All posts by justcallmetaco

About justcallmetaco

I don't fuck around --- not in my writing --- and not in my life. I'm a powerful woman who has finally found herself. I hope you find me too. I'm a Bitch who simultaneously wants to make everyone's life better, every day. I hate everyone until I breathe. It's good that I breathe, like, all the time so far in my life.

Depression; it’s what’s for dinner.

I forgot to have dinner!

I didn’t get to finish my O.A.R. post tonight because of extenuating circumstances. I was doing good deeds and got home really late. My brain hurts and I need sleep.

Plus, going to that concert last night really kicked my ass.

Fucking chronic pain. Fucking depression.

Stay tuned tomorrow night for the real deal.

Peace and love.

And The Way It Used To Be, It Was.

I’m too to write a full post about the O.A.R. concert tonight. But I will say this: I forgot. I forgot that you’re never alone when you’re at an O.A.R. concert. It is an impossibility. There is so much love and camaraderie between the members of the band and those of us who paid to come see them, all united in a vibe that is almost, if not actually, inexplicable. It’s the best therapy ever for those of us who follow them. I try to see them at least once a year, but, if I remembered how I feel right now more often then maybe I would try to see them more than that.


Experiencing O.A.R. live for those of us who “get it,” is like experiencing religion. It is like everything is better. It is like a pep talk through lyrics and music and understanding. It is what I hope dying feels like. It’s the best feeling in the world when they play a set you love (and you always love the set if you’re a fan, no matter what it is). It is like a Holy experience, if one ever existed. I definitely feel like humanity is worth investing in after seeing them. Every single time. It renews my Faith in everything. Seeing hundreds of decks of cards being thrown around is a better Communion than any I’ve ever received at church. If that doesn’t make sense to you, I’m betting you’ve never been to see O.A.R. live. If it does mean something to you, we should be friends.


Look, I’m not trying to shit on church. But ESPECIALLY lately, after this new “‘priest’ in charge” came to the church I have belonged to for thirty-three years, that is, my entire life, I don’t believe in anything that is said or goes on there. I just don’t. He has killed my Faith in church. (I used to be a member, independent of my Mom, and because of this “priest,” and how he handled several situations, INCREDIBLY poorly, and not at all like “a man of God,” I killed my membership, and he was HAPPY. What a fucking horrible way to be.) Forget that asshole. He’s not a good person. All he seems to care about is politics, like the politics of the town — not being political with the parishioners, otherwise he would not have been so happy to lose a member of a church who takes pledges from only about twenty people a year. THAT’S IT! TWENTY! So why the HELL would I listen to ANYTHING that came out of his hateful, self-serving, stupid fucking mouth? I wouldn’t. I don’t. I couldn’t respect him LESS.

So, when I go listen to O.A.R. sing “Heaven,” a favorite of mine, I kind of think about my life and where I am and what I’m doing, and aside from cursing, a lot, and hating people like this “priest,” I think I’m doing pretty fucking okay as far as being a good person goes. If I died tomorrow I’d be okay with that. (If you’re surprised by that, feel free to tell me why. I welcome commentary as long as it’s reasonable.)

And when you’re at a live performance like I was tonight, that’s Gospel right there. I used to have a Priest whose teachings were in line with the below lyrics. That’s why I’m so angry about what is going on right now with the church I used to know. Those lyrics are fucking beautiful. That’s how we SHOULD feel (whether we go to church or don’t. NO MATTER WHAT!!!!!!) That’s how I want to feel. And when I see O.A.R., I do feel that way.

Bedtime for me. But a little teaser for the full O.A.R. post, I absolutely loved being there by myself.

And a VERY SPECIAL shout out to my very best friend, who literally tracked and watched me walk to and from the venue/my car via an app to make sure I was safe. You are truly an amazing human being and made me feel so loved and cared about tonight. I cannot believe I am lucky enough to have you in my life. I know that if you could have been there with me tonight you would have. You’re THE definition of THE BEST <3!!!

Some of the lyrics of “Heaven” as I heard them tonight

“Maybe I should take my time
And build this life by my own design
With no direction that is in between
Everything I love and everything I need
So bring it back, all I want is understanding
To live my life the way that I planned it
Wouldn’t change a thing
Man, it feels like Heaven underneath my feet
So you take the left, I’ll take the right
Under arrest, we’re undivided
Oh oh oh oh
I don’t wanna go to Heaven if I can’t get in
You take the low, I’ll take the high
You lock the gate, I hear the cry
Everybody got a problem with the way I live
I don’t wanna go to Heaven if I can’t get in
So raise ’em up, raise ’em up
All I ever wanted was a shot at your love
I know, and I believe
Everything we got is everything we need
Oh, love will get you higher
I set my heart on fire
I know, it’s what you see
Don’t wanna go to Heaven if they don’t want me
‘Cause I’m no criminal
I’m not your enemy
All I have is life
And I don’t wanna go to Heaven if I can’t get in”
20181207_214929 (1).jpg

In-ie or Out-ie?

This is going to blow your mind. But I realized something today.

When we are lighting candles on a birthday cake we are told to light the candles farthest away from us to the middle candles finally to the candles closest to us.


I realized, when I was pouring my Pedialyte powder into three water bottles tonight, that it’s essential to put the caps back on the water starting with the bottle closest to you, and working your way out to the bottle farthest from you.


So that’s a thing I thought about.

I think I’m wiped out considering I find the above interesting. And also because I thought about it at all.

Weird until the end, folks.

I Did A Thing For YOU, That I’ve Never Done For ANYONE — When I Wasn’t Drunk

I took elicit photographs of my body for the explicit purpose of this post.

I’m no longer writing this anonymouslyif I ever wasso there’s my face!…for the world to see. The jig is up. This is me. I covered my new scars for you. You’re welcome.

If you know the people written about in this blog, well, I’m sorry if it bothers you — and by that — I mean my honesty about those people that maybe you think is untrue, unfair, or incredibly self-serving — but fuck you if you don’t believe what I write here.

I’d never lie here.

This is what I do.

I write gritty, honest to God fucking facts about things that happened to me. Check the naturally curly hair, if you will. And ballin’ boots.


Like, I’m COMPLETELY NAKED under those clothes!


Oh, so sexy! LOL!



These were taken in my bedroom mirror. You can check my super cool boots, jeans, tank top, scars, tats, whatever — but I’m not letting ya’ll into my bedroom just yet.

Unless I can somehow make my Mom RICH by getting naked for a camera, I’m afraid, at least at this point in my life, that’s the nakedest you’re probably going to get — all up in this blog. Sorry not sorry AT ALL.

Those pictures are about you needing to see my body — in order to, like — quiet your questions about the fact that I’m about to write about my eating disorder that isn’t an eating disorder at all — except for the fact that I don’t ever want to eat, and — I would guess — four to six days of the week — I don’t. If you do not believe me, I can literally prove it.

I don’t know if it is my medications, my vitamins, or Pedialyte that keeps me going, but “thanks” to whatever it is.

So, the pictures above are of me dancing in completely different states of dressed. (That’s the saying, right? LMFAO.)

I really don’t care what you think of my body.

I don’t maintain it, utilize it, or worship it, for anyone but me. ACCEPT THAT. It’s a fact — between now and when I’m with — “the one” — who I may marry — or will call my partner for life — that it’s all mine. It’s my best asset.

If you want to call me fat, that’s fine by me!

Fact: being fat doesn’t mean I’m not beautiful. Fact: I know I’m not “hot,” and I’m not trying to be, in any of these pictures; I actually took them FOR YOU, READER, while I was dancing today in my bedroom. Fact: Bears beat Battlestars.

My/The point in sharing ANY of these potentially embarrassing photos is to prove to you that I am aware that I’m not skinny — especially for someone who doesn’t eat.

And there’s a reason for that, probably.

I guess I’m showing you that I’m chubby and I know it (and I own it) — so my incredibly ridiculous failure to eat isn’t because it’s going to continue to make me thinner. It hasn’t yet. And this has been going on for a long time. Look at that chub! I’m not thinner. It’s been suggested that my body is holding onto everything it can because I don’t eat.

Whatever, man. Life. Am I right?

On a kind of a different but similar note, I am not into “really skinny” guys — which sucks when I imagine fucking movie stars like Ezra Miller (! Jesus Christ his face is beautiful and I want to have him.

But, I’m into a bit of the chub.

Some extra loving.

Muscles instead of chub also works.

But straight up skinny or short (I’m 5′ 8″) — I can’t. Sorry not sorry.

Very importantly, I also want you to know that I HATE wasting food because of [infinite reasons here]. I never waste food if I can at all help it. So, that means, if a Blizzard hits, I’d be a pretty good person to know. Get it? I have lots of non-perishables, because I don’t eat, so perishables would be wasted on me.

Once again, I have several conjectures as to what is going on other than those written above. Maybe I’m not mentally healthy enough to feel like I should take care of myself insofar as I need sustenance to survive. Maybe I wish I were a size four again, although, as I’ve said, I really hated being hit on so much when I was skinny (and thus to many of those who are not me — “hot”). Maybe something else is going on. I don’t know.

What I DO know is that I don’t crave food. I don’t enjoy eating.

I don’t care about it at all.

Meals are not a priority to me, unless I am making one to feed someone else. I will open my fridge, see limitless possibilities, and close it again, unable to even utilize my microwave to feed myself — oh so fucking easily.

I feel the need to once again remind you that this isn’t about weight — CONSCIOUSLY.

I try so fucking hard to cook and feed myself. Every day, it’s a fucking nightmare of a struggle.

I. Just. Don’t. Care.

Living alone also means I can FINALLY fucking walk around in my underwear and t-shirt when I am home without my ex grabbing my ass.

“Oh, that’s sooooo horrible!” men and some women may sarcastically react.

Well, although I get your point, it was actually horrible. I’m a sexual assault victim.  Like, period. I’ve been sexually assaulted at least three dozen times. So — that shit? — fucking matters.

So what did Mr. Ex do? He would wait until I was up to my elbows in soap and water washing his dishes (he ate a LOT — and I don’t eat…remember?), and he would come up behind me — stick his junk into my backside — and grab my breasts — because, duh, I was helpless to stop him(!!!!!!!!) with a glass in one hand and and a sponge in my other.

Still think I’m a Bitch and he’s a great guy, those of you who did?

That behavior is fucking RIDICULOUS. It’s pathetic and sad. If he was SO HORNY he really should have just fucking left and fucked all the (of age) teenagers he’s into in the ass so I didn’t have to deal with his disgusting dick.

EVEN AFTER I TOLD HIM HE WAS LITERALLY MOLESTING ME (definition: “sexual assault or abuse of a person, especially a woman or child,” or, “the action of pestering or harassing someone in an aggressive or persistent manner“), his reaction was, “I don’t like when you put it like that. Don’t say it like that. That makes me feel like a creep.” He’d complain that if I would just let him touch me “normally,” he wouldn’t have to do things like that. MOTHER-FUCKING ASSHOLE of a GUY.

So, yeah. That’s basically the meat of the onion of this post.

Oh, and if I dated or hooked up with you in any meaningful capacity, you should expect you will at some point — if you have not been already — part of this blog. Everything is “game” now. I’m doing this for real. It’s my life.

Sleep well, everyone. I’ll write more tomorrow.

Denial – It’s Not Just Limbo Anymore — REVIVED

An August 4, 2014 Revival.

In college I dated a guy who was obsessed with preaching that “being happy” was a stupid goal. In interviewing me for the position of His Girlfriend, he asked me if I thought I deserved to be loved by someone else. Although now I look back at that with condemnation, at the time, I suppose he was just projecting issues from former relationships.

But, it always stuck with me. Since when is believing you deserve to be loved a prerequisite to relationship status? In fact, I believe this question comes from laziness of the purest form: if you ask me if I am worthy of you and I say “yes, I believe I am,” then you can hold that against me whenever I need reassurance in the future, forever, and ever Amen.

Of course I’m conflating two issues. The first is that our partners have become lazy. We date people who expect us to maintain our own emotional needs so that they can go on with their lives without worrying about us.

The second is that happiness is not something to be desired. I’ll never know what that old boyfriend wanted out of life in place of happiness. Although I could just ask him, I no longer care enough about his opinion to bother.

The thing is — for all of my anger — I am a remarkably happy person. There are things that are awful that happen in life. Accepted. But I’m happy. I’ve never been less than grateful. I’m privileged and well loved. I have had opportunities others haven’t. I can make decisions for myself.

My problems only inflate when I look to others for recognition or acceptance/approval. For example, I had been accustomed to doing something that no one I knew thought was acceptable — as this post is a revival — and I’m owning my self-harm — in talking about cutting. It made me feel better (and still fucking does), every time I engage in it. I was taught that this behavior was unacceptable and would have “serious consequences.” So I did it better. Secret-er. (Sic.) Guess what. I still feel better when I do it and there are no consequences. But when it peaks beyond it’s secrecy, I can become ashamed. And I ponder over this. I can’t not care. It’s not in my DNA.

So why do we lie to ourselves and pretend that the status quo will suddenly, out of nowhere, make us happy? I myself advocate that I shouldn’t care if my boyfriend(s) have thought someone else was beautiful when they hadn’t told me I am in…as long as I could remember. But you know what? It still felt shitty to hear it. I still cared…and I resented that tremendously.

First of all, because I’m not here to be pretty for anyone. So, I hate that I feel bad about not feeling pretty.

And second, because — damnit — I’m not a robot. I have feelings. I want to be maintained. And I expect my loves to read my very intricate and perfectly logical/emotional mind.

Let’s be clear:

1. I simultaneously do and do not care what you think.

2. I want to be loved and happy and I want to create those things for myself. Your disapproval or detrimental commentary makes me violent.

3. “Justified” is the best television show you’re not watching.

4. I get to determine what makes me perfect – and you get to determine what makes you prefect.

5. If I’m worthy of anything, it’s self-love. No one else on this planet gets to define, outline, suggest, or ANYTHING otherwise – that I could be better “if….” And that goes for you, too.

Feeling numb – by your own hand – only works to some extent. It’s helpful in getting by moment to moment. But really. When you wake up in the morning and face yourself…the numbness is gone, and getting it back won’t fix a thing you have in front of you. I have always believed I’m my own worst enemy. But it scares me that I could be someone else’s as well.

Pinch Me, From A Bare Naked Lady

Fresh out of the shower, (well, I finally put clothes on. — for someone who engages in self-harm I sure cannot stand the touch of most clothing to my skin — if I could be naked  24/7 and only interact with the fabric known as terrycloth I’d be a happy woman) I sit here, writing this: my first “Shower Experience.” 

