Welcome to my Nervous Breakdown
Posted by thedarwinexception on October 19, 2007
Sorry I haven’t posted in a few days – I was busy having a nervous breakdown. No, really, you think I kid, but I really think I am having a nervous breakdown.
And the reason my posts get all dated wrong is because I start them, save them in draft mode, and then leave them there to add pictures or scan something or link to something, and then when I do post, and add the pictures or the scans or the links or whatever, I “publish” them and forget to change the date. So they get published with the date I saved them as “drafts” – that’s why they come out funny. Sorry about that, I’ll try to remember to change the dates.
So, anyway, I think I had a nervous breakdown. Maybe. If not, I was REALLY close. Thank God for Lesmond, Again. I like having someone to call and bitch at. Makes me feel better.
And I’m not even sure there is such a thing as a nervous breakdown. I’m not sure if that’s like a diagnosable illness. Do doctors actually come in with their test results and say “OK, Kim, looks like, from the blood tests, you’ve had a nervous breakdown.” Maybe “nervous breakdown” is some, like 50’s euphemism for “she wants a divorce, but of course THAT would be scandalous…” I need to know the medical term for “nervous breakdown”, or what the hell it is that’s happening to me, so that when I go to the emergency room looking for tranquilizers or whatever the fuck they give you, I can get the best ones and the most of them.
But my nervous breakdown consists of a severe headache brought on by the blood rushing to my head in a very rapid fashion, combined with a shortness of breath, my heart rate accelerating and my hands shaking uncontrollably. Then, something happens where all I can see is these spots and stars and firework looking things. And then the voices start. I get voices that say things like “KILL. KILL!!! IT WILL MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER. KILL”.
And what is bringing on this nervous breakdown?
It’s a combination of things. Mostly, it’s Holly. Holly the horse. Holly the fucking chewing horse. She is slowly but surely eating her way through the house,. Which wouldn’t be a bad thing if she was eating food. I wouldn’t mind that, I mean, I live with Paul, who basically does the same thing himself. But Holly doesn’t eat food – she literally eats the house. Holly has so far managed to eat the stairs, the floor, the dining room table, the end table in the living room, and then, when we got wise to her wood eating fucking ways, we chained her ass to the woodstove (let’s face it, she’s not going to eat the woodstove), and moved the dining room table out of her way, gave her the toys she likes, gave her her rawhide chews, her ball, her Kong, her blankie, her food and her water, and said “OK, now stay there until you learn that it’s not acceptable to eat the table and the stairs and the floor.”
And she promptly ate the windowsill.
So, we cleaned out the closet under the stairs, which is a fairly good sized closet – we are eventually going to make it a second bathroom, put the gate up at the doorway, and threw her ass in there with her assorted and sundry paraphernalia.
And here’s where the nervous breakdown part comes in – because she whines. She doesn’t bark, she doesn’t even growl – it’s a high pitched, never ending, constant whine that I’m quite sure is akin to something some rogue nations subject their prisoners of war to when they want military secrets. Because let me tell ya, 2 hours of this and I’m ready to tell you any fucking thing you want to hear JUST MAKE IT STOP. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MAKE IT STOP GRANDMA PUT FENNEL IN THE CORN CHOWDER!! FENNEL!!! JUST MAKE IT FUCKING STOP!!!
Then I start getting all those symptoms described above – the sweats, the shakes, the shortness of breath, the headache, the heart palpitations and increased heart rate, and my blood pressure soars. And I want to kill. I want to kill the dog. I start to have very vivid and richly detailed visions of going downstairs and plunging a knife into her chest. I can actually feel the warm Holly blood flowing over my hands. And it feels good. And satisfying. And slightly scary – since I kind of LIKE the dog when she isn’t eating the house or whining. She’s really an OK dog. I feel bad for her, since I now realize that the reason she was probably exiled to the outside in a cage at her last 10 homes was because she ate like ate her way through these peoples homes.. But I’m telling you, in the middle of my nervous breakdown, I could easily strangle the dog to death with my bare hands, and do it easily and without batting an eye.
And Paul doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why he comes home and I start crying and falling to my knees begging “please shut the dog up – please!!!” Paul yells at her once JUST ONCE “Holly – quit that or I will spank you!!” and the dog shuts up for the entire time he’s downstairs. She starts up again LATER – when he’s in bed, and I’m trying to sleep and I can’t because she’s whining and whining and whining. Then I’ll wake Paul up and say “She’s doing it again” – he goes downstairs and yells at her – she shuts up – for about an hour, and then, again, Paul is asleep and I can’t sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat all night long.
Mornings are the worse – because Paul leaves here at 6 am or so to go to work, and the minute he leaves, well, that’s when Holly starts her most vociferous whining. It never fails to wake me up – so in total I sleep maybe 3 hours a night – if that. And the lack of sleep, combined with the constant torture during the day, combined with all the other crap, and you can see why I’m having a nervous breakdown.
And it’s the “other crap” that threw it over the edge yesterday and made me call Lesmond. The Zombie lady next door flipped me right the fuck out.
Two weeks ago the county came by. The “Department of Works”. Because we have a creek in the back that provides drainage for the neighborhood. The county generally comes by a couple times a year and cleans it out, makes sure that there’s no overgrowth of vegetation blocking it. No big deal, right? They usually take a small bulldozer or backhoe thing back there and remove some of the overgrown bushes and weeds that manage to creep up around the banks and grow down into the creek. Not a problem. No big deal. Not an issue. Whatever.
Now they are the county – they have an easement to do this. If they want to do it – well, they’re going to do it, right? It’s not like they need my permission – they just come and tell me when it’s “on their radar” to be nice and courteous and polite and neighborly. But if I said “No, I don’t want you in my back yard on my property”, well, they’d probably just tell me “well, fuck you lady, but we have an easement”.
