Plum fantastic
I pilfered a bag of plums last week and started making plum butter out of them last night. For the record, all fruits removed were from branches overhanging the sidewalk, which I understand to be perfectly legal* and moral.
It turns out that the plums I took are the very same variety as the tree I planted several years ago. I only know this because I've actually managed to keep its few, precious offerings on the tree through the liberal use of Liquid Fence, a fetid (but effective!) concoction that contains, among other things, Putrescent Whole Egg Solids.
I'll just let you ruminate on that for a mo'.
I KNOW! ISH! But it works, so hey. But anyway, so I bought and planted this tree and it's THE SAME PLUM! Needless to say, I'm ecstatic. Just think, in five, maybe ten years, I won't have to steal any more.
In other fascinating news about ME, today I go see Nice Nurse at Evil Clinic about some antidepressants. Or committment, but really, I think it's worth it to start small and build up, don't you? Besides, I have NO idea what padded room fashion is this season, so I need time to shop.
When P was born, I filled the Rx of generic Pr*zac just in case. My mother had (what I suspect to be) post partum psychosis when I was born, and I already have a personal history of major depression, so it seemed the wise and prudent thing to do. Imagine my surprise when I didn't need it at all.
I decided to go the same route when the Dude was born, better safe than sorry and all that crap, and up until recently, I've felt pretty damn perky. Sure, I've had moments where I had to put them both in their respective containers and go downstairs to polish off a bottle of cheap vodka, but really, who hasn't?
It's only occured to me in the last few hours, hours, people!, that maybe I've been at least minorly depressed since before the Dude was born. I was certainly prickly, and poor Doggie took the brunt of it (verbal abuse, never physical, but still). Even today, she walks on eggshells if I don't come downstairs singing.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not so bad I can't function, but I certainly don't function well. And as the child of someone who went with undiagnosed depression for several years, I don't want to put my kids through that.
So when I get back home this afternoon, after an orgy of grocery shopping and craft-supply buying, I hope to have gobbled down my first dose of happy pills. I have no idea what I'll get but I need it to be safe for breastfeeding and if it could do something about my non-existant libid0, well, that wouldn't suck.
*please do not disabuse me of this notion. It's keeping me sane. Seriously.
4 comments:
Happy pills sound good. Vodka sounds better. And a padded room to myself would be pure heaven right now.
Good luck with Nasty Nurse.
I hope you get the RX you need. :) And yummy! on the plums. It sounds perfectly moral and legal to me.
I hope you're happy now! LOL
I've been debating going back to my therapist for about, oh, 13 months now. I'm pretty sure I had some wicked PPD the first 6m Lily was alive (I was in MAJOR denial). I'm "better" now, but some nights I'm downright miserable to be around. Like tonight. When Lily took TWO FUCKING HOURS to go to sleep. Ahem. The only thing that's stopping me from calling up my therapist is that he switched clinics. (I used to go see him at the sliding-scale university-affiliated clinic and now he's all fancy at a private practice. And of course my ever-crappy insurance doesn't cover ANY mental health issues. Bastards.)
But this isn't about me. This is about you. Fingers crossed that this is the first step toward happiness. Are you doing talk therapy, too? (You can tell me to mind my own damn business, I won't be offended.)
You go girl... get the help you need. It's no fun living on the edge.
And I wouldn't worry about the plums.... it was the ethical thing to do if those plums were gonna end up rotting on the ground. Mmmm plum butter, I wonder what that tastes like.
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