Tag Archives: crazy

"You're A Break in The Code"

Holy shit.

Wait…you can love the messy parts of yourself?

It should be at like 4:12-4:38. Just listen. (I’m so fucking specific, but not totally committed to the idea that I did that correctly.)

Okay, discuss.

Admittedly, I’m a pretty obsessed Halsey fan and also a bit high. But I’ve listened to that 30-second statement at least six times now and I still don’t know quite what to do with it.

Clutch this brazen, tantalizing idea tightly to my chest, hold my breath, picture myself laughing too loudly and talking too much; writing blindfolded or on my skin, in the dark or in a bathroom; dancing because I have a body, singing because I like it, listening, really listening to music all day long, stopping only to make my own?

Or drop it before it burns me, this foreign thought, forgiveness, appreciation even, of a chaotic mind, a rollercoaster ride, a river of tears; give back this moment of not-wrongness that is not mine; apologize (again) for being crazy, broken, volatile, for being at all; try not exist too brightly, feel too hard, want too much?

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is writing-blind.jpg

It took me 40 years to even like most of me. I’ve never thought that I could–maybe should–love the side of me that is impulsive and inappropriate and creative and damaged and yes, passionate, about so many things. The side that cries as easily at the beauty of a sunset as at the coldness that crept into love’s voice. The part that needs to “calm down.” The unreasonable side; the “crazy” that I make jokes about because it’s easier than trying to explain what mental illness feels like. The side that feels everything, all the time.

I can love…my temper, my inability to stop saying, “fuck,” my awful dancing and worse voice, my nervous talking, oversharing, failed parenting, broken heart?

What I really want to know now is:


No piece of me is perfect. But I am not in pieces.

I am not a broken thing to be discarded. I refuse to only love and cherish my shiny best-self, the self that’s seemingly so easy to love. Because THAT me couldn’t exist without THIS me. I don’t get to pick one or the other, and neither do you; it’s all or none, my best and my worst, my past and my present, my heart and my mind, my laughter and my tears, my opinions and my insecurities.

All this, this mess, this disaster, this madness, this me? It’s not what I ever thought I ever should be. It just is. It’s me. The whole damn thing. Brave and fearful, weak and strong, obnoxious and honest, funny and ridiculous, hideous and beautiful.

I don’t see any reason to start using my head now; generally, that fucker is trying to take me out anyway.

One Day


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.


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.

Red Pens and Condoms.

You know how your brain tries to protect you from things you can’t handle? I think mine has been doing that without my knowledge or consent.

I’ve spent the last month dusting my living room. This may not seem like a remarkable feat, but here:

I not only dusted the shit on top of the bookshelves; I dusted the bookshelves themselves AND all the books on them. Then I rearranged the books by author and favorites.

If I made a list of all the household chores that I despise (that would be all of them) dusting would be Number One.

Now, granted, I spent some of that time sick. Migraines, arms not working, back breaking in two (not really). But seriously. I had real shit to do. Shit that actually NEEDED to be done. Like get my kids ready for school, since it STARTS TODAY.

No big deal, right? Right. Except my oldest is going to college, middle is starting 8th grade, and littlest is entering 2nd grade.

So one would think, since a) I’m freaking the fuck out and b) I love school supplies more than almost anything, that I would be prepared. Backpacks. Notebooks. Lovely, lovely pens. Highlighters.  Folders. Every year since the oldest started school, I have had these things for weeks before school started. Backpacks would be packed with carefully labeled supplies. All binders would have little pencil pouches, just in case they forgot to bring a pencil to class. Paper would be stocked inside each folder, and folders would all be a different color so they would be easy to identify in a hurry.

Ha. This year, I didn’t buy shit. I mean absolutely nothing until yesterday. The day before school. So I assume my stupid asshole of a brain purposely derailed me. Likely because I CAN’T STAND THE THOUGHT OF MY OLDEST LEAVING.

Yesterday we finally went shopping. The boys didn’t give a shit about folders or non-scratchy pens, so they went out to the car. I filled my cart with my favorite things, plus bedding and other dorm shit (sob).

I was getting more and more stressed out the longer I was in the store. The last things I needed were red pens and lunchboxes. THEY WERE COMPLETELY OUT OF RED PENS. This was almost enough to push me over the edge, but I held it together and went to find lunchboxes. Of which the entire fucking store only had two.

I couldn’t take anymore. I stood there, lunchbox in each hand, waving them in the air and cursing like a sailor. An employee saw me and I had to explain (while starting to cry) that I wasn’t cussing at him, I was cussing at life. And lunchboxes. He left, looking a little scared, and I sank to the floor. The lack of choices in lunchboxes was apparently all I could take. I sat there in the middle of the store, just sobbing, with two lunchboxes clutched to my chest.