To define “Shower Experience,” I can only allude to scenes from movies or television shows where a character is SO FREAKING HAPPY to be under the water of his/her shower head, FINALLY able to wash his/her HELL of a day OFF. That’s all I really mean.

To my recollection, I have not had THE “Shower Experience” until tonight…which is kind of incredible…considering I have had a lot of days from Hell. 

Let me set the scene. I had a day from Hell. I could go through all of the painfully stupid details but I’ll spare you if you promise to trust me on what I’m about to tell you.

I HATE showering. It’s a thing that started up about a year and a half ago. I used to love showering. I don’t know what it’s about.

Conjectures are that: it’s part of my chronic pain — just the idea of the pressure of the water hurts — but I think that’s because getting under the water does hurt; or maybe it gives me PTSD remembering being in the shower after dozens of assaults (performed by the same person); or maybe — I’m just clinically crazy.

My ex, to his credit, bought us one of those “rain” shower heads pretty soon after this began for me. It makes the water pressure a LOT less intense (and takes some getting used to, because, for me, it means a longer showers) but it is supposed to make it feel like you are showering in the nice, non-painful rain — rather than, I guess, like, a slightly bigger hose nozzle.(? LOL?) Unfortunately, it doesn’t help my anxiety about showering. It doesn’t make showering more bearable in any way, but it’s not worse.

The point in sharing, basically all of the above, was to try to prove to you that I must have had a REALLY had a day from Hell to take a shower. I promise I’m not gross. I force myself to shower. I just kind of have to work myself up to it. So, to decide, without planning, that I was going to shower on the fly, was a HUGE FUCKING DEAL for me.

Four paragraphs later, our story begins. I turned on the water trying to set the temperature to “tolerable.” I grabbed my JBL speaker and turned my Spotify station “Post Trauma” (yes, that’s it’s real name) up loudly. Loud enough for my upstairs neighbor to hear it if she were in the room above me…and also maybe from her bedroom where she is sleeping…I don’t care. Sorry, not sorry, but a little sorry. Because of her, I was already walking around my apartment with blinds open in my bra and underwear. My ex and I never used to have even one single strand of a blind open. Not one. (Jesus I have to believe there is someone else out there for me.) The place looked like a hoarder’s paradise before he left. Now, I’m proud of what I’ve done with it. The thing is, I used to walk around naked — kind of as much as I could — especially since my ex wasn’t home a lot and I felt safe — and I am not super happy with changing that pleasure, so it is what it is. Either “sorry,” or, “you’re welcome,” neighbors who happen to see me naked through my open windows. Dealer’s choice.

I took off all my jewelry, then took the meds I’m supposed to take at that time, and got totally naked. I adjusted the temperature of the water, and slowly, forcing myself, stepped under the water. 

It is in fact super fucking weird thinking about my shower habits yet alone sharing them with anyone reading this. I have never put my head under the water a lot. Only as needed. I don’t know if that’s weird because I don’t remember being taught “how” to utilize the water while showering — except that it is meant to wash oneself — kind of a broad concept now that I’m writing about my “Shower Experience.

The first song that came on my playlist of over five hundred songs was Hinder’s “Lips of an Angel.” I know…but I dug it. I took a deep, “this is happening” breath, and put my head under the shower head, the water covering my ears and head completely, (so I could barely hear my music playing) and breathed out with the thought, “this feels perfect.”


THE “Shower Experience!

I instantaneously felt better in every way. It was as if the water was the most perfect temperature I’ve ever had it set to. I ran my hands gently trough my hair and then again. I felt so free — and beautiful — and pure — and amazing — taking in the dramatic lyrics of the song I was listening to. I turned around and faced the shower head just as the voice through the speaker sang deeply of his concern for her now significant other’s potential wrath upon her at their elicit conversation, and then the statement that he didn’t think his now significant other had “a clue” that they were talking. Full lyrics here if you wish to dabble:

I began to think of all of the heartbreaking truth in the conversation I imagined these two ex-lovers having, thinking about what he looks like and what she looks like and if he’s in the bathroom (I turned my back to the shower head again, and grabbed my shampoo) hiding — and she’s outside smoking a cigarette — you know, since she made the call to him — (suds in my hair abound) and I thought about how hurt (albeit — kind of controlling) their significant others would feel, if they knew, and/or found out. That’s some real shit right there, dawg.

I rinsed as the next song came on. It was Secondhand Serenade’s “Your Call,” whose lyrics can be found here (especially since I don’t think that many people know who that is):

It’s another sad-ish song (I began my second shampooing — if you get nothing else out of this post — let it be this — ALWAYS, ALWAYS shampoo twice — the second amount of shampoo need only be about the size of a quarter to get full sudsing action just like your first shampooing — if you engage in shampooing — TRUST) about a relationship which could possibly be resuscitated.  I’m telling you, THE “Shower Experience.” The artist sang,

“Stripped and polished,
I am new, I am fresh
I am feeling so ambitious,
You and me, flesh to flesh”

Like a total, “hello God, it’s me, JustCallMeTaco with this playlist right now!!!!! Thank you.”

I listened and the words brought back painful memories of the person who introduced me this artist, only one of two people I know who ever intentionally listened to him. The introducer, if you will, and I had been labeled soulmates. Maybe we still are.

All that matters for the purpose of this story, is that we used to think we were soulmates. The definition of “soulmate” is: “a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.” But this person, who told me we’d be married and have children by the time we were twenty-six, is now married to a man, for more than four years now, who barely talks to me anymore.

It makes me feel really sad.

Like, too sad.

Like in a — I only applied to two colleges got wait-listed for my first choice so said screw it and followed him to my second choice thinking we’d work everything out except he was gay and couldn’t tell me even though we were together for the immediate years before he “came out” but I wanted to stay near him anyway because I had no idea so I was happy I went there so I at least got to milk all of the time I could out of him while I could in a world where he tells me he thinks about me every day, constantly, all the time and I don’t believe him and he was one of the original witnesses of my first cutting but said nothing to anyone including me about it and he knows me well enough to help me but he doesn’t  — kind of sad.

Take that shit in for a second. I was conditioning my hair, re-living those times that made me feel sick. Still, the lyrics cited above, said it all. I was really feeling fantastic and admired my playlist for hitting a home run during this difficult time of taking a shower. Now take that shit in for a second.

Next up, and last, while under water, was “Pinch Me” by the Barenaked Ladies, lyrics here:

I love that song. I remember being in high school and in my bedroom and hearing them come on the radio, which I guess I listened to a lot, while I was crushing hard on my high school boyfriend (same guy as written about in the “too sad” section). It wasn’t their most popular song. Not by a loooooooonnnnnnnng shot. But it was my favorite song of theirs.

It was now time to scrub my body including my newly made cuts and eventual scars (and I tend to go at everything “hard,” so it’s pretty painful during this point in my shower). The lyrics:

“On an evening such as this
It’s hard to tell if I exist
If I packed a car and leave this town
Who’ll notice that I’m not around?
I could hide out under there
I just made you say ‘underwear’
I could leave but I’ll just stay
All my stuff’s here anyway.”

The lyrics are ominous, and yet, comical as well, without breaking the solemnity of the artist and song. As I viciously scrubbed at my newly made (and now opening cuts — fuck!), the irony of the lyrics juxtaposed with my own misery and simultaneous happiness (not to mention how stuck I feel) seemed so perfectly intentional.

I rinsed out my conditioner and for the first time since that shower head has been there, I noticed I could see my reflection directly under it. I watched myself as the water dripped down, cleansing everything, and I could not believe that I had never realized I basically had a mirror in my shower. Check it! (taken post-shower) — and my apparently spider-like/exorcist grip:


Author’s Note: Any pictures that may have reflected images of anything I never meant you to see are unintentional and hopefully non-existent.

I decided I would see how much of my make-up I could really get off in the shower utilizing this new found instrument. I was able to get a lot off, but not all of it. So I determined an experiment was in order. I would use cotton balls and make-up removing liquid (as is my usual routine when I don’t shower) to see just how much make-up was left even after a shower.

I turned off the shower knobs at the same time, taking care not the let the hot water burn me. Turning the shower knobs on and off is actually physically painful for me. My ex sometimes turned them on for me in an attempt to quiet my anxiety about stepping under. (This was before the chronic pain really kicked my ass, of course.) It feels like I have to turn them too hard. It feels exactly like I shouldn’t have to try so hard to turn them all of the way off. It’s an everyday normal activity that I now despise.

I shook myself off like a dog. I do this every time I shower. I don’t care what you think about that.

I stepped out of the tub carefully onto my new bright floor mat and grabbed my towel. I always hated how cold it was stepping out of a warm shower. I lived in this place once that had a “post-shower warmer” for when you stepped out of the shower. It made you warm. That’s it. But it felt great. When I’m rich, maybe I’ll invest in something like that. (I believe something in season 1 or 2 of “Breaking Bad” was utilized as part of a plot point to achieve the same goal of post-shower warmth.)

Look, I don’t like to talk about this too much, but I’m an awesome fucking woman. I’m a Bitch who simultaneously wants to make everyone’s day better. I hate everyone until I breathe. It’s good that I breathe, like, all the time so far in my life.

And, now that I am single for the first time in five years (bring it up too much, don’t I? trying to quit, promise) and live alone for the first time EVER (I highly recommend this by the way — an entire three months in) — I get to do things I never really got to do before.

My ex and I occasionally left messages in the mirror for each other. Now, with enough steam, the mirror reads “[My name] (hearts) herself 10/26.”

By way of backstory, my ex once wrote “no one believes you” and it literally fucked with me for months. When I finally had the courage to bring it up, he said it just came to him and he thought that if someone saw that — it would really fuck with them — and he thought that might be funny to observe.

But, to a rape victim (he knew I had been raped by this point), what he wrote, actually caused me a tremendous amount of agony.

Victims, survivors, all of us need to be believed.

It was just fucked up. It still fucking bothers me to this day, joke or not. It wasn’t funny. And I cannot reiterate enough times that he actually put in writing to me, “you are not a victim,” post break-up.

Not only am I survivor but I am a victim. I was his victim. And that worked for him until I started speaking up for myself gradually regaining my sanity and strength all these years after my Dad died.

WOW, am I getting off track!

Okay. So I see myself in the mirror and the song “Love My Like You Do” by Ellie Goulding comes on. I just started straight up naked dancing in my bathroom and singing at the top of my lungs:

“You’re the fear, I don’t care
‘Cause I’ve never been so high
Follow me to the dark
Let me take you past our satellites
You can see the world you brought to life”

I brush my teeth while singing:

“So love me like you do, lo-lo-love me like you do
Love me like you do, lo-lo-love me like you do
Touch me like you do, to-to-touch me like you do
What are you waiting for?”

Weird, right? But it was so fun. I was having a straight-up dance party in my bathroom, naked, without anyone or anything to interrupt or stop me. I was freely allowed to listen to my weird as fuck music and sing along without offending anyone. I rocked out with me choch out. “Choch” is not in the dictionary regarding what I am referring to, but, I think anyone reading this knows what I’m referring to. If you don’t, you probably shouldn’t be reading this shit.

I just — fucking — let — go — for once. For fucking once. And I thought, “Right now is when I am going to make my life everything I have ever wanted it to be. I’m going to work on getting over my past. I’m going to pursue my passion and succeed because I believe in me when I embrace those parts of me. I cannot fail. I wish it hadn’t taken me so long to figure out that I was supposed to be living my life instead of the one I thought I was supposed to be living. I felt weightless, and for the first time in as long as I can remember: Pure. Bliss.

I then had to tend to my cuts, using this:


Guess what, Johnson & Johnson?! Your “Hurt-free first aid antiseptic pain relieving liquid” IS NOT FUCKING HURT FREE! I already knew this, as I have previously used it, so I was ready for the seemingly eternal sting, but it always surprises me, nevertheless. How funny is that poster, by the way? It makes me laugh when I look at it. So, this picture was a staged, post-shower experience. If I didn’t feel so guilty about posting my self-harm I would upload a picture of what I’ve done to my forearm, but I’m not okay with doing that. Just imagine the tiny bit you can (yes, I did this on purpose) see on the left side of the above picture, repeated thirty-one times, (I counted just for this post), ending just before touching my other tattoo. It is approximately three inches of cuts similar to the one pictured above in length.

I also wanted to finish my experiment, so I took pictures of the cotton balls I used to take my makeup all of the way off to show you what a shower for me cannot get to: 20181126_011338.jpg

That’s the residue from my left and right eyes. (Sorry about the hair, women shed a lot, deal with it.)


That’s what was leftover of my lipstick. (Again, sorry for the hair. Women shed a lot. But no, seriously. Deal with it.)

And then I did an “artsy” braggy shot to show off my super amazing bathroom decor:


Oops!!! Toes. I’ll get a pedicure, stat.

After taking all of these pictures I put my hair up comfortably (I love how amazingly smooth my hair feels just after showering. It’s so soft. How do “they” get those products to do that?!)

I assessed myself. I addressed my body. I determined I’m my best self. 

I also determined that at any point in time, everyone is their best selves. Even if you’re not trying to be your best, you’re, like, by definition, the best you can be in any given moment. So we really are all just doing our best.

I felt, FINALLY, my best tonight. I feel like I am a fucking amazing person who is too interesting to define in any practical or actual way. I cannot be understood completely. I cannot be tamed. I cannot be anything but what I believe to be the honest me. And from now on, I won’t do anything but what I want to myself. I am chasing my dreams. I can’t fail. I won’t.

Dancing happily around MY apartment naked to a playlist called “Post Trauma?” That’s me for life now, baby. 

I’m scared to death that I have decided to embrace my dream at the expense of someone else. I hate that I’m doing that. But I owe it to myself. I really do. Because what I have to write, photograph, and say — you’d want to see. I promise.

So, I’m officially announcing that I am in the not-so-beginning stages of writing a book. You won’t want to put it down. I can’t say what it’s about yet, but, I have read different drafts of chapters to a variety of different people, and, it’s content, nor writing, has never been critiqued to a crushing degree. I mean, not even close. Everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE, wants to know MORE. I can take an honest critique. That’s a lot of what my Creative Writing experiences are about. I forced myself to write different false stories focusing on honing my craft in different ways, and I read them out loud along with my classmates, and they were well received as well. So now I know: it’s not just the compelling voyeuristic content, but my writing itself that’s gripping people. I can proceed now, with confidence, that I’m not boring.

