Went to the hospital this weekend. They didn’t do shit, of course. When have they ever?

I’m so desperate to stop feeling this way i actually gave them another chance at it.

You’ll feel better if you stop drinking.

Listen, everyone there was nice to me, and they always are. I got the doctor i like best. But they gave me Ativan and fluids and sent me home.

I’m so anxious all the time i feel like there’s an elephant sitting on my chest.
Oh wait, that’s just my dead mother. Did i mention she was 500lbs when she died and i’d put her top weight easily over 700.
Well, i’ve got my dead, cremated mother sitting on my chest and i can’t breathe and even my skin hurts.

I’m not allowed to talk about what happened to me but i am talking about it and it’s terrifying.
And when i’m not being suffocated by the weight of her evil, and her brainwashing, and her awful terribleness, i’m hit by the onslaught of all the judgment i feel for still being this fucked up at 52.

But today, i did about 500lbs of laundry, so maybe it all evens out?
Also, i made 7-layer dip for supper, because when you feel like i feel, making anything for supper is a motherfucking triumph and it used up a lot of stuff that might go bad otherwise, and i knew it would make my man-thingy happy.

And when he gets home we’re gonna scarf that dip down with tortilla chips until shreds of skin are hanging down from the roofs of our mouths.
Oh, he seriously, really just drove into the yard.

So there’s my week.
I’m breathing and it hurts, but goddammit, i’m breathing.

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