Yesterday I met Eve.

Yesterday I met Eve.

She stood before the judge with her hands cuffed behind her back.  Her manicured fingers fidgeted behind her back as she explained the hardship of her situation.  She shifted in her platform sandals.  Her shoulders relaxed and she breathed a heavy sigh when the judge ordered her probation be dropped and moved on to the next case.  I remembered being relieved for her as the bailiff removed her from the courtroom, and then moving on to my own anxiety and irritation over my traffic violation, and the fine that likely followed.  In a few short minutes my name was called and I was allowed to plead my own case before this kindly judge, who reduced my fine greatly and sent me on my way with a friendly smile.  Thanks, Judge.

On my way out the door, I saw the same woman sitting on the curb, looking off into the distance and fidgeting.  We exchanged smiles, and I put my bitch-face back on as I walked past.
"Miss?  I'm sorry.  You don't happen to have a cigarette, do you?"
I turned and really looked at her.  She was very pretty, and seemed so small and young and alone.

"Yeah, there's a pack in my truck, if you want to follow me."

We stood in the parking lot, smoking and talking about our reasons for being in court.  She'd been picked up on a very old probation violation, and had just spent two weeks behind bars.  She'd since been told she'd been evicted, and now she and her little daughter had nowhere to go.  She had no family in America.  She didn't know where she'd sleep tonight if her boyfriend refused to take them in.  She was a domestic abuse survivor.  She was alone and afraid.

A young man came out of the building and crossed toward us, got into in his giant truck, and circled the parking lot, American flag waving on one side, Confederate flag waving on the other.  She and I watched him drive past, and tried to ignore him as he rumbled out of the parking lot in his giant compensation piece.  When he circled the block again, we got into my truck, and I told her we could sit here and wait for her ride for as long as it took.

We talked about our babies.  About our ex husbands and our parents.  We talked about circumstances and serendipity.  We talked about love.  We talked about music.

She just turned 25.  Her father in Africa has three wives.  She has seventeen brothers and sisters.  The last time her husband strangled her, her two-year-old daughter went to the kitchen for a knife to rescue her.  She loves to write and she loves to read.
In high school, she beat the shit out of the racist little boy who used to throw things at her on the bus, and called her "African booty-scratcher."  She has a premature baby, and she believes in being outgoing and generous and friendly, because that's how she wants to be treated.

We shared our woes and our successes.  We shared our mental handicaps.  She listened to me drone on about my own past, my own relationships, my own strange collection of situations and circumstances.  She passed no judgement, no matter how sordid the tale, or how uncomfortable the story.  She listened, she responded, she smiled, she reassured.

An hour into our conversation, we finally exchanged first names, and laughed over the fact that we'd been bonding so deeply, without even knowing each other's names.

By now, court was over, and the parking lot had emptied.  As the judge pulled away in his little white car, we expressed gratitude for his sweetness and kindness toward us both.

"I'm so glad I talked to you," she said, surveying the emptiness of the parking lot and the sun hanging low in the sky.  "I think I would have freaked out, sitting here alone.  Waiting for some serial killer to stuff me in their trunk or toss me in the river.  Thank you."

We expressed our happiness multiple times, over the universe being kind enough to bring us together.

She borrowed my phone to call her boyfriend, and I listened as she defended herself against his accusations, grew quiet, and gave in.  "I have to keep the peace.  I hate it.  He's wrong.  But I have to play nice."  


Her ride arrived, and she breathed a long sigh of relief.  Two men got out of the car to greet her, and everyone smiled.  She had a mountain of unfathomable garbage to deal with, but at least now that she had a ride home, she could get started.

We both opened our arms, and fell into each other with no hesitation.  She whispered thanks into my ear.  We hugged and hugged and hugged.  I assured her that everything was going to be ok.  That somehow, everything is always ok.  I thanked her and squeezed her and she kissed my face.  "I feel like you're an angel."

One last wave as I pulled away, and she and her friends disappeared in my rear view.
Spending that time with her, and talking so intimately with her was a soothing, therapeutic experience.  My own impending episode, my own crying and paranoia and fear that had built up during the day and threatened to rob me of the next few days of my life, had wilted and cowered beneath the light of this fellow traveler.  Eve's struggles, her openness and her willingness to love and bond with a stranger, had prevented my own darkness from swallowing me up for days.  I hope that I was able to have a similar impact on her.

We were soul-mates for two hours, and I will think about her always.

Be so gentle with one another.  We need each other.  

I'm learning

It's a process.  An ongoing, exhausting, forever-type process.  Learning to speak up.  Learning to say "I think I am symptomatic."  Learning to ask for reassurance and express what sometimes grows and swells inside me.
It's embarrassing.  And it's hard.  And it requires an absurd amount of patience and understanding and support from the people around me.  It must be tiresome, and I feel how tiresome it must be.

My episodes are ill-timed.  They don't care if you have a job interview, a court date, a sick relative.  They don't care if you have your own worries and fears and anxieties.  They don't care if they make it worse for you.
I do.  And I am embarrassed.  And I hold it in, because I feel like a brat or a burden or an annoyance for feeling so out of control when someone else needs to focus on their own shit.
I need to not do this.

I'm learning to speak up.  I'm learning to put words on these horrible episodes, and I'm learning to ask for reassurance.
I'm sort of fucking up the whole thing, but I'm trying.  Learning.  Failing, and trying again.

Dialogue is invaluable.  I have discovered that when I don't talk about it, it grows.  It hides in those dark spaces and flourishes.  Festering in the dark and turning into anger and resentment.  Learning to open my mouth and put words on my absurd paranoia, saying exactly what I think and feel in that moment, and allowing someone to see what sort of reassurance I need, shines a beacon of light into that stagnant darkness, and helps to shrink the thing festering inside.
Learning to get to this point has proven difficult.
Learning to actually admit out loud the weird places my thoughts have gone, is difficult.
Learning to say "I'm afraid you're all lying to me and this is a mass alien conspiracy to kidnap my cats and turn them into furry minions of doom for our new Martian overlords..."
Learning to put words to the absurdity is difficult.

There are days when I literally suspect everyone and everything of plotting to hurt me.
There are days when everything seems like a grand scheme against me, and there's no one I can trust.
There are days when I believe I am unlovable, and I feel hatred and resentment toward the people who are closest to me, convinced it's all a plot to dupe me.
There are days when crying is the only communication I'm capable of.
There are days when I am afraid, of everyone and everything and every thought around me.
There are days when I truly believe the world is conspiring to hurt me.
These are the days when I need the words so desperately, and can't find them.
These are the days when you'll ask "what's wrong, are you ok," and I will lie to you.

But I am learning.  It's a process, and I will fail.

I think I expected all of it to melt away once my divorce was final.  Once I was done with that whole stupid process, once I was free from a "bad" marriage, once I was able to spread my wings and see what's out there in the world, I would heal and all would be well.