After finally getting my shit together enough to stand up and get the hell out of there, the checkout guy asked me, “How I was doing.” ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? MY HEART IS BREAKING AND SCHOOL STARTS TOMORROW AND YOU ARE OUT OF RED PENS!

We got home and I sat down in the floor, surrounded by school supplies. This is my happy place. I do realize that my middle child is in 8th grade. I didn’t give a shit. I started filling binders and writing class names on the spines and making sure each one had a pouch of pencils and pens. This lasted approximately 3 minutes before he came out of his room and asked for his supply list and all his stuff.

Sure. YOU’LL REGRET THIS WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE COLOR-CODED BINDERS, EACH WITH THE CORRECT RATIO OF PENS TO PENCILS! I’m positive he didn’t sharpen all the pencils. You have no idea how much this hurts.

This morning we took the two youngest to their schools, then I went off with a fully loaded car and child who was not coming home with me. I maintained while we drove (except I got really lost). I was fine as we unloaded. Once again my breakdown happened at Walmart. I may not be allowed back there. This is what I found when I returned to the dorm, loaded with shampoo and soap and condoms. (YES, condoms. Shut up.)

Dorm shenanigans

These kids look like they’ve totally got it together enough to survive on their own. Also, the condoms were possibly a waste of money.

I finally left my baby (yes, the one who is a foot taller than I am). When I got to the parking garage, my car was lost. There were so many levels, I was so tired, I was crying again, my feet were on FIRE…I seriously considered just laying down and rolling until someone ran me over. Then they’d be obligated to give me a ride to my car. Wherever it was.

Do you think I subconsciously blocked out The Big Day? And the directions? Also where I left the car? I’m pretty sure I just pretended none of this was happening until it actually happened. Surely one of you has had a crying fit over lunchboxes? Scared a Walmart employee? I can’t be the ONLY one who has seriously considered rolling down the ramps in a parking garage. Right? 




Most Unforgettable or Weirdest Idiot You Ever Saw

Apparently I’ve always been a little weird. The other day I was doing a little stalking browsing on Facebook and ended up having to break out my old yearbooks. I got to reading the messages that people wrote in them and noticed a theme. The most-mentioned terms were “weirdness” or “goofiness” or “craziness.”

This led me to think back on my early years, to try and figure out just what exactly got me voted “Most Unforgettable.”

Here’s what I came up with:

In the 6th grade my mom found a nest of baby mice in her dresser drawer. While she was chasing the momma mouse down the hall with a broom, I was preparing a final resting place for the babies. I took a small box and filled it with Easter grass and wrapped it carefully. Then I buried it in the yard with due ceremony. I felt very proud of my humanity and the dignity in which I laid those mice to rest. Until my mother pointed out later that they were still alive when I buried them. I swear to you, it NEVER EVEN OCCURRED to me that I was burying them alive. Not once.

In the 7th grade I put an egg on the heat register of a classroom where the teacher taught us the value of using only one square of toilet paper in the restroom. This was ostensibly World History but we learned much more than that, including that a rotten egg smells terrible and the joke was on me as I was one of the people who had to smell it.

Also in 7th grade I used fake tanner. Only on my legs. I was (still am) whiter than white and I hated it (still do) but I was too lazy to apply the tanner everywhere, so I had very dark legs and very white everything else. I wish I had a picture of this ridiculousness. This was after I got sunburned so badly that I literally had blisters on my ass cheeks. I guess I felt like half tan was better than burnt to a crisp.

This, except opposite.

This, except opposite.

In 8th grade I had one of those sharks in a jar like you get from the beach. Normal enough, except my best friend and I decided to open it up and dissect it. Why, you ask? I have no fucking idea. This was also the year that a teacher asked what I wanted to be when I grew up and my answer was “eccentric.” I think I nailed that one.

In the 9th grade I decorated my shoes with multicolored yarn so that my feet closely resembled Fraggles. If you don’t know what Fraggles are, you are too young to be here.

In the 10th grade, my Home Ec vest project was such a disaster that I wrapped it in wet paper towels and threw it away in the bathroom, hoping that no one would be gross enough to investigate. They weren’t, but I still got an F.

In the 11th grade I wore those tall white socks with the colored stripes around the top. With shorts. Who am I kidding, I still wear those. I love those socks.

All through high school I used to skip school to go on my own private field trips. My best friend and I would go to zoos, drive through safaris, and animal rescues, where we would do irresponsible things like climb fences to pet elephants, feed Cheetos to monkeys, and get sprayed by ligers. Note: Monkeys will give you a rash. It’s unfortunate.

