Sunday, October 11, 2015

Diagnosis: Bipolar Disorder

At 31 years old, I have been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.

I've been given a new medication to help control my mood swings, and manic episodes. 

I am moving up to 300 mg in a couple of days, and I am honestly feeling more excited about it than I've ever been about taking pills before. 
Because it's fucking working. 
I cannot remember the last time I got through a day without feeling or thinking or believing that I should be dead, or want to die, or think everyone around secretly wishes I were dead. It's been most relieving to finally feel "normal", or at least some semblance of what normal is. 

I never realized my mood swings or "mania" was abnormal. I thought it was just how everyone was, including parents and family members. 

Now that I am aware that I have this illness, I might be able to stop it before it takes over. And I am praying to the universe that this medicine really does help me, too. I feel it helping so far, I just hope as I continue to go up in dosages, it becomes even more powerful over the broken synapses in my mind. 

So, for now, lets hope for the best, and not expect the worst... 

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

The Story of How Fatty Died

The summer of 1998, I spent all of my time alone in my bedroom. It was an awkward stage for me, I was almost fourteen years old, and would be entering my freshman year of High School in September. And I was fat.

Enormously, hideously, rotundly fat.

Standing at only five feet, two inches tall, weighing one hundred and eighty six pounds was not an easy way to live in America. The girls in my school were skinny, tall, leggy, wore size 2 jeans they bought at the mall, and I wore a pair of men's overalls my mother found at a thrift store. I wore them under my shirt, so no one knew they were actually overalls.

I was too fat to wear real jeans.

“Hey, Fatty, where's mom?”

“I don't know,” I told my older brother. “I didn't know she wasn't home.”

My brother had horrible acne. His face was covered in pimples for most of his teenage years. But not once did I ever make fun of him. Because I was fat, and I had no place to point out other people's flaws. That would make me a hypocrite. Doesn't mean anyone else wasn't afraid to.

I was still 13, old enough to stay home alone while my mom went to work every morning. I slept in, stayed up late, babysat for money to buy teen magazines with boy bands on the cover. I decorated my room with their pictures and posters. It was how I distracted myself from feeling hungry.

Because I was hungry.

The last few days of eighth grade were spend with me crying in the back of the classroom, with my head down at my desk, not bothering to pay attention to what was going on, and the teacher too involved in teaching to bother asking me what was wrong, or if I was okay. Not a single teacher asked why I was crying.

That was the day I vowed to stop being fat.

I used to daydream, every night before going to sleep, that I'd wake up the next morning and magically, I'd be thin. Not unhealthy or sickly so, just not fat anymore. That I would go shopping at the mall and be able to buy clothes from regular stores and I'd wear them to school and everyone would look at me and not know who I was at first, but then they'd all do a double take and their mouths would be on the floor, because I was skinny.

When you're 13, being skinny is all that matters.

So I stopped eating. Because I sure as shit wasn't about to go OUTSIDE where the PEOPLE were, where they could LOOK at me, and EXERCISE?! No. I didn't want anyone looking at me. I didn't even want to look at me.

[Even before I was diagnosed with anxiety disorder, I had anxiety disorder.]

My only option was to lock myself away in my room and not eat. And I did it. For a whole month, I didn't eat (almost) anything. After 3 days of drinking only water, I found myself feeling so famished and nauseous that I HAD to eat SOMETHING, or I was going to fall over. My mother made her “famous microwave quesadilla” which consisted of two soft tortilla shells, cheddar cheese, pulled apart deli turkey, salsa, and sour cream on the side. She put everything on a tortilla shell, put the other one on top and nuked it for about a minute. After placing it on the table in front of me, I hesitated. If I stop now, I won't lose anymore weight... But if I don't eat this, I could literally pass out or die.

So, I ate it.

Guilt consumed me as I devoured the quesadilla Mexico would kill you for calling that. But it was so good, I didn't care about the authenticity. It was probably the best thing I'd ever eaten in my entire life. It was gone after two minutes, and my mothers boyfriend, who sat next to me, made some snide remark about my weight and eating habits, and that was all I needed to get me started again.

I caved once. I ate once. Now, it's time to really do this.

I found myself in a cycle. I'd drink plenty of fluids to make sure I was hydrated, but only ate something once every few days.

Every year, my brother and I went to Niagara Falls with my Aunt, Cousin, and Grandmother, to go to Marine Land, and see the falls and walk around, and visit our favorite place; the Beef Baron. We always splurged and got the prime rib with a baked potato, and usually, for desert, I got the chocolate mousse.

Because I hadn't really eaten much, I decided to eat the meat. And boy, was that good. But I skipped desert.

My aunt looked at me, wide eyed, “You're not getting your chocolate mousse?” she asked, dumbfounded. “You always get the chocolate mousse!”

Tears swelled in my eyes because the guilt of eating anything had already consumed me, “I shouldn't have even eaten this.”


No one asked me why I shouldn't have eaten the prime rib. Everyone else got their deserts while I sat with a cup of coffee and watched them eat, not jealous or angry, but sad and feeling like I just made the biggest mistake because I ate the meat.

When I got home, I found myself craving chocolate. One of the many obstacles of being a woman, and I bought a bag of the tiny Snickers and put it in my desk drawer. I ate maybe three of them before the guilt set in, but my craving for chocolate passed, so I put them away and went back to whatever it was I did to distract me from wanting to eat.

I don't remember how long it was before my mother found the bag, but one afternoon she was in my bedroom doing something and I was sitting on my bed, and she opened up my drawers and found the bag of Snickers.

WHAT is this?!”

I didn't know how to respond. Was she really asking me what a bag of Snickers was?

“You know, this is why you're so fat, young lady! Hiding candy in your room like this! This is NOT HEALTHY!”

Something inside of me snapped.

My mother, the witless wonder, had no idea I'd been starving myself for weeks, or I had already lost over twenty pounds, but she decided to find the one thing I did eat, and nailed me for it.

“MOM! I wasn't hiding them, I just put them in there. And I didn't even eat the chocolate mousse when we were in Niagara Falls! You can ask Aunt Dawn!” Tears fell down my face as she looked at me and back to the bag of candy.

“Well... I didn't know that.”

Of course you didn't. You never know anything.

I don't remember much after that, but she probably took the candy out of my room and put it somewhere in the kitchen.

I don't remember eating anymore of them afterward. But I might have.

It wasn't until school was approaching that my mother noticed my weight loss. I think the only reason she noticed was because I had a bit of a growth spurt that summer, going from five-foot-two, to five-foot-six. And I'd lost forty pounds.

It was the first time I ever remember going to the mall to buy new school clothes. We went to sears. Into the junior's section. I was terrified.

“None of this is going to fit me,” I kept saying. Logically, I knew I had lost weight and grown a lot in a short amount of time, but the fear of not being able to button the pants made my heart race, my breathing erratic, my fingers and face get tingly. I was so afraid of being disappointed. Of, even now, not being good enough. Fat people are just lazy, they aren't smart or funny or pretty or worthy of love, they are just horrible lazy people who do nothing but be lazy.