The reality is much, much different.
I've learned that sometimes, healing and recovery are destructive.  I have discovered triggers I've never noticed before.  I have learned that sometimes we grow accustomed to horrible things, and find a sort of comfortable predictability within them, and finding them suddenly gone can be panic-inducing.  I have learned that safety, after a lifetime of being afraid, is fucking scary.

But I am learning.  And it's a process.


I expected it to be easy.  I expected to settle into this new normal, fully in control and prepared to tackle whatever dangers found me, because I've cowered long enough, and I'm empowered now, and I'm not gonna be afraid anymore...

I'm afraid.  A lot.  Most of the time.  Pretty much all of the time.  I'm afraid.
I'm afraid of my own panic.  I'm afraid of being lied to.  I'm afraid of being used or deceived.  I'm afraid of looking stupid or insecure or unreasonable.  I'm afraid of being annoying.  I'm afraid of serial killers and angry phantoms.  I'm afraid of the anger of someone I love.  I'm afraid of being a disappointment.  I'm afraid of someone hurting me and my kids and my family and my animals.  I'm afraid of my reactions if they do.  I'm afraid of bombs and lunatics and unprovoked violence.  I'm afraid of having my heart broken.

And the only way to quell those fears, and all the other absurd thoughts that sometimes happen, is to talk about them, out loud.  To admit what I feel, and to accept the reassurance that follows.
I'm afraid that talking about it will be met with resentment or frustration or anger, and so I hold it all in, letting it grow and fester and blossom into something much worse, until I am in the midst of an episode that can't be stopped until it's run its course.

I don't even know what I'm trying to say.  I'm learning.  That's it, I guess.  I'm trudging my way thru this bullshit, and if you're trudging thru with me, I'm most grateful.  So very grateful and appreciative in ways I can't express, and I need you.  And I understand how frustrating it must be.  And I'm afraid.

And I'm learning.

Nothing to read. Just an interesting picture.

I don't have anything to say, other than I find the physical manifestations of mental illness to be fascinating.   This is me, two days apart.  I hope you're all well and safe.  

Wednesday, 4-1-15                        Friday, 4-3-15

"August 11, 2014"

I'm having a shitty week, full of symptoms that won't go away. I am suspicious and irritable, and I have reached that miserable point where I hate everyone, including myself, and I am convinced I will never leave my house again, because having panic attacks in public is total, total bullshit.
I've made excellent progress with my manure mountain, taking the time to gather years of solid proof that I am useless and unlovable, and stacking it all into a big, lumpy mountain of shit, and burrowing in deep.

And then I stopped.
I don't need to do that.  I'm better than that.  I don't belong in that shit pile.  I never did.

I dug thru my therapy notes and found it.  "August 11, 2014." That was the last time.  It's been five months since I've self-harmed.

FUCKING YES.  

Five months, fuckers.  

I don't even know where my knife is right now.  And if I did, I'd use that fucker to slice the piece of cake I'm about to eat.
Pieces.  Pieces of cake.

Having these symptoms is still bullshit.  I'm surrounded by more love and support and patience than I ever imagined I could be.  I know I could pick up the phone and call any number of people for support, and have them inside my house within minutes, if that's what I needed.  I am loved.

And in moments like this, I doubt every single bit of it.  I am suspicious.  I am wary.
I am a dick.

But I'm not a dick.  I'm operating with a malfunctioning brain. And I'm still in control of this bullshit episode. I'm not spiraling into that hopeless state of mind where all I can do is cry and injure myself.  I'm experiencing irrational symptoms, and reacting like a rational human being.  I am reacting like a rational human being, even tho my brain doesn't function properly.  

 Can I get a wut wut.

My Great Mommy (Guest post by Kelsey)

Our daughter has decided she has things to say, and looks forward to hearing the things you have to say about the things she has to say.  I has a proud <3

My mommy is the best person I know. [Except when she's mad.Then she is the second best person I know.] I love her. We have awesome times together.

We play together.On halloween instead of going to a bunch of houses, we went to not very many houses and then went home to have a girl night. We watched "Five Nights at Freddy's"and stayed up late.

We also have a big imagination. One ordinary day turned into an "Alice and Ofilia" adventure.Mom has a funny person that she calles "Tammy". She makes a funny voice to make it like she is 4. And instead of saying "4", she says "fowee".

And on my 6th birthday,When we went to "Chukey Cheese". Instead of a bacon and eggs breakfast, we had pepproni pizza.It was a fun time.

She sounds amazing.I know.But she is more amazing than she sounds.

~Kelsey

Like a Boss.

Boyfriend.  He does not yet have a name here.  I don't want to name him here just yet.  Let's call him "William."  After my grandfather and my uncle, who are two of the most warm-hearted and loving people you'll ever know, with just a splash of wicked humor and a lot of reserved spunk.

He listens to me recount the events of my life, and most often shakes his head in disbelief.  "Jesus, what did they do to you?  You've overcome so much."

In my broken moments, and in the moments when I couldn't see clear of this path, I didn't understand how he could hear these stories and not see me as weak and broken.  He has always seen me as strong, smart, and resilient.  I was not able to see what he saw.

I was only able to see the wounded little girl, cowering in the corner from life, and everyone in it.  I was only able to see the hurt and the abuse and the loneliness.  I was only able to see someone weak and sad, broken by a lifetime of abuse and injustice.

And in this past year with him, I have begun to see what he sees.  Someone who didn't submit to defeat, no matter how gross it got.  Someone who fought, every step of the way.  Someone who continually took steps, no matter how small or frightening, to do what needed to be done to survive, overcome, and prevail.

And I have.

I have cut ties with the people who hurt me.  I have refused to allow anyone to stay if the couldn't treat me with respect and dignity.  I have forgiven, moved forward, and refused to allow a lifetime of cruelty turn me into a hateful, vengeful, or otherwise unpleasant, unhappy person.

If that's not strength, I don't know what is.

And I am so in love with the man who came into my life, and showed me these truths about myself.  Who loved me at my weakest, and hung around long enough to see me at my strongest.  

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage

I read thru the papers in their entirety several times before they were served.  I know what they say.  Getting hard copies in the mail today was a blow to the chest I did not expect.

"Petition for dissolution of marriage."
It feels so cold, and formal.  So sterile.  It feels like such a small, sharp phrase, and completely inadequate in describing the heartbreak of a divorce, or the twenty years I spent with him, both good and bad.

Two babies.  The death of beloved family members.  Vacations.  Inside jokes.  Heated arguments.  Lazy days, curled in a ball on the couch.  Violent disagreements.  All of that is over now.  Reduced to a stack of papers less than an inch thick.  Reduced to a few short meetings in a parking lot to exchange our daughter.  Reduced to a few more signatures, and a notarized stamp before the final deed is done.   