I still don’t really get it. None of those things seem exceptionally nutty to me…but then, my scale of weird may be different than others. What’s something you’ve done that people thought was crazy?


That Time I Accidentally Picked Up a Hooker

This was a few years ago, and I’ve mentioned before that my memory is not that great nonexistent, but this is one story I will never forget.

It was around 2005 and my brother lived in a shitty part of a medium-size college town.  I lived (and still do) 50 miles from the nearest bar.  So I visited my brother frequently.  That is to say, I would crash at his place after a night of dancing and/or other bad decisions.

Even I'm not sure what was going on here.

Even I’m not sure what was going on here.

One morning, after what I must assume was a night of excess, I stopped at the convenience store right up the road.  I don’t remember what I had been doing the night before, but I do know I was still wearing the same clothes and I was out of cigarettes.

As I was pulling out of the parking lot, I must’ve rolled the window down for a smoke.  I remember hearing a shrill voice yelling unintelligible word-sounds.  It didn’t occur to me that I was being yelled at–I just looked out of curiosity, I guess.

What I saw coming towards me was vaguely alarming, but either I was still drunk or just slow, because instead of driving off I just sat there and smoked and waited for this loud stranger to reach my car.  I listened to her through the open window.  I don’t remember what she said or why I let her in my car.  I must have felt some sort of kinship with a woman, stranded, after a wild night…I don’t even know.  I do know that I wasn’t scared before she got in the car.  That’s when everything changed.  My stranded, helpless woman turned into something remarkably similar to this:



I wasn’t even out of the parking lot before she started ranting.  Turns out, her pimp friend had brought her to this street and left her the night before, but the gentleman she was supposed to visit with told her he didn’t like her because she talked too much and her hair was ugly. (Nothing like picture above.)  So he didn’t pay her.  Her pimp friend wouldn’t come get her, she didn’t have any money or drugs, and she was about to stab somebody.

By then I had kind of realized that a stabby hooker in my car was not an ideal situation.

That’s when she started getting really agitated.  She was wearing a sweatshirt with a pocket on the front and had her hands in the pocket.  I was driving, but she kept getting right in my face, leaning across the console to make her point.  She was so wound up that there was spit flying from her mouth, and she kept getting closer and louder and I just knew something painful was about to happen.  I didn’t know what the hell she was doing with her hands, but it was making me exceedingly nervous.  I was all the way up against my door trying to get some space, all while driving this woman who won’t stop yelling long enough to give me directions.

I distracted her with a cigarette and pulled over in a parking lot.  We’d gone about two miles.  I had no idea what to do with her; I just wanted to get her out of my car before she stabbed me.  But she wouldn’t stop screeching and she wouldn’t get out.  She was literally bouncing in the seat, but at least she didn’t have her hands in her pocket anymore.

I think this was about the time when she came down to earth enough to realize that this silly bitch in the driver’s seat was scared shitless.

I ended up cringing as far away as I could get while she told me her name (Pearl), where she was from (Texas), what she was going to do to the guy who left her last night (not pretty), and finally, that she just needed a liiiiiittle bit of money to get her by.  Whatever I had would be good.  Oh, I only had $10?  Well, how about that pack of cigarettes too then?  Yeah?  Okay, lemme write down your number, cause I’m gonna call you when I can pay you back.

The ONLY good decision I made that morning was not giving this woman my phone number.

I almost forgot! (Okay, I did forget.) Do YOU have any crazy hooker stories?  I can’t be the only one!

Jailbirds and Search Terms

I know I said I wasn’t going to make a habit of Search Term Tuesday, but then I saw the greatest search EVER and it’s Monday, so I had to share.  Someone searched for the following and it led them here.  I don’t get it either.

invisible sweat dripping off my balls when i’m on meth

Right?!  Oh my God, it’s better than Christmas.  The amount of joy this has brought me is a little frightening.

While I was pondering on this poor guy’s plight, I started thinking about balls criminals and that led me to my recycle bin, because that’s where I keep the bad guys.

By “bad guys” I mean newspapers that haven’t gone out yet.  Luckily for you, I haven’t emptied my newspaper bin since Christmas, and my town does a weekly incident report.  I know.  It’s often the highlight of my week.

April 13:  At approximately 12:10 a.m., police were notified that someone was asleep in the road in front of the high school.  Police found a male subject sitting just outside the white line.  He advised “he had simply had too much to drink and had fallen asleep.”  Because everyone drinks on the side of the road in front of a school, right?

June 7:  A man was arrested for public intoxication after police received a tip that there was a man asleep in the ditch in front of the high school.  Shit.  I guess they do.

March 14:  A man reported that he received a phone call from a person threatening to kill his cat and him.  What could the cat have possibly done?

