Category Archives: Mental Illness

“Stay with me, my blood”

Have you ever felt like holding yourself together is all you’re capable of? I’ve been holding myself tightly, arms crossed over my always-sick stomach. What if I let go and I just…crumble? Fall to my knees, sob, and just howl my anguish. I’m afraid that if I let go of this fucking pain, it will destroy me. I won’t get back up. So I don’t let go. I try not to think. I push my thoughts aside however I can. Of course I’ve cried, probably a million times. But something about this pain, these tears, feels different. This pain tastes like eating hot coals, one after the other, until I burn up from the inside out.

You know that game we surely all played as kids, where we pretended the floor was lava? That’s what my mind is like these days. I’m balanced on the tiniest of throw-pillow islands with boiling, steaming red grief surrounding me. I’m burned no matter which way I turn, and so I stay on this pillow, stuck, raw and blistered.

I keep picturing myself like this:

I sit in a lawn chair in the middle of my house while strangers wander around talking quietly and judging my things. Someone asks, “How much for this chair that caught your daughter when she fell asleep standing up after claiming she wasn’t tired?” And I say, “That chair is not for sale STOP TOUCHING MY MEMORIES I’ll take $50 for the pair.” And so it goes until my home this house is empty except for me and the past.

The guilt is eating me alive. At the same time, I’m screaming in my head that this isn’t my fault. The irony: My mental and physical illnesses are destroying my life and there’s nothing I can do about it because I’m mentally and physically ill.


Walk-ins Welcome

I can’t remember if I told y’all this or not, but a few months ago or maybe last year* I quit seeing my therapist because she was sneaky and that shit Is Not Cool. (*I don’t know! I’m not good with time. I think it’s because time involves numbers and numbers make my brain immediately shut RIGHT the fuck down.)

The good news is, I’ve found a new, improved counselor, and although she does not take insurance, she does take walk-ins and she’s a great listener.

She’s also probably not licensed to treat mental illness, but she is really good at painting tiny things. Like my toenails.

Moving on.

One day she shared what I thought was a terrific idea. As I tried in vain to hold still and stifle my giggles (I have very ticklish feet) she held my foot firmly and explained that when she is feeling low, it helps to do something just for her, and that looking nice made her feel better about herself. So, no matter what, every morning she puts on makeup, and immediately gets a little boost.

I’ve been extremely depressed lately, and this morning at 4 a.m. I remembered her advice and decided to go for it.

I forgot that:

  • I’ve been wearing the same pajamas for three days.
  • I haven’t washed my hair in five days.
  • I take at least one nap a day.

So. Now it’s 4 in the afternoon and I look like a homeless hooker who just came off a three-day drinking binge.

I’m not gonna hold it against her though. I’m pretty sure the, “bathe and put on pants” part was implied, and not something you would have to spell out unless you were talking to a three-year-old.

Or me.

 

P.S. Did any of you guys have a relative who had a weekly appointment at a beauty shop in someone’s home? I just thought I’d had a goddamned epiphany–I could be better if I spent an hour a week getting a permanent in someone’s kitchen! Then I remembered Steel Magnolias. I’d be the mean, crazy one. Shit.  

 


The title of this post is invisible. Also, nonexistent.

grumpy cat no

What is this? *gasp* I’VE WRITTEN AN ACTUAL BLOG POST?!

Well, kind of. Don’t get too excited.

I’ve been pretty busy lately, and by “busy” I mean “trying new antidepressants, being sick as fuck, and lying in bed staring at the wall.” Also, I’m working on a novel, but shhh, because it likely won’t be done until we all own flying cars and I have a robot brain.

I have been posting sporadically on my Facebook page. Which you should all be following by now. Or, if you thought I’d dropped off the face of the earth, you should go follow this instant. This. Very. Instant.

Okay, so anyway, this morning I decided to poke around here on the blog. To my surprise, there are still about 17 people a day reading old posts. This makes me feel both amazed and ashamed at how I’ve abandoned…myself, I guess. I’ve ignored my own blog. God. Maybe one day I will become an actual person. Or I will get that robot brain and it will work much better than this one. (By the way, I had an MRI done and my brain is actually trying to creep down my spine. It hasn’t gotten very far, which is good, because YOU CAN’T JUST JUMP SHIP, MOTHERFUCKER. We’re all in this together.)

I looked to see what people were searching for that brought them here. Most of them were legit searching for We Don’t Chew Glass! THAT was a very pleasant surprise. Of course, next came the pervs and most of them were some variation of…hahaha, I’m not repeating that shit. But they were gross. Super. Fucking. Gross.