I did the right thing for all of us.  I was struggling.  He was struggling.  Our children were struggling.  This is better.  I am aware.

And my heart still contracts when I stop and consider the magnitude of what's happened in the past year.  Sometimes I look around and think I might still wake up, and find it's all been a nightmare.  That I will roll over at night, and he will be there, and he will wrap me up in his arms, and we will love each other the way we were supposed to.  Without the anger.  The fear.  The hate.

Instead, a pile of cold, emotionless papers occupies what used to be his side of the bed.
It's very real.

I am very glad.  This is nearly over, and it's a relief.  I can begin to focus on my therapy and my recovery.  I can surround myself with nothing but support and love.  I can begin to further build my neglected friendships, and find my way in the world the way I was meant.  This is a very, very positive change.

But in moments like these, my heart still breaks.  If only...


And because this is a depressing post, here is a picture of a cute critter.  He has a corm.

Porn Zoo

Some asshole followed me out of the grocery store today, and said "shakin' it, aren't ya?"

Dude.  Fucking stop that.  It's not flattering.  I don't giggle.  I get scared.  Because someone who makes sexual comments to a stranger is obviously not playing with a full deck, and I don't know whether you want to ask me out or rape me or make a lampshade out of my ample ass.

Which, by the way WAS, in fact, shakin'.  I'm fat.  Fat jiggles.  And even if it didn't, I have every right to make it jiggle without being made to feel like an exhibit in the porn zoo.

Is there a porn zoo?  There should be.

There.  I've solved the problem.  Porn zoos.   Enclosures where people come for the sole purpose of being ogled and cat-called.  Where we can press our asses to the glass just like the chimps, and you can snap pictures, high-five your bros, and post facebook updates about the hot-ass specimen in the "tramp" enclosure who jiggled her titties just for you.
Yes, that's the answer.  Take your creepy cat calls to the porn zoo, where they belong.  

Then women wouldn't have to be skeeved out by your weird behavior at the fucking grocery store.  Douche bag.

I live in a small town.  It's entirely possible that this asshole is someone I know, and if not, it's likely that we know the same people.  If you know a tall, bearded butthole with a ponytail down his back, tell him to keep it in his pants.  Or go to the porn zoo, and beat his chest with the rest of the gorillas.  

Heavy

Possible triggers.  Read with caution.  

I am safe.  I love you.  

The weight is physically oppressive.  A heaviness that settles over my bones, making even the slightest movements a burden.  The racing thoughts have stopped completely, and left vacancy and darkness in their place.  Everything is still.  I am still.  I wish to remain still.
I am pessimism personified.  Every dreadful possibility now becomes immediate reality within the swirl of smoke that's filled my skull.  There is swill.  There is rot.  There is stagnation and filth. Every thought dark and disastrous.
My divorce will destroy me.
My children will resent me.
My family will tire of me.
My boyfriend will desert me.
I am helpless.
I am useless.
I deserve all of this.

Events present and past converge in the here and now, to confirm my fears.  They didn't love me.  They didn't protect me.  They didn't come to me.  Because this misery, this despair, this unquenchable torment is what I deserve.  This heartache, and nothing more.

And it's heavy.  My breathing is shallow.  Even the effort of drawing a breath seems colossal and fruitless.  I give in to it, and silently hope to suffocate under the weight of the sadness.

My veins feel full and sticky.  Clogged with the years of filth and sorrow that have been ignored, brushed aside, suppressed.  My blood feels old and tired.  I want to open my veins and tug out the threads and the barbs and the thickness.  Bleed out the old and make way for something fresh.  Drain the sickness.  Start again with new blood.

All this therapy and all this effort now seem like just another cruel trick; filling me with hope and promise of a new way of being, only to come crashing down around me in shards of failure, when I am reminded of just how deep I can sink.

Tomorrow is still there, and I will go on.  A little weaker, and a little less hopeful for any kind of recovery.  
I am still too stubborn, and too frightened to give up.
I miss him.

Ahead of the curve

I shed tears in my therapy session yesterday.
This is not a new thing for me, but for some reason, figuring out the dynamics between myself and this new doctor has been a process.  I did not feel immediately comfortable.  I did not feel good about sharing the strange and intimate details of my life with him.  Every time I'd confess something new, I'd cringe.  I'd feel ashamed.  I feared judgement.
Over the weeks, I have slowly come to see him as a loving, dorky grandfather.  I've become familiar with his vocal quirks, his high-waist pants, and the awkward way he sometimes swears, in what seems like an adorable effort to relate to me.  I like him.  And I feel liked in return.

My week has been rough.  
There are financial struggles.  Big ones.  
There are divorce-related disagreements.  Shitty, hurtful ones.
There are PTSD symptoms that are getting much worse, instead of better.
There are house-related repairs that desperately need attention, and I can't do it.  My sink has been plugged for two weeks, and I am still not sure how to fix it.
I've been dealing with fibromyalgia BS, and haven't felt well all week.
And my boyfriend was here for a visit, and had to go back home...that's the worst.

I showed up for DBT group on Thursday, and didn't look at anyone.  Just sat there, disengaged, crying, and writing in my notebook.
When I arrived for my therapy appointment the next morning, my doctor asked immediately about my apparent sadness in group.
And I cried.
My anxiety, and crippling fear of leaving my house.
The accusations and hurtful, mixed messages from my ex husband.
The painful and cumbersome distance that separates me from the man I love.
And I just cried.  

We talked about how I had been dealing with those situations when they have arisen, and I said I'd just been trying to stick to the facts, state my case, and stay on topic.  Repeating myself when necessary.  I have tried to avoid judgments and assumptions.  I have tried to take steps, little ones if necessary, toward solving the problems, instead of wallowing.
And I still felt shitty.
I still feel afraid to leave my house, worrying I'll run into someone unpleasant, who likes to hurt me.
I still feel heartbroken when my boyfriend leaves, and spend the next two days stumbling around like a confused newborn calf separated from its mother.
I still don't know how to fix that goddamn sink, or what to do about the stagnant water festering in the pipes.
I feel shitty.  Damn shitty.

And he just looked at me, contemplating.  Curious.
"Krystal..."
He frowned, thoughtful, and shifted his glasses to his head.  "How do you know how to do all of this?"

My face stuck, and I wasn't sure how to react.  "How to do all of what?"

He looked at his notes and then back at me.
"These are skills we teach for conflict resolution.  Staying on topic.  The Broken Record...repeating yourself calmly.  Taking actions to solve problems.  Where did you learn these things?"

"I didn't.  I mean, I haven't."

He just looked at me, blinking.  And I realized that this man wasn't sure what to say to me, or how to say it.  Because everything he planned to teach me, I was already doing.  I was ahead of the curve.

