Mouth Like a Trucker
I forget sometimes that I have different facets of my personality. Some of those sides are particularly unlovely. They tend to pop up when I least expect or desire them.
With extreme fatigue from the drugs and the fact that my emotions seem to be right on the surface these days I tend to be this girl when I'm tired, worn out, feel attacked, or just plain old vanilla scared. Even when relatively happy. Go figure.
Yes ma'am, that's me yesterday, mixed in with that hateful trucker with the mouth.
Yep, me again, just add swear words. I can be a mouthy little thing.
Yesterday I got gripped by sudden fears when Jim and I were walking on the beach, as usual he stomped down hard to the more populately stretch of the beach and I veered the other way, off to the totally abandoned stretch of Playa Grande headed towards the estuary. I like my peace and quiet. I need time alone to decompress and think. I like to wander, stop and watch the sunning crabs and scuttling hermit crabs. I like to pick up shells and sand dollars. I like to pick up the alive sea slug like critters in shells and have them skitter across my hands. I like to pause long enough to watch the pelicans. Jim is all business, pounding out his walk like he's serious. I wander.
Two different walking styles for two different people with two different personalities. Unlike a certain fundytown female cultural enforcer we do not need to trot together in tandem over the sands. His legs are almost a foot longer than mine and he does not stop to wonder. Even if I didn't crave that stretch of alone time it would be foolish because he would be chafing to plung on ahead, while I would be annoyed to have to trot to keep up.
Yesterday, a full week since my ride in the helicopter ambulance to San Jose. I have been feeling a little more than slightly freaked out. If I express that in any way, whine about how utterly exhausted the meds are making me feel, or complain in any way Jim has shown how much he is freaking out by saying something like I'm throwing a pity party.
Dude, I had a stroke. If anyone is entitled to a little freaking out for at least a week or so I think it's me.
Does not help that the first hour we were away from the hospital that Jim asked me if he contributed to the stress that caused the stroke. I thought that was tacky and very uncalled for, even as I could tell he was very guilty feeling and wanted me to manage his guilt by telling him oh no, you are a joy to live with this hard 18 months. I wasn't about to assauge his ego like that, resented him even asking such a thing while I felt horribly shitty from the new meds.
I know, I know, he's dealing and processing too so I need to be patient. Except I have no patience. I'm Sweary the Truck Driver or Crying Girl or Swearing Crying Girl. I'm not capable right now.
He also told Mr and Mrs Satan before I told one of my kids or my mother. I was rather annoyed by that.
On our way to the beach he mentioned calling on the Fat Shaming Old Surfer Dude from a few weeks ago because he lives on that beach. I said I didn't feel well enough to be social and didn't want to hang around all day. We parted. He walked one way, I went to my own private beach that only had me on it yesterday.
I meant to walk only a half hour but noticed as I came back to the main entrance it had been a full hour. No Jim, No Jim anywhere. I was super stupid tired but went looking around the beach, the part he would have walked. De nada, nothing.
Close to an hour later out he pops from the bushes, coming from the area where the houses are. I am out of water, trembling exhaustion in all limbs, furious, crying, scared, and sunbured (just on the back of my neck). I ripped into him the second he got close. Sweary was back~
I don't walk with my cell phone, neither does he, so anything could happen and lord knows I was imaginging everything under the sun. But the realization that he blew off my post sickness needs to socialize and leave me out in the sun with no way to get more water, or even simply into the car was like adding gasoline to my crying girl, triggering the truck driver in me..
The rest of the day was pretty dire, lots of sulking and pouting from him. I ignored him and behaved like everything was a okay because once the trucker mouth comes out, says her piece and moves on I'm so over it. Plus it uses up energy I don't have right now.
Today when we walked afterward I went into a nearby restaurant and had a drink and a salad so he'd have his time to putter about. This time he checked on me first before his extra things, and he arrived with a beautiful carved coffee cup of Guanacaste wood with a painted on hummingbird. His way of saying sorry, some small trinket. I accepted, of course. Sweary was already put away, but Crying Girl is likely to make a few more appearances. I got home from the beach exhausted again, floated in our pool before laying down to read.
One thing I've done a great deal of this week, read. Books consumed have been a weird bunch from Woodward's "Fear" to Tara Westover's "Education" to one about the serial killer Bender family on the Ingall's family Kansas Territory, to another Holocaust memoir, and the craziest one by a detective chasing the identity of a woman who died as a Jane Doe.
With extreme fatigue from the drugs and the fact that my emotions seem to be right on the surface these days I tend to be this girl when I'm tired, worn out, feel attacked, or just plain old vanilla scared. Even when relatively happy. Go figure.
Yes ma'am, that's me yesterday, mixed in with that hateful trucker with the mouth.