So stay tuned world.

I’m also scared that I have a new crush. I just kind of find myself thinking of him in all kinds of scenarios with me. I imagine what it would look like shopping next to him, meeting his parents, kissing him, making him laugh, reading to him, watching him do whatever he does, and, of course, the thing which I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do without triggering an atomic bomb of PTSD again.

But a Bitch can pretend everything will happen organically and without trauma as she dances around her apartment naked, right?

Oh my God! There is also this guy who has been “in” my life since I was in college who I know asks after me. I ask after him as well. He’s a smartass. He has a smart mouth. He is TOTALLY into me. I know because I know. Because I know. But, if by any chance you, Mr. guy I’m talking about, are reading this, know that, don’t feel weird, please; it’s okay that I know. Because I am too. I am TOTALLY into you. I have been forever.

This person and I have never been single at the same time. We just keep “missing” one another. It’s a lot like that movie, “A Lot Like Love,” except I doubt it’ll ever happen for us. I want to be optimistic in every way possible, I swear to God I do. But, when we could have been together, I was so insecure I couldn’t imagine he thought of me in any kind of way, when in fact, I totally could have “had him” and he could have “had me,” so to speak. This is the kind of thing that really kills me.

This is how my mind plays out this situation basically on sporadic repeat: I’m living my life, la dee da, “oh my gosh, [he] liked my social media post once! damn, I wish we had been able to talk to each other about our feelings without being so insecure, his mind is so sexy it makes me want to jump him, fuck! I’m not single, oh my gosh, (ten months later) [he] liked my social media post once again!, he speaks his mind without apologies and will always challenge me when we are together, and vice versa, a sparring partner but of the sexiest variety, which makes me want to jump him, fuck! he’s not single.” REPEAT.

I’ve been told — literally — TOLD — you seem happy. Perfect! I REALLY want you to be genuinely happy. But I can’t not tell you by proxy (this post) that I’m also a little sad for me.

We get one life. One. One chance to make it with who and what we have in it. You have my number.

But I’m not embarrassed by my body’s visceral reactions anymore. I’ll never allow that type of — self — or otherwise — censorship — again.

All real talk.

Vulnerable, scary, shit.

Holy shit.

When the fuck did I grow a pair of ovaries and woman the fuck up?!?!?!

Oh yeah.

A long time ago.

I just forgot.

It won’t happen twice.


And hear THAT.

Smorgasbord, It’s What’s For Dinner

Well here I go, random-ing things up all into one post again. This is, ultimately, a relationship post. But first!

First, I want to thank everyone who read through my post last night about Self-harm. I am so grateful to my readers. Without you, my writing this blog every day/night is just an exercise in bad writing. But, if you are coming back. I guess I’m doing something right. My biggest fear here, is that my writing is boring. So thank you for your support, sincerely.

I am going to continue to expand upon my first post about self-harm, as it comes to me organically. I hope you’ll stick around to read more.

This was my first holiday season as a single woman — in five years. It was — nevertheless — perfect. I write it that way because I thought I would be more sad than I was. But I will not mourn abuse any longer.

Kidding; I cannot control my feelings. I am starting to miss the things that I didn’t have to “know” because my ex did.

Now, my life is kind of like the “Touch Tunnel” at The Liberty Science Center. (Holler if you know what I’m talking about. What a TERRIBLY INAPPROPRIATE NAME, for essentially, a pitch-black tunnel that you force elementary school children on a field trip into — within which you have to touch your peers — or maybe even adults — to get out. What. The actual. Fuck, was that about? It was about experiencing the life of someone who is blind. Still. Terrible name, guys.) I’m pretty sure the above sounds crazy to anyone who doesn’t know the weirdness of the “Touch Tunnel.”

Anyway, the simile stands. I am wandering around in the dark, fending for myself, like the good old days when I figured out anything that I needed to figure out to move forward. I had help from my parents on many occasions, but I have always tried it my way, even if it may be unconventional. (My ex used to yell at my — I’m not exaggerating — literally yell at me — when I didn’t do something the way he would have done it, “I JUST THOUGHT YOU WERE SMART ENOUGH TO WANT TO DO EVERYTHING IN THE BEST MOST EFFICIENT WAY.” <– See what he did there? He stifled the inner confidence and CORE BELIEFS I had until then maintained, as well as violating my autonomy by critiquing everything — just constantly. But no more.

I don’t really hear from my ex.

His friends also suddenly stopped acknowledging my existence, even though I thought they liked me, and they told me often how amazing it was that I essentially tamed the beast, and stayed in this relationship, happily. And I was happy. But I read you shouldn’t spend time caring about your ex’s friends, or mutual friends. I get it. But I am seriously considering just “unfriending” them in every way possible to eliminate — terminate — him from everything I see.


Here’s the meat of the relationship shit.

Thanksgiving day I get a text from Mr. MIA, “Happy Turkey day!” I was incredibly surprised that he reached out to me. My instinct was to engage, at all costs. But, I didn’t respond, because I am trying this new thing, where I stay away from my abusive ex-boyfriends.

Thanksgiving night, at 11:40 P.M., I get the following text from my ex-boyfriend’s Mom, “Just want you to know we missed seeing you today. Hope you had a great day with your family.” This text is kind, thoughtful, and considerate. I take no issue with it except that it even exists.

I wanted to reply — thinking of multiple responses — ranging from “blame your fucking son for that; he is the one who abandoned me,” to, “I have hope for the future,” to, “thanks.” I mean, like, there were a lot of other ones, but ultimately I couldn’t answer her either. All I wanted to do was say “blame your fucking son if you missed me.”

The correspondence, or lack thereof, just left me really fucking sad and angry.

Why did his Mom text me? Is that normal? I just want to know if that’s normal. I know she and I developed a relatively close relationship. I believed she’d be my Mother-In-Law.

In April of this past year, my now ex went to Las Vegas with his friends for a yearly thing having to do with the industry he works in. He has been going 4/5 years we’ve dated.

I happened to have been granted an interview with a company I very much wanted to work for while he was gone. And I got the job! And even better, I loved going into work every day, in sharp contrast to nearly all of my previous work experiences. Things were going well between us, finally, I thought. He even asked me if I wanted to see the engagement rings he was looking at getting me. I was so FUCKING EXCITED in that moment!!!!!!!!!! I told him I wanted to be surprised.

During the break-up I asked to see them after all. It was an emotional request for both of us.

But between my new found independence in April when he was talking to me about FOR REAL engagement rings, and August, when he stopped coming home, I don’t know what the fuck happened.

How can someone think about committing to marriage four months prior to running out of the relationship without providing any reason besides his admission that he required sex if we were to continue our dance of destruction. You know what happened. FUCK HIM. But I didn’t.


No one tells me what I need to do. I don’t “do” ultimatums. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to go through what I went through with him again just to maintain the shell of the relationship we had left by giving in to his requirement of intercourse. Jesus. What an asshole.

So I didn’t answer my ex’s Mom’s text either.

The next day, I get a text message from my ex, asking if I was available for a delivery. In our relationship, that request had always previously meant that one of his many daily packages required a signature to be received. I didn’t reply to that text either.

Maybe his intention was to come visit me. I don’t know. No one rang the doorbell. No packages came. And he texted nothing else. No phone call either. So I figured, the “Happy Turkey day” was merely to play nice, so I could once again take care of his responsibilities. I know I’ll eventually find out, because he has things that belong to me, and he still has the keys to this place, which he shouldn’t, since he doesn’t pay rent here anymore.

I’ve decided conversations between us will be over the phone, if at all. I haven’t told him this but he’ll adapt or not. I’m not a dog he can call with a whistle whenever it’s convenient for him anymore. I did that for him for YEARS without complaint. I enjoyed being a part of whatever he’d let me into.

Nevertheless, if he wants me, he can call me. Otherwise, even if it is not in my best interest, I’m not replying.

What do you make of that?

Am I punishing him, or just fighting for myself?

I don’t know.

So that is it. That’s the entirety of the correspondence.

On a more positive note, I had the great fortune of meeting with my best friend, and, her significant other, today, at what is now, solely my apartment. Pure freedom. Well, in theory.

I have a tremendous amount of guilt due to my stupid fucking afflictions that I cannot help my Mom more right now. She is capable of everything. But not of everything at once. Not everything at once on her own. Fuck. I hate myself.

My best friend and her significant other brought me food! I have this “thing,” that keeps me from expressing my emotions extremely or even realistically to other people; it’s so fucking awkward.

But I cannot remember the last time anyone thought to bring me a meal. I was so touched by this gesture, but I expressed my “thanks” awkwardly, if even noticably at all.

They also brought cheese and bread and I said I wished I had some fancy grapes to make a true Smorgasbord. (My best friend and her significant other are geniuses, so the fact that I got that word right on my first try was a win for my ego today, LOL.)

Denotatively, smorgasbord means, “an often large, diverse in character and content, mixture.” Connotatively, it means cheese and grapes. Sure, why not?

I am, denotatively, a smorgasbord. I amso many things. One of my first posts here was a list of ten things about me. That post saw the most traffic I had received until that point in my erratic posts. It inspired me to write about sexual assault, which ultimately inspired me to angrily vent about my own rape.

I believe that people want to know about other peoples’ genuine, if not entirely extraordinary, experiences.

And, I believe that if someone sees — and understands — that at least one other person does what they do — or thinks what they think — that maybe that person’s life will be saved. 

On my life, I believe that. And I want you, reader, to believe that as well.

Am I scared of sharing so much personal information about myself to God knows who? FUCK YES, I AM. It’s FUCKING TERRIFYING. I already admitted that I am beyond insecure. It’s not cute.

Still, I insist on writing about things people don’t usually discuss unless they’re in middle school. (At least that’s how my petty posts about relationships feel — to me — a lot of times.)

I expose myself. In all of my insecurity. Despite my self hatred. Despite my reasons to abandon this world (which I have no intention of doing, once again, for the record). Despite the fact that people who know me personally are learning things about me that maybe I never expected them (or wanted them) to learn

I understand that people like voyeurism. We yearn to know the truth about what is going on with those we know, when they might not be able to directly tell us. (Think about how that Netflix show “13 Reasons Why” went beyond viral.)

What’s weird is when I’m talking to a friend about something going on and he/she says, “oh yeah, I read that in your blog.” It feels violating. But that doesn’t mean it is any less important. I don’t believe in its necessity any less. 

I think personal, weird, and genuinely honest experiences are what matter to people. It’s how we coexist, really. It might be how we exist, period. So that’s what I’ll be writing about.

For better or for worse.

Until death do us part.

But seriously, can someone tell me if my ex’s Mom’s text is normal?!

Let’s Talk About Self-Harm, Baby — MY LONGEST POST TO DATE — (Rated R For – Reader Discretion Is Advised — No Seriously — What You Are About To Read Is “Extremely Fucked Up” And I Will Not Take Responsibility For Anything That Happens To Anyone Who Puts Themselves Through Reading It)

This is going to be the hardest to read to many, most grotesque to most, and probably most upsetting to all, post I’ve written so far.

For real, though.

Disclaimer: if you are depressed, or think about self-harm, please consult a trusted adult, doctor (preferably a psychiatrist), a therapist, or anyone who can, and/or will, keep you from doing what I am about to disclose to you that I do, with great trepidation on my part, below. Get help if you at all can. Life is amazing. I’ve lived it with my diseases for over 15 years, and I still see the beauty in everything. I also, regularly, consult everyone above, who I have suggested you seek, should you have feelings to self-harm. So I’m not a poser. Fucking get help if you need help. You can do it. Against all odds, I did.

So here we go.

I have engaged in several types of self-harm. The two types I am willing to admit to at this point in my online presence are cutting, and drinking alcohol.

Everything in my very being believes that alcohol is a form of self-harm.

Cutting, not so much.

I bet you think you read that backwards. You didn’t.

Cutting is a form of self-harm because people say it is. AGAIN, I am not encouraging it. Don’t experiment with it for fun or try it out for whatever reason because you read this, please.

I’m NOT glorifying it.

It’s not pretty.

Not to anyone.

In my mind, sometimes, I think it’s beautiful, but it is in fact quite ugly to everyone I know.

I do it because I have to. Plain. And. Simple.

I, have to cut, to be me. Not all the time. Not every month. Not even every year. I cannot tell you what makes it surface, so to speak, within me. I believe it is my depression — not being treated in a way that helps correctly. Or maybe I just don’t think there’s anything bad about it. I don’t fucking know. There is no blame to be given to anyone for this act. I choose it. I hide it as best I can. But I also need it, I guess. And I embrace it without hesitation when it comes up.

I’ve been cutting since I was seventeen years old. I’m thirty-three now, so you do the math.

The reason I’m writing about it now, is because I just did it. Not even 20 minutes ago. And I guarantee I will be doing it again as soon as I’m done writing this post. I want to. I do not believe it is a form of self punishment. Sometimes I’m not sure I know why I believe I do it; I do know that it sometimes brings me great comfort in the face of extreme sadness.

I don’t feel it is responsible to post an “honest” image of the cuts currently on my body for fear that it will encourage people with the intention to commit suicide, or contemplating cutting, to decide what anything “cutting related” should “look like.” Be that as it may, I’m only as ashamed of it in as much as society has made me feel ashamed. But for me, again, self-harm in the form of cutting, can be a great comfort. So I am willing to share a very distorted image. I’m warning you, again, that I am in NO WAY encouraging anyone to do ANYTHING like this with regards to self-harm or otherwise, ESPECIALLY cutting. That being said, you’ve been warned sufficiently:


I have, obviously, greatly distorted this image so people don’t see it as it truly is, out of some, perhaps misplaced fear, or, I don’t know, moral obligation not to encourage anything like cutting.

Like, for real, I’m not a role model. Do NOT do what I do as described in this post. PLEASE. I am literally begging you. (Side note: even though I cannot explain why, I feel the need to point out to those of you who do know me that you can recognize the blurred semi-colon tattoo at the top of the image to “prove,” yes, that’s me.) This image isn’t posted for shock value: that’s obvious. Anyone can Google images of “self-harm cutting” and see far worse. If that’s what you’re looking for, I don’t know what to tell you.