(Just in case you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, my blog shows me what people type into Google that leads them here. So, when a person types “I’m Not That Mom article” into their Google search bar, my blog pops up. The link to We Don’t Chew Glass apparently also comes up when anyone searches for anything containing the words, “pee, sex, prostitute” which is complete bullshit and taken totally out of context. I’m sure those people are extremely disappointed when they click my link. Great, now even “click my link” sounds dirty.)

Here are the latest Top 10 Search Terms, minus anything too disgusting:

  1.  parenting skills and meth

Math? Did you mean math? I’m going to pretend you meant math.

  1. you wont even notic that im jesus

Probably true. I’m not very observant.

  1. something that is not graceful

This is just…not nice. And even worse, there was another one that said, “things that are not graceful.” LISTEN, GOOGLE, I KNOW, OKAY? I KNOW.

  1. am determine to fuck a mummy for money, who is interested?

Not a mummy, I’m pretty sure.

      5. these motherfucking slugs on this motherfuckin porch

This one actually makes sense. I may have even typed those exact words.

  1. I am a shark

This is just the best. I hope the shark liked my blog and is still hanging around. I want to be friends with this shark. It seems bold and confident.

  1. what would happen if we had no glass?

I feel like I’ve put far too much thought into this question. Maybe not as much as the person who searched the internet for the answer, but still, too much. 

      8. do teenagers have to wear jackets in November

Yes. It’s the law. Be sure to film yourself trying to make this happen, because otherwise no one will ever believe you.

  1. will the cleaner fuck my husband

A LOT of people seem concerned about this. From what little I’ve read about people who have maids and nannies, it’s always the nanny. Always.

     10. that is what i want, a perfect prostitue is even better than you, to me, get the point, you are disturbing

There were many, many prostitute searches. This one though. This is a perfect example of how internet searches DO NOT work.

Anyway, I hope you guys are all doing great. I wish I was reliable enough to say I’m going to blog more often, but that would be a big fat lie. Maybe I’ll be “fixed” soon! Right now I’m trying this thing where you only concentrate on the present moment. At this moment, my ass hurts from sitting in this chair and my coffee is cold. So that means…I own a chair, an ass, and a coffee machine. See? Progress!

xoxo,

Steph

 

 


One Day

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It’s amazing how quickly things can turn around. How, in the blink of an eye, hope can turn into despair. Things to do become things to be survived. I’m tired of being on this ride that always seems to end in tears.

I woke up this morning in fairly minimal pain. I enjoyed my coffee, and laughed, and thought about how much better I felt today than I had this past week.

One thing. One tiny, insignificant little thing. And now here I am, trying not to cry, trying not to curl up and hide under the covers, trying not to give up.

I can hear one part of me saying, “No, don’t do it. It’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe. IT WILL BE FINE, GODDAMMIT, JUST STOP. Just. Stop.”

But there’s the other, louder part, chanting, “You fucked up. You ARE a fuck up. You are FUCKED up. You didn’t do this, you should’ve done that, why don’t you ever do ANYTHING right, why even try when you know it’s pointless, remember when this happened and this and this and this and this….”

It feels like there are two people inside of me, both fighting for supremacy. But the ugly part is stronger and it always claws its way to the top and laughs at the small, flickering, almost-blown-out flame of the other. Sometimes I think the part that hurts allows the part that hopes to exist, to creep into the sun, just so it can crush it over and over again.

I want to reach back in time and grab the smile I wore this morning and hold it tight so it can’t get away.

No, you know what? I’m not even asking to be happy. I just want to be okay. Can I have just this ONE DAY without the never-ending litany of pain on repeat in my head? JUST THIS ONE DAY.

Please. I just need this one day.


Sewing, like life, is hard.

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Was I ever whole?

I always feel like there are just frayed stitches barely holding me together, and one day the entire thing will completely fall apart.

I feel like I’ve wasted a lifetime in fruitless attempts to put myself in some kind of order, but my edges are still ragged and I’m covered in rips and tears and bits of glue.

Forever trying to gather the broken pieces of myself and reattach them in some semblance of a person, I sometimes think the messy repairs and faulty seams are all anyone can see.

I see a broken puppet, controlled by a broken puppeteer, trying to pretend that one day I will find the perfect pattern and, with clean, straight stitches, will sew myself up securely, and never be undone again.