Gonna Go Eat Some Worms

Admit it—you said this verse at some time way back in your childhood too:

“Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I’m gonna go eat some worms!”

Now, I never did resort to punishing myself in such a slimy fashion (ulp!), but I remember the feeling of being the outsider all too well. It’s the way I felt today when the 3-11 nurse called in half an hour before the start of her shift, and the house supervisor had to cover it herself.

The poor woman is sixty if she’s a day, and she’s had a mild stroke…..she didn’t need this. But she never even asked me, for which I’m grateful in a way because I didn’t have to say “No”; however, it also proved to me how marginalized I’ve become in recent weeks. And that makes me feel about as useful as tits on a boar hog.

Lord, how I wish I were still the nurse I used to be, but all it takes is that damnable morning med pass to kick my anxiety into high gear. As uncomfortable as it is, though, at least those jitters aren’t paralyzing, as opposed to the kind I feel when I so much as contemplate running the floor for a full eight hours. There are simply too many details to keep track of, so many meds and treatments and paperwork and phone calls……and that’s  WITHOUT any unusual occurrences, such as falls or medical emergencies.

Ugh, I’m hyperventilating just thinking about it! But for some reason, I just can’t seem to forgive myself for what I’ve become—a shadow of my former nurse self. I hate feeling like everyone is looking at me and thinking I’m worthless, or worse, feeling sorry for me because of my “condition” and my husband’s illness. I heard a lot of that in my last job; the corporate powers pretended to excuse my erratic performance by reminding my boss (in front of me) that my work habits were consistent with my diagnosis, and that it wasn’t my fault that I was struggling.

Does the expression “damning with faint praise” sound familiar?

To be fair, I haven’t heard anything like that from my current supervisors, and I know I’m reasonably well-liked by my peers. But I’m not the “rock star” they knew when I worked here several years ago, and it’s looking less and less like I’ll ever be that nurse again. After all, no one can reverse or cure bipolar, nor can anyone make my husband NOT have cancer. Changes have occurred that I can’t change back…….but why it feels as though I’m being punished for some grave long-ago sin, I don’t know.

Guess I’m a little down tonight, is all. The angle of the late-summer sun is perceptibly lower now, and that always seems to throw me into a spell of melancholia at this time of year, although this August it’s not bothering me to the extremes that it once did (thank you, Big Pharma). Not to mention that I’ve got too much ELSE on my plate to be more than a teensy bit upset by these seasonal mood variations.

Besides, if I want to go eat some worms, I have only to walk out into the front yard……I don’t need to drive all the way in to work to find them. 😦




Published by bpnurse

I'm a retired registered nurse and writer who also happens to be street-rat crazy, if the DSM-IV.....oops, 5---is to be believed. I was diagnosed with bipolar I disorder at the age of 55, and am still sorting through the ashes of the flaming garbage pile that my life had become. Here, I'll share the lumps and bumps of a late-life journey toward sanity.... along with some rants, gripes, sour grapes and good old-fashioned whining from time to time. It's not easy being bipolar in a unipolar world; let's figure it out together.

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