I also want to show you the below image of me crying in my bathroom, taken fifteen minutes ago. I’m wearing the same sweatshirt I wore in a post I wrote several days ago. You may note a lot of differences, in my appearance, however. I won’t apologize for wearing something many days in a row. It’s not dirty. I have showered since I last wore it. I don’t smell. It brings me comfort. And people who are depressed seek comfort where they can. I like this sweatshirt. But I’m a mess. This is 100% for real ugly crying. Obviously, despite my “edits” to my face, those who know my will recognize me (sorry not sorry?). So without further ado, here’s me, ugly crying:


You might be judging me right now. That’s fucking on you. You might say any number of things. When the thought came to me to take a “self portrait” of me ugly crying in my bathroom, I feared those of you reading might think I am faking that face, or maybe you’d question why I decided to (or was even able to) take a picture of myself like this (or eight of them, actually, without aiming, for anything in particular), that you’d think it was weird or stupid. A lot of these thoughts come along with the kinds of depression I have. I’m insecure through and through, even though I simultaneously feel like I am an amazingly solid human being. I could say more about that, but that’s not meant to be what this post is about. Besides, I go to therapy for exactly that shit.

In the spirit of full disclosure, the sticker on the back of my phone reads in totality, “YOU ARE LOVED ALWAYS.” I need to be remindedthat I am loved always. I know I am. Love comes in a lot of forms. Hey, I engage in as much self-love as I do self-harm. 

Actually that’s not true.

I engage in MUCH more self-love than I do self-harm. But that’s also not what this post is about.

I want to tell you what just happened to me that caused me to do what I did: cut, many times, on my forearm. Not deep. But bloody. There will be scars to cover up for a few months. It’s winter here. So I guess good timing (<–I laughed at that just so you know).

After hosting a very successful Thanksgiving yesterday, with the help of my Mom, my chronic pain was immeasurable today. So I stayed in bed as long as possible, and once the pain became just bearable enough, got up for Gatorade, to bring in my neighbor’s packages and mail, and to go to the bathroom. I texted my best friend to confirm plans for tomorrow.

But before all that, to quiet the noise that’s always in my head (I know my fellow writers feel me on this one), I needed a distraction. I couldn’t lift a book, honestly. My hands and fingers didn’t work. (To be able to write this, I had to take a stupid amount of over-the-counter pain medication.) So I turned on the TV. Two buttons. And DC’s “Civil War” was on. I’m into the superhero stuff. It helps me escape. I love that. But sometimes it’s too much.

Spoiler alert if you haven’t seen the movie: Superman comes back to life. He reunites with Lois Lane. Like four sappy lines in, I felt my eyes water, and then came the embarrassingly audible desperate sobs. Watching that scene caused three kinds of crazy, TOTALLY UNRELATED, thoughts. One is understandable considering the content of the film, but still, a surprisingly weird thing to conjure, even for me.

First, I thought, “Oh my God, I am older than at least one of those actors, and I am so unsuccessful it is pathetic.” (I’m not actually unsuccessful by definition: I passed Bar Exams in two states, one of which is cited as the second most difficult exam in the country, on my first try. I practiced law for about six years until I got ill last year, and finally, within the past couple of months said “fuck it,” and decided to chase my dreams, not my initial life goals.) This first thought pops up quite often in my head. I’m working really fucking hard on getting past the fallacy.

Second, uncomfortable for me to write about, although I don’t know why — it’s human nature to have crushes and remember them — I thought about this guy I grew up with. His Mom even babysat for me for awhile. I had a crush on him from elementary school through high school. I can’t imagine he knows I exist anymore. But, I remembered what I believe to be in second or third fucking grade (I had the same teacher both years, so I’m hedging, but if I had to bet, I’d say it was second grade), him bringing into school, the comic in which Superman died. It was a really big fucking deal, and not just to him. I was sad, and I didn’t even read comics. I barely knew Superman’s story, but I knew who he was. But he was really animated, and upset about it, and I remember our teacher telling him to put the comic book away. Why the FUCK did I remember THAT?! Jesus, I’m so weird. Who STILL CARES about something like that?! There’s no way that’s normal! Right?!

Third, shortly after that memory, I thought, “I have to come to terms with the fact that I may be single and alone for the rest of my life, because I’m a freak.” Then I had to get the fuck away from that black hole because I literally cannot even with that real shit right now.

Anyway, I loved the movie. I love a lot of movies for a variety of fucking weird reasons so don’t watch movies based on my saying one’s good. It ended.

My chronic pain subsided enough for me to use my hands freely, so I called my Mom. We had a mostly good conversation, but a couple of things came up that made me cry, again. I guess I’m “weepy” today. I’m allowed to be. And so are you, any day you want to be, so don’t let anyone tell you differently.

After that conversation, I began watching the documentary, “Paradise Lost 3 Purgatory,” on HBO. I’ve watched this documentary about seven times now. For some reason I cannot stay away from it. In many ways it reminds me of the reasons I wanted to go to law school. I wanted to free people like the West Memphis (Arkansas) Three. It never fails to hurt me what happened to all six boys in that case. Maybe I’m heartless, but the dead boys are dead. Nothing can be done about them.

But the boys who went to prison for decades? They’re alive, and lost their freedom to a very fucking broken system.

I had already intended on cutting tonight. This documentary was really ancillary. Basically, an extra excuse to express pain for ALL the people I cannot help, and how much that hurts me inside. It hurts me so much inside that it has to come out. And thus the cutting.

Maybe you’ve heard the above things before. “I need to see physical pain because I cannot show my mental anguish in any discernible way.” That’s fucking true for a lot of people. That’s probably been true for me at some point, but it’s not, now. 

At this point in my life, I see very few people. My Mom, my doctors, my friends when they’re in town. Most of my best friends don’t see me because they don’t live near me. I used to go to church almost every Sunday, but I actually hate the current priest in charge in my parish. I hate him. I cannot bear to look at him. In my opinion, if someone in a church was doing Satan’s work, it’s him. He has no fucking idea what he’s talking about. And he’s turned all of these people who I used to think of as family into a kind of cult. I also see my Brother. Now, in counseling, I see my Sister who DEFINITELY doesn’t observe any kind of shit like this and I know she cannot possibly be reading this blog. I see the people in my Creative Writing Class, and the two remaining people in my Mandarin Class (one being my teacher); they’ll never have a reason to look, let alone, see, what’s there. Oh, and my upstairs neighbor. She might notice. I’ll have to be careful with her, just like with my Mom. I don’t want to hurt my Mom.

Jesus Christ I’m long-winded. Sorry.

My point is: I’m basically not going to bother anyone who doesn’t already know and understand that I do this. And, you should know that I’m okay.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. My Dad died about five years ago. I’m not over it.

I was in the bathroom, looking at my unfinished cuts, and suddenly feeling shame, I began, once again, to sob. I said, out loud, to no-one, something to the effect of, “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t do this to hurt you. I know you wouldn’t want me to do this. I know this is bad. I’m so sorry you have to see this. I’m sorry I’m disappointing you. I’m sorry I’m disappointing Mom. It’s not because of either of you. You were always good to me. But I have to do it right now. I’m so sorry.

I apologized, sort of like a prayer, as I sobbed, to my dead Father, who may be watching me (I believe he does watch over me, although maybe that’s just my hope), or he may just be ashes in the Columbarium behind the alter in the Church, and, in the Urns, I, along with the rest of my family members, keep in a safe place.

I DON’T FUCKING KNOW! Who could?! (<– another laugh.)

I stood up, looked at myself, and thought, “this is the fucking time to fucking write about self-harm. So woman-the-fuck-up, and take the fucking pictures. And there you have it, folks.

I know some of you who read this blog know me personally. Thank you, so much, for reading this. Maybe it will concern you, but I hope it doesn’t. Maybe it will change your mind about me, but I hope it doesn’t. Maybe you will worry about me, I’m okay with that one. I think this world would probably be a better place if we all worried about each other’s well being a little bit more.

To those that do not know me personally and read this blog, I hope this helps you to get to know me more personally, and that you’ll come back. I think this type of honesty makes writing more honest. I won’t apologize for that, or for myself.

I’ve already written before that I recently got out of an abusive relationship — one of several, actually. Even though the most recent left ME, I’m still “out.”

I’m done with that shit. If anyone is going to abuse me, it’s going to be me, on my terms, for my reasons (<– another laugh). And I won’t fucking apologize for that either.

This post in and of itself is kind of twisted. Because I obviously feel guilty for cutting even though I personally don’t think there’s anything wrong with my doing it to myself.

But here’s what you need to know.

I promise on my life, I do not want to die.

This post is NOT A CRY OUT FOR HELP. I get help every week. My doctors know what’s going on. My therapist knows what’s going on. My Mom, (to my extreme shame for not using enough makeup, and taking my sweater off in her presence) unfortunately knows what’s going on, certainly not for the first time, (I’m so sorry, Mom. I have asked her not to read my blog for reasons like this: grotesque honesty). And, as I’m about to see my best friend tomorrow, I can’t imagine she also won’t see, and not nearly for the first time, what’s going on. I don’t need more help.

I do not want to die. That’s NEVER been my intention. I am not suicidal. I have NO suicidal ideation. 

This next statement WILL sound insane/crazy/however the fuck judgmentally you want it to: I am an EXTREMELY HAPPY PERSON, ALMOST ALL OF THE TIME. I fucking LOVE my life. I cannot wait to see what’s next. And there’s nothing fucking wrong with me. (So if YOU, reader, think there is, THIS BLOG IS NOT FOR YOU!) This is my reality. And fortunately, I’m allowed to do what I want, as long as I am not a danger to myself or others. And I’m not. And maybe that’s my point.

Self-harm, doesn’t mean danger to oneself.

In fact, according to Mental Health America (, Self-Harm is defined as thus (emphasis added): “Self-injury, also known as self-harm, self-mutilation, or self-abuse occurs when someone intentionally and repeatedly harms herself/himself in a way that is impulsive and not intended to be lethal.” SO GET OVER IT, NOW.

Because I’m okay.



A Simpler Plan

I am so very thankful to be spending this Thanksgiving with my Mom (and hopefully, if he feels well enough, my brother).

I’ve always ALWAYS loved the holiday season because I’ve always been blessed with, well, basically everything. And I never want to take that for granted.

I remember my Mom in particular helping me get ready for my second or third grade Thanksgiving play in elementary school. I played an old woman, so she showed me that by putting baby powder in my hair, we could make it look gray, and then I’d really look the part!!!

Always imaginative, thoughtful, and full of love. That’s my Mom.

Now, I’m twenty-something years older, and sometimes, I feel like I am watching my life literally kill me.

What a horrible thing to think about. It’s true, but that doesn’t make it easier.

My hair gets naturally grayer by the day now. I’m not even mad about that part of getting older.

I’m mad that what my life is, has nothing to do with what I thought life would be.

I believed my teachers when they told me I was especially creative. I believed then when they told me that if I worked hard and did everything right, I would become something called a “grown up.” But I’m still waiting for that last label to feel right and set in.

Hey world! I’m waiting for my instruction manual!!!

What the fuck am I doing with my time? My life? Does anything I do matter?!

I was so excited to be exactly like my Mom when I grew up; I wanted to be happy at my stable job which would turn into a lifelong career, and of course I’d have a husband who was exactly like my Dad! I imagined I’d have three children just like my parents did together, and with all that I’d have a “home.”

What a sucker I was, huh?

I’m not trying to be negative or depressing, not at all (it just comes out; sorry). But, I definitely didn’t expect to be where I am — completely changing my every life plan at my current age.

I want to go back to the days when my brother and sister and I put on “shows” for our parents. We’d work on a routine with costumes, write songs to sing, and act something out for every holiday. We wrote a Thanksgiving song one year. I used to remember the whole thing, but, dead brain cells and all…I don’t anymore. Here’s part of it:

🎶Green bean casserole!!!!!
Black olives from a can
Mashed potatoes too
And stuffing for youuuuu
That’s our Thanksgiving meal!
Yeah! Yeah! Yeeeaaaahhhh!🎶

Soooooooooooooo cool, right?! Imagine that song, performance, etc., being the only thing you were working on, responsible for, needed to get right, in your life. How it was at that time for me. Entertaining Mom and Dad. It was Heaven.

Back to reality, whoops there goes…plagiarism. (Sorry, Em.) I want all of the precious memories I have to become part of how I live now. I’m just stuck.

But, thinking back to a time when things really were perfect, I think I’m going to do some more searching for the moments — those that really inspired me to make everything I wanted in life — a reality.

Yes, times were simpler when I expected these things to of course just fall into place. Tough shit.

I need a plan.

Happy Thanksgiving to all! Stay safe, and know that someone does care about you in this life. Even if you’re reading this and I’ve never met you, I care about you in this life. So live it. And I’ll try too.

The Bleak, The Sad, And The “If You Just Put In A Little Bit Of Effort”

I still consider myself to be “newly” single. But I’ve been single since this past August, (although the relationship was dead before that), so, you be the jury.

As a now single woman, I’m trying to be awesome. Wait. I wrote that wrong. I’ve always been awesome. As a now single woman, I’m trying to express my awesome, something that was hiding behind a man who did not appreciate the awesome, so he smothered it.

But, this post, is not about him, really.

I am not that young. I’m not old, and I am constantly being told I look younger than I am, but I am not that young. I’m old enough to want to be married and trying to have babies.

“WHOA, THERE!” you might be thinking. In this day and age, being up front about wanting a mate (literally, I guess unless you’re from Australia?) to mate with puts me in the category of “that chick’s on a one way trip to crazy town,” letting those things be known up front. I know. Honesty is so taboo! I understand that, “Hi, I’m looking to have a marriage and children…soon,” isn’t a proper pick-up line, introduction, or “first date material.” But why can’t it be?

I have always met my significant others “organically,” as in, not through an online dating service. (I’m not knocking them; I have many married acquaintances and friends that have successful marriages (as far as I know) who met online, and I don’t think there is anything wrong with meeting someone that way if it is for you). It is NOT for me. Been there. Saw the dick pics. Done with that.

But if I have to go on eHarmony to find a husband, I’m going to cry.

So, how does one such as me attract a mate these days? That brings me to “The Bleak.” I have been so grateful to have been in love and in a relationship during the past five years during “the holiday season.” I DEFINITELY see what people mean when they say the holidays can be especially lonely. I love the fuck out of the movie, “Love Actually,” and I don’t even know if I can get through it without crying more than my USUAL five times!

What I mean by “one such as me,” is someone who REALLY doesn’t like to conform. (Ask my Mom. She’s like, probably 32% okay with what I do, maybe, and probably like 51% embarrassed by me, sometimes. She’s 17% TBD at a later date.) I don’t want to buy into traditional beauty standards.

