Last night, because I don’t shut up on my twitter, I tweeted the following:
What the FUCK was wrong with people when they came up with the shape for Lamictal tablets. Six-sided oblong shields, easy to choke on. ((See picture at the left in the Wikipedia entry’s Availability section.))
Lamictal is fucking seizure medication. ((Also used to treat bi-polar disorder. Which I have.)) Is having a pill that’s likely to cause choking when swallowed right for this?! What the FUCK.
Yeah, yeah, I’ve been taking Lamictal for a couple years now. You just never fucking get used to it. And it tastes like poison. ((It actually still isn’t as bitter as the more serious medications for bi-polar. But it’s still more bitter than anything I’ve ever tasted in my life.)) Yay.
(At this point, because my parents were dicks, my father would probably beat me. It was like his reaction to his child having discomfort.) ((When I start framing my tweets in parenthesis, usually there’s some fairly bad internal thinking going on.))
(“My gods, you’re making a sad face. I WILL BEAT YOUR SAD FACE OFF” *beating commences* “WHY ARE YOU NOT FEELING LESS SAD?” *beating cont*)
(… sorry. Look, kittens! http://bit.ly/cipLcp )
… Yeah, the second-to-last tweet perhaps indicates how pervasive my raising was, as it would be with anybody. I just have some pretty horrible associations. Just remember: that was just how my world worked back then. Here, in this world, fathers are supposed to perhaps give a firm talking to about not being wussy, or alternatively comfort their child, or try to find a solution/distraction, or something. Back in my world, you simply got beaten.
(This, of course, results in other weird associations: I like the time spent healing from bruises, because that feeling always meant the beating had stopped, and was a cause for much joy. I don’t like getting them, and getting them from someone else would probably trigger my PTSD big time, which would be unpleasant for all involved; but afterwards, it’s a sort of heaven.)
It often surprises people how dark my humor can run with respect to my abuse. Sometimes it surprises even me, but the fact is that abuse had been such a normal part of my life that it, like anything else that occurs as part of the actual rules of your world, became part of my normal mental vocabulary. Which also means I sometimes joke about it. Knowing netspeak makes it worse, of course.
Naturally this has led to misunderstandings. But these misunderstandings mainly have to do with misunderstanding some aspects of humor; e.g., humor isn’t always funny, and even when it is, half of the time it’s not about innately funny subjects. This cuts both ways; just because I joke about something doesn’t mean it hasn’t hurt me or even scarred me; and just because I joke about something, that doesn’t mean it’s trivial or even funny.
Some jokes just aren’t funny. I suppose this is where irony comes in.
I have faced down my worst moments with jokes. I have mitigated my father’s fury occasionally via these jokes. And yet I have been tossed out of counseling in the past for making these jokes (because if I can joke about this kind of crap, obviously nothing bad has happened to me, and I’m just pranking. Right? Right? Idiots).
Some coping mechanisms are just very strange. Or, perhaps, they’re not strange at all—but what they’re being used to cope with is very strange.
… yes, tea now.