Started the morning with yet another panic/guilt attack. This whole natural life-bringer potential thing is kinda bullshit; why is the case that I, who choose not to birth children am faced with this unwanted dilemma while trans women who want biological children can never live their dreams on motherhood?
If I were in another position would I incubate for a trans couple/person or would the outcome remain the same: in termination?
Regardless, I ran late and arrived, to the horror of us both, that one of the two caregivers at the client’s home was not scheduled. This caregiver was (in typical fashion of my life) me, surprising no one. Scheduled caregiver, Christina, was super understanding; the sweetheart even offered to give up the shift due to the sheer inconvenience to me. I declined and drove to Lexington. After recounting this multiple times I am aware that it will upset me. I’ll continue the subject of this rant at a later time.
I cashed in my Common Grounds free drink coupon on a Pralines and Cream iced coffee, feeling like a true intellectual. Cat Guy Chris (henceforth CGC) met me and explained War Hammer ad nauseum . My fault: I did ask. We walked to the Cat Cathedral (henceforth CC) with the late morning sunshine peaking through the trees lining the downtown streets onto our faces. “The Boys” as he (and now I) call them, are gaining weight at long last. We spoke (CGC, not The Boys) of their activities (The Boys) and temperaments; their differences in personality remains astounding.
CGC tells me Mjolnir was never weened. Fuck. This explains, as CGC did to me, why Mjolnir feels the need to mew for attention. We will combat this with negative reinforcement in the form of straight up ignoring the little fugger’s cries. *Cue ugly waterfall of cat lady tears*
He tells me can keep them as long as I need on the condition that I maintain their flea, tick, and worm treatments independently. Far from a tall order. I’m fortunate he can afford their other essentials: he even insists on it. I’ll bring what I can, when I can, though we both know my caregiver pay is hella pathetic and covers nothing.
Flashback jab by a baseball commentator demonstrates daily mocking of PTSD triggers by the media and ablest strangers. Not surprised or disappointed, just angry. There’s a reason you’re a sports commentator and not an athlete: your ignorant mouth gets far more exercise than the rest of your fleshy physique. Would totally post this elsewhere, but I’m afraid I’d inadvertently offend and or hurt my disk jokey friends. Especially Gary. Uncle Gary (UG) and his longtime girlfriend-turned-fiancee split due to infidelity. This is according to my father. Maybe UG is polyamorous and doesn’t realize it or know what to call this possible inclination.
Still feeling like a burden to my new friends. This leads to more isolation leading to anxiety, depression, and the want of their or Sean’s company. Vicious cycle. Has my hyper social tendency spoiled me with endorphins from closeness to others? Does alone time help or hurt this feeling?
*I had to get to an appointment soon, so I will continue this later. Sorry to keep you hanging once more.
Mom came up behind me again Friday or Saturday afternoon. I reacted emotional. Then she did. Our interactions are strained since this and an apology would suffice to patch this gap. Unfortunately, it can’t come from me: not if I want to assert my need for their understanding and avoidance of my triggers. Concerning the procedure still not sure if I’m telling her before, after, or not at all.
Nausea, mood swings, fatigue, vomiting, etc. remain ever-present symptoms of this. They impede my every thought and action whether through my work, home, and social lives. They are frequent reminders: this is a shit a situation.
God, I need sleep! I’ll have to blast the air and radio en route to Richmond. Home or chez Sam and Anna: that’s the question of night. I wonder what the music of the night will be.