OK. Last things first: I've had a funk since 6/21. I thought it was allergies...or throat cancer. I know! The drama I get from my father, and the Exxtra, I get from my mother. But, I went to urgent care, (went yesterday for 3.5 hours for my mom. We'll get there, just, hang the fuck on. Yes, I'm cursing because Matthew--remember, he holds my rage?) and, apparently, I have Bronchitis. So, the doc-who referred me to my knee doctor-asks me if I would like the sleepy cough medicine. Yes, Please! As an adult with aging parents, taking care of myself, a house, my finances, and two cats who ACT like they don't like each other, I will take the sleepy cough syrup, please. I looked at her and said, "It's really sad when your vacation is the sleepy cough medicine." She laughed and agreed, and commiserated. Ah, it's nice when someone understands after years of people and yourself, not understanding.
Then, I go to the pharmacy. Apparently, my Lebanese curls have decided to come back. So, I was hunting for curl products. I went up to the window to get my drugs, and for some reason, the girl behind the counter, young, black female with a septum piercing and tattoos, we commiserated on how when you go see a doctor, and you tell them what's going on, and they get all huffy because THEY'RE the doctor. Yeah, great. Awesome. Wow. (Yeah always got to throw King George the III from Hamilton in there). But, you, mr motherfucker MD, are NOT in my body. Then, the shaming comes: Tattoos, piercings, single female, opinionated, medicare, recovering addict, mental health. Ugh. Then, when I bust out some top notch medical questions and knowledge, you're damned right. They slow the fuck down, and chill the fuck out.
I don't know what happened, but I woke up, and I said to myself: "I want to get into a fight." OK, Matthew. I didn't know you'd be coming along for the ride. He's still hanging around. So I can only surmise something went down on a Fourth of July when I was a kid with Mr. Roach. Yup. You read that right. Their name was Roach. Don't tell me God doesn't have a sense of humor.
So, anyways. I'm afraid or terrified, I don't know why, but Matthew is here protecting me, and I have no clue why. But, I highly suggest you don't piss me off, because you will not like our response.
Why did I say "Our" response? Because he's part of me. And when I get scared, or frustrated, I step Back, and let Matthew take over. Conscious or not. Yesterday, I open palmed, beat the shit out of my control panel in my car. Not because I got lost and cost us a half hour, and a half hour of my friend's time into our haircut, or that I had just spent 3.5 hours in Urgent Care for my mom to find out what I had been telling her all along-you fractured your fucking ankle, then my father-who can't hear and refuses to get a fucking hearing aid- pissed me off, and because I had been up since 4:30 AM, ate basically nothing for breakfast, in no way, shape or form, had a suitable lunch, it was Africa hot out, proceeded to beat the shit out of my car's control panel. My family-thank God, had never seen Matthew in full force. But, my mom sure saw it when I opened palmed the control panel. I didn't punch it because I was wearing all my turquoise. Matthew and I know a thing or two. Ever since we almost strangled our bully in second grade, that's when I, Suzanne, knew I had to be careful. Every fight I've been in ever since, has been with a male. I won every single fight. Even went to jail for one.
So, after we- Matthew told me: fuck this. Just let me tell the fucking story. Ladies and gentleman, May I Introduce, Matthew. Thank you, thank you and please, go fuck yourselves.
So, we beat the shit out of the control panel, and I figure it's best if we take the slow route to the restaurant to get dinner. I'm getting one name from her, I'm telling her the name I know- turns out it's a fucking amalgamation of both. They said just walk in, it's on the table behind the hostess stand, and pick it up. K.
Get there. The car next to us has a playboy air freshener dangling from the mirror, and a girls pink, velour scrunchie on the driver shaft. I looked at my mom, we were looking at each other, like, "Are you for fucking real. Womn's lib my ass". I look at my mom, and I say, "You know what they called barbiturates at the Playboy Mansion? Leg spreaders.?" Yeah. Real fucking progressive of you. So, I go in and get the food. Out pop three, teenage boys. One with, swear to Christ, Simply Red lead singer hair. The three of them pile into the car. I'm like, you're driving your girlfriend's car, but you take your bros out? So, they get in, and I'm just trying to make it home, because I look horrible in Orange. So, I start backing out of my space. Simply Red the Twat Head, gives me this half ass, bad ass look. As I'm backing out, I look him dead in the eye, and say, "What the fuck is your problem?" Drive to parents. I split up the food, drop mom and her boot home, drive home. Fucking DEVOUR my food. Feed the fucking cats. The girl, Chessie, or Ding A ling, as I call her now, got fucking fleas again. IDGAFUCKL!!! I take my pm medicine and I slept from 7:30 pm to 11:30 am. But no one died. Dammit. I hate it when that happens.
Anyways, sleeping beauty here rises out of her bed about noon. We do our monthly order for mild boneless wings and Diet Pepsi. First, and this has happened before, they gave me leaded Pepsi. I'm fucking Diabetic, I can't drink the sugar water. I'll find someone I can give it to. Cuz, you guys know this, right? Her heart is bigger than her god damned head. Just want to clear that up, in case there's any confusion. We stumble to the car- Africa Hot again, but not that bad- OH MY GOD!!! They're fucxking blowing off fireworks. God dammit that pisses me off. See, OH! The Pizza Delivery Guy looks at my balcony and says, "You ever sit up there?" Yeah. "Today would be a nice day to sit up there." Listen asshole, I've got a shrink, a therapist and everyone else I know telling me what to do and how to live my life and go out and be social. It ain't easy being a Clairsentient. Too many people is called a "Fuck that". You know that one, right? Plus, If I can keep her at home, she'll be safe, and won't get raped or abused. Do you motherfuckers realize we were never raped on the East side of the state? But, we move our happy asses over here, and we were waaaaay too drunk and taken advantage of twice, the liquid GHB on our ice cones from my ex. HA! My nail tech asked me, What about your ex? "He's dead". No shit, mottherfucker wasted away by stopping all his meds in September of 2015. We saw him a month before he died. He Like smiled and waved at us. I swear, if it had been the last time we would have seen him, I think I would have kicked him the balls, and said Thanks for the HIV, but you did the crime and you did your time, and I fucking hate that out of all the 7.5 BILLION fucking people in the world, you had to be the love of my life. I fucking HATE WHAT YOU DID, but- and here's a dialectic for all you motherfuckers who told me I needed DBT- How bout, you have good Dave in one circle, maniacal Dave in the other circle, and where you have the area where the two circles overlap? You have Dave and I. FUCK EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU "MENTAL HEALTH PROFESSIONALS" WHO SAID I NEEDED DIALECTICAL BEHAVIOR THERAPY. Because, that my douche canoes, is how you love a serial killer.
Go fuck yourselves.
Well, I know she had mentioned in the last installment of This Is My Life, that people with DID get tired when they do deep work, or switch a lot. Home girl has been in and out for 48 hours with bronchitis and bullshit.
We're fucking exhausted and need some sleepy Time cough syrup,