That was what I had instilled in my head my whole life, from everyone. My family, my schoolmates, my moms boyfriend, my brother, my mom...

Fat people were not equal to thin people. Fat people weren't even people. They were just things to mock, things to look down upon, things to make yourself feel better about yourself.

And I was afraid I was still fat.

I grabbed the biggest size they carried. It was a size 15 in juniors. I tried them on... and they fell down.


I stood in the dressing room and stared at myself in the mirror as I watched these pants fall down, and I cried. Silently, emotionally, joyfully, I fucking cried.

I took them off and went out to where my mother waited for me and said, “They're too big.” It came out sounding more like a question.

It was the first time in my life I'd ever said that.

I got the next size down; a 13.

I went in the dressing room and put them on.

They, too, were too big.

I jumped up and down, and squealed, and cried, and tossed the jeans over the top of the dressing room door, and cried, “THEY'RE TOO BIG!!”

Then, I said a phrase I never thought I'd ever say in my entire life, “Get me a smaller size.”

A SMALLER SIZE. SMALLER. In my head, I was screaming from a roof top, singing at the top of my lungs, “Iiiiiii'm nooooot FAAAAAT, ANYMOOOOOORE!” I had never felt so liberated in my entire life.

My mother tossed over the next size down in juniors; an 11.

I pulled them up and buttoned them closed, and they fit.

I was a size eleven.

I was no longer a women eighteen petite. I was officially a JUNIOR MISS SIZE ELEVEN (regular length).

I never wanted to be a size two. I think I would have been happy if I'd stayed an eleven, or went down to a nine. I was just so happy that I had finally been able to fit into normal clothes without feeling ashamed.

Open house for ninth graders was the evening before school started, and I wore my new clothes. My mother even took me to get my hair cut at a salon in the mall, and feeling like a brand new person, I was brave and got bangs. (Which in hindsight was a big mistake... Naturally wavy hair and bangs are a bad combo.) But the stylist trimmed my hair, cut my bangs, and straightened out my crazy wavy hair for me. When I put my glasses back on at the end, and looked at myself in the mirror, I felt amazing. I felt like I was finally the person who had been hiding underneath miles and miles of fat. I was finally me.

When I walked through the High School doors for the first time, smiling, with my head held high, no one recognized me. At first, anyway. I caught so many people doing double takes of me that night, it was as if my dream had finally come true.

I wasn't “Fatty” anymore.

I was finally me.


This is what fat shaming does to people. It makes them feel like less of a human being because they have an eating disorder, or a low metabolism, or hereditary obesity, or are emotional eaters and are too afraid to exercise in fear of being mocked. This is what years of being fat shamed did to me. Medically speaking, I could have died. I was only thirteen years old. I didn't know if I really was getting enough water, or if starving myself was going to work or not. I did it because I needed people to stop seeing me as a fat person, but just as A PERSON. A girl, with a personality, and sense of humor, and a love of pop music, and wanted nothing more than to be loved. For years, I never felt worthy of anyone loving me, even my own family, all because I was fat. Because I didn't fit in with what society tells you is okay to look like, I felt alienated.

Looking back at that experience, and at myself today, I'm going to admit; not much has changed. My weight has fluctuated over the past seventeen years. I gained a bit of it back in High School, I lost a lot of it right before I started college, and I gained it back again after starting college. Then I had a baby, gain even more weight, and eventually moved back home and lost the weight again.

Now, I weigh more than I ever have before. But living in today's modern world, where we have all of this new information about people, fat and skinny, tall and short, black and white, we come together from everywhere in the world, and we talk about how this stuff really effects people.

Being a mother, I am afraid that my son will have weight problems. I feel like the only thing helping him now is that he's on ADHD medicine that is an appetite suppressant. I never want him to go through what I went through, or feel what I felt about myself. I want him to know that he is loved and special and important, regardless of his weight. Of course, I want him to be healthy, but if he ever did gain weight, I wouldn't stop loving him. Or make him feel bad about it. I'd try to educate him on the importance of being healthy and help him to make better lifestyle choices, and do it with him.

I really hope the day will come when we never have to worry about being bullied or abused. A day when we realize we're all human, with and without flaws, because there is no such thing as perfection.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Why I am not a jealous girlfriend

When I was 19, I finally found my first boyfriend. I've never been very sociable, always more shy than talkative, so High School was a fairly lonely experience for me. I kept my head down, I didn't speak very much, but I tried to be nice to people. I had a few friends, but more acquaintances than anything. It wasn't until I started college that I really began to open up.

It was my second semester when I met him. At first, I didn't think much of him, I wasn't repulsed by him or anything but I had a crush in his friend at first and I had thought his friend liked me too, only to find out he did, but then his interest slowly died and he ended up liking someone else. So, he asked his friend, my soon to be first boyfriend, to "keep me busy" one night when a bunch of us went to the movies and to Denny's at midnight. I'm not going to lie, I was pretty hurt and disappointed because the entire time, the guy I was crushing on was talking to the other girl he liked, and I was super confused because just a week before, he was hanging out and flirting with me. So, I said fine. His friend isn't bad, and having a boyfriend would be nice, so I let him drive me home and we started hanging out. It wasn't long before things got serious and he ended up "living" in my dorm with me, unofficially, of course. It was just him staying there all the time, using my computer, eating my food, watching my TV, all while he was supposed to be in class.  He wasn't the greatest pick for a first boyfriend, and my almost 31 year old self looks back at my 19 year old self and wants to slap me in the face.

But if I did that, then I'd never have my son.

When the school year ended, we went our separate ways and I was really upset over it, but he was just like, eh, whatever, about it. Yeah... it became very clear to me I wasn't anything more than a convenience to him. But I kept it up anyway, even though everyone hated him, my friends and family, and they were right. But I went down to visit him at his house over the summer and stayed with him while his parents were away on their 25th (? I think) wedding anniversary vacation. And over the course of 6 days, where we really didn't do anything but have sex, I ended up getting pregnant.

We were both only 19. Neither of us were ready to be parents, and he begged me to have an abortion, but I didn't feel it was the right move for me. I'm not pro life or anti abortion or anything, so don't get me wrong. But I do believe it's a completely personal choice, and it felt wrong for me. So, I decided to keep the baby, whether or not he wanted to be in it's life or not. Long story short, he eventually came around and decided he wanted to be apart of our lives and wanted to give us another chance.

And me being the idiot I was, I said okay. I hoped he had changed, I wanted my kid to have both parents, and not a broken family. It took me a long time to realize that you can't stay together for the kids. It will break them even more when they know their parents are together, but are always fighting and hating each other.

So, we had an on again off again relationship for 4 years. And he cheated on me repeatedly. And because of his infidelity, I became a person I never want to be again. He was always between jobs, never being able to keep one for longer than 6 months at a time, and I remember he finally got a job where all of his co workers were women, and I had this really bad, embarrassing reaction, where I just flipped out and thought, "Great, more women for you to fuck in the back of your car, or in a bush somewhere."