I’m the one wearing the “Nasty Woman” sweatshirt, carrying the tote that says, “You should see my ACTIVE Bitch face,” and usually, when I can make it happen, has a partially shaved head, hair cut short and dyed some unnatural color, wearing bright neon yellow chucks, and often men’s shirts, because they are more comfortable to me than women’s shirts. I LOATHE bras, I wear Tomboyx ( underwear:


as often as possible, WITH panty-liners, (regardless of the type of underwear I’m wearing), because that’s how I roll (<– TMI? Then this blog’s not for you, sweetheart. Oh! Also! Grow up!). I put deodorant on in public, and don’t think there’s anything wrong with it, (sorry, Mom). I’m not someone you would call “beautiful,” “hot,” or even “pretty.” I’m quite intentionally, not “traditional.”

However. I believe in my heart that I am beautiful on the inside. I’m kind to everyone, UNLESS they disrespect my Mom, those I love, or I just witness them doing something cruel. I’m smart, witty, clever, intelligent, well-read, discerning, creative, unpredictable, and fun. I’m not a bad catch.

But, to find a mate, I have to stop being me, and start being more “traditional.”

This takes me to the “If You Just Put In A Little Bit of Effort…” segment. Someone very dear to me told me a couple of weeks ago that I should basically always wear makeup if I’m outside in the world. Just a little bit. The quote was, indeed, “if you just put in a little bit of effort…” trailing off. But it was all about make-up. I wear make-up, often. Not always, but I would say more days than not. But on this day, I hadn’t been wearing any. The next time I saw this person I made sure to really put in more than a little effort. I wanted to look stunning.

Upon seeing me, this person said, “Wow! See what a little effort can do! You look better!” I replied that it had taken me almost an hour to look like I had put in exactly “just a little bit” of effort. I spent one full hour of my life applying make-up so that it looked effortless and minimal. Jesus.

I was annoyed. I said as much in protest. The FEMINIST who initiated this idea, asked me what was so bad about what I had done. I replied, “Nothing! I’ll just buy into society’s perpetual standard that ‘natural’ isn’t beautiful, thus further padding the pockets of the make-up industry, which, doesn’t ALREADY exploit women, taxing us, making us feel like we should all look like models, depleting my values just to buy into a destructive, ugly culture, run by men.” The literal response was “point taken.”

But she wasn’t wrong about the amount of attraction my “little bit of effort” pulled in. Since I’ve put in that “little bit of effort,” I have received a disgusting amount of compliments on my appearance. I HATE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I. HATE. IT. MAKE-UP?! REALLY?! THAT IS THE THING THAT I NEED. TO GET ATTENTION?! Fuck that SHIT!

I’m the one who used to go to bars or clubs in my early twenties and stood against the wall making sure my friends weren’t being date raped, looking more promiscuous than I’m proud of, skinny and hot at that time, beautiful, even, yet defiantly emitting a radiance that said “I will cut your dick off if you fucking look at me.”

Although I never knew how “hot” I was considered back then, I did know I was going through something I couldn’t yet process…something I’m just barely beginning to process now. I wanted to look “hot,” because blending in was safe for me back then. Of course, I thought I was fat and thus ugly (NOT AT ALL WHAT I BELIEVE NOW) when that was not the case (and probably still isn’t).

Quickly: Body Dysmorphic Disorder is a real thing, and I don’t know a single girl or woman who doesn’t have at least some form of it. “BDD is a body-image disorder characterized by persistent and intrusive preoccupations with an imagined or slight defect in one’s appearance,” ( Men have it too, no doubt. But women are programmed to hate their bodies by, ironically, perhaps, perpetal cultural triggers pushing us into morphing them. Push-up bras, heels, make-up, earrings…the list goes on.

As for “The Sad,” I was raped. And, as it turns out, not just once. That has probably been at least part of the reason I’ve done as much as I have to give off the impression that I don’t want anyone coming near me. Because I don’t want anyone coming near me…especially not men.

I’ve written about this previously, but honestly, when I went from a size four to my current size, I stopped getting harassed, cat-called, etc. Being “overweight” by definition, was a reprieve from what I’d experienced my entire adult life up to that point. And I owe all that extra weight to rape as well. The assault that keeps on taking. How am I supposed to grapple with THAT shit?

So now, I, the person who has gone to comfortable, yet disapproved of, lengths, to hide her figure, and effectively puff up like a blowfish, for all intents and purposes, have to change.

Even though I hate it and don’t want to do it, I’ll do it.

To attempt to attract a mate.

But, I think what’s upsetting me the most, is that I look in the mirror, myself, with this stupid shit on, and think, “fuck, I do look quite pretty with this shit on.”

Shame on me.

Shame on me for complaining about something I’m privileged enough to be able to complain about.

And shame on everyone else, for judging the cover before the book.


I have a very addictive personality. It is extremely serious. This addictive personality has ruined otherwise perfectly good times in my life, and it has amplified the already bad situations.

But I’m lucky.

Because I’m basically “allergic” to opiates.

What a leap to make right there, right?

This comes up due to a recent visit to a “pain management” specialist or how I have always thought of them, drug dealers. I am NOT — I REPEAT — NOT — judging anyone who goes to these doctors, who is helped by these doctors, who is one of these doctors. I’m not saying they’re bad or good or anything in that realm. But, I have always been afraid of these doctors. The name of their specialty even feels addictive to me.

Some things have happened in my life. And I met some people. And I know I’m lucky that I’m basically “allergic” to opiates. I’ve never looked like this:

But I know REALLY GOOD PEOPLE, who have….Really good people. I have been fortunate to never have gotten that “dope sick,” a term I am using in this post to mean, “withdrawing from any drug” (and the definition of “drug” is critical here: “a medicine or other substance which has a physiological effect when ingested or otherwise introduced into the body.”).

But I have been “dope sick” as defined above. I could barely breathe, my heartbeat was irregular, I was severely dehydrated, and my skin was crawling. Less severe reactions were my inability to sit still, my shaking excessively, and of course, my hatred of everything and every one who couldn’t get me what I needed to be not “dope sick.”

But this post is getting off track, because I wanted to share my experience with one such drug dealer — “a pain management” specialist — I finally gave into going to see. I know what these doctors can be about. I know what they’ve done to a lot of people in my life.

But, my pain has become too severe. I cannot work a “normal” job. I cannot move correctly. I cannot live correctly.

Going in, I already knew what I was, and was not, willing to go through to deal with my, now debilitating, chronic pain.

Can I just vent that I am SO, TIRED, OF FILLING OUT PAPERWORK AT DOCTOR’S OFFICES? I want to stop having to go to doctor’s offices. I had to fill out, no joke, fourteen pages of crap that excluding pages that just asked for my signature. One of the things I had to sign was a five page “Contract” (given my profession — paaahhh-lllleeeaaseeeee) which I edited to my satisfaction, and then wrote all over it “I do not consent.”

After twenty minutes, I was still filling out paperwork, but was guided to my own private waiting room (or as I call it — second waiting room). I was then lazily asked some questions by a receptionist (???) about my medical history, etc., and then abandoned for about forty-five seconds before doctor douche-bag entered.

DDB started asking me some questions as he, too, lazily, in my opinion, flipped through my paperwork, noting that it looked like I had been experiencing some pain. Wasn’t I at a pain management office? I was. Good call, doc.

Maybe my prejudices make me a bad candidate to write about this, but I swear this dude looked like a snake. Like, something Satan made (as opposed to something that was naturally created, if that makes any sense). Oh well. I’m writing about it anyway.

He saw that I was not looking for the solution to my pain through controlled substances and genuinely acted WEIRD towards me after realizing that. I swear, he was acting fucking weird. He asked me some questions condescendingly, you know, as they do.

I should confess, I really don’t appreciate it when doctors stand above me, ever. It’s such a power play, particularly in an office like this. I hated that he was standing, hovering, FEET over me as I sat, in pain, looking up at him. I also seriously hate when doctors interrupt you when you’re mid-sentence trying to explain your situation — you know — something you think they might want to know if they’re going to be treating you.

That seems like a HUGE difference to me between practicing medicine and practicing law — the liability in practicing medicine is already on some lawyer telling you that you’re fine if you do (insert checklist here). Sure, your name is attached to something if you’re a doctor, but if you’re anything like DDB, you’re the type of guy who’s relying on EXACTLY THAT CHECKLIST SHITAgain, not what this post is about, sorry again for the self-derailment.

So, trusting the Doctor I saw days before this appointment came up, I brought something up to this doctor that I thought might be relevant, to his decision, as to which way my treatment, or testing, or whatever, might go. I said that I didn’t know what was best for me, which was why I was there, sitting in front of him, but I had been asked to relay that information to him, at my other Doctor’s request.

[Probably] excited that he had a direction to take me in, he gave me some instructions on how to make my other Doctor’s suggestion a reality, and told me he would “help me out.”


Look. It’s the same bullshit as the cop who pulled me over for being on my cellphone while driving. HE DID ME A “FAVOR” TOO. He wanted to know who I was talking to and about what, and when he was done writing up my ticket leaned over my window and said he did me a favor, pausing for a good four, incredibly uncomfortable seconds, before telling me how he did me that favor.

I have already been criticized about this but I don’t care. If I broke the law (and I did), give me the ticket for the thing I did. Because I didn’t ask for a favor. And I sure as hell am not giving you something in return. (And I don’t care if I’m being ungrateful. The world isn’t fair, and I NEVER want to be on the receiving end of something UNFAIR, if, I can help the balance.)

And when it comes to the fucking law, or MEDICINE, INCLUDING MY LIVELIHOOD, I DON’T NEED FAVORS. I NEED FUCKING CONFIDENT DECISIONS, AND DIAGNOSES, AND TREATMENT. And I bet if either of these two had been women? — different outcome. I hope I’m wrong. But, I’ve yet to hear of a story like the ones above that include woman on woman action. Feel free to prove me wrong in the comments section!

DDB leafs through my paperwork again, looks up at me, stares me straight in the face, and says, “Let me guess, you’ve been diagnosed with PTSD.” And the way that eff-ing eff-er said that — wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a fucking question! He asserted it upon me. THEN, he asked, “and what about anxiety?”

I get it. I need to “qualify” for the treatment I need. And that’s great. Vet me. Make sure I have what I claim to have. Call my other doctors (their suggestion not mine) who led me to your drug-dealing door. (He refused that offer, putting the burden on me, who can only now painfully drive anywhere, to go get written proof for him of what I “claimed” to be true.) Why couldn’t he just fucking call them? If he were a PROFESSIONAL, he would have TALKED TO MY PHYSICIANS, WHILE I WAS IN THE ROOM WITH HIM, AND HE COULD HAVE ASKED THEM OVER THE PHONE TO FAX HIM WHAT HE WANTED. But no, now I have errands to run to prove that I’m not making this shit up.

Two phone calls on his part. The possible six or less minutes he spent with me could have expanded by a few more to save me the trouble. So that’s my new mission since this appointment this past Friday.

But the fact is: DDB has no interest in alleviating my pain. And I know that. Because he didn’t do SHIT for me. He didn’t go the proverbial “extra mile.” He didn’t even go a fucking centimeter. Because why do more than you have to, when you can order your in need of help, in pain, patients around?


Let me list for you, without any shame whatsoever, the conditions from which I suffer that would “qualify” me for the treatment at hand:

Approved debilitating medical conditions include:

  • Chronic pain related to musculoskeletal disorders, which include rheumatoid arthritis, lupus, fibromyalgia and opioid use disorder;
  • Chronic pain of visceral origin
  • Migraine
  • Anxiety
  • Inflammatory bowel disease, including Crohn’s disease
  • Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

But this asshole looks at my paperwork, and with fucking absolutely NOTHING in it which should have prompted the statement pertaining to the last thing on this list, TOLD me I was diagnosed with PTSD. Like he knows one fucking thing about my life. WHY?

I NEED to know. I WILL find out. After I get what I need. (I’m no hero.)

But why THAT THING? He had other legit options.

What it because I’m a woman?

Because I’m totally underestimating this dude and he actually knows the way things are in the world and his “guess” just happened to sound more like a statement than a question to me? Maybe he’s enlightened and I’m just biased. Maybe.

Or maybe.


After he declares, with certainty, my prior diagnosis, he moves to asking me, “and anxiety?” What about the eff-ing thing I came here for treatment for, which happens to be at the top of that eff-ing list?! WHY. NOT. THAT?

FUCK HIM and his FUCKING FUCK self. I don’t care what the fuck was going on with him at that moment, at that time, during that day. I don’t. Because Friday night, and again Saturday night, I called my Mom, to talk about it, and I began sobbing. It was like bringing up PTSD, which YES, I HAVE BEEN DIAGNOSED WITH, brought up everything I experienced with that diagnosis, and no one — NO ONE — who has PTSD needs ANYTHING to remind him/her of the fucking hell that led to his/her PTSD.

Maybe you already guessed this about me, but I’m not in the military. They wouldn’t take me. So I don’t have the kind of PTSD that someone in the military might have. But I have it, and it has destroyed a lot of my self. And anyone who has PTSD, in my opinion, wouldn’t judge anyone else for what he/she has PTSD for. There’s a community of us. Real survivors — of a trauma which changed our lives completely. It is debilitating.

But again.

Nothing in my fucking paperwork or otherwise pointed to PTSD. My medication list? Sure, numbers 1, 3 & 4? CHECK. So what the fuck, DDB?

Why did you jump to THAT?


My medication list SHOULD have led him to anxiety before anything else in the world. ANYTHING. FUCKING. ELSE!

It’s not okay that he did that.

It’s not okay that when I was leaving I felt like he was showing off, by literally violating HIPPA in front of me, giving his staff member instructions after she asked him a question, like he was flaunting his power, and how much responsibility came with that power.

My Mom recently told me that “If I make just a little bit of effort…” I might be happy with the results, in regards to my appearance. I was making, literally just the littlest bit of effort possible. So, ironically, I was like, Mom! But I know what she meant. She meant look prettier if I want to attract a mate. I, being the Bitch I am, of course told her that I was happy to now be supporting the establishment who sells make-up, feeding the culture that reflects back to us all of our values in society, including beauty, over everything else I WANT to be noticed for. To her credit, she admitted, “point taken.”(I love you, Mom. And you gave me good advice. People DO notice me now that I’m wearing make-up, perpetuating the implication that looks are indeed everything. But whatever I think of it, your intentions were always pure and kind.)

I think I need a dog to help me get through my panic attacks related to my anxiety and PTSD. I’m not kidding. Anyone know someone?

