Since the birth of my 4th child, my clothing size has graduated from middle school, gotten it's Pennsylvania drivers license and threatens to become legal to vote. I have not one single, printed photo of my fourth child, no tangible framed evidence of his existence. The 10 inch digital frame in my kitchen flashes one photo spastically, as if caught in a month long epileptic seizure. This makes me sad, but "it is," as the over used saying goes, "what it is."
In my endless pursuit of efficiency and organization I have started to make lists. Lists of things to do, project to undertake, songs to download, books to read. These lists little written reminders of my daily failures. One more way for me to keep track of how little I actually accomplish on a daily basis.
There are even electronic versions of these self esteem crushers. I have personally downloaded an app called "Catch" that has upped the ante and allows you to leave your self voice memo's of all the shit you should be doing.
Who knew there were so many ways to suck?
And as an added aside, I thought it might be fun to see how I handle all of this without my 10 mg of magic medicine.
You see a few weeks ago my makeup bag was stolen from my desk at work. The bag had been left open on my desk with the prescription bottle clearly visible, inviting any drug seeking student to snatch it right up. The funny part is that Lexapro, my miracle med, does absolutely nothing for the recreational user.
Such a sad state of affairs in our educational system when the dumb ass kids who steal meds can't even be bothered to read the label. I can just see them sitting around at a party. "Yo, you gotta try this shit. It makes you so moderate. I have never felt so mentally balanced. It's amazing!"
Me on the other hand, am spiralling out. The medicine has a short half life, meaning it leaves your system quickly, and so within days I was anxious, unfocused and down right crazy town.
I have since battled the insurance company and FINALLY scored a new prescription and I am two days closer to being normal once again. I must say I'll be somewhat sad to see the highly reactionary, testosteroni, road raging basket case go. She was sorta fun. Crying at the drop of a hat, racing other drivers of compact sedan's down the tree lined streets of my suburban neighborhood, jumping the Monkey Maker's bones at every turn.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have few more irrational outbursts to get to before my medical excuse expires.