1mg Ativan. In bed. Feeling dream like. Punch drunk.
Yet the anxiety of having to go to work and deal with the assholes is just too much. I got into bed 3 hours ago. Here I am still awake.
One specific person I do not want to deal with. I do not want to hear her bitching about how dare I take the weekend off for my birthday and leave her with my incompetent coworker. The one she passively aggressively has said she writes up to my bosses for the past 6 years and complains about but obviously doesn’t cause he still works the shifts.
I am done feeling guilty for taking time off and enjoying my life.
And I am concerned I might get mouthy about it because I am 7 years sick of her bullshit bitching. I cannot deal anymore.
So I am in bed. Drunk on Ativan, yet riled up and ready to cut a bitch in self defense. With words, obviously. I can’t hurt things; just myself. Even though my thoughts run rampant with dirty ideas otherwise–never could ever do more than think it and feel guilty for thinking it.
But tomorrow I could finally verbally standup for myself and politely tell her to fuck off. I feel my ovaries descending. I might be wearing them on the outside.
My mixed genetics/roots are coming out. And if instigated, I will make people cry.
It is what I am good at.
Made my first psychiatrist cry. Yes I am proud of that. Cross me far enough and I do have a backbone.
But for now, I have to get my foot to stop jiggling, enjoy the high, and sleep. Otherwise I just gave someone else amazing advice that I am not following.