In conclusion, just don’t do THAT. Don’t be THAT guy. Don’t be an asshole. Don’t bring up PTSD unless you absolutely have to, and don’t assume anyone doesn’t want to talk about their PTSD either. Don’t do anything I say. Because in the PTSD community, I guarantee, there is one of us who will tell you, “you did it wrong.”

Editor’s Note: It turns out that chronic pain, is, well, chronic. I’ve been barely able to get around the past few days, having worn myself out earlier in the week, and my writing here every day has suffered. I dislike this very much, but am learning to manage it and work with it and deal with this new situation. Selfishly, I hope you missed me.


I was going to write a long post today.


Someone close to me, it turns out, has been shooting heroin. So I needed to be with her Mom and take care of what needed taking care of. Because that’s what I do when shit gets real. And I encourage you — to do the same for those close to you.

A day spent without regret.

I was thanked for everything I did — which I hate but accept. Just be a decent person.

Her Mom and I made soup and drank Chocolate Milk. I was an excellent distraction-artist.

I will write tomorrow.

Blessings to all.

MY LIFE: Where Pain Never Goes Away. Because I Have Chronic Pain.

It was literally painful to type that Title to this post. I have been wanting to write so badly over the past few days, even starting 14 post drafts. But, as soon as I started, my now, not-so-new Chronic Pain kicked in and I couldn’t continue. The same thing is happening now, so I miss you guys and hope to be typing/writing again soon. Maybe I’ll do the voice to text thing (but we all know it’s not the same).


Baby, You’re the Left Kind of Left

Tonight, after my Creative Writing class:

  1. I almost died in a car accident due to an IDIOT stopping short on a semi-highway because his/her exit was blocked off and he/she wanted to GO THAT WAY (FUCK YOU, MORON!);
  2. I went to my Mom’s to wrangle my sick, eleven year old cat, Peyton, to give him medicine; and,
  3. I sobbed in front of my Mom.

This was a sob of many sobs as of late. I feel like a failure, almost all of my waking time, almost every day. I get glimpses of “you matter in this world” and “thank you for doing that for me,” which sustain me, for now.

But tonight, I sat in front of my Mom, who, although she does everything she can for everyone she can within her capacity to do so, tries SO HARD to say the right thing to me, (which I’m learning might actually be impossible), hurt me. My Mom, does not always say the most sensitive things to those of us in the family with Mental Illness. I KNOW — SHE DOES NOT DO THIS ON PURPOSE — I KNOW — SHE TRIES TO SAY THE THING THAT WON’T OFFEND US. I KNOW this to be true. But sometimes, the wrong words come out of her mouth, (and again, by wrong, I mean, I might be impossible to please in this way), but it hurts.

Tonight, she couldn’t tell me what even one of my diagnoses is. I had no interest in getting into this conversation when I arrived to give Peyton his kitty medicine, and I don’t even know how it came up. But it did, somehow, and here we are. I told her one thing I have been diagnosed with is Major Depressive Disorder. She made the comment that she hoped I would be able to find the Holy Grail — so to speak — which would “motivate [me]” out of what I am going through right now.

In case you don’t know, Depression has NOTHING to do with MOTIVATION. PERIOD. THE — FUCKING — END.

I know my Mom did not mean to offend me with her choice of words, and I told her that, but I also explained that the kind of depression that I suffer from, cannot be “cured.” I cannot be “motivated” out of it — ever. She, of course, apologized if I had felt offended, because that was not her intention. I had already told her, prefacing this part of the conversation, that I knew she didn’t mean to hurt me, but I felt the need to let her know that it was still a hurtful thing to hear.

Because it felt like she was saying things I fear I am. Like I’m just lazy. Like I just can’t get it together. Like I’m not trying hard enough. Like all I need is the “correct stimulation” and I’ll “get over it.”

The end to this story is — I don’t get over it. I don’t EVER get to “get over it.” I cannot both harbor this affliction AND pretend it is curable. It simply isn’t. It is — what I told my Mom it is — MANAGEABLE.

And even though it can manageable, manageability isn’t a given. I’ve had to call my therapist during the week at crazy times because things are going on that I simply cannot deal with in that moment.

Sometimes, people confuse situational depression with forever depression. And if you have both, like I am suffering through right now, I can feel targeted. It’s everything I’m always trying to manage plus everything else on top of that.

My Mom and I talked some more. And through my increasingly wet shirt, neck, and of course, eyes, I sobbed to her, The world broke me, Mom.”

The world, broke me.

But P.S., I have the most amazing, understand, loving, caring, amazing Mom in the world 💞 and I am so grateful for her support.

Country & Oldies, and Vice Versa (?)

OKAY. Calm down, everyone. I’m back.

When I was growing up — (and by way of stupid-quick background — I was SO effing lucky growing up — I had THE childhood — a story for another time?), my Mom and my Dad both enjoyed some different types of music.

I remember being in a car about 100% of my growing up. Obviously I know this isn’t true, but a lot of things in my day did, in fact, revolve around driving. AT LEAST THAT’S HOW IT FELT! (Did I mention I had the best effing childhood?)

If Mom was driving, we would be listening to what was then, 101.1 — The Golden Oldies. (I know that was the dial, but the name might have been different — alcohol stole some of my brain cells, so, who’s really to blame here? Dad sometimes listened to this station too

If Dad was driving, it would be 103.5, Y2KCountry FM (I know that dial is right too, but I forget the name, same as above).

My Mom HATED and to this day, still does hate, Country Music. She had told me she found it unnecessarily sad. I didn’t understand the lyrics at the age I’m referring to, so, when I listened to Reba, I’d hear, “I lose my senses,” and hear, “lose my sensei,” and I’d think about “Shredder” the rat in “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” something I faced every day!

But since my Dad died? Jesus Christ.

A few days ago I went to my Mom’s. I was picking up a pizza for us for dinner — for the next three days — yup, that’s us — on the way. I was listening to 94.7 NASH FM (certain about that this time) and this song came on. I don’t know new songs even though I listen every Sunday. Sunday, is Country Music Day. 

So, this song comes on and the lyrics are like, “when it rains is pours.” To me, that’s like “when I’m effed — I’m effing effed!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

But, the song continues with the line, “and I don’t have to see my ex-mother-in-law anymore,” and I thought of Daddy. I think he would have enjoyed that line.

The song is all about how the phrase “when it rains it pours” can ALSO mean for positive things too. And I am not in a particularly positive situation at the moment, so I was kind of like “eff you” to the song. I don’t believe in that. I don’t usually feel that gaining a bunch of great things all at once is possible for me, as grateful as I am for everything I have ever been given the gift of having/experiencing/whatever.

I parked. Pizza. Focus.

I went in to the pizza place. The order wasn’t ready. I looked around, as a person does. I saw they made soup(!) so, I asked, “how long have you been making soup?” The high-school-er at the counter then asked the owner (who I guess — I kind of “know?”) how long they’ve been making soup. He responds, “for a bit of a while now.”

I was speechless in return. (RIVETING!)

Then the owner asked me, “do you like soup?” and I replied, “I love soup.” He the picked one up and said, “here’s my pasta fagioli; first one’s on me.” The girl at the counter gave me the rest of the order. I walked to my car. I placed the pizza, etc. on my car’s floor, carefully. I went around to the driver’s side, after checking to make sure I wouldn’t be taken out by a motor vehicle, and got in.

And I said, “All right, God. You got me on that one.”

There’s this one other song I love and hear on that station lately. I think it might be called “Take a Drunk Girl Home.” Sounds shady as EFF, right? I hated the name/lyric/whatever. Until I listened. I REALLY listened. The song is about taking a drunk girl home, a girl who WAS OBVIOUSLY hurting. It suggests a man at a bar should take a drunk girl home, leave her clothes on, tuck her in her bed, leave a note with your name and number under her keys on a table, and to leave the hallway light on. It also suggests that’s how YOU KNOW the difference between a boy, and, a man.

I effing love that song. The point of this post is — things change! Country Music is sad, a lot of times. But lately, I have found some songs are happily progressive.

You know what they say: “when it rains it pours,” and, “take a drunk girl home!” (but do that last one like the country song I’m writing about suggests you should— don’t be a boy).

As for Oldies Music? No need to justify anything. It’s m-er-effing ballin’.

I Guess This is Just A Hail Mary on Sunday Night

My ex texted me the following: (__________________________________) <— fill in whatever you think he said, here. I’M HERE TO INSPIRE AND CREATE, PEOPLE! LET YOUR IMAGINATION RUN AWAY WITH YOU! MY RESPONSE MAY HELP YOU CREATE THE CRAZIEST OR MOST AMAZING STORY EVER! YOU WON’T BE BORED IF YOU CARE!

I, then, brought up a very sensitive topic we had been, in my opinion, fighting most prominently about prior to his leaving this apartment, and our relationship (yes, in that order).

Feeling brave, the next day I reached out.


My Mom has, with SO much love advised me to “leave him alone” and “not to engage with him” and “not to idolize him” — and, most importantly, (for real for real), to “remember that he never wanted to give [me] what [I] want,” in my not so young life — a husband — and children, if I am able to have them. She reminds me that I need a commitment to that! And when he could not accept or provide it or simply give that to me, he left me.

My Mom is RIGHT. We had MANY problems beyond that, as I am more and more clearly seeing, but that was the most significant in my eyes. He was happy to “play house” and drag me along until I WOMANED THE FUCK UP AND DEMANDED LIFELONG AND CHILD-BEARING COMMITMENT, which was, something I had told him I wanted for a long time prior to our break-up.

At one point he even mentioned engagement rings. I don’t know how he justifies the difference between then and now. I probably never will. He just insults me if I ask.

Being Uniwue.jpg

The uphill battle? I attempted it. I thought, “hey, kiddo, the haters (read: my most cherished friends and family), are pessimistic, and they don’t know him like you do.” But the truth is, if I, had heard, what I was saying to one of my friends, I would have thought that person didn’t deserve my friend, either. (I ask that you read my above words carefully and correctly: e.g. “what I was saying” versus “what was happening.”)

And I would have had NO fucking problem telling that friend, too. I would have done anything to protect her.


I told him I remembered something that I wish we had tried to work out.

He replied that he didn’t “know what to say to that,” adding, “we were working on more pressing matters.”

I answered, “We never worked on anything, [my sometimes nickname for him].

As I think more and more about what he said, I still have no — fucking — idea what he’s talking about. I don’t necessarily expect to find out soon, if ever, because he’s like that, but I have NO — FUCKING — IDEA WHAT HE’S TALKING ABOUT.

Please, help! What can I do to feel better? I so badly want a partner for myself like my Mom found in my Dad. I so badly want a family. I want a career that highlights my favorite things and my talents. I don’t think — after everything I’ve done to get where I am in life — that’s too much to ask. 

I’ve lived my life trying to make other people’s lives better. I can be an angry, vindictive,  and highly anxious person. That doesn’t come without it’s baggage. I know!

I also know — whoever is out there “for me” — it’s worth it. I’m worth it.

Peace and love, and one of my favorite “mantras,” PAY IT FORWARD!

More Like Daylight Losings, Am I right?

As I am — one by one — turning all of my clocks back an hour, I find myself trying to appreciate the extra hour of sleep I will get tonight (only to be lost again in the Spring), but, I’ll take it.

We’re always encouraged to put new batteries in our smoke detectors and carbon monoxide detectors this time of year. But I rent. And I have more detectors that are not active than ones that are — thanks to my Landlord. So now, I’m anxious that I have to deal with THAT! So guess what! I just won’t. I’m being honest.

I hate the loss of light as we hurdle towards Winter — (a season I enjoyed with my most recent ex-boyfriend, (who I am now having the fucking worst separation anxiety from by the way), but otherwise despised). And I still despise it now that it’s coming up.

Unless, my life turns around in some really significant ways really soon.

Those of us suffering from mental illness can, sometimes, suffer more in the Winter than in other seasons due to loss of light. Seasonal Affective Disorder, they call it, or, S.A.D. (Freaking really, psychiatrists or whoever writes the freaking DSM?! LAME-O name-o.)

Speaking of loss, I was talking to my neighbor who had gotten to “know” my ex-boyfriend when he lived here with me and since he has left she and I have become very close, since we’re kind of in the same situation, except she has different things to deal with than I do.

Very recently, this neighbor asked me during one of our heart to hearts, at what moment I knew I was going to be “okay” enough to let my ex leave. I told her I wasn’t sure and I thought about it for a bit.

Finally, I said, “I think it was when I was so frustrated with the lack of lighting in the apartment, and I kind of ‘woke up,’ you know, like had a revelation or something, kind of like I snapped out of a fog I had been in since my Dad died, and I realized that I could have bought myself a fucking light — or more than one — when we moved in like five years ago, and I literally had the thought, ‘just buy a fucking light!’ — and I did. And  since then I bought 6 more lamps to place around the apartment.

let there be light.jpg

She laughed SO HARD at that, and I still don’t really understand why. She says it to me when she sees me now. “Just buy a fucking light!” and she laughs!

But I needed to do that for myself. I had always hated how dark this apartment had been. Always. But I NEVER thought to do anything about it, and I NEVER took any action about it (something I am just coming to terms with about many things I didn’t do during my time here with my ex) — I just complained about it whenever it was least convenient for me to have such little light (when I was taking photos or coloring or writing — a ton of things I wanted more light for). 

Do you have any idea how much happier I am with AT LEAST two standing or table lamps in every room?! I’m disgustingly happier. (I also redecorated nearly all of the apartment which I admit, helps a lot too.) My ex might be able to tell you in which room the above picture was taken in, but that’s about all he’d recognize.

Light isn’t just this thing that comes in and out of our lives. (Well, I guess literally, it is.) Light can be annoying for people trying to sleep, or watching a movie, or a million other reasons. But it can also make you smile when you walk into a room that you’ve never smiled walking into before. And by youI mean me.

As lame as “S.A.D.” sounds, it is a real affliction, and it affects a LOT of people, especially after daylight savings time passes — after Halloween now — (not like when I was a kid and Pluto was a Planet! — still is to me — and Pluto even has its own stamphaters — so — what does that tell you?).

Light, around your apartment or house, can be instrumental to helping those with Seasonal Affective Disorder, or those of us with other types of mental illnesses, like me, afflicted with Major Depressive Disorder, plus a lot of other shit I’m diagnosed with but not ready to share here yet.