It was not pretty. But I've learned from that, which is good because very few people are able to learn from history. History is normally repeated, and I defeated it. I learned that if a guys going to cheat on you, then he's going to cheat on you and you can either let it kill you, or move on from it.

My (current) fiance has a friend who he's been friend with high school. He had a crush on her for a little while when he was 18 or 19, but she wasn't interested at him, so he moved on. Got married, went to war, had a baby, got divorced. And somewhere after that, he did end up sleeping with his friend one time, after which they both felt awkward and like they'd made a mistake. They're still friends now, and the fact that they slept together once 6 years ago doesn't bother me. I am even friends her now.

I guess I've just learned that boys will be boys, and men will be men. My fiance and I have been through a bit of a rocky patch because we both have some health issues, and my issues make certain parts of our relationship difficult. I've even told him I wouldn't care if he had "someone else on the side" because I'm unable to "give him what he needs." He's said he would never do that because he's "the most loyal person in the world."

Maybe it would just make me feel less guilty, I think, partly, it would even be a relief because then he wouldn't expect it from me anymore and I wouldn't be in pain, or worry about being in pain, or feeling obligated... I still have that gnawing sensation in my gut that tells me he's going to eventually get sick of it, and find someone else. And I honestly don't know if it would break my heart, or save me.

I love him. I do. But I'm not happy anymore. And it's not his fault. I can't blame him for my lack of happiness, but I also can't say he isn't a small part of why I am unhappy. We recently moved away from the city to a really small town, and I love it here. It's like I've found my own Stars Hollow. I love the apartment, it's huge and spacious and heat is included, has a dishwasher and garbage disposal. We're on the second floor. It's a super safe neighborhood. Good school district from what I've heard (still crossing my fingers on this one, since school doesn't start for another week.)

I always think once I'm in a different place, I will change, I'll be different... but just because the location changes, doesn't mean my environment does. It's still me and him and my son and his son and our cats. It's still my ex, and his ex, and stupid high school drama that is so asinine, I shouldn't have to deal with it. But it's still there, along with all of my physical health problems and mental health problems, and his physical and mental health problems.

I am seeing a counselor who is right down the street from me, but my insurance denied her because for some reason my Fidelis won't cover counseling, so I have to pay $75 a session, which means Matt has to pay it, and I've only seen her twice, and she's already told me she can sense I don't want to be with Matt anymore and I want it to go back to just me and Dylan again... So, on top of everything else I'm dealing with, I have more guilt because he is paying for me to talk to someone who thinks I should leave him! ...And while a part of that is true, I miss it just being be and Dylan... Dylan is 10. I've only got 8 years left before he's off to college, and then it will just be me, alone. And I don't want to be alone. It's really not safe for me to be alone. Not now, anyway. Maybe in 8 years from now... but I don't know. Will I get better? Will I ever break free of this fear of socializing and speaking and being a freaking person??

I've vowed to never have jealousy issues ever again. And I honestly haven't... at least not to the extent of before. There have been times when I've questioned things, honesty, what his definition of loyalty is, is it the same as mine? I don't know... I have so much going on inside my head, and I feel very stuck. I've been stuck in the same place for years... ever since SUNY Brockport broke me. And I thought if I could find love, I'd be fixed. Then I found it. I wasn't fixed. Then I thought if I could find a little bit of financial security, I'd be fixed. I found it, and I wasn't. So, if neither money or love equate to happiness, then what does?

Relationships are all fun in the beginning, but once you get past the "honeymoon phase" ... it's boring. It's monotonous. And every time you think something is finally going to change... it doesn't. It's like I'm stuck on this carousel and I'm riding a horse, but I want to get off the horse and go sit in the Swan, but I can't because the ride never stops long enough for me to get off the horse. Sometimes, it doesn't stop at all, and I get too dizzy and have to close my eyes or I'll hork. And all I want to do is get the fuck off this stupid carousel.

Sometimes I wonder about my brain. Is it too far gone to be repaired, or am I not trying hard enough? Do I even want to get better? Yes. Do I want to deal with all of the things I need to deal with in order to get better?? No. That's the problem. I'd rather pop pain killers so I don't have to feel anything, physically or mentally, than have to feel everything and cry and cry and scream and TALK about it. I think a part of me is afraid of what will happen when I do talk about it... will I get better or will I break?? Will anyone even listen?? Or care?

I've been hurt by so many people in my life who were supposed to care, family, friends, etc. I feel like maybe I've gotten used to it. I have plenty of scars on my back from all the knives. Maybe I need to stop needing other people to care about me, and just care about myself for a change. It's hard to do when you hate yourself... and I know that's really self deprecating and sounds like I'm asking for attention, but it is really hard to love someone you've spend your whole life believing doesn't deserve to be loved.

Maybe that's why I'm not jealous anymore...

Thursday, July 30, 2015

The Unbearable Burden of Mental Illness

As I sat on my couch that hot July morning, I cried.

I cried for so many reasons that I cannot put them into words. My body hurt. My chest hurt. My insides hurt. My heart hurt. And there was nothing I could do to stop it. For fifteen years I have carried this burden on my shoulders. Depression. Anxiety. Panic disorder. Chronic insomnia. And now, physical pain. At only thirty years old, my lower back had become a pile of crumbling muscle instead of the thing that supported me. Every morning when I'd wake up, the pain started.

I'd turn over, spasm.

I'd turn back, spasm.

I'd try to sit, spasm.

I'd stand up, spasm.

It was an endless cycle, an unbearable burden that my body could no longer support itself, and I was too anxious to get help. Too afraid to ask, even my closest friends, my family, my fiance.

I did not want to burden them.

I'd lie to my doctor and tell him I was fine. Tell him that the medicine was working, but it wasn't. I still felt depressed. And anxious. And scared.

And suicidal.

A lot of people believe that suicide is selfish. But it's always the people who have never been suicidal before who believe this. When a person is suicidal, they believe they are a burden on everyone around them, and dying would make everyone's life easier. You believe your loved ones, your friend, family, children, all of them, would be better off with you. And I can promise you there is nothing worse than truly believing your own child would be better off with you.

I felt too much all at once. Emotionally and physically, and I couldn't take it anymore. For fifteen years, I've tried to get better with medications, counseling, hospital stints, CBT, anything and everything I could think of, and nothing was helping me, and I didn't understand why. Was there something innately wrong with me to where I was unable to heal? Was my brain too far gone from all the medications and trauma to ever get better?

WHY wasn't I getting better?

When my lower back got bad enough, I'd go to my Primary Care provider and get muscle relaxers and narcotics. Until I was told I was “over using them.” And even though I was taking them as prescribed, and I believed my doctor understood how much pain I was in, that was the day I realized I couldn't take them anymore.

So it was time I learned live with the pain.

This is what I get for asking for help.


There were days where I'd lay in bed and cry, wishing I would die. Every night before falling asleep, I prayed to the universe I wouldn't wake up the next day.

But I always did.

My son came into my bedroom as I cried and hug me so tight, with his bright, beautiful smile and he'd say, “I love you, Mom.” And I smiled back and said, “I love you, too. More than anything in the whole universe.”

