on with my spine and because of the way I walk now. I hurt from my shoulders to my feet every day. My aunt is having back surgery, I have this stroke thing and I sincerely believe my mom wants her own disability to talk about—and I know for a fact she loves attention from doctors. Whatever floats her boat, I guess? She’s got Medicare and a supplement.
Before all this it was her poop. I got poop reports daily, which I guess to her wasn’t TMI, even when I told her it was TMI. And when I say report, I mean she literally went into detail. Her shit never satisfied her. —sigh— It’s just another example of how she dwells on things. She just cannot let anything go, and she’s not happy unless she has a problem to dwell on.
I could literally kick her right square in her ass for not having more children. I get to deal with her all by myself. 🙄 Being an only child is not what it’s cracked up to be. It never was.
Things have turned around by fucking leaps and bounds at work. My husband is loaded to the gills with work orders, and right out of the blue I have customers damn near throwing money at me. This shit happened in a week’s time. I hope it continues. Corporate sent out a memo stating that they want us to work until 7pm now. Fuck that and fuck them! That is ridiculous and I’m not doing it. I work weekends as it is. I do have a life (such as it is). I’m not going to bring it up, but if push comes to shove, they can find somebody else.
I ordered an ankle brace that was the biggest piece of shit ever, so I’m trying to return it. I’m going to try a different one. I’d need a prescription and an orthatist to get one for foot drop, but if I could just find something to keep my ankle straight, that would help me tremendously. It’s half the problem, anyway. So, back to the drawing board. The fam wants me to find another PT but to be honest, I’m not all that interested. I think the PT ship sailed for me a long time ago. I had what they call small ischemic strokes. Plural. More than one. And they did their damage.
I say this jokingly, but I’m actually serious when I say that I think one or more of those strokes damaged the part of the brain where my give a fuck is. I don’t care about a damn thing anymore. It’s unlike me. Things that would have bothered me don’t anymore. There was a day where I would have fought back with my mom when she acted up. I don’t fight back now—I just look for an escape door. Nothing at work gets to me anymore. I don’t care who says what to me or what they think of me. I recognize the situation for what it is but that’s where it ends. I don’t get emotional or anything like that. It goes in my brain and right back out again. My emotions are kind of flat, and it might sound awful, but I prefer it that way. I know those strokes did some cognitive damage and I think this is part of it. The lord does work in mysterious ways. 😂
Well, it’s Saturday. I’m going to chug down another cuppa Joe and get ready for work.