Momma Said

I’m having one of those days.  Feeling worthless and without purpose.  So of course I decided to scrub the bathroom floor by hand.  After conquering a particularly heinous corner behind the commode, I stood up quickly and cracked the ever lovin’ bejeezus out of my cranium on the ceramic towel bar.  I then proceeded to sit on top of the toilet lid and bawl for a solid ten minutes.  Every time I’d start to get it together, that bitch from the talking buses would taunt me from the street with her “Route 126, Hoboken Path, Thank you for choosing New Jersey Transit.”

Fucker.

It’s like I’m walking this tight rope between being a perfectly well adjusted gal and a raving lunatic in the midst of some kind of nervous breakdown.  Lucky, lucky Rocco.  Mercifully, my period arrived a few hours later.  Perhaps we can chalk up my Linda Blair moment to the hormones of PMS rather than my descent into insanity.

Not that there’s any genetic history of whack-a-doodles in my family.  Lord, no.  I once walked in on my grandmother as she slowly and methodically peeled all the skin off her hands while humming a lullaby.  Nope, nothing to see here.  We’re a perfectly even keeled clan.  No reason to think that could happen to me.

Then there’s the large volumes of toxic chemicals I pumped directly into my blood stream for a few months there.  Plus the personality and mind altering steroids.  Then there was that last month of the anti-psychotic drug used to treat schizophrenics and cancer patients.

Poor sweet Rocco asked me the other day, “Since when do you have to get second opinions on everything?  When did you stop trusting your judgment?”

That’s an easy question to answer – when it quit working.  The hard question is, how do I get it back?

If you know you shouldn’t trust your judgment because you watched it fail, how do you know when it’s trustworthy again?  Who’s the judge of that?  How can you trust your judgment of other people’s assessment of your own mental health if your judgment is faulty? How much wood would a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?   See, it’s very dizzying here in my head.  No wonder I can’t keep up with my house keys.

Shit, speaking of which…


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