Yep, me again, just add swear words. I can be a mouthy little thing.
Yesterday I got gripped by sudden fears when Jim and I were walking on the beach, as usual he stomped down hard to the more populately stretch of the beach and I veered the other way, off to the totally abandoned stretch of Playa Grande headed towards the estuary. I like my peace and quiet. I need time alone to decompress and think. I like to wander, stop and watch the sunning crabs and scuttling hermit crabs. I like to pick up shells and sand dollars. I like to pick up the alive sea slug like critters in shells and have them skitter across my hands. I like to pause long enough to watch the pelicans. Jim is all business, pounding out his walk like he's serious. I wander.
Two different walking styles for two different people with two different personalities. Unlike a certain fundytown female cultural enforcer we do not need to trot together in tandem over the sands. His legs are almost a foot longer than mine and he does not stop to wonder. Even if I didn't crave that stretch of alone time it would be foolish because he would be chafing to plung on ahead, while I would be annoyed to have to trot to keep up.
Yesterday, a full week since my ride in the helicopter ambulance to San Jose. I have been feeling a little more than slightly freaked out. If I express that in any way, whine about how utterly exhausted the meds are making me feel, or complain in any way Jim has shown how much he is freaking out by saying something like I'm throwing a pity party.
Dude, I had a stroke. If anyone is entitled to a little freaking out for at least a week or so I think it's me.
Does not help that the first hour we were away from the hospital that Jim asked me if he contributed to the stress that caused the stroke. I thought that was tacky and very uncalled for, even as I could tell he was very guilty feeling and wanted me to manage his guilt by telling him oh no, you are a joy to live with this hard 18 months. I wasn't about to assauge his ego like that, resented him even asking such a thing while I felt horribly shitty from the new meds.
I know, I know, he's dealing and processing too so I need to be patient. Except I have no patience. I'm Sweary the Truck Driver or Crying Girl or Swearing Crying Girl. I'm not capable right now.
He also told Mr and Mrs Satan before I told one of my kids or my mother. I was rather annoyed by that.
On our way to the beach he mentioned calling on the Fat Shaming Old Surfer Dude from a few weeks ago because he lives on that beach. I said I didn't feel well enough to be social and didn't want to hang around all day. We parted. He walked one way, I went to my own private beach that only had me on it yesterday.
I meant to walk only a half hour but noticed as I came back to the main entrance it had been a full hour. No Jim, No Jim anywhere. I was super stupid tired but went looking around the beach, the part he would have walked. De nada, nothing.
Close to an hour later out he pops from the bushes, coming from the area where the houses are. I am out of water, trembling exhaustion in all limbs, furious, crying, scared, and sunbured (just on the back of my neck). I ripped into him the second he got close. Sweary was back~
I don't walk with my cell phone, neither does he, so anything could happen and lord knows I was imaginging everything under the sun. But the realization that he blew off my post sickness needs to socialize and leave me out in the sun with no way to get more water, or even simply into the car was like adding gasoline to my crying girl, triggering the truck driver in me..
The rest of the day was pretty dire, lots of sulking and pouting from him. I ignored him and behaved like everything was a okay because once the trucker mouth comes out, says her piece and moves on I'm so over it. Plus it uses up energy I don't have right now.
Today when we walked afterward I went into a nearby restaurant and had a drink and a salad so he'd have his time to putter about. This time he checked on me first before his extra things, and he arrived with a beautiful carved coffee cup of Guanacaste wood with a painted on hummingbird. His way of saying sorry, some small trinket. I accepted, of course. Sweary was already put away, but Crying Girl is likely to make a few more appearances. I got home from the beach exhausted again, floated in our pool before laying down to read.
One thing I've done a great deal of this week, read. Books consumed have been a weird bunch from Woodward's "Fear" to Tara Westover's "Education" to one about the serial killer Bender family on the Ingall's family Kansas Territory, to another Holocaust memoir, and the craziest one by a detective chasing the identity of a woman who died as a Jane Doe.
Comments
I've been told that I have a mouth like a sailor. Came by it honestly. I also have a tendency to come out of anesthesia cussing like mad. I drop F bombs when I ticked off. Usually I'm mild mannered but occasionally living with 2 adult males and all that testosterone makes me stabby.
In the space of 3 months, my little dog died, 2 weeks later my mom dies, a month to the day, my husband tells me he can't breathe and his having chest pains, and is admitted with serious AFIB and spends a week in the hospital. I'm still standing. Haven't been back to church except for Good Friday, because of the panic attacks.
Take it easy....if you like history, white witches, vampires and daemons, read the All Souls trilogy by Deborah Harkness. She's a wonderful writer and the books are descriptive and well researched.