So, don’t underestimate the impact of a few more lamps in your life. It could have a major impact on you and those in your family or those who live with you. I can swear by it — for at least two months now.

I guess what I’m saying is: let there be light!!!!!!!!!!!

Especially since it’s going to be a lot darker outside, a lot earlier.

You deserve it.

So About Last Night…

Last night I posted some pretty intimate material about a previous relationship of mine. What started out as an exercise in attempting to make myself look bad through writing about my relationship through my ex-boyfriend’s eyes turned into a kind of hate-fest towards him in my class. What’s worse — for someone who wants to put good energy out into the world — I came up short in that post.

I have been spending a lot of time…too much time…thinking about all of the ways that I missed him and the things I learned from him, the things he did for me, how he was basically amazing. But that was really bad for me. Because it was only one-sided. I was only thinking of the good — now that he is gone.

So, I tried an exercise trying to see myself through his eyes. I didn’t think I painted myself in a good light. I did think I wrote down what his thought processes truthfully had been, as explained to me, by him. But he came off as such, well, an asshole.

My problem is, I don’t think of him that way. But maybe by writing what I did and sharing it with eight people so far removed from anything having to do with us was exactly what I needed. Because they asked me important follow-up questions about my piece (and thus relationship). They made me open my eyes in a new way to what had been going on between us, and it was clearly not even close to being healthy.

In fact, to say my classmates were “disturbed” by how both of our “characters” interacted with one another is an understatement.

I apologize if my writing last night made it seem like my ex was a monster and I wasn’t. I DO see myself as a monster. But at least by work-shopping parts of my life in a therapeutic way, I found a healthier thing to do than count the ways in which I am now lacking.

And I have hope.

I Wrote A Story From My Ex’s Perspective About Me And Read It To My Creative Writing Class Tonight — And This Is What Happened

Tonight, in my Creative Writing class, I read out loud (while the class members read along with their own copies, as is standard) a very raw, intense, R to NC-17 rated story written by me from my ex’s perspective. It was titled, “PUSSY.” Uncomfortable? Tweet our president.

I have been working through my emotions in a number of healthy ways, but this, it turned out, was by far the healthiest. I put myself into his shoes and wrote how I would have seen me from his eyes.

My classmates did not and still do not know that my piece was about me or my relationship, except for one classmate who I know from last semester (and I am SO THRILLED he is taking the same class again with me!!!!!), and my Professor who was also my Professor last semester, (both of whom I had already divulged my “secret” to).

I was not easy on myself, and I tried to write from his perspective honestly and organically. And I really tried to channel what I would have felt, thought, and done, if I were in his position.

When I got home I read the comments my fellow classmates wrote on the pieces I had passed out. This part is extremely difficult. I felt encouraged by their comments in class, but written comments are more revealing and can be harsh. And some were.

The reaction of the class was, as I laughed with my Professor after class in the parking lot, NOT “what the fuck?,” which encouraged me to continue my quest for an honest story.

And the written comments are:

  • Am I supposed to be sympathetic to this guy?
  • I am repulsed by his behavior. How could anyone see him as a sympathetic character?
  • Could she really cook?
  • This seems too tender for him to say.
  • Double entendre? Which one of them is the pussy?
  • Are we supposed to like this person?
  • Well, I guess that’s nice.
  • Why? Is she violent?
  • Oh my God, get counseling, you guys!
  • How about a flashback to when they first met? Early days of dating?
  • Is she smart? Do you want us to like her? If so, give use something more to go on.
  • She still seems pretty with it.
  • Okay. So. I’m supposed to despise the main character/narrator, right? But the woman is pretty pathetic. I don’t like her either. I want to like someone. Maybe the main character is really good at his job? Maybe she’s a great cook sometimes? Give me something to like about them!
  • Was it really love or just lust?
  • Hard to tell if he really cares about her.
  • What’s their relationship like not here?
  • Says he loves these women but is abusive
  • Using her to masterbate.
  • Did he ever realize he just didn’t care about her?

The following comments, in full disclosure, come from the two men who know this is a true story about my life.

  • Nice description of the relationship between them
  • Wow!
  • I tend to think she is the one handling their relationship and I like it
  • Another very nice description
  • Excellent!
  • The power I was expecting is present in every line. Does he really love her? I get a feeling he does. I loved it. Maybe a little more of “feelings” between them would help? <—- (I wish it had, my friend.)
  • Boy — I REALLY dislike him just from this one moment [first full paragraph on page one] — graphic — but it gives you an honest portrait of a person who thinks this way.
  • The way he thinks is scary —
  • How does this make her sleepy — ? Maybe “content” — satisfied — and with that, she zones out —
  • Wow — what a major ASSHOLE!

wow what an asshole.jpg

Disclaimer: The result is what I’ve always known…I’m not perfect. But I deserve better than him. And he deserves different than me.

And if he was an asshole in our relationship, I was at least part of the reason.

Fuck You; I’m Depressed. Let Me Bring You Into My World. And Music, Asshole.

I made the fucking soup myself, “The Love Of My Life”!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It only took me seven days to muster the courage to attempt “The Soup!!!!!” Luckily, I preserved the vegetables properly and therefore they were not only viable, but dare I say BALLIN’. I always asked “The Love Of My Life” to make this soup for me. My Dad used to make it. It is a simple recipe. And “The Love Of My Life” had promised to cook for me, always. But, he bailed. So! I’m doing it myself. Suck on that, “The Love Of My Life.”

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I’ve done everything right in my life with some exceptions.

But I find myself to be a complete failure.

“The Love Of My Life” thinks I hate myself. I used to hate myself. I guess under certain influences I do hate myself. But in Real Life, I do not hate myself at all. For what I go through on a daily basis, I’m a FUCKING SUPERHERO. Like Hiro, from “Heroes.” [Sup, Dwight?]

In the past several weeks I have been called “bipolar” by my Ex, “The Love Of My Life,” AND I have been questioned about whether I think I am “Manic” due to my recent behavior juxtaposed with a seminar on Mental Health this person attended.

I probably seem Manic right now. I am not. I am suffering.

As someone who recently returned to the world of Facebook, (not my favorite place as it is usually a place where everyone shows how amazing their lives are and how cute their kids are and how wonderful their engagement was and, look(!!!!) now they’re married(!) and they are vacationing all around the world. (WHAT JOBS DO YOU HAVE? HOW DID YOU GET THEM? WHERE DID YOU MEET YOUR PERFECT SPOUSE WHO WANTED TO WIFEY OR HUBBY YOU UP? (And why is “wifey” a misspelled word here but “hubby” isn’t?) HOW COME I’M NOT PREGNANT WITH MY THIRD CHILD? Why didn’t I tell (married person) about how I felt about them before the got married?) Oh! Right! I believed my lying Ex. Then there is that one person who I would definitely want to date if I thought he was interested, but I don’t have enough self-confidence to make that known to him. Then there’s the cryptic people who I just REALLY want to tell me WHAT THE FUCK THEIR CRYPTIC SHIT IS ABOUT.

So yeah, that’s Facebook for me.

I use Spotify. (Who cares, right?) I just want to say that I created a playlist on Spotify called, “Fuck You, I’m Depressed.” And I won’t apologize for that shit. First of all, that’s a great playlist. Second of all, that’s how I feel inside.

It is my personal opinion that Anxiety and sometimes Depression have become a kind of “trend.” I know very few people without anxiety — whether the anxiety has been diagnosed as Anxiety and those people are being treated for Anxiety or not — or just anxiety — suffered by those who do not seek or cannot afford treatment. I don’t mean that people don’t actually have Anxiety/anxiety in saying it feels like a “trend”; I would argue in most cases these people are afflicted.

Now, I want to tell you some weird things my Anxiety causes me to do. Then, I want to tell you some weird things my Depression causes me to do (or more often, not do). These things are not at all exhaustive and I am reserving the right to add tremendously to this list in the future. It’s not poetic. It’s my real shit, laid out in an ugly hodgepodge manner.


  • I cannot leave the house without at least one beverage with me. Whether it’s in my car or my bag, I FREAK the FUCK OUT if I do not have something to drink with me. (It’s usually water, or more often, Pedialyte, since I am ALWAYS dehydrated now.)
  • I have CRAZY INTENSE Separation Anxiety. It’s actually the “worst [I’ve] ever seen,” said my Psychiatrist. Before you read the next part — I KNOW. I KNOW HOW WEIRD IT IS.
    • Now. Until the Psychiatrist asked me whether I followed people around my house, and I replied “No way, it’s not that bad,” only to come home to tell my Ex, “The Love Of My Life,” about the question, and after which he stated, “are you serious? Every single time I get up from the couch or leave a room you ask me ‘WHERE ARE YOU GOING?’ like I’ll never come back, even though you know I’m just going to the other room for a minute and I’ll be right back,” I never acknowledged how deep this problem went.
    • I thought about that. “The Love Of My Life” was right. I followed him to the bathroom. I sat outside the bathroom with my legs crossed while he used it and after I tried to talk to him the entire time he was in there, we had a privacy moment at the end of his bathroom visit, and that was our “normal.” I followed him around the apartment, CONSTANTLY without realizing I was doing that — so I don’t know where that comes from, why I do it, or how to fix it, but it certainly was not fixed or even somewhat alleviated by “The Love Of My Life.”
    • It didn’t start with “The Love Of My Life.” I followed my Mom (and sometimes accidentally without realizing it — I still do) and my sister to the bathroom, growing up, constantly. I couldn’t stay home alone at an age when I should have been able to because I was afraid my Dad would never come back, FOR NO REASON I CAN JUSTIFY, so I used to go with him on jobs.
  • I need to know what time it is, or at least have the time available to me at ALL times. I grew up — thankfully — with clocks in every room of my home — in a beautifully normal way that matched the decor and made sense — it wasn’t weird. But I like to know what time it is. I have three things on me that can give me the time no matter where I am.
    • My Ex NEVER ALLOWED ME TO PUT UP CLOCKS. He did not like the “ticking.” And the alarm clock with soothing blue numbers (a gift from my Mother) was “WAY TOO BRIGHT FOR ANY SANE PERSON TO SLEEP WITH WHILE ON,” so I was not allowed to PUT THAT THING UP BECAUSE “The Love Of My Life” COULDN’T SLEEP WITH THAT INSANITY. Not even a non-ticking clock. No sound. No sight. (My Mom had gifted me that alarm clock so I’d be on time for work, but it lay hidden only for me to peak at when “The Love Of My Life” was away overnight.) Once — he did allow one clock in the kitchen — but he put it out of my reach — and the battery died quickly — leaving it stuck at one time forever. If the power went out he would NEVER fix the microwave’s clock — the one thing besides my DVR (and the things on my person) that told me the time. If he stopped something from heating up in the microwave before the time was up he wouldn’t even press “cancel” so I could see the time. I swear I’m a petty bitch — but this stuff adds up when you do EVERYTHING IN YOUR POWER TO BE PERFECT for “THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE.”
    • I now have at least one clock in every single room of my completely changed and newly decorated and equipped and incredibly improved apartment. They all fucking tick. AND I LOVE IT. As for the alarm clock my Mom gifted to me? I display it proudly and the blue light burns non-aggressively on my dresser.


  • Time ticks away. I can hear it (see clock section above) — every second that goes by in my apartment. That’s how I know I’m “in it.” That’s what I say when I’m trapped in “The Abyss.” If I ever ask you if you’re ever just “in it, you know?” I’m asking about The Abyss. The Abyss is where you are stuck when you are ready to move, but cannot. You are ready to move on to the next thing you are supposed to do. You know you have things to do and if you don’t do them soon you will fuck them up or miss them altogether.
    • I do NOT think I can do this feeling justice with the written word, but I WILL try.
      • I have sat on the toilet for forty-five minutes without moving. It leaves bruises on my body. My legs and feet go numb. Some of the time I’m staring at nothing. Sometimes, I’m looking at something, but I don’t actually see that thing. Sometimes I’m just thinking about the ticking of time and how I cannot move. That’s the most important thing I want you, reader, to remember from this blog, if you read it. I cannot move. No person is holding me there. Depression IS holding me there.
    • People/blogs/articles will describe Depression as an inability to get out of bed. THAT, is true. I’ve cancelled plans, appointments, been late to events that meant EVERYTHING TO ME to be on time to (like baby showers, or funerals, or just seeing my Mom — which is the most precious gift I ever receive) — and it multiplies the guilt that a Depressed person like myself feels, whenever it happens.
      • Can you imagine being in bed — it’s 2:38 P.M. — and you PROMISED someone — SOMETHING — hours earlier — or even withing an hour of that time — and not being able to move? Your body may want to (or it may not want toor even not be able to!) and your mind most certainly might want to get the hell out of bed that late in the afternoon.
        • You might start to berate yourself. “Why can’t you get your lazy ass out of bed?” “You’ve missed half of the day already!” “Get up!” “You can’t be tired because you just slept ten hours!” “Stop staring at the wall and move. Move. Move! FUCKING MOVE!”
          • But you can’t. It’s not possible for someone with the kind of Depression that I have to “just” move — to “just” snap out of it and go. It’s NOT POSSIBLE. And berating myself has never worked.
    • I have lost HOURS to The Abyss. And I think about the worst fucking things too. I think about how I could have spent that time talking to my Mom. I think about how I could have spent that time working on starting my own business. I think about how I could have gone outside. I could have exercised. I could have been writing my book. I could have been doing ANYTHING but staring at NOTHING for ______ minutes/hours/days. But those of us with the kind of Depression that I have, when we enter The Abyss, we really couldn’t have done any of those things, because it’s a disease beyond our control. And although sometimes medication can help, it cannot save you. It doesn’t “fix you” as so many ignorant people expect it to — to get you back on track.
  • You do not feel like a good friend. And, even if you are, you feel like a bad one.
  • Your partner doesn’t understand. Mine did not seem to most of the time. It would be easy to fault him for this. But I also believe those who are not afflicted with any kind of Depression cannot understand what it means to be captive to your own body’s refusal to move when your mind wants your body to do just that while simultaneously refusing to let it do what it longs to do.
  • Insomnia. It haunts you. You walk around your apartment or house or mansion or whatever you have until sunrise — at least — because you can’t sleep. (SHUT UP, BIRDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) “Thanks for the drugs ‘Doc,’ they do jack shit when the time comes.”
  • You need help.
  • You might actually hate yourself, and need someone to help you NOT hate yourself anymore. Sometimes that person gives up on you. My Ex tried to be that person, but he gave up on me.