That is not a lie.

Which is why, on that hot July morning, I decided I needed to do one of two things; kill myself, or get help.

And I chose the latter.


I arrived at the Emergency Dept. with my mother around 4:30 pm that Monday evening. The place was packed. It's a fairly large waiting area, and there wasn't a single chair open for us to sit. But that was not the ED I had come in for.

When it was my turn, the nurse called me up to the window and asked to verify my information. Name, birth date, address, phone number, emergency contact, etc.

Then the doctor came in and said, “What brings you in today?”

I replied, “Oh, the usual. I want to die.”

The nurse took my blood pressure, which was abnormally high, along with my pulse and temperature. After given a wrist band with my name and a bar code, I was taken to the Psychiatric Emergency Dept waiting area, the place they bring you before actually going upstairs. The Pre Psych ED.

An older, black, drunk man sat in a chair across from me, screaming and swearing at the top of his lungs. He started singing a song about a woman he missed, but never got the chance to know. My mother and I looked at each other. “Well, at least it's always interesting when you come here.”

Around 5 o'clock, a nurse dressed in red scrubs called my name. I raised my hand, like I was a student for some reason, and stood up. She carried a red folder under her arm, and a blue plastic bag.

“I just need to collect your things.” I put my purse inside. She handed me a pair of gray hospital socks.

“I can't wear my flip flops? There aren't any laces.” It wasn't my first time in the ward.

“No, sorry. We're really strict about shoes up there.”

“But why can't she wear flip flops?” My mother asked.

“Well... they can be thrown. And people are less likely to try to run without their shoes.”

Wow, you sure know how to make a girl feel safe...

I put my flip flops in the bag and put on the ugly, and NOT warm or soft, gray hospital socks, that who knows how many other people had worn before me, and we stepped into the elevator. Not only could I not throw my flip flops at anyone who annoyed me (which... really?! I'm depressed, not psychotic) but I was literally not allowed to leave.

Feels just like home.

As we rode up the elevator to the Psych ED, the nurse explained to me the protocol for what would happen when we'd get there. I'd have to speak with 3 separate people, all at separate times. The first being the nurse, the second being an evaluation specialist, and the third is, finally, the doctor. [And I don't mean the fun one with the blue box, who could get me the fuck out of that place.]

The doors opened and we walked down a long corridor with locked rooms, no beds, but couches and chairs. She said we could lay down out here if we wanted quiet, or go in the doors to watch TV. It wasn't horrible, at first. But the chairs were.

The chairs and couches were the most uncomfortable things I've ever sat on, and I've ridden in a big rig trailer and slept in the sleeper cabs. After sitting in a blue plastic chair for 30 minutes before we actually got up to the floor, now I had to try to get comfortable on one of these things? Hard as rocks, not long enough to lay down, and paper thin white blankets.

My back began to throb.

When I had my son ten years prior, I had all back labor. I felt nothing in my stomach. The pain I felt in my lower back on this night felt especially similar to that.

After another hour of sitting, standing, laying down, pacing, and sitting again, I spoke with the receptionist. Or orderly. Or maybe she was a nurse of some kind. She had long dirty blonde hair worn in two braids with a head band, glasses, and wore puke green scrubs. I asked her how long it would be before I finally spoke to someone. She told me she couldn't give me a time frame. There were five people ahead of me, and all of us came up around the same time. So, I asked, “Well, how long will I be stuck in the ED?”

She said, “Probably all night.”

This is what I get for asking for help.

Another hour goes by and I am finally called back by the nurse interviewer. A male nurse, tall, with glasses and brown, balding hair. He brought me into one of the locked rooms in the hall way with nothing but an ugly orange two seater couch to sit on, that looked about as comfortable as it was, and my back hurt too much to sit.

He asked me about my medical history, even though it was right there on the computer screen he was looking at.

“What medications are you currently taking?”
I told him, even though he was reading the list right in front of him.

“Are you allergic to anything?”
“Yes.” Look at the list.

“Emergency contacts?”
“My mother,” I said, as I pointed out the door. “Who's sitting right out there.”

I paced the room because it hurt too much to do anything else.

“Medical history?”
Are. You. Fucking. Serious?
“Yes, I have one.”
My stars, these people are incompetent idiots. Or maybe just don't know how to READ.

“On a scale of 1-10, what is your current pain level?”

“What would you normally take at home?”
“What my doctor tells me to take, which right now is the hydrocodone-acetaminophen.”

“Okay, I'll write it up and send it to the pharmacy.”

I went back to the waiting room and sat with my mother, paced the floor, attempted to lie on a couch, for another hour before he returned with three Ibuprofen.

“I'm confused, why are you giving me this?”

“That's what was approved.”

A tidal wave of anger ripped though me. The pain in my back was not something you can take ibuprofen for. If it were, I would have asked for it. I dug my nails into my arm, scratching and pushing until the pain in my arm was worse than the pain in my back.

It worked. Something finally worked. My back stopped hurting.

I know it's really unhealthy to self injure.  I used to do it in my late teens and early twenties, but it was the only thing I could think to do, that didn't require me punching the nurse in the face.

Tears streamed down my face as my mother brought the nurse back over and he asked me why I was doing what was doing. I told him, “I just need the pain to stop.”

“Well, I can only give you ibuprofen. Your doctor made a note in your medical records that he's 'concerned you're using too much Hydrocodone.'”

My mother and I : “What?!”

My doctor has never once mentioned this to me. He has never expressed any kind of concern, and has always refilled the medication when I've asked.

But I guess asking for pain medication automatically makes you a “drug seeker.”

“I don't understand. He's never said anything to me about this before.”

My mother, my hero, “Did he really write that, or are you just making that up?”

The nurse started shaking nervously and took a minute to respond, “... He really wrote that.”

{To clarify: no, my PCP did not write that. Because when I got home, the next day, I asked my Primary Care Doctor if he wrote any such note in my chart, or medical records, and he said, and I quote verbatim, “I did not put this in any recent notes...”}

So, why did the nurse just lie to me?

If the hospital didn't want to, or feel comfortable, giving me a narcotic, then fine. But there is no reason to lie to me about it, and make me feel like they think I'm a drug seeker, when I already have anxiety disorder. Now, I'm officially paranoid. I have enough problems in my life, the last thing I need is to be labeled “a drug seeker.” I am an intelligent, college educated woman, who has a child. And I can promise you, him, and anyone who asks, I would never do anything to risk losing him.

The people in this department do not know me. This nurse has never met me before in my entire life, and now he assumes something that is untrue.

“Well, you didn't come to the hospital for pain.” … On top of being a condescending asshole.
No, I came here to get help because I WANT TO DIE. “I know that, but I didn't know my back was going to flare up when I got here.”

“This has been an on going problem, correct?”
“Yes, I have lower back problems. It comes and goes. It's not an all-the-time thing.”

“But you've been walking around the waiting room the entire time you've been here.”
“That's because it hurts too much to sit, or lay down on these horrible couches! I cannot get comfortable!”