THIS year, Paul has parked the stupid fucking Satellite Dish hitting fucking van beside the Harley barn. So there goes the path for the bulldozer. And Paul isn’t here all day, and he can’t just hop in it and move it when they come – and believe me, I wouldn’t know the first thing about driving this van. So when the county came by the FIRST time, I told them “Sure, just come whenever, that’s fine, thanks for letting me know…” Never thinking about the van being in their way.
They came by again on a day when Paul was here and Paul told them “Oh, by the way, I have my van parked there – do you want me to leave the keys in it, and you can just move it?” And the guy said “No, we really aren’t allowed to do that – is there another way through?” And Paul said “OH SURE! Just go down the driveway next door – there’s a small fence at the back of her property that abuts our property and that’s my fence, which we are replacing anyway, just drive over it.
See, our property in the back of our house is in the shape of a T. The leg of the T is where the house and Harley Barn sit, then there’s a sort of kind of driveway next to the Harley barn that opens up onto the property in the back, which flanks the backyards of the two houses on either side of us and goes way back into the woods. So there’s this 2 foot high fence which separates zombie lady’s backyard from our property. Paul told them to just drive over it. They said “Fine – oh, and let her know we’ll be driving down her driveway…”
BIG BIG fucking mistake. Paul told her IN PASSING, OFF THE CUFF, BY THE WAY…..”The county guys are going to drive down your driveway to clear the creek…”
Oh my Fucking God.
People, I do not know what is in this lady’s head. I truly do not know. But she’s treating “the county is coming to drive down my driveway” as the second fucking coming of Christ. I don’t know what she’s thinking. I don’t know why this is like a HUGE fucking deal to her. But EVERY SINGLE DAY – sometimes 10 times a day, she will come and knock on my door and say “I have to go to market, no? But the county are coming to drive down the driveway….” And I look at her with bewilderment and say “You don’t have to like be here, you know, they are JUST driving down your driveway – it’s no big deal.” Well, that’s what I was saying the first 100 times she came over after Paul told her they would be driving down her driveway. It slowly degenerated into “Look, lady, what did you do, bake them a fucking cake or something? DON’T FUCKING WORRY ABOUT IT.” She now comes over 5 times a day to ask me WHEN they are coming, WHY they haven’t been here yet, If she somehow MISSED their coming, If I have talked to them, and If I have any new information about the great driveway parade of 2007.
I can’t take this shit. I just can’t. I can’t take it anymore. And this bitch had the great misfortune to come here again yesterday in the middle of my Holly Nervous Breakdown. More’s the pity for her, but let me tell ya, I seriously fucking doubt she’s going to come over AGAIN.
I m having my headache, my palpitations, my racing heartbeat, and here she comes, knocking on the door.
I open the door and say “What?”
And she starts in – again – on the “creek guys” – “Akeem” – I have figured out, since I have had SO MUCH TIME TO PRACTICE LISTENING – that this is how she pronounces my name – Akeem. So she says “Akeem – the county, they say they are coming to go down to creek, no?”
And I lost it – I completely fucking lost it.
I screamed at her – and I know I was screaming because later, after I got off the phone with Lesmond, the old lady across the street called me and said “Why were you screaming at that nut?” So I was screaming loud enough that even she heard it.
So I screamed at her “OH NO YOU ARE NOT – You are NOT here again asking me about the fucking county!! What do you want from me? Do you think I fucking SCHEDULE these people? Is that what you think? Do you think they call me every morning to let me know what they are going to be doing that day? Is that what you think? THEY ARE THE COUNTY!!!! They will be here when they want to be here!!! They don’t need you to be here – they don’t need your permission, THEY ARE THE FUCKING COUNTY! Why is this important to you?? Do you think they are going to fucking PAY you or something if you are home to collect? Why???? WHY??? WHY are you even here again asking me about this shit????”
And she tries to get a word in edgewise, and she looks very afraid (which she should be), and she stammers out “Well, Paul said….”
And I started in again “Paul said SHIT. Paul said they were going to drive down your fucking driveway. He told you that only so that you would EXPECT them sometime in the future. That’s ALL Paul said. And so what if Paul said that – that doesn’t tell me why the fuck you are HERE – NOW! Do you think Paul is home? He’s not. And you know he’s not. So why are you here? WHY?”
And all this time, she is trying to get down the porch stairs, but something keeps compelling her to stop and listen. She should have just walked hurriedly away the minute I started screaming at her – that’s what I would have done, but she didn’t – she would start to leave, and then she would stop again like she felt she had to listen to me rant and rave at her.
When I finally stopped – only because I was waiting for an answer – I really wanted to know why this seems SO FUCKING IMPORTANT to her – why it’s like the biggest obsession in her life at the moment, I want to understand this. She looked at me finally and all she could say was “Well, they said they were coming….”
And I just gave up – she wasn’t going to be able to make me understand, there is no reason for her obsession other than “mental illness” and even though I am perilously close to mental illness myself, I certainly can’t understand it in others, and I finally just said “Well, I don’t get it, I don’t understand why this is such a big fucking deal to you – they can’t turn your fucking lights back on, you know, all they are going to do is drive down your driveway – that’s it, nothing more. And I don’t want you coming over here asking me about it again.” And I shut the door.
So, the sleeplessness, Holly whining and the zombie lady next door have all combined to contribute to my impending white jacket and new quarters in a padded cell somewhere. But I really do want to know if “nervous breakdown” is an actual medical diagnosis and condition. I would like to know what I am afflicted with when I go on my killing spree. It’s good for the defense team to know.