"I guess...I suppose I'm better at this than I thought," I said.

My homework for the week is to keep track of every time I don't let my fear and anxiety get the better of me.  To note when I feel that fear, and move forward despite it.  To note when I live my life the way I fucking well want to, instead of caving to anxiety over what someone will think about it.  To go out and buy a tube of goddamn cookie dough, and to hell with what anyone thinks of it. Because I am allowed to do those things.  Because it is my life to live.  Because I no longer have to answer to anyone else for my lifestyle choices.
Ever, ever again.

I have to give myself more credit.
I might have no education, but I'm smart.
I might have a truckload of mental illnesses, but I don't have to be a slave to them.
I'm a good person, and I'm allowed to remember that about myself.

And I can do it.  I'm already ahead of the curve.
And no matter how hard anyone else ever works to prove otherwise, I will never ever forget that about myself.

How to talk to a suicidal person

Maybe a better title is "how to talk to a suicidal me."  I know this is different for everyone.  And this is a work in progress.
Take care of yourselves <3  


 Listen. 
And if I have nothing to say, talk. Keep talking. 
Show me that I am not an irritation or a burden. 
Show me that talking with me is a thing you want to be doing, and not a thing you feel obligated to do. 

Remain calm. Getting angry with me will make it worse. 
Understand that this isn't intentional on my part...I sincerely do not want to feel this way. Validate. 
Understand that reaching out to another person in these desperate moments is very hard. I will feel like an annoyance. Show me that I'm not.

Don't tell me to think of the children. It's not as if I've forgotten about them. It's insulting. 

Don't try to fix my problems. Tell me you will be there to help me while I fix them. If you have legitimate solutions you believe may work for a particular issue, tell me later. In the depths of suicidal ideation, I will merely argue, and tell you why your solutions won't work. I'm not an asshole. I just legitimately can't help it. 

Please don't tell me that "suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem." First, this problem is not temporary. This is a life-long mental illness. I have literally contemplated suicide multiple times a week since I was nine. Second, the idea of a permanent solution to this life-long issue sounds like bliss. I understand the spirit behind such a phrase, but it is both useless and invalidating. And in a suicidal frame of mind, a permanent solution is exactly what I want. 
Talk to me until you are sure I'm safe. Until you hear my voice change back to normal. Until I'm no longer crying. Until I'm able to talk about regular, every day things without steering the conversation back to the glorification of my demise. Please don't let the conversation end until you're sure I am calm and safe. If you're not sure, ask.

 If you love me, tell me. Tell me what you love about me. Talk to me about your favorite memories of us together. Tell me what I'm doing right. Tell me what you'd miss about me. 

Check in. Show me you understand that my problem is real, and not some sort of character flaw that I could fix if I tried hard enough. Knowing someone is thinking of me, and cares what happens to me is huge.

 It's likely that I've hurt myself. Self harm is not at all a functional coping mechanism, and I am aware of this. It is however, the only thing in these moments that helps to alleviate the extreme and reactive feeling inside me. It's ok to ask me. Please ask me. Have you hurt yourself? Is it a deep wound? Has the bleeding stopped? How many cuts? These are neutral questions that express your concern and ensure my immediate safety, without being accusatory or judgmental. I accept and understand that you don't understand. Please do the same for me, because I don't understand it either. 

Check in with each other. Knowing that I have a strong, reliable support system, and that they aren't squeamish about this subject, or me, is helpful. 

Unless we have previously agreed, please do not ask about my medication. "Did you take your pills today" is extremely invalidating. It suggests "you wouldn't feel like this if you'd taken your meds." This is extremely upsetting and will only make it worse. Pills will not "turn it off." If you want to talk about medication, pick a better moment.

I will add to this as needed...

How it happens...

EXTREME TRIGGER WARNING  

This post contains detailed descriptions of episodes of anger and self harm related to Borderline Personality Disorder.  A short, but graphic example of the thought processes and actions that accompany my specific episodes.  There are no photographs or videos attached, just text.  
Please keep yourselves safe.  I am doing the same.  <3  












How it happens...


Something small.  Some perceived injustice that lights the flame.  
Or maybe something big and blatant.  Maybe some asshole whose sole focus it seems is to upset me...I do know those people.  People who intentionally push, knowing full well the outcome.  
And then it happens.  
I am angry.  But not anger.  Fury.  Fire.  Daggers.  I am sharp.  I am burning.  
My anger is irrational and unnecessary, and I am aware.  Knowing this causes it to fester, to swell inside me, until I am consumed by it.  
A permanent scowl has spread itself across my face.  I know I look scary.  I'm too angry to care.  
I reach out.  "I'm having some symptoms."  People are compassionate.  I appreciate it.  But people have their own lives to live, and they can't always be here, physically, with me.  I hate it.  I resent it.  I resent them.  

I replay scenes of injustice and abuse in my head.  The cruel words spoken.  The slaps across the face.  The rape.  The utter lack of love and concern in even my darkest moments.  My life, as a whole, with all the good canceled out, and only the bad, the cruel to fill the void.  My mind is stuck here.  I hate everyone who ever wronged me.  Fuck all of them.  Each and every single last useless one of them.  I hope they die.  
I seethe.  
It grows.  

I rip my knife across my thigh, and hope the bleeding is heavy.  It's better when it's heavy.  When it runs in little trails down to my knee, looking vicious and dangerous despite the fact that it's only 10 or 12 superficial cuts.  I scrape the blood with my knife and gather it into large, organized pools, making room for more.  There must be more.  There is a spark of relief as I photograph the wounds.  And then it passes.  I am in my hole again.  

If someone were to cross me in this moment, I would spiral.  I would disconnect.  I would throw things.  Punch walls.  Slam doors.   Scream.  Swear.  I hate them.  Deep.  The anger is in my bones, and no superficial flesh-wound will release it.  I need to be alone, but the solitude feeds the fire, and it grows.  I photograph my face, dark and swollen.  Stained with tears.  I compare the pictures to the ones of my happier faces.  Polished and pretty, a sparkle in my eyes.  It's not the same person.  I am some sort of monstrous duality.  I don't recognize me.  

There are noises.  Clanging, ringing, mumbling voices.  Random words that echo loudly between my ears, making it hard to concentrate.  Similar to the experience of getting an annoying song stuck in one's head, I hear phrases or words or sounds.

"SANCTION.  SANCTUARY.  SECRETARY.  TERRA COTTA."
Clang clang zip.  Beep.  "FORNICATE  DILATE."  Buzz buzz.  

I sit, sometimes for hours, just staring.  I listen to music,  hoping to drown out the noise inside, hoping to find some sort of melodic vibration to calm the beast inside.  I watch old, familiar movies, hoping to capture the memory of a happier time and grab onto it with both hands.  It always slips away.
I eat until I'm sick.  Or sometimes, not at all.  Not for days.  I smoke until I'm queasy.  