Apparently, being able to walk means my back doesn't really hurt.

“Okay, okay.”
“I'm incredibly uncomfortable. I'm in pain. I have a lumbar sprain from moving {we'd recently moved a few weeks prior, and my back wasn't getting any better} and I have a prescription for this medication.”

“Okay, okay,” Micheal, the “nurse”, said. “But your doctor only gives you a few days at a time.”
“I know that. What difference does that make?”

He said nothing, and walked away.

I looked down at the red marks and broken skin on my arm, not bleeding, but enough to sting for a few hours. Enough to make the pain in my back go away.

After a few minutes, I stood up again and began to pace the waiting area. I noticed a sign on the wall across from me, lamented, but printed from a computer, and taped to the wall. It read; “Please let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable. We are here to help and serve you in anyway we can. Our patients comfort and safety is our first priority.”

This is what I get for asking for help.


2:26 am rolled around and I still hadn't seen the evaluation specialist. I'm getting antsy, feeling like I did something wrong by asking for help, and no longer wanted to be there. The walls were starting to close in around me, and my anxiety was getting worse by the minute. There were no widows to the outside world in this department, and I felt like I couldn't breathe. It was obvious I made the wrong decision by coming here, especially after the way I was just treated.

There was, however, a pane of windows that separated us crazies from the nurses, doctors, orderlies, and secretaries. There was a sliding Plexiglas window you needed them to open in order to speak to someone. I was pacing the hallway when the window slid open.

“I bet you $20 bucks that girl is just an attention seeker.”

I looked up, and three of the scrub dressed employees stared at me with a sparkle of laughter in there eyes.

... Salt in the wound like you're laughing right at me.

 This is what I get for asking for help.


3 am

I am finally called back to speak with the evaluation specialist.

“So, what brought you in here today?”
 I want to die. “Well, honestly, I think I was just having a bad day, and made a rash decision.”

“So, are you feeling like you want to die right now?”
 Yes. “No.”

“Do you ever go to bed wishing you wouldn't wake up?”
 Yes. “No.”

“Have you felt suicidal over the past 30 days?”
 Yes. “No.”

“Have you ever attempted suicide?”
 Yes. “No.”

“Do you feel safe at home?”
 No. “Yes.”

“Do you feel you have a strong support system?”
 No. “Yes.”

“Can you list for me three positive things about yourself?”
 No. “I'm a good mother. I'm funny/sarcastic. And... creative.”

My stars, the level of bullshit I can come up with even amazes me!

“Did you have a plan on how you were going to kill yourself?”
 Yes. “No.”

“Okay, we're all set. I'll talk to the Doctor and see if we can get you out of here.”
I smile the best fake smile I can muster, “Thanks.”

This is what I get for asking for help.


3:30 am

Doctor Contreras called me back into the interview room. He asked me the same questions the evaluation specialist did, to confirm that my answers were the same.

“So, what brought you in here today?” He spoke so quietly, I could barely heard him.
I want to die. “I was just having a bad day, and made a rash decision.”

“Did you want to kill or injure yourself?” He mumbled, incoherently. But since I had just been asked the same question, I understood.
Yes. “No. I didn't want to die, I just … needed everything to stop. I felt like I couldn't breathe.”

“So, are you feeling like you want to die right now?”
 SPEAK UP! Yes. “No.”

“Have you felt suicidal over the past 30 days?” MUMBLE MUMBLE MUMBLE.
 Yes. “No.”

“Do you want to physically harm anyone else?” or “”
 Are you fucking kidding me? 
 Yes. “No.”

“Do you ever not sleep, but feel like you have more energy, or are“wired”, regardless of sleep loss?”
 Yes. “No.”

“Do you have times when your mood 'cycles'? That is, do you experience 'ups' as well as depressive episodes?”
I slid my body closer and turned my ear toward him, “Can you repeat that?”
“Mumble, mumble, mumble, repeat.”
 Yes. “No.”

“Any appetite loss or gain?”
 Yes. “No.”

“Are there times when you're more talkative or speak much faster than usual?”
 Yes. “No.”

“Are you easily irritated?”
 YES! “No.”

“Have there been times when you've felt both happy and depressed at the same time?”
 Yes. “No.”

“Have you ever been, for no apparent reason, been VERY angry or hostile?”
 Yes. “No.”

“Have you ever had periods of tearfulness and crying, and other times laugh and joke excessively?”
I swear he's reading these straight out of a text book. 
Yes. “No.”

“Do you feel safe to go home tonight?”
 No. “Yes.”

“Do you have any other questions for me?”
Yes. Why the fuck can't you SPEAK UP SO I CAN HEAR YOU?! “No.”

“Okay, well, I think you're okay to go home, so I'll go get your discharge papers ready and have someone get your stuff.”


Only a few minutes go by before I am handed my thing and my discharge papers, but it felt longer. It was almost 4 o'clock in the morning, I was exhausted, my mother was falling asleep on a couch with no pillow or blanket, and after spending that much time in the Psych ED waiting room in uncomfortable chairs, feeling like no one really wanted to help me, it felt like a lot longer.

There were maybe 5-8 other people in the ED at the time (I didn't count...) and I was the only one who was never asked if I wanted a drink, something to eat, a blanket, etc. My mother had to ask the nurse for a blanket for me. However, the pig-tailed glasses girl did bring me a pillow about 30 minutes before I was discharged...

It was the evaluation specialist, who also happen to be a female nurse, who discharged me. She had short dark hair and eyes, but a kind smile. Out of everyone in the department that night, I think she was the only one who treated me like an actual person, and not a joke.

My instructions were to follow up with my PCP and go to my County Mental Health Center to get a counselor, and talk about getting new medication, or upping my current medications. But I already knew this. It was why I came to the hospital in the first place; I needed different medication, ones that don't make me depressed or suicidal.

She unlocked the doors and let us leave, with my shoes on and purse across my shoulders.

And I felt exactly the same as I did when I first entered the hospital.

This is what I get for asking for help. 

