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.

Dying is the most embarrassing thing that can ever happen to you, because someone’s got to take care of all your details. – Andy Warhol

I don’t necessarily believe that dying is the most embarrassing thing, but one of my biggest fears is dying in an embarrassing or stupid manner. Mainly because, I am constantly noticing how the most circumspect things could result in accidental death.

Here are some examples:

  1. I’m taping up a box to store in the attic. The tape breaks and the dispenser jerks suddenly forward, slicing through the artery in my left wrist. – I’m not necessarily sure that this would lead to death through blood loss, but, how terrible would the news article be that read “Woman Dies from Tape Dispenser Wound”?
  2. I’m walking down the front steps when I trip and fall just right to hit my head in the exact spot that kills me immediately. Also, it’s raining. So, my dead body is just laying there looking ridiculous, in the rain. 😦
  3. Somebody hits my car, causing me to flip or run into a pole, or I get crushed between 2 cars, and I end up dying or in critical condition from the injuries. I will be either carrying freshly bought groceries, or just picked up dinner, or some gift for one of my family members that I’m really excited to give them, when this incident happens. Then, not only am I dead/injured, but I’ve basically wasted money on whatever I just purchased, also, there could possibly be no milk for the morning after this event (though I suppose family/friends would be helping out with meal plans), and, worst of all, I wouldn’t be able to joyously give the gift.That would suck. Especially if the gift was broken/torn during the accident.

Normally, I’m able to minimize the effect these thoughts have on me, and nip them in the bud, whenever possible. Every now and then, though, especially when we’ve been sun-less, for quite a few days, I end up curled up in bed, napping, so I can finally shut my brain up.

It’s like that t.v. series ‘Dead Like Me’, where she dies because she gets hit by a piece of the toilet from a returning spacecraft. What an embarrassing way to die. I don’t want to go out like that.

In the meanwhile, my co-worker let me borrow seasons 1-7 of ‘Big Bang Theory’ and I’ve got a couple more episodes to watch before bed. ‘Tah!

  • S.L.

The Shittiest Day

Sometimes when anxiety hits at work and I don’t want to take any more medicine, Sheila will kindly offer me her natural product:

This magic potion that fizzes in hot water.

The first time she gave it to me was like heaven upon earth. As I sipped its warmth, I could feel the jitters melting away into the abyss. Even my colon relaxed. It relaxed a lot. See, this bewitched elixir’s primary ingredient is ionic magnesium citrate. I knew magnesium can work miracles for those who suffer from occasional constipation.

I took my lunch break and sat in my car. I took my lunch break and shat in my car.

It was an accident, obviously. I wasn’t quite sure what happened at first. I thought it would dissipate into the air. It lingered, a little too long. I quickly went back into the building and made a beeline to the restroom. There was no saving this, not here at work. I had to go home.

I headed straight to Ms. Frances’s office, but the big boss, Mr. Wilbur, coffee mug in hand as usual, caught me in the hallway. My cheeks were clenched as I trotted hurriedly. He smiled and asked how my day was going. I told him it was good, but that actually I was leaving because I had a stomach bug. He asked if I was sure. I said, “Yes, I’m sure,” my face beet red. I started laughing. I just couldn’t help it. He gave me a knowing look and went into his office. I approached Ms. Frances as she was sitting at her desk and explained to her the same thing, hoping against hope there was no odor. If there was, it would stick around because she wasn’t out in the open like everyone else. Ms. Frances has her own office. I quickly signed my leave form and slid it back to her.

As I was leaving the office, I noticed Sheila in the break room. I smiled and whispered loudly, pointing to the troubled area, “I’M GOING HOME! I JUST SHIT MYSELF!”

And I did.

Yours in God-awful situations,


We didn’t start the fire…the nutrients did.

Here’s a fun fact…if you dice up baby carrots and put them in a bowl in the microwave, they will catch on [actual flaming] fire, within about 2 seconds. Apparently, this is because of the nutrients the carrots received from the soil they were grown in, which gives them great arcing abilities. So, lesson here is, put some water [a tablespoon worth is a popular suggestion] in with the carrots, so you don’t explode your kitchen trying to appease sweetpea Beelzebub’s need for “real people food”.

Reading back on what I’ve written previously, I had a sudden realization –

I remembered things better when I was highly committed to recreationally partaking in drugs of varying sorts, shapes, colors and textures.

The egg in the frying pan? That is my brain, now. Which then makes me wonder, sweet mother of everything that is holy, does this just mean that I’m getting crazier as I age? I am going to be a hot mess of an 80 year old woman.

I had another realization earlier today, as well, and it made me mad. I do the best at getting shit done when I am all alone. Seriously, though, the most organized and together my life has ever been [we’re just talking financial and physical health and great feng shui in the living space] was during my time of living alone. That is upsetting to me. It is upsetting to me to realize [or vocalize, because I’m pretty sure the Shadow has known what lurks in the heart of me] that I am so easily sidetracked or derailed by my living situation and the people within it. I am a feminist, dammit! I am an intelligent woman! I read, I write, I study, I enunciate! I am so good at getting things done on a deadline! [Actually, it’s better when I have a deadline, otherwise I am so good at procrastination. Maybe I just love the thrill of pushing the edge to its limit.] Except, suddenly I’m not. I feel like someone just handed me 6 balls and a clown nose and pushed me into the middle of the big ring and told me to start juggling, when I’ve never held that many balls before in my life, much less juggled them. [heh] I feel like, in a few years at most, things will even out. I have to believe this is going to happen. I know this is going to happen. I just have to stay sane on the surface and just keep swimming and eventually, eventually, we’ll pass through [this] fire.

