Sassy's Up Late Again

Can't form a coherent thought--sat here looking at the blank screen for 10 minutes. OK, Rusty and Jessica twisted my arm last night and insisted I see a doctor. It's frustrating. I know they care, but I don't think anybody gets it. Not the withdrawal, not the red tape, not the 'normal' stresses of my life--everyone might have a glimpse of certain aspects of what I am going through, but nobody really gets the whole scope of it. Everyone seems to think it's so simple: go to the doctor. But there's the bounced check fees in my bank account and the pressure from Rusty being on unemployment and all the overdue bills and my credit going down the toilet that will prevent me from getting an SBA loan to open my business which is the only way I'm ever going to have a job with any dignity involved in it while I work my ass off to pay off student loans for two college degrees that have apparently done me no good whatsoever because somewhere somehow I failed miserably to make anything of myself other than a dependent nuisance so I might as well go on welfare and start a crack habit. If I could afford to see a doctor, I could have just bought another round of Paxil and waited until the P$ychiatrist could get around to seeing me. Why force me to suffer through the withdrawal and end up spending the money anyway? I busted my ass for 6 months trying to find a safe way to stay on or get off of Paxil. I examined every option. And when I try to explain that, I get that certain look, and then they turn all 'helpful' and offer suggestions--suggestions to try all the crap I have tried multiple times months ago. Where were all these helpful people when I was going through that? I want to just tell them to wave their magic wands and fix it or just shut the fuck up and let me deal with it the way I'm dealing because apparently I can't count on anyone else to do their part and this is what I have to do.

So I was dragged into the urgent care clinic this morning, with one sick child in tow, of course because nothing can go the way it's supposed to. I didn't want to go. Nothing finer than sitting on stage for the doctor and grinding the organ like a good little monkey. Oh, sure there's something better: watching the way people look at you when they think you're crazy. And just make it a little better by letting people think you're crazy AND poor. Gooooood little monkey.

I have enough *real* bullshit to deal with. Like how do I take the $10 left in my bank account and feed 2 kids until Thursday night and feed myself until Monday. Or Tuesday--whenever the child support check finally clears again. See, it's good that this shit has me feeling too nauseous to eat. A couple bags of ramen and some Wal-Mart brand Diet cola should get me through (sorry, I can only quit so many things cold turkey at once).

I'm glad the kids will be with their dad on Christmas this year. What a fucked up year. What a fucked up memory that'd be for them. "All was merry and bright as we carved the Christmas Ramen..." It's like I have a bright red flashing light across my chest: FAILURE FAILURE FAILURE