And why I will never ask for help again.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

Conversations with myself

       About two weeks ago, we discovered we had a leak in our propane tank. I called our propane company and they sent a very nice man out to fix the leak. The tank was fixed, everything on it replaced with new parts... but there was still a leak somewhere. The only conclusion was there is in the gas line that runs underneath out home, a place which our propane company cannot legally go, and a place where the park cannot go because we "own" our home. They are not our landlords. We are responsible for everything that breaks, including the gas line. And after 3 years of EVERYTHING breaking, and I mean that literally - our floor, our ceiling, the toilet, the kitchen sink, every freaking door in this place - and we decided that we're done.
       We're not fixing anything else. So, now, we're trying to move.
       We don't have a lease, so getting out of this place won't be hard. We won't get any money back for the "mobile home" because we've only paid half of the lease, but we will get reimbursed for the propane when our supplier comes to collect the tanks, and also, possibly our security deposit? But with the holes in the ceiling and the fact that we've never painted the skirt or shed (which has been broken since we've moved in!) I don't know if we will.
       We're looking to move closer to where Matt works, or at least south of Rochester. We want to be out of here by July 1. We've looked at 2 apartments, and at first we wanted the first one, but once we saw the second one, we were sold. It's bigger, more kitchen space, heat is INCLUDED in rent, a brand new playground currently being put in right behind our building, AND THERE IS A DISHWASHER. The only downside is I have to give up my washer and dryer, and will have to use the one in the building, or go to the laundromat. I was torn because no matter which apartment we chose, I'd have to give up my washer and dryer, but the first apartment we looked at was on the bottom floor and the washer/dryer room was literally right outside the doorway, where as this place is in the basement, and we're living on the second floor. There will always be pros and cons no matter where you live. But having heat included and a dishwasher is a big plus in my book, since I'm the sole dishwasher here.
        Where we are going is literally hicksville. It's upstate NY farm country, with, most likely, uneducated people, BUT it's small, but not TOO small. It's got a town like Stars Hollow, so I am hoping maybe once we move, I can finally attempt to find a non customer service part time job as a trial run for anxiety, or even do some volunteer work or something, just to keep my mind busy and learn how to stop worrying about everything. This move has me seriously stressed. We go in on Saturday with our application and all the paper work we need, the only problem is they ask for proof of spay/neuter for the cats, which we don't have because Taz was neutered back in 2007 when I still lived in Binghamton! I've never had an apartment ask me for that before...? I also don't have a primary vet for them because VETS ARE EXPENSIVE, and I don't see a point when they aren't sick... When Taz got sick, I took him to the 24hr emergency place in Henrietta.
       I am getting super anxious about everything and of course Fiance doesn't understand because he doesn't care. He has no emotion about anything. He can turn it off life a Vampire. He just doesn't feel. Only his dick does. He went to bed 45 minutes ago and he's been playing on his phone ever since. He keeps telling me not to worry, it will be fine, yada yada yada... And every time he says it, I start to second guess this being a good idea. But... I have no where else to go. And my son is so attached to fiance and his son. Dylan would hate me if I left fiance. I'm also bipolar and I have days where I hate fiance and days where I love him more than anything in the world (besides Dylan), so maybe I am just having a day because I am stressed and he's all nonchalant about everything, and I just wanna punch him. It's super hard for me to make decisions because I always second guess myself. I always wonder if I'm doing the right thing, every single time. No matter what it is. Moving here was super hard in the beginning. It didn't feel like home, like it was mine. And it passed after a few weeks, but it was hard. I don't want this new place to be like that. I just want it to feel right and be optimistic about the move. It's just hard for me.  Every time I feel this way, I'm "in a horrible mood." "Why are you in a horrible mood?" It's like, wtf?! Why is it every time I FEEL something, I am in a horrible mood!? Just because I feel too much?!

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Conversations with my past self.

Sometimes I wonder if moving back home was the right decision.
I know staying where I was was the wrong one, and I had no where else to go.
I think the ultimate downfall was trying to go to school for Psychology. The year I moved home, I had anxiety, but I was functioning. I babysat for the year, and then in August of 2009, I returned to school. It was so bizarre, because everything fell into place, when I didn't think it would.
I didn't have a car, let alone a license. SUNY B is 27 miles (approx 35 minutes) away from me. I lived in the suburbs so I didn't know how to take the city bus, although I later learned that my mother could drop me off at a stop on her way to work downtown, even though it was an hour long bus ride to and from, it worked out. I also found a woman who lived in the next town over who worked out in B-port and did a car pool for SUNY B kids, and only charged $1 each way. $2 a day, same price as the bus. And I found a woman who did in home daycare in my town who's son was also in pre school at the time. It all seemed to be lining up...
But then I started failing tests. I'd ace a paper or essay or story, no problem, but every single multiple choice exam I was given, I bombed. I was devastated because I thought I was doing good. I studied and read and tried so hard to pay attention to the lectures (which was not easy because I have ADD and I've never been medicated, when I should have been...) but no matter what, it wasn't enough. All of these upper level courses were killing me... until they almost did. I lasted one year at SUNY, and month into my third semester, and I ended up in the psych ward. I just couldn't handle it. I wished I could, but I couldn't. And then I was too embarrassed to go back and face my professors and classmates, so I dropped out. And you wanna know what the last straw was? The girl who pushed me over the edge? In my English Literature class, we had a group project to read and try to interpret a poem about this man who murdered his wife, but it was in such old English, it made no sense. So, I googled it on my phone. I read a loud one part of what I found, and this stupid cunt turns to me and said, "Was that really necessary?" And I just looked at her like, "I was just trying to help..." And she rolled her eyes at me, and I just sat there and fought back the tears, fought back the urge to grab my bag and leave. I didn't say a word the rest of the class. And I never went back. I took what she said personally, like she was calling ME unnecessary. I don't know why she reacted like that, or
That's when I stopped believing in myself. I allowed those tests to define my abilities, not just in school, but in life.

Monday, March 23, 2015

Conversations musical style.

So this is my apology
For saying all those shitty things
I wish I didn't really mean
I'm sorry I'm not sorry...
You had your red flags up and raised
More traffic than east L.A
But I drove in anyway
My common sense on holiday

People fall out of face, we were a crash course
We were just, be a place, stuck on your passport
You travel to some time
But I hope you'll find

Someone to cry for, someone to try for
Someone to turn your crooked roads into her streets
Someone to fight for, someone to die for
Someone whose arms will hold you tight enough to be
The reason you breathe

You stay in love like vacation homes
You're like summer on the sunny coast
But when the cold need a winter coat
You say you will until you don't
You wore a compass around your neck
A different north than we ever read
Well, did you get where you going yet?
Wish you the worst, wish you the best

I don't know how I fell into your rear view
Paralyzed, lullaby, I couldn't hear you
So I hope you were right
And next to you tonight

There's someone to cry for, someone to try for
Someone to turn your crooked roads into her streets
Someone to fight for, someone to die for
Someone whose arms will hold you tight enough to be
The reason you breathe

Be the reason you breathe

So this is my apology
For saying all those shitty things
I wish I didn't really mean
I'm sorry I'm not sorry...

Saturday, March 14, 2015

Conversation; lyrics style.

I’m a princess cut from marble, smoother than a storm.
And the scars that mark my body, they’re silver and gold,
My blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones,
It keeps my veins hot, the fire's found a home in me.
I move through town, I’m quiet like a fight,
And my necklace is of rope, I tie it and untie.

And now people talk to me, but nothing ever hits home
People talk to me, and all the voices just burn holes.

I’m done with it (ooh)

This is the start of how it all ends
They used to shout my name, now they whisper it
I’m speeding up and this is the red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart
We're at the start, the colors disappear
I never watch the stars, there’s so much down here
So I just try to keep up with the red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart

I dream all year, but they’re not the sweet kinds
And the shivers move down my shoulder blades in double time

And now people talk to me, I’m slipping out of reach now
People talk to me, and all their faces blur
But I got my fingers laced together and I made a little prison
And I’m locking up everyone who ever laid a finger on me...