I just need to add a disclaimer here: I’m not even close to being over “The Love Of My Life.” He has still never acknowledged anything I did for him. He literally told me that I never gave him anything. He said, “What did you give me? An iPad? Thanks.” I dated this “man” for five years of my adult life. It fucking hurt like hell when he mocked me like that.

But you know what has always stayed with me despite “The Love Of My Life,” despite every other “man” or “guy” I’ve dated?: if we have no appreciation for the same music — we’re not going to make it. I was always open to “The Love Of My Life’s” music — (aside from electronic migraine music) — but he would not give my favorite music a fucking chance. He always made a comment about how terrible it was, how much he hated the “sound,” or how it was lame and how life wasn’t like that. I used to bring him new music I had heard that gave me goosebumps when I heard it — thinking about him and our life together — and he couldn’t even pretend to listen to those things that were so important to me.

So maybe FUCK that person who won’t take the time to listen to the music you’ve taken the time to bring to him (or her).

Let ’em go.


1.      If you are in a driving lane where the options are to EITHER go straight OR turn left when the light turns green, AND there is no left green arrow to allow you to turn left prior to oncoming traffic heading your way, PUT YOUR SIGNAL/BLINKER ON AHEAD OF TIME. The Jersey in me cannot deal with TRUSTING YOU until the light turns green and following you forward ONLY a few inches just to THEN HAVE YOU PUT YOUR LEFT SIGNAL/BLINKER ON! You’re ruining everything for everyone! Be better! You’re not being a considerate person, and it doesn’t affect you whatsoever to put that signal/blinker on ahead of time! DO IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2.     The person on the other end of the phone who is calling you to bother you is a human being, just like you and me. The person on the other side of the customer service counter who is trying to help you is a human being, just like you and me. TREAT OTHER PEOPLE WITH RESPECT!

3.     Not everyone wants to hear your conversation with __________ [fill in the blank with literally anyone] in ANY WAITING ROOM. TRUST ME. Be respectful and stop talking on your phone in waiting rooms.

Major Depressive Disorder – I Have It – So Never Say This To Me

On Friday, October 12th, 2018, what I now consider to be a “former” friend of mine, texted me the following message: “Not sure why you are this way. I love you but you have to stop feeling sorry for yourself. You need to keep your head up. Be positive,” along with a list of negative things going on in her own life, and a dissertation on why I should, “be thankful.”

This was the last text I had sent to her, eliciting the above response, the night before:


So you can see why she lashed out at me. (Sarcasm.) Full disclosure: I also texted her that I don’t hear from her much lately and I missed her. I obviously think that was what  caused her defensiveness.

Since I would be interested to know any response to that, what I would call an incredibly out of line text, I don’t mind sharing my reply: “Wow. Friends don’t talk like that to each other. I didn’t cause any of the shit in your life.” The rest of the conversation follows.

Her (emphasis added): “You have to think that other people have lives and issues that we are dealing with. You are being selfish. I know you are not good but I have things I’m also trying to deal with. I don’t talk to my best friend every day and she doesn’t complain and she understands. I can’t be there for you 24/7 I myself is (sic) not 100%.”

Me: “You should consider why someone is doing something before assuming it’s about YOU. All I wanted to hear from you after a long time was a ‘how are you’? I was reaching out because I missed you. DOESN’T THAT FEEL JUST A LITTLE BIT GOOD??! Not mad. But you haven’t told me shit so how you I know what shit is going on. Just saying.”

Her: “So sorry if I’m not around every time.”

Me: “Don’t be sorry. I’m over it. This doesn’t have to happen again. I’m sorry your life is so hard. I hope you find people who can help.”

Her: “I can’t I’m the only one she (I still have no idea who “she” is) has right now family turned their back so I gotta taks (sic) care of family.”

Me (emphasis added): “That sucks. Last thing I’m going to tell you is that it’s really fucked up and actually dangerous to tell a clinically depressed person (I had disclosed my diagnosis to her previously) they should ‘stop feeling sorry for himself or herself.’ That’s not at all what’s going on with me, and you could make someone like me feel even more hopeless and worthless, even triggering an acute incident. Just educate yourself.”

Her (emphasis added): “You forgotten (sic) that my cousin killed himself. I’m not that stupid [my name] so please don’t. No matter how depressed you are you can be strong. I have only me to keep my shit right. I’m a mess too.”

Nearly everything this friend, let’s call her…Naia…said to me in these messages was both a cry out for help which I tried to assist with, AND exactly what NOT to say to someone who is prone to self-harming behaviors.

Let’s say for argument’s sake, that the type of self-harm that I have utilized, in my pastcould have killed  me, any time I engaged in that behavior.

It only takes one time.

And if I am prone to self-harm, like so many people suffering with Major Depressive Disorder, you’re not just being a drama queen when you use the words my friend used above, against me.

This is what I took away/heard/read/received from that conversation: “You feel sorry for yourself and it’s pathetic. You’re not the only one with problems. Why can’t you handle being alone? You’re not my only friend and I’m not someone you can count on. You could be strong if you tried harder. You should be grateful for what you have, and you’re not. Suck it up. Stop feeling so sorry for yourself. You’re worthless. You could die and I wouldn’t care. Actually, please die and do everyone a favor.

Yes, I know that’s not what she said, (at least not most of it), but that’s what I heard. And that matters.

If you know someone who is depressed, diagnosed or not, don’t say anything my friend said to that person if he or she reaches out to you, PLEASE. I’m not a monster. I offered her resources for her own issues. But seriously, none of what she said to me — accused me of — was okay.

One thing that stood out to me was her defense of “my cousin committed suicide, so don’t even….” That is the same thing as saying “I have a black friend, so, I’m not a racist.” FUCK. THAT. You most definitely are not someone who can handle having a friend with Major Depressive Disorder, just like someone using the “black friend defense” is not thinking about what he or she is saying.

And, since I know she’ll never find this, shame on her. Shame on her for thinking because she knew one person with a mental illness she knows us all. How dare she dismiss me because she knew someone who committed suicide? I don’t know anyone who doesn’t know someone who committed suicide. Friend, family, or acquaintance — it’s not uncommonSo if you’re thinking of using that as an excuse to get rid of someone from your life, don’t.

Here’s the simplest advice you’ll ever get. If someone reaches out to you, saying he or she misses you with a cute cartoon he or she picked out just for you, and you don’t have time to deal with him or her right then, TELL HIM OR HER THAT, KINDLY. If “Naia” had said to me, “I’m sorry. Things are crazy right now,” at least I would have felt validated. But she REALLY got to me. You don’t have to be a horrible person about it. You don’t even have to be great about it. I just want you to NOT be an ASSHOLE about it.

Because when someone tells me something about myself, I BELIEVE THEM. Even if I know it’s not true. Like things my brother and sister say about me that are not true. I still feel guilty about these things. It is part of my ILLNESS.

I’m in the PAY IT FORWARD party. (Relax, it’s made up.) But seriously, I live my life with that goal. Do the most amount of good you can in a day for as many people as you can and live. I feel grateful and blessed. I feel loved. I feel validated. But I am also prone to some pretty horrific habits I don’t need coming back. I’ll never blame someone directly (except in my diary) for causing me to engage in self-harm, because it’s ultimately my decision, but do you ever want to be the reason someone self-harms? I don’t.

I am lucky. I have an amazing best friend.

I was supposed to visit her very recently, but I have been having a particularly hard time lately getting myself out of bed, eating (I don’t), bathing (after so many days I forcefully do so), and getting to appointments. I cancel things I’ve never missed. But I told my best friend about all of it, and she reacted like the amazing person she is. She told me that what I was going through right now was akin to me visiting her while I had an infection or was extremely ill, and it wasn’t the right decision. She not only understood, but she validated what is so often overlooked with mental illness.

Just because you can’t see my symptoms easily doesn’t mean they’re not there. That’s one of the hardest struggles people like me face day to day. And unless you have it, it probably won’t make sense to you. I’m not ashamed of my mental illness. But I am ashamed when I’ve misjudged people who ultimately hurt me because of it or in spite of it or for whatever reason, and try to justify their attacks.

What if I had decided I was not being grateful, that I was feeling sorry for myself, that because one person said I COULD BE STRONGER, I SHOULD be stronger, and if I couldn’t, then I was wrong in some way, so I self-harmed, or worse, that self-harm lead to my death?

I’ll leave you with this thought.

Don’t be an asshole; you might just cause someone to kill himself or herself.

100% Real Shit (And It’s Pretty Pathetic (I’m Capitalizing Words I Shouldn’t; This Is Serious)). – PART 2

“The Love Of My Life” Left.

My last post was logically weird — that is to say — flawed — at best. I sort of implied it was either “The Love Of My Life” or the apartment, and that isn’t the case, exactly.

I could have had both. If things had happened differently.

It is “easy” for me to say that “The Love Of My Life” terminated our connection. But that too is not accurate.

I let him.

I fucking let him terminate us.

I gave up.

I stopped fighting for What We Had.

This break-up was really my decision to throw in the towel, and say to “The Love Of My Life,” “I yield [to your rash conclusion in the middle of a horrendous argument that has been going on for days instigated and re-initiated at random times by both of us whenever the wind blew one way or the other — and at the climax of everything that had been said — the crux — I said the line there was no turning back from — after having been threatened days before that a separate accusation of mine could not ever be forgiven by him (rather than the apology or at LEAST a discussion I had hoped would transpire) and leading to his judgment and verdict that our connection would be terminated].”

This isn’t a love story where I can look back and say, “there wasn’t anything I could have done differently, we gave it all we could.”

This was a love that I abandoned for an easier situation.

I knew someone was interested in me, and I leveraged that to force “The Love Of My Life” to make a decision about where he would be in — a day — a week — a month — a year. And he did.” The Love Of My Life” readily took the bait and told me he could “never trust me again because he knew I had feelings for this other guy all along” (100% false), but enough for him to justify his next move. He left quickly and without complaint.

Every time I could talk to him after that I tried to get more information about what went wrong. But he was a rock. And I leaned toward my new “boyfriend.” And I feel shitty about that every day. (I have already broken up with him, for the record.)

But I swear on my life I did all the above for “The Love Of My Life.” And I swear I did it for me too — for both of us.

I remember one night, the new “boyfriend” went outside to call his Mom, and I sat in the kitchen “The Love Of My Life” and I had literally BUILT — handcrafted — hours upon hours upon hours to fit our apartment’s space — EXACTLY — together (see below) and I called “The Love Of My Life.”

Sheld for Blog.jpg

I knew his work schedule still, and that he’d be asleep, so I knew I’d be talking to voicemail. To the best of my extremely emotional recollection I told “The Love Of My Life” (in several voicemails because that “your time has run out, goodbye” robot is a dick) that I was in Hell. I told him I didn’t want what was happening to happen, and that it was killing me. I told him that the new “boyfriend” meant nothing, was simply a tool to set “The Love Of My Life” free. I told him that I started dating the new “boyfriend” because I knew “The Love Of My Life” needed a reason to say goodbye. And as my voice caught and I held back the sobbing I was barely able to choke out the words I said.

That was one of the hardest (several part) phone calls I have ever had to make.

“The Love Of My Life” was civil and then cruel to me in the end. He called me things like “bipolar” and “stupid.” I was cruel to him too. I accused him of Gaslighting me for a significant amount of time by this point. My best guess is that neither one of us was happy with what was about to happen and neither one of us could handle it well because neither one of us was really ready for this move.

This wasn’t the first time “The Love Of My Life” attempted to terminate our connection.

This was just the last time.

Because I let him.

100% Real Shit (And It’s Pretty Pathetic (I’m Capitalizing Words I Shouldn’t; This Is Serious)). – PART 1

The “Love Of My Life” left. He’s nowhere near me anymore. I can’t see him. I can’t reach out for him. I can’t ask him a question. I can’t feel him anymore. I can’t predict what he’ll do (if I ever could), anymore.

I cannot picture the “happily ever after” where he believes I will be an amazing wife and hopefully, Mom.

After five years (actually 4 years and 363 days — what I mean to communicate is it was one day prior to our 5 year Anniversary), “The Love Of My Life” terminated our connection. And I kicked him out.

He won’t be coming home unreasonably late at night anymore (whether I’ve cooked — literally a new thing I do now since he left — or not) just to fall asleep immediately — leaving me to happily take off his socks, etc. and put him under “the covers” exactly as he liked it — asking him if wanted ice for his used and abused ankles, and desperately trying to pull an answer out of him to “How was your day, babe?” before he started snoring.

Despite his snoring and — other homely lovable habits — I am living 100% alone for the first time in my life. And a potential roommate bailed…so possibly, I will have only experienced living alone for this one month and this one month alone, if I cannot find a higher paying job than I currently have offered to me, or literally any other source of funds. That would be terrible, because I made this place my own in 15 days and it looks fucking fantastic, if you must know.

I jump for joy when I look around my “new” apartment. I think it looks FUCKING AMAZING!

I do.

But would I trade this new space for “The Love Of My Life,” back?

What do you motherfuckers think?

Humor – A Deleted Scene (Written by me) from “The Picture of Dorian Gray,” by Oscar Wilde

“I fancied a thousand things; all of which would have gotten me into terrible trouble I fear. Yet the thought of what adventures I might come across in the name of beauty in the way that you speak of, Lord Henry, I just could not erase the temptation for trouble from my mind.”

You musn’t take everything I say so seriously, Dorian, really. But on this point you are right to do so. What I speak of I create on the spot while I’m hardly thinking about it and I’m certainly not paying attention to the words coming out of my mouth. I can never remember what I’ve said, even minutes after I’ve said it. I am a paradox of everything, I daresay. I tell you to do one thing, and then I shame you for foolishly believing me when you do it. I shame all women in the most misogynistic way, yet I worship their intelligence and natural abilities. I speak about books from America being some of the many things England could import and insist they be adored by our citizens, yet I also refuse to write my own novel, something I would very much like to do, and am certain would become universally popular, under the guise that books of any merit are only for those who should not be reading them. Surely you have known me long enough by now to know not to trust me, Dorian. I have told you to act naturally upon being introduced to someone new. I have told you to embrace deafening silence. I have given you the exact estimates of items you desire, while exclaiming ‘Good Grief!’ once you have made the purchase of same. I speak of constant variables, only choices, and even odds. I fancy sweet sorrow, commit to invitations with ‘definite maybes,’ and live for minor crises. Really, though, when I am being completely honest, all of my opinions are unbiased. Well, do go on silly boy. Wasting time is one of life’s completely escapable, yet necessary maladies.”