February 15:  A caller advised there was a chair in the middle of the road, and on the other side of the road there was a man laying next to the highway.  Question:  Was this near the high school?

February 15:  A man advised that there was a horse in the highway and every time he tried to get around it, the horse would run back across the highway.  A different caller also advised of a goat in the area.  You get a goat and a horse together and this is what happens.

January 1:  A caller advised that his mother kept calling him.  I didn’t realize you could call the cops for this.

October 19:  A man advised that he went hunting and when he returned home, a woman was in his dining room drunk with wine coolers hanging out of her pockets.  I’m interested in these pockets.  I don’t have pockets awesome big enough to hold wine coolers.

April 23:  A caller reported that there was a naked male out on the road and he was coming up their driveway.  Why are these people always in the road?  Go home, naked man, you’re drunk.

April 26:  A man reported a suspicious Suburban pulled into his driveway, so he went out on the porch and fired a warning shot.  Because around here, if you take a wrong turn, we’ll shoot at you until you figure it out.

And this gem I’ve actually posted before, but just in case you missed it:


** The police reports were shortened, names and addresses removed, etc, but otherwise are in original form.

Does your local paper provide you with entertainment as well as news?  Do drunk people sleep in front of your high school?  What about goats?  There seems to be an inordinate amount of goat trouble in my neck of the woods.


I refuse to believe I’m the only one.

I sleep with a white noise machine.  I used to use a big box fan,  but my husband would get pissy when I would point it at him because I didn’t want to be fanned, I just wanted to hear it fanning.

“White Noise” is what the machine is set to, because I’m afraid “Rain Forest” would make me wet the bed, and I’m a grown-ass woman.

I have to pee now just looking at that.

The noise machine is on a timer and shuts off after an hour.  Sometimes (a lot of times) it takes me longer than that to fall asleep.  After I’ve reset it two or three times, the “white noise” starts sounding different, like a beat, or words, or just sounds being repeated over and over instead of just the shhhhhhhhhh sound it is supposed to be making.

Today my husband and I were lazing in bed ( it was an extremely rare quiet moment in this madhouse) and he asked if I’d ever seen the movie “White Noise.”

bing images

bing images

Me:  Yes!  The one with the TVs.  Creepy!

Him:  I can’t believe that sound helps you sleep.  (Probably thinking about last week when he left REDRUM on the bathroom mirror in steam, and when I got out of the shower I screamed and ran outside and wouldn’t go back in.  This is why we live in the middle of nowhere.  Because he’s an ass, and I often panic before I’m even dressed.)

Me:  I know.  And it’s weird how it changes.  The other night it was saying something over and over.

Him: ?

Me:  I don’t know, just words.  It was something with a “D,” maybe de-code, de-luge, Den-ver.  I don’t remember.

Him:  Jesus.

Me:  What?  It’s like when you are surrounded by chickens and it sounds like they are all saying your name.

Him:  *Snort*  That has only ever happened to you.

Me:  What?  No.

Him:  Yes.

Me:  Really?  That’s just me?

Him:  Falls asleep laughing while I lie there and try to force the crazy voice inside the noise maker to communicate with me again.  It didn’t work.

Note:  My family used to raise chickens.  I seriously wore headphones and carried my Walkman (yes, Walkman) because thousands of chickens all buck-buck-bawk-bawking at the same time would somehow coalesce into “Steph.  Stephanie.  Steph.”  And that is really fucking creepy.

I refuse to believe I’m the only one this happens to.  I’m not that crazy.


Can you have dementia at 33?

This morning I had to go to town, which always sucks, and I had to talk to not only my son’s doctor but also my therapist, who is amazingly insightful and very, very good at what she does.  This is a recipe for disaster.  I’ve threatened to fire the woman numerous times because she is that good.  Anyway, I went, I did what I was supposed to do, yay me.

On the way home, I was hurting really bad (because I didn’t take my meds this morning because I was driving my kid *pats self on back*) so I dug out my medicine and tried to swallow and then realized I did not have a drink.  So I choked on the nasty little pill, and then started thinking that my esophagus must not be normal sized, and I was going to stop breathing, and wasn’t it ironic that I was going to die in a car accident while choking on a pill that is supposed to make me feel better.

This is the kind of crazy we’re dealing with here, people.  I eventually found an extra-strength 5-hour energy drink in my purse and drank that so I wouldn’t choke to death.  Then my purse fell off the seat, exposing the full bottle of water I had just gotten in town less than five minutes before this whole debacle.

Now I am alive, which is good, not too worried about my esophagus, which is also good, but quite a bit wound up, which could be either good or bad.  I think we should all probably be thankful that my husband still refuses to let me have a blow torch.

%d bloggers like this: