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Today I was told that I was “stuck” in my therapy. That my anxiety was ruling my life. I have reasons for that anxiety. Every time I take a risk, I have gone one step forwards and then I am knocked backwards two steps back. So, why bother with even trying. I’m getting too old for this and the damage from these encounters only makes it harder for me to function day to day. So I protect myself by avoiding situations where the same thing could happen again.

They want me to go to an intensive program for a few weeks and then come back.

I was super anxious about my mother’s upcoming cataract surgery. It’s hard enough just holding it together on a day to day basis. Distracting negative thoughts and fighting depression and the messages of self-hatred. It’s exhausting. For four weeks I’m gonna be more of a caregiver than I am normally. This builds added anxiety for me. I talked to my therapist and I was able to work past that hurdle.

Now they add this shit on my plate. MORE anxiety. You get rid of one and decide I could be doing so much better if I were more social. That you want to send me away and put me in some type of program. I am now making a mountain out of a molehill. Last time I was put into some type of day program. I was frightened because the majority of the participants just straight out scared me. Not because of their illnesses, but because they were men and I had been molested as a child and hadn’t dealt with that aspect yet.

Whenever I get into group therapy settings, I ended up facilitating the group instead of the facilitator. And when I try to turn that around and don’t talk until it’s my turn and ask for help, no one is able to help me. So group doesn’t work for me. My Pdoc said in that situation I should be happy just to be able to have helped someone. Fuck that. When do “I” get the help “I” need in that situation? Yeah, I’m happy I could help you, but where does that leave me? How does that help me towards stability?

They spring this on me two months before my mother’s surgery. It’s not the surgery I’m concerned about, it’s her reaction to the medication she has to take BEFORE and AFTER the surgery.

She’s on Letrozole for her cancer. She’s cancer free and has two more years of this stuff. The side-effects for her are exhausting. Foods and odors and medications cause her to have reactions that shoot through her body, from head to toe and last a long time. She has to drink lots of water and milk to calm her stomach and wash it out of her system. And then sit down and calm her nerves and her heartbeat. I understand this but her doctors seem to just ignore her remarks. I know and she knows that she has no choice but to finish off the last two years. The alternative is that cancer could come back, so there is really nothing anyone can do but put up with this.

This is where the anxiety comes from. I feel for her, it’s called empathy. And she’s my mother.

As I said, I got over that anxiety. But there are reasons I’m not a social butterfly.

I feel like I’m being judged by other people when I go out. OK, paranoia. I dismissed this and just started to feel comfortable and safe at one place. When this person decides to validate this fear by looking me up and down with an expression on her face like she smelled something bad. The stink face.

I didn’t smell. I was neat and clean. But she looked at me like I was beneath her. Judging me. Situations like that keep me from taking the risk of ‘being social.’ I could have said something, but out of respect of the people and the building, I kept my mouth shut.

I was walking down the street and some guy who decided I was in his path and didn’t want to move over his way mumbled that I was a fat fuck under his breath. I yelled “Fuck You” and continued on my path. Judgement. More justification of my mindstate.

I take the leap into a relationship and it turns out to be verbally abusive and almost physically. So I’m not heading down that track anytime soon.

Then there’s the chronic pain. If you hug me, it hurts. Sometimes even the slightest touch hurts. My knees swell when I walk and sometimes my leg drags if I walk too long. I fight through it and keep walking. It goes away, but the next day I suffer. My body is exhausted and I struggle to move around. I’m one day up and one day down. This is constant. Right now I am in pain. The weather has a lot to do with how I feel. Trying a new vitamin, hope it helps. This is my manifistation of Sjögren’s Syndrome, the joint pain etc.

This is a factor in my ability to be social. But I have no cane. I don’t talk about it to anyone but one friend who is in the same boat. No one wants to hear that all the time.

I can’t dance anymore. I can’t run. I can walk, so I am grateful. So my rant is over. I was very upset at the start. I might go to the program, just not now. November when everything is over and I have fewer worries.






Sometimes things become to difficult to put into words. Life becomes one ball of nothing. No substance, no meaning and all noise. I barely made it home today. Because of the sun and the meds I take make a difficult combination. My neighbors are exceptionally noisy today. So I am playing the Sex Pistols because they woke me up. I know its childish, but their disregard for the person living beneath them has been discussed, but I guess it hasn’t been received by their small brains.

I have a lot to say tonight, but I fear putting it into words makes it real. Mom needs cataract surgery. She’s getting older and I think it’s really weighing on her mind. The Letrizol is too much for her, with its side effects. And I am slowly becoming this slug who doesn’t want to move. It’s paralyzingly watching your parents age and fade away.

Rough weather

The heat affects me adversely. I get dizzy and confused. Break out in heat rashes and get dehydrated very quickly. I’m just one big mess. Not attractive. I went through two weeks of high temps and now we are getting some rain and the humidity etc. is making it hard to just ‘be’.

I haven’t been able to write and what I did write in my notebook, I haven’t looked at and that was a week ago. I don’t know when my head will be straight enough to put down a decent sentence. This is easy, it’s all done on the fly. No structure of plot to consider.

Needed to complain and when you live alone, there’s no one but the walls. And hopefully, they don’t talk back. On a good day.

I look at the news and it disturbs me. So I turn it off. I like to keep up to date, but there are times you need to disconnect.

Neighbors are up and bumping over my head. Put on some music, it usually drives them away. They never play music. Odd.

Today is my radio program and after I take my pill, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to stay awake to listen. But I can catch it on iPlayer, BBC stuff.

I usually sleep too it, but it’s hard because it’s a Funk and Soul show and is generally a party for your ears. Craig Charles Funk and Soul Club.

I don’t feel good today. I don’t feel good right now. Bye.


2 much time on my hands. Or what I did 2 day.




  1. Look up ex-lovers and see if they’re doing time or on parole.

2. Google yourself.


  1. Go to various Department of Correction sites in different states to see if YOU are doing time or just on parole.
  2. Google dead relatives and pets.
  3. Write. No blogging, but write actual short stories or working on that novel. (*NOTE TO SELF)
  4. Get a mammogram.
  5. Go to a cookout. Arrive on time and see no one is there and find out it was canceled but nobody told anyone. Walk home.
  6. Talk on the phone with bestie about how you’ve been wasting time today.
  7. Don’t play any video games or you will be up all night. (*NOTE TO SELF)
  8. Go to bed while it’s still light outside. Listen to music on headphones.
  9. Blog meaningless nonsense to pass the time.


Been writing lately. Have made some progress on some stories. But I’m stuck on two. They feel like skeletons and I just haven’t put the meat on the bones yet. Decided to write blurbs and ideas as they come and stick them where appropriate. Nothing is flowing this summer. Sent off one story to two places. Want more to offer than what I’ve got before I approach an agent.

Mentally. I’m not sure where I stand. I’m functioning. But I keep saying things out loud to no one. Phrases like. “I hate myself”. “I wish I were dead.” And other negative thoughts that have squeezed their way out into the open.

The thoughts come from nowhere. No triggers except being tired of doing the same things every day. Things like pills, sleep, distractions. I have no real motivations. But I want to go swimming or rather aquacizing. But I can’t seem to get it together. We’ve finally got our summer, weather wise. I feel like doing NOTHING. I’m beginning to think this happens every year. I just don’t remember.

Went through a bout of depression, but headed it off before it got serious. Went to one social event, but I couldn’t get into the swing of strangers. I have the hardest time letting myself go in front of people. I just sat there and talked a bit. Semi danced a bit. As much as I could with these bad knees. And drank wine and tequila and one corona.

I fell backwards into friends car, not because I was drunk. But because my knees wouldn’t bend to save me when I leaned backwards. Don’t like things like that. I hate my life sometimes.

When your body wont cooperate. 

I have another function this weekend. I’m not nervous. I know what I have to do and what I’m going to wear etc. Just not going to drink. Can’t afford a cash bar.

I wish the writing came back. I might need to kick start it somehow. Hoping this helps. Random thoughts are easier than weaving a world.




I attended a writer’s conference for the first time this past weekend. I left on the second and got home on the fourth of June. I was exhausted and my mind was reeling with ideas and options and to be honest, I was totally ‘overwhelmed.’

The conference was a great experience and opportunity for me to connect with other writers and to learn more about the craft. It seemed to focus on novels, something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do. But I want to get some short stories published and that was the last presentation of the conference. I was too exhausted to stay, I had to leave because I was falling asleep, although the presenter was excellent.

Everyone was using Scrivener, I think that’s how you spell it. But it’s just too complex for me. I’ll stick to Word.

The most important thing I learned was just to get the story out, literally, vomit it onto the page and worry about mistakes later. I started writing when I was there, but I was exhausted. I don’t even know how it reads or if I’ll do something with it.

This week has been hellish. Doctor’s appointments. Canceled transportation, pain, and depression. I woke up this morning and cried myself back to sleep. The thoughts of giving up just clanged in my head over and over again. I quit. Not so much dying, but just saying, ‘you win. I quit.’ Now leave me alone here in my bed and let me do nothing.

I realized I am running on automatic. Repetitive motions and routines devised to keep me together in this world. I hate it.

I would love to go a day without pills. Without needing to brush my teeth and floss and just lay there in bed. Being and doing nothing. I don’t want to eat, I don’t want to talk or be acknowledged as existing. I don’t want to ‘be.’ I quit.

Living a life of routine isn’t really living. It’s existing. And that’s all that I do and am, existing.

Yup, I’m depressed. I felt it coming on before the conference and fought as hard as I could and made it through. I saw Janis Ian (At Seventeen) fame. She’s tiny.

At Seventeen here’s the song. It’s my anthem.

She told the story of when she sang, “Societies Child”, for the first time she got booed off the stage and was hit with a can and various things. She cried and ran off the stage. Her manager said, what are you doing? Those people paid good money, get back out there. And she did.

The world is a dangerous place. I’ll move through this thought process, therapy today.

Who knows what my mind will give up tomorrow. If I will give up tomorrow. I doubt it. But whenever I hear a train, I want to walk in front of it. And that’s dangerous. There’s this battle that goes on inside. And I have to walk through a train platform to get to my mother’s house.

I scare myself.


April and a sense of loss.


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There was a fire on our street this morning. Loads of fire engines and ambulances. But no one was hurt, so that’s a blessing. But it has affected me in a bad way. I have this heavy sense of LOSS.

Had to walk past the house twice, not much damage outside, no marks of fire. But all the windows are broken and there’s water going down my street. Now they’re cutting off the electricity and gas.

I feel so sad for the people who lived there. Easter morning and your house is on fire. Next thing you know,  you’re walking out of your door with your belongings in a bag.

There were children in that house. No one was hurt, but now Red Cross is there for them. That eases some of my feelings, but my thoughts have been morbid since the fire. Which was just a few hours ago.

I realized that I messed up my meds. Which explains why I feel this so deeply and am slowly slipping into a depression. I was messed up before my morning meds and then after I took them, I was ok. I’m dipping down again, but writing this out helps.

I’m confused and scared and just not really here. If you can understand that feeling. Saw the neighbors kid this morning and the look on his face was exactly how I feel now, dazed. He’s BiPolar too.

I don’t know if I could have handled this illness as well if it began when I was a child.

So much to think about. So much I don’t want to think about, but I know I can’t stuff.

I realized that the month I was molested as a child, is the same month my brother died. Which is April, this month and my emotions and thoughts are a whirl. I processed the molestation years ago. I had originally blocked it from my memory and through hypnosis, I remembered when I was twenty-five; something that happened when I was five years old. I don’t think you ever really get over something like that, no matter what age you were or are when it happened. I am proof of that.

I can’t wait for this month to end. In the past, I was always in some type of mental turmoil during April. I would end up with a deep depression from nowhere and go inpatient and have to adjust my meds. This pattern went on for a long time and I didn’t have an idea why. I would be fine and then, BAM.

I can’t remember when it stopped, but things got better and the meds got better and the pattern stopped. I was doing pretty bad in the beginning of the month, just processing the first anniversary of my brothers’ death. But I was making it with help from therapy.

I was standing in the kitchen when it hit me that these two events took place in the same month. I knew it happened, but all I never knew exactly when. I just knew it was sunny.

This is my April. I have to be careful and mindful of my meds and therapy from now on, or I’ll be back in the bed crying all day or at least most of it.


A few days 


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It will be two days until the Day my brother died. Some people may not believe it but he visited me. I was sleeping and I could smell his cologne and I felt like somebody was there and I was comforted in my grief. Kind a like when your dog comes back after he dies and you can feel him curling up next to you in the bed and you smell their scent and you swear that they’re there but of course they’re not. This is this is the same thing that happened to me two nights ago. I told him I loved him and went to sleep. I guess this was doing the twilight before you fall asleep. I miss him. I’m going to keep on missing him and I guess I’m going to keep on crying, but my heart aches less and my mind is not all there right now. I’m very anxious and I know this is the reason why, I miss him.

We all have dreams


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Certain things are important to people for different reasons. We place value on things or events or people because we hold memories or feelings or hope towards these events etc.

I got to thinking why I really want to go to this conference. And my therapist reminded me what it was all about. That I write and it brings me joy. Very few things in this life bring me joy.

I’ve got a lot of problems. We all do. Some can be cured, some are temporary, some imaginary and some are brought about by our own actions. Whatever the cause, these are the conditions of our lives.

If you’ve been reading this blog for a long time you are aware that I am Bipolar, have a connective tissue syndrome and a growth on my pituitary gland. These are my main conditions. These are things which will NOT go away. So I live with them, but they are not who I am as a person. I just live with these conditions and do what is necessary to function within my life.

I could give up. I’ve thought about it and I’ve cried over it and come very close to just quitting. I’m talking about killing myself in case you’re wondering.

But instead, I move forwards. Everyday. I find something to do or something to make me feel good about myself or just enjoy someone’s company. I don’t obsess about my conditions. Why think about things no one on this planet has the power to change?

To me, writing is my way out. It is my respite from my conditions. And according to others, I’m pretty good at writing. Damn, I am good. I have to learn affirmations daily, so I’ll start here.

Low self-esteem has plagued me all my life and it’s a battle in the brain and the mirror. People tell me I’m pretty. My first thought is, ‘your just being nice.’ I don’t look at mirrors, even when I brush my teeth. I just realized that a few weeks ago. I use to physically duck the hall mirror every time I passed it, just in case I might see my reflection.

When I write, all is fine with me and the world around me. This writers conference is and event where I can learn and flex my ability and meet others whose passion for writing is the same. I might even make a friend.

I’ve been indoors for about a week.  Because I freaked out at a social event. Anxiety, self-doubt, self-hatred a whole lot of things. Felt I didn’t belong there and all everyone was doing was playing board games.

How am I gonna handle a conference? I’ve thought of that too. The thought of going brings me as much joy as my writing. I will be learning about something that I have been doing since I first learned to string a sentence together. A donation to me is not just the money, it shows me that people believe in my ability. That they believe in ME. Something I have difficulty doing daily.

I’ve thought of pulling the gofundme, but my therapist reminded me that this conference is as important as my writing. I need things to look forwards to in my life. Events I can have happy memories of and feel like I belong.

Someone tried to break me down about my gofundme. Tried to tear down my dream of one day being published. I didn’t curse them out, just gave them some information and told them “I don’t need to justify myself to you.”

I also told them we all have our journies. Mine has taken me from healthy and working and moving towards a career. They were all smashed. I’m just trying to get a little piece of that dream back. And there is nothing wrong with that.

I want to publish a series of stories about mental illness and offer hope and understanding to those of us who suffer. That’s the ultimate dream, am I having grandiose thoughts? I know I can’t change the world, but I already have a few stories under my belt, so I want to go to the conference to help make this a reality.

This is more than I wanted to say, but if you’ve gotten this far. You must have dreams too.


Like water off a ducks back

Lately, I’ve had a some trouble with people on FB. Who hasn’t. I’ve decided to stop posting gofundme posts on there because someone reacted negatively to the fact that I asked for a donation. And this was a college sorority sister. I’m just a lowly social sister so I don’t matter, although I thought I did. Anyways, if they give, they give. If they don’t, they don’t. I can’t take this personally, just gain strength from the experience. 

They made statements like I work 7 days a week and tried to knock me for being ‘without’. It hurt, cause the whole reason I joined the sorority page was to reconnect with her and she came at me like that, uncool.

So I deleted her from my contacts and decided not to go off all personal on FB. And just type LIKE WATER OFF A DUCKS BACK.

Let it go and just move forwards. This whole experience hasn’t been easy for me. I wasn’t raised to beg. Would get a beating if my parents found out I asked money from an adult. So to keep posting for help with this conference has been hard. People have been generous and I thank them from my heart. 

But just because you have nothing in your life is no reason to stomp on my dreams. And that’s what it all comes down too.

So no more begging and pleading after this, if you give, you give. If you don’t, you don’t. But it won’t stop me from dreaming and I dream big. It won’t stop me from writing and I write well. Somewhere there’s a publisher waiting for my work and I will find them.