I Have Enough Lemonade

The Scream. In my head. Every day.
The Scream. In my head. Every day.

I haven’t posted here in a while because I haven’t been feeling a creative pull to write anything. I’m so overwhelmed with real life tough times that I can’t focus on anything but my current issues at hand. I don’t want to air out all kinds of heavily soiled laundry, so I’ll just recommend you google “Narcissistic Personality Disorder” and leave it at that. It’s scary stuff.

My intent for this blog was to have it act more as a window into finding humor in life’s every day insanities, as opposed to a personal journal of my daily mood. However, because I can’t seem to get out of this funk, I felt the need to post something to document why I’m having so much trouble with finding humor lately. Again, without trying to being cryptic or vague, my reluctance to get into it because A) there’s not enough room on the world wide web for the multitude of thoughts, feelings, and ideas I’d need to express and B) it’s not just me and I don’t need to involve everyone else. In fact, it’s mostly the other people (or person, really) involved that have me concerned and, while while there seem to be a lot of resources available for this particular issue (which isn’t all that uncommon,) it seems these resources are not so much to provide solutions as they are to say “I’m aware you have a problem so good luck with all that.” It’s an ongoing struggle to be so totally aware of a massive problem but feel absolutely useless in trying to fix it. I’m tired of feeling hopeless, I’m tired of injustice, I’m tired of experiencing the best people I know suffering every day, I’m tired of the obsessive and repetitive thought patterns all day, every day.

There will eventually be a solution because that’s how life works. Things end — whether good or bad. I rely on humor to enhance the good and support me though the bad. But in times like this, when even humor seems elusive, it’s effecting me in bad ways. In the darkest of times, if I can’t come up with something wildly inappropriate to laugh about and change my focus, I’m sunk. But for now things are too heavy to unburden myself with cheap laughs — while humor may help as a coping mechanism, it won’t always cure. I’m still grasping at optimism and waiting out the storm.

I thank God every day for my family because if we didn’t have the beautiful ability to band together in this, the most difficult of conditions, I’d be in a padded cell in the deepest depths of a psychiatric ward. They’d dedicate a team to study me, and a new design of straight jacket would be named after me. The new DSM-6 would devote an entire section to my damaged brain and its malfunctions. But for now, I’ll keep searching for the light while commiserating with my siblings.

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