Mistake #1: I didn’t realize I was close to being out of my antidepressant last week.
Mistake #2: I asked my doctor to ship the meds to me rather than sending them to the pharmacy.
Mistake #3: I’ve been mentally and physically withdrawing from it for 5 days and I just now called the doctor to see if he can give me a few pills to last the weekend just in case I don’t get them in the mail today.

I have vertigo, my mood is rapidly shifting every couple hours. I can’t feel anything except blank, or anger. I can’t stop the crying spells. My body feels like I have electrical shocks running through it. And I’m painfully aware of why it’s happening and that this is my fault. I have rendered myself nearly useless for an entire week. Couldn’t tuck my kids into bed last night. Overslept a workout. Bitching out at everyone around me. Can’t really even do my job right now so I’m just trying to answer the phone without crying.

Yours in whatever the fuck this is,


I’d like to keep vaginas naked as a career.

I was wondering, today, how people come to the place in their life where their career choice is ripping the pubic hair off women. I wonder if this was a directed choice or just something they ended up doing.

Image result for brazilian wax meme


  • S.L.

How to Turn a Normal Day into a Normal Day

Two weeks ago, I got sick of myself. Really, really sick of myself. My weight has been a roller coaster of bullshit ever since I got pregnant with Wendy.

In a much-too-detailed nutshell:

Beginning weight before Louise: 110 lbs.
-Growing, growing, growing-
Before I popped weight: 168 lbs.
After I popped weight: lots of it.
Several months later weight: Yaaay! Back to 120’s!
-Conception of Wendy-
-Growing, growing, growing-
Before I popped weight: 168 lbs. (For real, it was the same as with Louise)
After I popped weight: lots of it, plus depression.
Several months later weight: Yaaay! Back to 120’s!
Stay at home mom weight: mid-130’s.
Periods of jogging and working out at gym for a few months weight: 124 lbs.
Divorce weight: 120 lbs.
Began dating Bruce weight: 120 lbs.
Comfortable around Bruce weight: 138 lbs.
Started working a big girl job weight + depression and anxiety: 118 lbs.
Comfortable working + developing sugar addiction weight/Wedding day weight: 132 lbs.

Comfortable being married weight: 137 lbs.

So anyway, I appeared pregnant every time I shoved something in my mouth. The food baby was determined to match the weight I gained with my real babies. My stomach would expand, drip over my pants, and push up my undershirt. Enough.

*Not actually me. Also, are these guys twinsies?!

When I would take a whiz, the urine would splash onto my thighs, which were sagging into the toilet bowl. Enough.

And  my back pain was getting worse. I had to support my luscious belly with a pillow when I laid down on my side. Enough!

So I got tired of the fat, and I got tired of my foggy, anxious mind ruling every day. My mom, Dorothy, convinced me to work out with her at this awesome place with this awesome trainer. So I did, and it’s been two weeks of no candy, little chips, lots of working out, lots of leafy greens, and some weight loss.

The very first day, not a shred of anxiety ofoggy brain. Looks like bitch-ass brain learned her place. The very first week, I lost over two pounds and almost 2 inches. And as of this week, my pant legs are looser, and I’m not peeing on my legs anymore.

The moral of this story, though, is that I haven’t had much to write about. Nothing stupid anyway, which is kind of sad for me. Sheila, we might have to rename this blog “Happiness in Company: How to Turn a Normal Day into a Normal Day.” Because apparently taking care of your body and mind really sucks for creativity.

Here’s to hopeful, amazing, high-on life feelings,


Here in my car, I feel safest of all…

When I was younger, mostly between the ages of 17 and 21, I would experience fugue states. I would be consciously in a moment, and then I would be consciously aware but it would be some time later. Like, I would blink, but 20 minutes would pass. This would happen while I was driving, mainly on the highway, and it would scare the shit out of me. One minute I’d have looked at a sign that said 66 or 42 miles to home, and then suddenly I’d be passing a semi with a sign that said 23 miles to home. I used to joke that if I was really crazy, I’d think I’d been abducted by aliens.

I, of course, do not think it was aliens. What we’re talking about here, is forms of dissociation. I hadn’t thought about the driving incidences in probably over a decade, but I was kind of dealing with a derealization/depersonalization episode today, and I guess it triggered the memory.

hate dissociation. It was the worst between 17 and 21, but it still happens, mostly when the weather is bad. (It’s more like Weather Affective Disorder, than Seasonal Affective Disorder.) It’s really annoying when I’m in a good mood, to begin with. Like today. I was in a really good mood, super happy. Things have been going well at home. My relationship is much better than it has been. I’ve been happy since Friday. I go and tell Irene about my tax conversation with LB and his funny, ridiculous comment. Then I went and sat down at my desk and just kind of stared at everything, because I couldn’t understand why I had just been so excited and happy and talkative. It didn’t even feel real. It felt like I had exited some play and now that my part was over I had no idea what I was actually supposed to be feeling. The longer the rainy day went on, the more I had to keep telling myself that everything was good, everything was good, brighter days are coming, because my general pervasive sense was that I wasn’t somewhere I belonged. At work, at home, in life, in general. My head felt all stuffed with fog and cotton and heavy breathing. I would watch my hands doing things or feel my face smiling, but I felt these were just things happening to me, not acts of my own orchestration.

Dissociation makes me very, very, extremely, uncomfortable. I don’t really like to dwell on it. There’s things…things from that time period of 17 to 21, that I still have no explanation for and that I’ve had to put away in order to move forward with myself, because I can’t think about them without starting to dissociate just to get away from the lack of closure and the horror of not-knowing. It was probably, mentally and emotionally and physically, the hardest time of my life. Between the dissociation, the ocd, the anxiety, the eating disorder, the self-injury, the fugue states, the insomnia, the anger, the depression, the suicide attempts, and the stress, I was a walking disaster.

This kind of became a dark post. I just wanted to write about the fugue states while driving, because it pushed as a strong memory that had surfaced, and because of the dissociation I had felt all day, despite knowing that everything was actually pretty awesome right now. It’s this part of a mental illness, the lack of control, the inability to stop my brain from screwing up, or screwing with, whatever is going on, that terrifies me.

Irene did send me something funny about that one time though:

I’ve been considering asking my doctor to up my Buproprion dose, but I’m fairly resistant to that…just as I was fairly (highly) resistant to going on medications at all, at first. C’est la vie.

Have a good night.

  • S.L.

The Mound of the Hostages

Go Google ‘Imbolc’, right now, and read the wikipedia entry for it; it’s fascinating.

Merry Imbolc! I made a feast. We have moved the spiced wine to another night, when it perhaps is not already hot, inside and outside. (This state doesn’t care if it’s February. This state doesn’t give a damn about weather expectancy of the seasonal persuasion.)

I had something to say and now I have forgotten it. Damn you internet!

I’ll be back.

  • S.L.