I’m done with it (ooh)

This is the start of how it all ends
They used to shout my name, now they whisper it
I’m speeding up and this is the red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart
We're at the start, the colors disappear
I never watch the stars, there’s so much down here
So I just try to keep up with the red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart

And this is the red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart
And this is the red, orange, yellow flicker beat-beat-beat-beat


Saturday, February 28, 2015

Conversations with myself about my crazy ass dreams.

What if when you die, you don't just die; you wake up in a different life.
And I don't mean heaven, or "God", or anything like that... just... another life; an alternate reality, per se, in another universe, where you've been "asleep" and "dreaming" this life, and when this life is over, you wake up and live another life, with all your memories from this life, and everything is different, but also the same, at the same time?


I woke up with a jolt.

Looking around the room, I saw my family sitting and standing in every corner of the small room; my mother next to me on my left; my father in the far corner by the window; my husband sat next to me on my right; my son stood next to my father with his head buried in my father's side, as if he were afraid to look at me. My brother stood with his arms folded across his chest near the privacy curtain; my aunts and uncles stood next to him, but my one aunt, who was handicapped, sat in a chair at the foot of my bed.

But I remembered.

"Did I die?" I asked in a raspy voice. My throat was dry. It was the first thing out of my mouth after... I honestly didn't know; hours, days, weeks, of being unconscious?

Everyone looked at each other. No one knew how to answer me, but I knew they knew.

I knew I died, but they didn't understand how I knew.

My husband was the first to speak, "Your heart stopped... and you were dead for almost five minutes before the doctors were able to resuscitate you."

My mother took my hand, "How did you know?" She asked. Her face was filled with mixed emotions, and her eyes held back tears. It was a combination of confusion, shock, and fear.

I tried to scooch myself to sit up, the there were so many wires and cords and tubes connected to me, I couldn't.

My husband picked up the remote that controlled the bed, and pushed the button so the top of the bed rose. "Thanks," I said.

I looked at my family, all wide eyed and perplexed, and tried to explain.

"At first, I thought it was a dream. I woke up in a giant field of grass, and wildflowers and trees. It was warm, and sunny, and there were so many other people there. I sat there looking around for what seemed like hours, just watching these people running, and talking, and looking at me out of the corner of their eye, but never saying anything, and I didn't understand. I wanted to say something, I could feel the words in my chest, but nothing would come out. And as I looked around me, I realized where ever I was, wasn't like anywhere I've ever been or seen before. I looked up at the sky, and I saw the sun, and two moons. That's when I started to wonder if I was dead. And then I saw her."

"Who?" My mom asked. "Who did you see?"


Lynn had been a friend of our family since I was ten years old. I was best friends with her oldest daughter for years, and my son and her grandson were born only a week apart. But then, when my son was three, Lynn committed suicide. It was a very violent death, and even though, by then, our families had grown apart, I had always considered Lynn and her kids to be like my second family. She was the first grown up I told I was pregnant when I was only 19. She was in the delivery room when my son was born.

And ever since she died, every once in a while, I could hear her voice in my head, answering my internal questions, giving me advice, and while it could have easily been my subconscious speaking in her voice, I always felt it really was her, somehow, guiding me in the right direction.

"Lynn?" My brother asked, confused.

"Bee and Neen's Mom? ... Jess' Mom!"

"Oh," he said with realization.

"I know this is going to sound so weird... but, as I was sitting in the field, watching all of these people, she appeared in front of me. She looked just as beautiful as ever, with her long black hair that hung down to her ass. And her deep brown eyes and Italian tanned skin." My mother smiled. She remembered. I'm pretty sure her and I were the only ones in the room who remembered Lynn, as I had met my husband years after Lynn died.

"She squatted in front of me and asked, 'What are you doing here?' And I looked her because I didn't even know where I was! And she said, 'You aren't supposed to be here yet.' Then she smiled and she placed two fingers on my forehead, and then... I woke up. Here. Now. In the hospital, apparently."

My mother squeezed my hand and said, "You died... and went to heaven?" As if that was the proudest thing I had ever achieved.

When she used the word 'heaven', it didn't feel right. There was no God to judge me, there was no golden gates, or clouds, or flying angels with halos and white wings.

I was in another world.

"No." I said.


"I don't know how else to explain it, Mom... but this... this place, whatever it was, was nothing like how we imagine heaven to be."

"How do you know?"

I thought about her question for a long time, trying hard to remember my experience, but the longer I was awake, the more the memory faded. But something inside me told me this place wasn't heaven. As I watched all of those people in the field, dancing and laughing and talking and... being, I just knew. And so, I answered, "Because no one there was dead."

- End Scene-

Thursday, February 26, 2015

A conversation with my brain about ideas...

I've decided, when spring comes, I'm going to start a new project.

Something completely new for me (minus selfies, the kids/cats, and the normal family pictures); but a photography project, using only my iPhone camera (because it's the only camera I have).

I'm going to take pictures of anything and everything, including random people, animals, flowers, trees, waterfalls, rocks, garbage, walls, the moon, etc. I'm going to try to find different things, interesting things, pictures that make you think and feel and wonder... Those are my favorite kind of photos.

From April (or once it's warm...)  through October (or once it's cold again).

This is going to be around a 6 month project.

Just for fun. Just to try something new. I am FAR from anything remotely close to being a professional photographer, but I do like taking pictures and since 90% of social media involves pictures, I though, why not? I promise to keep the selfies to a minimum. Because this isn't about me, it's about exploring the world and seeing what's really out there, from a new perspective.

I also really need a new project to focus on, because I haven't been doing so well with the writing lately... And maybe this will help spark something, or inspire me to write again. Because I really miss it. I love writing so much, and I get so depressed this time of year, living in Upstate/Western NY, with the cold and snow and ARCTIC FUCKING COLD... it's  so hard to be happy and feel good and to concentrate.

Sometimes, I wish I could go back to 2008/2009, before I started SUNY Brockport, because that's the year I wrote the most, and even though it wasn't very good, I was brave enough to do it. And more than anything, I miss that. I miss being brave and confident and excited about my stories...

Not many people believe in me or my writing, or my abilities. Especially the ones that should to believe in me, and I allowed their ... skepticism, to make me second guess myself and my ability to write.

I allowed the one person who should support me say, "But is it ever going to amount to anything?" Like, I was wasting my time doing what I love...  And I was so devastated, I just gave up. Because how can you believe in yourself when the people who supposedly love you, don't?

I want more than anything to prove him wrong, and everyone else who has ever doubted me wrong... But before I can prove them wrong, I have to start believing in myself again.

I need to get rid of the negativity in my life, and start living my dreams.

Because, seriously, if you don't believe in me, why are you in my life??

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Conversations with men... or A "man", in particular.

I don't know how you can go through life with a certain belief system, some being stereotypes, and others just being fucking ridiculous things to believe for anyone, ever.

It's mind boggling for me when you're supposed to do something, that I CAN'T do for you, and you say, "When am I supposed to have the time for that?" or "I don't have time for that."

