No fucking doubt I'm so fucking crabby.
I suppose eating a vat of sugar filled chocolate doesn't help matters.
If you want a Hurricane Andréa sighting, all you have to do is add sugar.
Well, that and counselling.
Ever since I started counselling, I have had a lot of past trauma symptoms come up.
I've had insomnia while I shake from thoughts that don't even expose themselves to me.
I've had anxiety to the point of nausea.
I've had sleep paralysis.
I've had awful nightmares.
I've had depression and panic attacks.
I've had a horrible time with the girl in the mirror.
... goddamit! just 2 weeks ago i could handle her!!! fucking anorexia monster! fuck you! ...
There's more, but I just needed to realize that the reason all of this is coming up is because I'm so raw after having opened all my wounds.
That would probably be why when I was dissed again by my mother, it hurt so much.
She's been dissing me for years!! So why the fuck should it all of a sudden bother me now?!?!?
My sperm donor has never been a father and all of a sudden I'm having guilt about not being there for the person who has never been there for me.
WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?
Anyway, I'm extremely bitchy and extremely impatient.
That's the worst part; being homicidal.
The way I've behaved for the last few days in public is really old behaviour.
I used to be the biggest bitch to every single person around me.
I was this way this weekend.
Yes, I get that way with sugar, but still, there's a hell of a lot more going on for me than just being homicidal.
This doesn't mean I'm giving up my vat of chocolate.
I've got a good 2 days left of choco-heaven.
However, it does mean that I have to breathe a lot more and remember that the person standing in front of me is not the person who harmed me when I was a kid.
I have to remember that being nice, even when I don't feel like, it is one of my values.
Nobody deserved my nasty attitude this weekend, except for mommy dearest and her evil sidekick, Mr. Homophobia.
They were the ones who hurt me.
Not the people in the elevator who wouldn't give the last person enough room to fit.
Oh, I made them fit.
"So, you could fit into this elevator if people in here were polite!!!"
Oh, people moved.
They let the last person fit in, and they all gave Papi the look of, "You poor, poor husband. We understand," followed by a little 'knowing' smirk.
Then they were all afraid to get out of the elevator at the same time as me.
I have that effect on people when I have issues come up.
It's time to deal with them, even if all my old problems are back to being so bloodied and fresh that I'm pretty sure I'm dying inside.
Today, I will play nice.
crying does not mean i'm weak, but it won't solve my problems either