I paint.  I write.  I smash things up in the garage.  I walk around my neighborhood, sweating and certainly looking like an angry elephant, stomping unintentionally with each step.  I take Xanax to dull it out.  What will happen when they're gone...I'm afraid, for that day is rapidly approaching.  There are no refills, and I will be on my own.  With this...thing.  

I come to terms with the fact that there is no way out of this, and I must simply wait.  Feel the anger and the sadness and the misery until it fades, and I can breathe again.  

And then I do.  The relief creeps in slowly, tip-toeing around the violent spikes jutting out in all directions.  Wisps of calm, floating in like fog and caressing and dissolving each sharp emotion, until there is room for peace.  My jaw relaxes, my shoulders sink, and there I am again.  The person everyone knows, and loves.  The person who smiles and means it.  The person...not the diagnosis.  

There is no easy answer.  And so I ride the storm, and wait.  

Released

I'm at home again.

I spent a week with no shoes, no jewelry, no belts, and no razors.
I spent a week with  someone else telling me when to wake up, when to eat, when to shower, and when to sleep.
I spent a week full of pills that make me dizzy, and food that made my stomach cramp.
I spent a week without having a proper poo.

But I am here.

I know this is a small victory for a husband who wants the world to believe his terrible wife is crazy.  I don't care.  I am here.

I have a stack of bills on my kitchen counter that I can't pay.  I will likely lose my home to foreclosure.  I don't care.  I am here.

I know people will whisper behind my back.  I will let them.  I am here.

I am here, in my house that stinks from the trash I left behind last week, eating these blueberries and drinking this ice water, and the knowledge that I can do whatever the fuck I want right now.  Because I am here.

I haven't lost yet.  And the world should watch out once I decide that I will win...

Hope

"This one will be hard to write.  It shouldn't be.  I haven't done anything wrong.  I haven't mistreated anyone, or harmed anyone, and I shouldn't feel shame over something I can't control.  But I do.  I'm embarrassed, and it's hard to write.
And probably hard to read.  Because watching someone struggle with "shameful" things like these is difficult for everyone.  It just sucks, in general.

I fall into the category of "mental illness."
That's not news.  Everyone already knows that.  I haven't been secretive about it, nor do I feel I need to.  But I also haven't gone into great detail about what that means to me...

I've had one diagnosis after another over the years, and to be quite honest, I don't really know which ones are correct, and which ones are bullshit.  They all make sense in some form, and they all fit fairly well from time to time.
I've been "bipolar."
I've been "depressed."
I've been "borderline personality."
I've been "psychotic."
I've been "suicidal."
I have gone thru periods where I would recoil in disgust and fear when anyone tried to touch me.
I have gone thru periods where I might literally tear off my clothes and throw myself at the first person who tried.  
I have suffered paranoia and anger, convinced that the people I love are all collaborating to trick me into thinking they love me.
I have been socially phobic, and terrified of my telephone.
I have been so hurt by, and angry at my mother that I would literally sit for hours, fantasizing about her violent and bloody demise.
I have attempted to cover my emotions with food, sex and the attention of abusive, shitty people.
I have intentionally injured myself.

Some of these are past tense, and some are very current.

It's a desperate feeling.
I want so badly for someone to know what I'm going thru.  I want them to know, really, how I feel in the depths of these things.  I want to be able to say "I am afraid.  I am unwell.  I am unsafe," and yet the thought of physically saying those things out loud to another person creates a warm little panic right in the middle of my chest...
Because, nobody likes an attention whore.  Nobody likes a one-upper.  Nobody likes "woe-is-me."

Asking for help or support is not "woe is me."  I know this.
But god, does it feel that way.
And in feeling that way, it creates an even greater sense of alone-ness and helplessness.
Knowing that a person is not likely to even know how to help, if I did say those things.

Self harm has been a constant struggle for me since high school.  I literally do not know why.  It's just a thing I did one night in my room, and it escalated from there.  It's soothing.  It's healing.  It's sometimes the only way I can calm myself when I feel the anger and sadness and helplessness welling up inside, to a point where I know it will end in hysterics.  It calms me when I cannot calm myself.  It comforts me when I cannot comfort myself.  It helps me when I cannot help myself.
Until very recently, I had it "under control."  I used past tense words to describe my uncomfortable "quirk" to people who were brave enough to ask me about the series of scars across my arms.  "I was a cutter.  I used to self harm.  I had a problem."  And now, after a decent stretch of "past tense," I am a cutter.  I self harm.  I have a problem.

More often that not, I base my self worth entirely on whether or not someone actively wants to have sex with me.  I have had numerous sexual relationships, to varying degrees, with men and women who are able to quiet the hatred I feel for myself.  I've used them to prove to myself that I'm lovable, that I'm fuckable, and that regardless of what ugliness resides within me and on me, someone still wants me.  When I'm not immediately gratified by their lustful attention to my salacious text messages, or pictures of myself, I become overwhelmed with sadness and guilt and fear and embarrassment.  The "good" or "bad" of my entire day can be immediately turned around based solely upon the reaction of someone to my body parts.

I am suicidal.  Not actively, and not right this very second.  But it can turn around in a heartbeat.  My days feel like an endless procession of identical, gray strips of life, with no seasoning, no feeling, and no point.  Some days I sink into what feels like an endless, horrible sadness, and I literally can't stop crying.  And I want to die.  Some days I feel bland and dusty, and wonder why it's worth it to continue going forward, when there literally feels like there's no point in continuing. Sometimes I feel such seething hot anger that I don't know how else to quiet it than to end my very existence.  People would make the case that "your kids need you.  Your husband needs you.  People love you.  What about XY and Z," and my response would be the same...I don't care.  None of it makes me feel like I should "want" to live.  In the past year, there has never been a moment when I was able to say to myself, "I'm glad I'm alive."  Not one.  And I realize how horrible this is, considering I have seen firsthand what sort of mess a person's suicide can leave behind.   And it doesn't make me feel any sort of "oh my god, what was I thinking?!  I want to live!"  I don't.   Each day is just a varied degree of how much I don't want to be here.

At any given moment, there are a stream of awful, wretched and disturbing thoughts and images playing out inside my head.  People being slaughtered.  People being raped and tortured.  People being dismembered and destroyed in the most foul, unthinkable ways imaginable.  The more I try not to think about things like that, the harder they force themselves to the front of my thoughts."

****************************************

I sat down a few months ago and wrote this.  I was never brave enough to publish it.  These feelings are scattered, frightening, and embarrassing, and sharing that with everyone seemed to seize my bones with fear, and so it's just been sitting here, marked "draft."
I have since reached a very calm, very eerie state of mind.  I am in crisis.  I have decided.  And I am afraid of the fact that I'm not afraid anymore.