Irene said yesterday [I think] that we were the two funniest people in the office. We are. Not that many [any] of the rest of them know this. Although, our co-worker, Amber, who sits behind/across from me, is fascinatingly kind of out there. I have scraps of paper and saved emails where I’ve written down, or written Irene, about things she has said. I go back and re-read them sometimes if I’m having a bad day and they always make me laugh.

Here are some samples of Amber’s wonderful sayings:

“Oh my god, my roots are showing today! I’ve used so much white out! I mean, not on my actual computer screen….”

or this fun repartee:

Amber: “It’s so pretty outside!”

Me: “Yes, it’s too bad we can’t get more sunlight in here.”

Amber: “Yeah, they should’ve put in a skylight!”

Me: …….

Me: “We’re on the first floor.” [of a 9 story building]

Amber: “Well, yeah, but still.”


Poor Honeypie received her first paper cut tonight, at the ripe old age of 4. It was tragic. She was happily reading a book about the Gingerbread Girl and Animal Crackers, and then she went to turn the page, skidded her finger on the edge, gasped and put her finger in her mouth and looked at me, and I had time to say “uh oh” and then the pain hit and the wailing began. It took two Rudolph bandaids to fix the situation. Hopefully, she won’t let this betrayal keep her from being excited about her books.

Sweetpea Beelzebub has discovered stairs, so I am excited [not] to see how many more entries she is going to make into her “how many times can I hit my head on something before I’m one” agenda. We had an entry earlier tonight, wherein she learned [probably not] that one cannot use a ball as a handgrip for standing up with.

On an end note: my husband bought me one of those atrocious “bear cheeks” onesie pajamas for Christmas. See Exhibit A:

Image result for black and white bear cheeks pajamas

Do not tell him, but they are awesomely comfortable. Still hideous, but comfortable. I’m going to get in them now.

  • S.L.

Where do we go, now that we’re here?

I took a sick day, not only for recuperative purposes, but also so I could get this stupid bedroom rearranged so I can be on my way to putting up, and using, my organizational system I was given for Christmas. I’m tired of trying to pick clothes for work out of the pile of stuff crammed behind my armoire doors.

You know what is one thought I have never thunk? I have never once thought that my children would be better off without me. Despite the issues I struggle with and my [obvious] failings at being a fully functioning human being at times, I know in my heart that I am the one constant my children must always have in their lives. I am their fiercest ally. I feel this like a fire inside me. I don’t really understand friends of mine who have left their children, including my [old] best friend, who is also the mother of my niece and nephew.

I say this, because I have been having a very rough time, lately. I’ve never really been good at being bossed around. I’m very laid back and very open to compromise but after a certain point, I don’t want to be told what to do anymore, especially if I’ve already given a lot of myself over in order to appease someone else. I’ve been feeling very hostile, and rebellious, lately. The anarchist in my head has been very vocal about how I should just tell everyone to fuck off and do me. In the past, this was a pretty predictable pattern of behavior. Now, I can’t do it. I have children. I have children I love. I cannot indulge my anger and if I can’t currently figure out a way to fix or defuse whatever is making me angry, then I just sit on it. This has the unfortunate kick-back reaction, of making me want to control something and so…..ta-da….half the day passes by without me eating anything. It’s not even on purpose, it’s just what eating anger does to you, it fills you up and leaves little room for things that nourish you.

We’re in this cycle, right now, this lifetime and I, where he is a star pinballing between planets, stretching to schedule my life because he doesn’t know how to stop the spin he’s in. The more my life becomes crunched to hourly activities determined by someone else, the angrier I get and the more time I spend in the bathroom growling obscenities into a towel, because I’ve grown past the need to deliberately inflict hurt upon another through my anger, but I’m not past the point of feeling the need to orate it, in some way.

It doesn’t help that these things he gets angry about, sometimes, about my not being able to keep up with things, important things, sometimes, they actually do happen. It is a problem. The additional problem, though, is that I already feel fucking horrible about whatever it is I’ve forgotten, it makes me even more anxious than I normally am because then I start to wonder what the fuck else I’ve forgotten to do along the way, and then I have dreams of suffocating or drowning or being chased by dinosaurs. Like when the IRS informs you that you didn’t make your 2013 payment but they haven’t seen fit to tell you until 2 years later so that the amount now due is literally double what it initially was. And, yes, it was my responsibility to do that, and in my head I was kicking my brain around in the street screaming “WHAT THE FUCK BRAIN? WHAT THE FUCK? HOW DID YOU FORGET THIS? WHY NOW? WHY DO I HAVE TO DEAL WITH THIS NOW? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? YOU FUCKING STUPID BROKEN BRAIN!” because, now, of course, in this moment, I am the epitome of every criticism and judgment that has been placed at my feet and on my head, in regards to being a financial fuckup. Every other thing in the world I have done right, is erased in this moment. Erased.

The other day, Irene made a [somewhat] fussy remark re: “god, you’re so thorough” and I am, normally. I am, normally, because of situations, like the one above, wherein my brain totally fucks me. Except now, it not only affects me, it affects my family. It affects my marriage. I am fucking sick of it happening. It makes me want to crawl into my bed and die, figuratively speaking.

I did write a fairly good poem, though, the first in a while.


  • S.L.