Wry in Every day scata

I think I need to write a few FOAD letters. I’m really pissed off about some shit and I think getting it out of my system will make me feel better.

Dear L,

How dare you question my ability to take care of your mother! If you pulled your head out of your precious bottle, you might have been able to read the chart and all the issues she had this week.

I dealt with a “code brown”, a manic episode, a fall, and have been dealing with her tooth ache for 2 weeks now. Never mind her dementia, which you should do a little fucking research on, seeing you didn’t even know that the word existed.
Maybe I should call you every time this shit happens. Tell you to come over to help. Let’s see how you deal with her shitting herself and going manic.

Dear Kim,

It was nice to talk to you when I finally called you back for my birthday. I didn’t know that you weren’t drinking at the time. I just cannot talk to you when you’re drinking. I tried being nice when you are drunk and it just doesn’t work.

Dear Lynn, and Kar,

I still have to be the one to initiate any conversations with either one of you, and then you put the blame on me.

If you want to talk to me, send me a damn message. I’m tired of always being the one to start the conversation.

I love you both, but you really piss me off with it.

Dear Lawyer,

Shit or get off the pot. I knew it was going to be a long process, but I shouldn’t have to call you every fucking week to push you along. It angers me.

Dear Self, and body,

I’m tired of this migraine you have given me. I’m tired of the muscle contractions in my back and neck. It’s making me short-tempered, clumsy and just… ugh!

I just want one day without pain. ONE FUCKING DAY! Could you do that? huh?

Dear Doctors,

When I tell you that my pain is always at a 7 on your stupid pain chart (I think I’m going to print out the chronic illness one) I honestly mean that my pain is at a 7. I am a master of controlling myself, of hiding the pain, of working right through it. Because I have no choice. There isn’t a way around it. Your puny Tramadol, the only fucking thing you’re willing to give me, doesn’t work. I have to take it with the Soma, and those two with a Clonazepam, and those three with a Buspar. If you think I’m abusing the drugs, I am not. I am just looking for a couple of hours of … 5 on the pain scale? Fuck. 5 is great! I can do so much at a 5.

I shouldn’t have to deal with it like this. I know that you can’t fix me, but there are better ways to give me relief. If things aren’t changed when I go to see you the next time, I don’t know if I can stay away from other ways to deal with the pain.

You do realize this is how Kurt Cobain ended up on his fast track to death, right?

Regards to all,

Gilraen