In that last two days, I have reached out.  I have told people that I am not well.  I have made arrangements for my daughter and our home, and I am calling for help.

I hope that reading this gives at least one other person the bravery and determination to do the same.


I don't want to die today.  And I hope you don't either.  And I hope you know that if you do, it's ok.  Those feelings don't make you bad or wrong.  Those feelings are despair and helplessness lying to you.  This can be fixed.  You can feel right again.
I would very much like to feel right again.


Bumbling around today in an effort to pass the hours before my phone call, I found this.  I found it very calming, very reassuring, and very helpful.

You are valuable.  You matter.  Please don't be afraid.

~Krystal

What Panic Did

I'm standing in the middle of a little shop near my town, having a flirty text chat with my boyfriend person.  The world is right and all is well.
Then I look up, I look around, and I'm filled with an unexplained, unprovoked fear.
Sick, hot fear.

My body quakes, and my hands fumble at the keypad on my phone.  "I'm having a severe panic attack right now," I type.  I send.

I'm having a panic attack.  This is a certainty.  There is no danger beyond my own brain, and I am ok here.  I know this.

But my body reacts in fear.  My stomach drops, then churns.  I sweat.  I shake.  I want to get away.  My brain begins its panic chant, and I wait, helpless, while it marches forward in chaos.

"You're here in the middle of this store, and everyone around you is dangerous.  There is someone bad within this collection of people.  Someone who wants to hurt you.  Nothing you do can stop it.  Demise is imminent, and you are trapped.  There is nothing you can do to redirect this course of events.  So just wait, and prepare.  Bad things are coming."  


Boyfriend responds with rationality and calmness.  He reminds me that I'm ok, that he loves me, and that I can leave at any moment, hide in my car, and smoke until I'm calm.

I stay, insistent upon not being chased out of a thrift shop by my own irrational fear.

Mostly.  I hide in the bathroom.
Acutely aware of every sound made by my jangling keys, my clunky bracelets, and my noisy heels echoing off the walls with every step.  I am not invisible in here.  I am a target in here.  Being in here is more suspicious and attention-drawing than being out there, in the middle of all the evil-doers who have certainly begun to notice my absence.  I gather myself, and return to the battle outside.

A man is watching me.  Friendly glances in my direction.  Smiles.  He is very aware of me.

"He wants to hurt you."
I am convinced that he does.

He follows me.  Absent-mindedly touching items for sale, and immediately moving forward when I move away.  He's watching me.

My phone vibrates.  "You're safe.  You're my girl.  I love you."

"This will be the last text you ever receive."
I am convinced that it is.

I check out, ever aware of the imposing and creepy man standing directly behind me.  The cashier smiles.  She hands me my change, and I grab my purchases without waiting for a bag, and flee, trying with everything inside me not to break into a sprint.

Safe inside my car, I'm immediately embarrassed, sure I've made a scene.
I haven't.

I'm embarrassed that I've been ridiculous and stupid in full view of my boyfriend.
I haven't.

I'm irritated that my latest attempt to be brave in the world has failed miserably, and that I'll drive home defeated, and regret it for the rest of the day.
I've decided not to feel that way.

So I didn't get what I'd originally gone out to get, but that's ok.  I can go anywhere, anytime, now that I have my car.
So I didn't hit up that friend I'd intended to drop in on.  But that's ok, too.  There's time.

No one was hurt, and I didn't die, and I wasn't slaughtered by a lunatic inside some shitty religious thrift store.

I'm calling it a win.

The basics

I'm alive!

So much fuckery has kept me away from my precious keyboard, and busy with shitty tasks that turned writing into kind of "a thing I do when I need to remember to buy more toilet paper."

Suck.

The basics...
I'm getting a divorce.  Our two-decades-long relationship is finally over.  And it's wonderful.  And I hate it.  And every possible emotion in between.

I miss him.  He was not good to me, and he'll tell you that.  Or maybe he won't.  Today I think he might.
It wasn't always a disaster.  I miss the jokes that only we get.  I miss our nightly "stupid movie" ritual.  I miss having a warm body next to me while I sleep at night, and someone to pull me closer when the alarm goes off in the morning.  I miss having someone else to depend on when things are stupid.  I miss having someone to back me up when one of the kids loses their mind and decides to go on one of those "let's see if we can make mom drink" tirades.
I miss being able to hug him...I think I miss that the most.

And I don't miss him.
A sentence which could also do with a paragraph or two of explanation, but I don't want to do that. So I'll just leave it there.

Divorce.  What even is that?
Nothing like I expected, that's for certain.

There were restraining orders.  There were interlopers.  There were devious assholes disguised as loving friends.  There were heartbreaking and necessary separations that landed me miles from home.  There were accusations and threats and general terrible-ness.

Then our son ran away.  Quit school.  Met a girl.  Threw everything away.  For four months he wandered from house to house, thinking he had all the answers and that his crazy parents were imbeciles.  He was intentionally hurtful.  He played one parent against the other.  He created the havoc he needed, I suspect, in an effort to recreate the chaos he'd felt at home during our separation.  Or maybe he was following a poor example set for him by his parents.  Or maybe he was just being a jerk.  Either way, I loved him, and I love him, and he's home now.  He's warm and safe and he's showering and eating.  And at this point that's such a relief that nothing I type will come close to articulating the anxiety I felt for him while he was gone.

And I met someone.
And I want to write all about it.
But I won't.
But goddamn...the feels...
There are many.  They are big.

So this is a shitty post, and leaves nearly everything out.  But I'm so happy to have my computer back and to have had a good day.
And I missed this.
And I'm glad you're still here.  

My son

He pulls his weight, and then some.
Despite having been raised by the two most clueless parents on earth, he is shaping up to be a respectful, thoughtful, and patient man.
Maybe he's not a straight A student...that's because he doesn't fit into such a broken, militant school system.
Maybe he uses a swear word now and then...that's because he realizes that the power of words is much greater than their censorship.
He wears earrings and rainbows and listens to heavy metal...that's because he's confident in who he is, and he knows that a person's appearance does not dictate their behavior.  He is a brilliant soul, wrapped in colorful packaging.

He's a typical teenager.  And he isn't.

He's a goddamn miracle. He works his ass off around here.  Sometimes without the recognition and appreciation he deserves.  And still, he loves us.  Even when we don't deserve it.  His father and I have failed so many times at this point that the boy has every right to have descended into a cycle of booze and drugs and violence.  He has chosen to learn, and to grow with us.  He has watched us fail repeatedly, and he has chosen to love us, and himself regardless.

I don't know how.

But I do know that the boy is amazing.  He is deserving of your love and admiration and respect, and he gives it freely.