And, these things you're supposed to do... are thing people do DAILY. Everyone does them! People who don't work AND people who DO WORK! Just because you have a job, doesn't give you the right to say you don't "have time" to do something IMPORTANT, and something you should have done like 10 years ago, because YOU HAVE TO FUCKING DO IT! You can't NOT do it...

There are very few things I can't do for you. But this is one of those things. I can go with you. I can be there while you do it, but I cannot pretend to be you, I cannot say I am you and sign your name. They will look at me and say, "Sorry, Miss, but you're not A MAN!"

I cannot fight your battles for you. I cannot be you and do everything for you. I've done my best to do other things, I can lie on the phone and tell people I'm your wife so you don't have to make a phone call, but when you have to do things in person for yourself... I don't know what you want from me.

I try to help you, and all you do is yell at me and say, "I don't have time for this shit! I have to work!"

.... seriously? You truly believe your only responsibility in the world is to work? And as long as you do that, you don't have to do anything else, because everything else is my job? Also known as, the woman's job?

Well, fuck you.

Because at least ONE DAY during the week, usually Tuesday's or Wednesday's, you don't have to be at work until 2 or 3PM, so, YES YOU DO HAVE THE FUCKING TIME to go to the DMV, or make a fucking phone call, but you'd rather sit at home and play FF14 on your computer than be a fucking adult and get your own car insurance. But in order to do that, the car HAS TO BE IN YOUR NAME. NOT YOUR MOMMY'S.

I also can't go to a lawyer for you, and get legal advice on how to get custody of your son, because HE'S YOUR SON. And ... if you don't have time to do any of this ^ ^ ^ .,. HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO HAVE TIME TO BE A FULL TIME DAD?? Oh, that's right... you won't.

That will become my job as well...

I swear, sometimes, I feel like the only difference between you and my kids father is that you have a job... and while that is a plus, ALL the rest... really isn't.

I know there is no such thing as the perfect man, or woman, or person... and we all know I have my faults, but come on... have a LITTLE autonomy. I can't always be the one who does everything else but work. Because what happens when I go back to work? What will your excuse be then?

Not only will I have to work, but I'll have to come home and be a full time mom and wife, and cook and clean, and go to doctors appointments, and stay home with my kid when he's sick, and take care of ... everything. Except the liter box... I know you always clean the liter box... but everything else... It's almost like I'm alone.

Monday, February 16, 2015

Conversations My Brain Has With Itself

Maya Rudolf is playing Beyonce on the SNL 40 year anniversary special. 3 fucking hours of hilarity and confusion all mixed together. Because I am only 30, and I've only been watching for less than 20... sooooo, some great parts, some, wtf is happening parts.

I had a lot of apple pie moonshine and ginger ale tonight. It's so good. I needed it. I can't remember the last time I felt this good.

I'm gonna need a lot of water before I go to bed...

I went with my fiance on a run yesterday to Plattsburg and all over the upper part of NYS, and I finally started reading "The Body Electric" by Beth Revis (she wrote the Across the Universe trilogy... you should definitely read it!) and I've noticed how similar it is to a book I started writing a few years ago, that is still technically, unnamed,  but about a similar concept: scientifically being able to control ones dream, or sleep state to induce a better quality of life because reality sucks. At least that's the theme of my story, REM (?), and I've only started chapter 8 or 9 of The Body Electric, but so far, it seems like the plot is very similar.

I also need to finish Aubrey Nightingale. Chapter One is ALMOST finished with editing... but I haven't opened it because I've been on a Friends Binge ever since it came on Netflix January 1... I really need to finish it. So I can finally move onto editing Chapter 2.. and finish writing the damn thing. I love it and miss it and think it has so much potential to be such a great story... I hope I can do it justice... I always wonder if I'm good enough, and I know that's a chronic problem when dealing with a person who suffers from anxiety, but still. It never goes away. I want Aubrey to be amazing, because she is amazing. And Azra. The unedited partial first version that's available on amazon, is no where near how amazing this story is.  It doesn't do it justice... I need to fix it, and reupload it, so people can really see just how brilliant these characters are meant to be.

Going to write now. #onlyalittledrunk #kidsinDisneyOnVacation #ImFucking30

Monday, February 2, 2015

A Conversation About The Truth


     I was raped and molested when I was a child. From about seven until twelve. I will not say who because I'm not at the point in my life where I'm ready for that... but I will tell you that it is effecting my life, my relationships, my head, and my self esteem. Very few people know about this. But I think it's time for me to open up more about this because I believe this is one of the underlying problems of my anxiety. This, and that I allow other peoples opinions define me, but only the negative ones, of course.  
     Thanks for that, society.

Thursday, January 15, 2015

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Conversation with a dead beat dad

For six years, I didn't ask you for Child Support. I didn't want your money and you know why. It wasn't until I realized you were never going to get your shit together until someone with real authority actually makes you, that I made the decision to file. And, I don't think you realized how easy you had it, only having to pay $25 a week. But then, somehow, magically, it gets changed to $25 a month... which is complete and utter bullshit. Please tell me what $25 a month will buy our son? That wouldn't cover the food on his dinner plate for a week. $25 a month is a joke. It's laughable. It's so fucking disgusting that all I can think is why the fuck did I even bother?! Our son will grow up and realize that you are a useless piece of shit, without any prodding from me at all. It's not that hard to see, because EVERYONE ELSE DOES. I was not asking for a lot. But this... this is fucking low.
You might as well just give up your parental rights, remove your name from his birth certificate and leave us the fuck alone. Because if it were up to me, right now, that's exactly what I would do. 

Monday, January 12, 2015

A conversation with a horrible mother

     So, there is this girl who has been a friend of our family since before she was born; her mother has been best friends with my aunt since they were kids, and this girl is, or was, best friends with my cousin because they are around the same age.
     Well, this girl, who is 23/24 years old maybe, has two children with her boyfriend who she lives with. A boy and a girl. However, her children do not live with them.
     Her kids are literally one year apart. Both of their birthdays are in the same month, one year apart.
     When her son was a couple of months old, she was working and her oh so lovely boyfriend was home watching the kids, and when she came home, her son's elbow was dislocated from the socket, and there were cigarette burns on his feet.
     Not being a complete idiot, she took her son to the hospital, where, of course, CPS was called, and an investigation started. Turned out, baby daddy did it. He said it was an accident, fucking idiot, because how do you accidently burn your baby with a cigarette, and dislocate their fucking elbow??
     Well, she's fucking stupid because she refused to leave him. He doesn't work, she brings home all the money and supports his drug habit, and from what I've heard, he's an abusive, control freak who probably has her too scared to leave. But since she wouldn't leave him, she lost custody of both of her kids, and her mom has custody of them now.

     Well today, she posted this lovely message online:
"Can't believe our babies are going to be older siblings. It doesn't seem possible! Can't wait for babygirl to arrive ♥"
     And the most fucked up part of this whole situation is that your poor, innocent children won't ever even know who you really are... They will never call YOU Mom.
     How does that make you feel?