Where do we go from here now that all other children are growin’ up?
And how do we spend our lives if there’s no one to lend us a hand?
I don’t wanna live here no more, I don’t wanna stay
Ain’t gonna spend the rest of my life, Quietly fading away
Alan Parsons Project -Where Do We Go From Here? Lyrics
The here that I don’t wanna live in no more is not a physical space like my house. It’s a metaphysical location – the place I’m stuck in at the moment. I’m tired of fading away, I don’t do anything quietly and furthermore – I’m not liking this! I miss ME. I miss the fun loving, adventurous, creative, rose colored glasses wearing, me.
And there are certainly plenty of people to lend me a hand. All I have to do is reach out, answer the damned phone, come out from under my blankey. Take that risk, belly flop back into the pool.
I’ve always been my best friend or my worst enemy, depending on the situation. Lately I’ve been the enemy. Beating myself up for something that is …not…my…fault. Mental illness is not something that happens because of personal flaws or failings, it just happens. Here I am hiding from people because I’m supposed to be perfect in every way. Well I’m not Mary Poppins. And now I’ve retreated so far into my shell that I’m lost and having trouble finding the way out.
This reminds me of a scene from the movie Liar Liar, starring Jim Carrey. He’s in the bathroom, slamming around, banging his head on the sink, rubbing soap in his eyes. A guy walks in and asks “What the hell are you doing?” He replies, “I’m kicking my ass, do you mind?”
I was looking at my bank statement yesterday and it really hit me hard. There are no transactions on there in the month except for a trip to the 7-11 convenience store every few days for a pack of smokes. That’s it, zip, nada. I’m not going anywhere, doing anything, shopping, eating, going to movies. Gads – I’ve morphed into a Zombie. This is just downright ridiculous.
There are far better ways to save money than impersonating a hermit. Although I may have to sell blood or something. I’m in shock and furious at the moment because I went to drug store to pick up my prescription and it was THREE HUNDRED and NINETY DOLLARS!!!&%#* What the? EErrggg…gaaaaHHH. Are you effing kidding me?? What the hell is this stuff made out of?? Gold plated platinum dusted, uranium? I almost pooped my pants right there in the pharmacy. The Astra Zeneca Pharmaceutical Corporation is the new Anti-Christ, in my opinion. Time to go back to the head doctor and discuss generics or a plan B.
Maybe I should drag my suitcase out of the closet and start packing it. I’ll worry about a destination along the way. I do want to go visit my family and I miss them terribly, but they all live in and around New Orleans. The combination of the Super Bowl there this year, followed by Mardi Gras this month was a little daunting, so I stayed home. Way too much of a circus for my taste. But, that’s all over now. Nothing stopping me – except me.
We had a Super Bowl party here at Casa de Wacko yesterday. For those of you who are not in the USA, the Super Bowl is the culmination of a season long American Football orgy of running around clutching or throwing an oval-shaped object wrapped in pigskin. It also involves a lot of rolling around on the ground writhing in pain and having tantrums in the face of the cameramen.
Appropriate attire for this occasion is skin-tight pants, padding and helmets…for the players. For the fans, well we can pretty much dress however we like. We can paint our chest blue, or wear a giant wedge of plastic cheese on our head. I think there are some unspoken rules about this, but I’m not exactly sure what they are. I suspect the costume has to be vaguely related to the team you are rooting for.
Mr. Husband really out did himself cooking yummy scrumptious food. He started cooking on Saturday. We had chicken and white bean chili, and homemade guacamole with chips. And because the game was in New Orleans and it’s close to Mardi Gras we got a traditional King Cake with raspberry cream filling from the Whole Foods Market. Oh lawzy mercy, what a feast!
I personally am glad the opposing teams have to wear different colors. If they didn’t I would not even know who I am supposed to yell about or when. It doesn’t really help me that much though. I groan and wince when someone gets slammed face first into the ground under a pile of players, no matter which team they are on. Seriously, if a group of guys behaved like this in vegetable isle at the super market they would all to jail. If I had any say in the matter.
The fascination with football eludes me. Sometimes I wonder if it is a form of gentile pseudo warfare for the modern male couch potato. I guess it’s better than having them out every weekend erecting trebuchets and bombarding neighboring towns with boulders, but not by much. Maybe men just gotta do what men gotta do?
I must confess that I harbor a bit of jealousy because the only time I hear Mr. Husband screaming with wild abandon or groaning in agony is while he is watching a game. He never screams about or at ME like that! ***dabs a tear with a lace handkerchief***
Our house did look like the remains of a battle field when it was all over and we all had a good time. Overall it was a great day.