The people in his life are respected, and treated with love and patience, even when they do not deserve it.
The people in his life are forgiven, and forgiven endlessly.  
The people in his life are loved, and loved greatly, without prejudice, and without hesitation.  Even if they are assholes.
Or drug addicts.   
Or racist people.
Or abusive.
He will forgive you.  He will love you.  He will respect your differences, and make infinite space for you within his sphere.  Because it is the treatment he wishes for himself.

I look up to him.  And not just because he's six feet tall.  <3

An orgasm of emotions

Mental illness has many different faces.  I'm not exactly sure how to label my own, and I don't necessarily want to.  Several doctors have tried for me, and all of their classifications and categories fit me in one way or another.  The "scarier" ones get pushed into the back of my brain and ignored, and the "easier" ones get their names spoken occasionally when I need to explain some sort of odd behavior.  
"Sorry I didn't answer when you called.  I have anxiety."
"Sorry I was so lame at your party.  I'm pretty depressed."
"Sorry I acted like such a boob the other night.  It's my ADHD."

Not that those are excuses.  But they help explain what's sometimes an uncomfortable weirdness for me and everyone unfortunate enough to have to be around me when I'm, well, weird.

And there are moments where I go beyond weird.  Where I sink into such a scary space that I start to entertain scary thoughts and say scary things and behave in scary ways.  It's like trying to claw your way out of a dark, dirty pit deep in the earth, and every attempt to make your way free only scratches more dirt down on you.  Sometimes it's short-lived, and sometimes I'm stuck down there so long, that I just give up, and sit.  And wait.
The desperation grows a little stronger every day, and that's when the weirdness starts.  Weird thoughts.  Weird words.  Weird behaviors.

And I sit there at the bottom of that pit, hoping for some sort of ray of hope.  Some sort of ladder, or rescue that will pull me from the darkness and back up to the surface to feel the light of day on my desperate face.  It eventually begins to feel truly impossible, and truly hopeless, leaving me to wonder if it's even worth the bother to go forward for another second.  And when I'm at my darkest, I know it isn't...

It's the scariest place in the world.  Rational thought does nothing to sway these types of feelings at this point.  There is literally nothing that makes it seem as tho moving forward is a better choice than...not.  My body begins to feel like a big fleshy cage, and I sincerely resent every breath my brain forces me to take.

Relationships are strained.  Family dynamics begin to shift.  The whole world feels surreal and foreign and wrong.  And I truly believe that nothing will ever be good ever again ever ever.  I just sit, and wait.



And then, without warning or reason, like a dormant tree suddenly budding in the spring, I begin to look up.  I begin to see that all the dirt I've clawed down onto myself has built up under me, and I'm within reach of the top of this horrible pit.  I can see daylight, and smell fresh air, and hear birds sending their songs out into the breeze.  And I know I'm going to get out...I'm going to be ok.

And when I do, it's goddamned glorious.  The-hills-are-alive glorious.  Dawning-of-the-age-of-Aquarius glorious.  Pinocchio-finally-gets-to-be-a-real-boy fucking glorious.

Every sound is electric.  I can hardly contain myself and my excitement as I start blasting awful techno-y house music thru the atmosphere, soaking in every cliche note as if it were gourmet food and woody wine after a year-long fast of flour and water.
Every face around me immediately becomes the most beautiful face in creation.  My children are so goddamned lovely I can hardly take it.  My husband's graying head and foot-long beard are irresistible  and I can hardly stand the moments where his face is not immediately touching my own.
The wind thru my hair, the sun on my cheeks, the air in my lungs...it's all too much, and I feel so happy that at any given moment I could burst open and release an infinite flow of brilliant light powerful enough to heal the whole world.  I really could.
My brain full to bursting with thoughts of self-improvement and hopeful desires.  And because I suddenly have all the energy in the world, I know without doubt that I can and will fulfill each and every self-appointed task.
"I will walk to the end of town and back every single day, rain or shine.  I will shrink this body and build these muscles to strength that will carry me well into my hundreds without effort.  I will eat nothing that doesn't come directly from this beautiful soil, and I will harm no creature in order to satiate my carnivorous desires.  I will be a better wife and a better mother and a better lover and a better friend.  I will answer every phone call, and reply "yes" to every invitation.  I will finish every half-written story I've ever started, I will expand my vocabulary and stop using so many fuckwords.  I will forgive my mother.  I will call my father.  I will I will I will I will."

And I believe it.  Even the ridiculous.  Even the impossible.
Even knowing that it's a temporary and probably "unhealthy" chemical balance causing me to think and feel these things, doesn't dull the brilliant sparkle inside me that's surely radiating from every pore for all to see.

I don't know which is harder to tolerate; me as a dark wad of a person at the bottom of the pit, or me as the hyper-elated crazy lady who's practically an orgasm of emotions.

Eventually, it will settle again, and a kind of quiet peace will take over.  I think that's the best part.  Sometimes I think it's worth the violent despair I have to endure to get to that point.  Sometimes...

I won't medicate.  Not conventionally.  I have tried it, and I know it's not for me.  Most of my teen years are irretrievably hidden under a fog of Lithium and Depakote and Prozac.  Not only do those things fail to "heal" me, but they rob me of the beautiful euphoria that follows the dark phase.  They rob me of everything, actually; of happiness and compassion and orgasms and desires and appetite for life and want for death.  They leave me stale and empty, like a gutted carcass left to bloat and stink in the summer sun.  They leave me malleable and compliant, willing to be or do as requested, in a vain attempt to be something.  Even if it's for someone else.  It isn't for me.  

And so, I find my own ways to medicate, to suture, and to survive until I can climb back out of the pit, and into the dazzling spray of light waiting for me on the outside.

Today, I am outside.  I feel the molecules of everything on the planet against my skin.  I literally tremble with goodness and happiness and lightness, and if I don't hold onto something, I know I will fly away.
Even knowing that it won't last doesn't dull the glorious light tearing thru me right this very minute.
I am unwell.  And it's beautiful.

The Further Adventures of Alice and Ophelia

It started with a chili dog.
I don't eat chili dogs.  Partly because of migraine-y reasons, and partly because, gross.  Hot dogs are made of hair and wood and the skin of circumcised baby boys.  And bum.  And sick.

But I ate it.  I slathered that skinny, weird food-type product in generic canned chili, shredded cheese, enough mustard to cause an ulcer, and I salted the whole thing like I was preserving it for the winter.  It was terrible.  And glorious.  I haven't eaten anything so sinful and amazing in months, and it was all I could do not to stick my whole face in it, and wallow like David Hasselhoff in a cheeseburger factory.  



And then I realized what I had done.  

"I should go sit on the front porch, and think about what I've done."
So I did.

