What is this I can't even

Well, this water damage debacle is getting more and more interesting. That tree that was chopped down out front? For no reason? By a third party company? Is almost certainly the cause of our problem. Since our own property was not the actual initial cause of our damage, things are now moving at a fascinating pace.
Our kitchen will need complete remodeling. Our living room carpet will need replacing. Contractors will need to add labor to the bill, which will probably easily exceed the limit that the insurance company will pay. We may need to take out a bank loan. HOWEVER. If none of this is our fault, we may be able to get all this work done with minimal financial stress. I don't know. I don't fucking know anymore. I cannot think straight. I've had two seizures and I am still so post-ical it is not funny.

Last night I knew I was about to seize. I went to the couch. Five minutes later, I woke up twisted and half on the floor, tongue hanging out... with Luna sitting on my torso purring like mad, licking my face and meowing loudly. My first words were garbled and included, "Where am I?" and "What happened?" and "Hi, Luna, love you."
I stumbled downstairs to get a hug from Adam and burst into tears.

Complicating all of this: I have stalkers online. In a chronic pain community, someone has some kind of strange vendetta against me, because I apparently said something they were offended by after I gave them advice. So they won't leave me alone. They believe I wronged them. I have blocked them. They are finding ways around it. But I recognize them. Hah.
On Facebook, a very immature male person wants me to be his wife. I blocked him. I am about ready to go on a blocking spree. I don't care anymore. I used to care. I used to be innocent and naive and kind-hearted until... well, now. Now, I have started to become cynical and snarly, and I now recognize delusional thinking when I see it. People like to put blame everywhere but on themselves. People are terrifying. Fuck it. I truly do not care anymore. And that is shocking, coming from me. Let them have their creepy online lives. I have my own life. This is absolutely the post seizure brain talking, but I absolutely agree with it. People who don't know me need to leave me alone when I'm in a bad mood.
I am the Snow White and Red Hiding Hood nobody mentioned in any fairy tales. Poison makes me stronger. Wolves are my family.
No, this online thing... this isn't even a complication. This is a mosquito. Online bullshit is nothing compared to the emotional stress and damage I've been going through since the flood.

In the meantime, my creative writing is flowing. I can work with my characters all over the place. I feel happier than I felt before, at least. Which means still depressed, still stressed, still panicked, but able to use stories as outlets. Yes.

Now I am just drained, wrung out, exhausted, and in need of a nap. My brain has reached capacity.