Our yard is, well, the only way to say it is to say that we're "that" yard.  Our grass is always overgrown.  Always.  And because one of us is a militant tree-hugger, we're not allowed to use chemical lawn sprays.  And you shouldn't either.  But that's not the point.  The point is that the dandelions in our yard are plentiful, and they are hardy.  And they are approximately a foot tall.  

No, for real.  

"OH GLORIOUS!  I SHALL MAKE DANDELION ANGELS!"  

And there is nothing more fantastic to do with a dandelion, than to take it's firm, cool stalk, and split it into two sproingy, cool curlicues, perfect for slapping an unsuspecting bystander.
Well, you can eat them, but this blog isn't about why you shouldn't poison off all those wonderful, edible, medicinal, curlicue-able wonderplants in your own yard...

This blog is about me, sitting on the front porch, fat-full of gross chili dog, splitting dandelion stalks with my daughter.
Or at least that's how it starts.

She produced a frisbee.  Well, I mean she found one.  She didn't pull it out of her ear or conjure it up from Hades or something.  She found a frisbee, and she challenged my honor with a firm frisbee-slap to the arm fat.

"VILE BEAST!  I CHALLENGE YOU!"

Thus began an hour-long frisbee-slap, dandelion-slap fight.  With British accents, because, well I'm pretty sure you have to when it's a duel.

Somewhere along the way, I got totally "into it."  If you've got kids, you know what I mean.  If you don't, it's pretty much like forgetting that you're a grown up, and regressing into some sort of enormous adult-sized child-beast as you play with your kids.

"YOU THROW LIKE A FANNY!"
"YOU THROW LIKE A CAT POOP!"
"WEENIE!"
"FART SMELLER!"

In my defense, she did throw like a fanny, and it's high time someone told her.

For the next hour, Alice and Ophelia chased, insulted, and violently assaulted one another with giant dandelions, sending clouds of white fur into the air, and causing passers by to double-take.  

Is that fat girl running?  After that little girl?  Did she just slap that little girl with weeds???  

I may, or may not have become so engrossed in our weird game of tag, that I ran until my baggy laundry-day underpants made a less-than-graceful descent beneath my sweat pants.  Note to self...purchase new underpants.


And I'm not saying I tackled her, but I did manage to get that frisbee from her, and immediately declared victory over her entire pitiful kingdom, and loudly decreed that "ANYONE FURTHER DARING TO ASSAULT MY PERSON SHALL BE IMMEDIATELY AND MERCILESSLY EXECUTED BY DRAGON-FIRE!"

She reacted by flinging an armful of dandelions in my direction, and collapsing into hysterics.

Then we found horse shit.
Then we found cat shit.
Then we giggled over all the shit we found.
Then she put an "old lady" spell on me.
Then I had the bright idea that we should wander to the park next door, which now contained a selection of six or seven people who kept taking cautious glances in our direction, as we grew louder, weirder, and more British.

She thought she needed roller skates to go to the park, which turned out to be the most absurd, awkward and painful "walk" thru the park ever.  She's pretty adept at carpet-skating, but on a hard surface she's about as nimble as a newborn giraffe.  Legs in every direction, squealing, stumbling and giggling, and both of us with wet bottoms from rolling in the grass, dandelion fuzz in our hair, and covered in dirt.

"SHH!  Don't let the humans get suspicious!  If they find out we're aliens from the Klutz Galaxy, they'll chop us up and stick us in jaaaars!"

"Mom.  We are not aliens.  Act right."

Apparently the game was over.

We stopped to take off her skates, and started toward our house breathless and exhausted.
"Mom, that was the funnest day ever."
Yeah, it kind of was.  Alice and Ophelia had a much-needed play together, after far too long without.  
I immediately retreated to my bedroom to remove my bra, and dump out about four thousand little dandelion seeds.  I have also since discovered that I sprained an ankle, and that I'm pretty sure I actually injured a bicep throwing that fucking frisbee.  Rockstar.  

There really isn't a point to this whole thing.  I just want to brag about the fact that I can play British dandelion war with the best of them.  And that my daughter throws like a fanny.  

You play ball like a GIRL!  

Gorilla Pits!

There are some fuckwords in today's post.  And some asshole punches.  And lots of creepy information about the current state of affairs in my armpits.  If you don't like swearing, or the armpits of a fat girl, you should skip today's post, and have a read of something a little less unsettling.  Here's one about my embarrassing indifference to all things "Star Wars."  


If you're still here, here's the fucky, armpitty post as promised.  Enjoy.


It's an ongoing balancing act between wanting to be conventionally pretty, and acceptable by society's (ridiculous) standards, and wanting to embrace my nature-made flesh-vehicle, hairs, cellulite and all.  It's a total crapshoot what I will look like on any given day, depending upon whether I've been gung-ho on self maintenance, shaving, and styling, or whether I've grown into a human azalea bush in an effort to "damn the man," and embrace all my hairy parts.

This afternoon, you will quite literally find me somewhere in between.

Because I somehow managed to shave only one armpit during my last "full body" shave.
How does that even...

One baby-smooth pit, and one middle-aged-man pit.
One barren desert pit, and one humid jungle pit.
One of these, 

Don't you want to touch my warm fleshy goodness?  

And one of these, 

YOU WANNA STROKE THIS, BUT YOU CAN'T HANDLE THIS.  

I am somewhere between a warm, demure hairless kitten, and a sarcastic, impatient gorilla.  

This is actually the perfect metaphor for my personality, I guess.  

One part "let's all get in a snuggly circle and hold hands, so the love can flow freely thru our souls!" 

VS. 

one part "ARE YOU SLUT-SHAMING ME?  MOTHERFUCKER I WILL PUNCH YOU STRAIGHT IN THE ASSHOLE!"  

A little, "we should start a neighborhood make-out day, so we can all get together and show our love for one another as tender little human bean-things!"

VS. 

a little, "DID YOU JUST MAKE A HOMOPHOBIC REMARK!?  I WILL BLEED YOU DRY IN FRONT OF YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY ON CHRISTMAS MORNING!"  

And let's not forget the "oh, she's sick, the poor thing.  Let's meditate upon her wellness, and send our positive vibrations and telepathic hugs so she'll recover quickly!"  

VS. the

"YOU'RE MAKING FUN OF THAT PERSON FOR BEING FAT, YOU BRAINLESS, DICKLESS, SPINELESS FARTFUCK!  I WILL KILL YOU IN A FIERY CARNAGE THAT WILL ROB YOU OF YOUR VERY SOUL!"  

I need to leave one armpit permanently beastly, as a gentle reminder to myself to calm the fuck down, and remember that it's a big world, full of big personalities, and big ideas.   Even wrong ones.  And getting fired up and angry about someone else being at a different point in their journey is as ineffective as shaving that hairy pit in an effort to calm humanity.

Of course, if the whole world bursts into war and flames and horror tomorrow, you have my full permission to blame my dreadlock armpits.