Year 39 Begins Tomorrow.


I always feel a little charge around my Birthday.  I always attribute it to the love I get.  It’s the one day of the year when I allow people to love and celebrate me with abandon and without guilt.

I have accepted it because it’s a rite of passage each year for everyone.  Everyone has a birthdate and not everyone has a Birthday, I get that.  But, I can accept the good wishes and praise (for getting through another year?) with my entire heart that day.


Blah, Blah, Blah.

Journaling is a humongo bitch.

Thoughts:  Two cousins dead due to alcoholism in one year.  Strangely, there is only about 40% of me that is anything but indifferent.  That 40% will seize my heart and cause me to break down, but the other 60% of my soul isn’t devistated or surprised.   I don’t mean because I didn’t see their deaths coming (because I did), I mean, chemically, my mind is protecting me.  My mind is is loading me up with dopemine or whatever so I don’t have to deal with this deveastation.

I was pretty close to both of them.   When I am sad, I scream at the air for them to come back.  I knew they were dead and I could not call them on the telephone as usual, so I screamed at them from where ever I happened to be at that point.  Always alone, I half hoped they would jump out from behind a painting or something like an old Scooby Doo and hug me and tell me not to miss them and that we would be together again soon.

I know if that happened I would shit myself and probaly not be the same again, but that’s what I was doing, BEGGING for Lyd and Wendy to haunt me.

Lydia has two sons.  I can’t even bring myself to communitcate with them.  I am afraid.  I don’t want to say the wrong thing.  I do that a lot, and I don’t want to do that with them.  They seem like little dolls made of sand to me.  They are pretty well taken care of from what I understand.  Considering the circumstances.  The circumstances being their world crumbled and they have to rebuild as virtual babies.

Wendy didn’t have children, but she left an army in her wake.  She was so easy to love, except for those who wished she was different.  She was gay.  There were people in her life who, at one point, told her she shouldn’t be.  Or that she was making the wrong choice.





Even though Wendy Lee Woolgar and I are cousins and around the same age, we really didn’t get to know each other until we were in our twenties.  It was at a family party we were having at my parents house when we discovered how much we had in common.  We both liked to drink and laugh and be with family.  She taught me a little about her passion, sports.  Professional, college, club soccer…  And I taught her a little about my passion, american politics.  We supported each other so much that, even today, I would argue for the Minnesota Vikings and some guy named Culpepper and if you asked Wendy she would say she was a democrat and would argue against some lady name Palin.  Though, neither of us would really know why.

That our friendship though.  If Wendy liked you, and she liked most everyone, I did too. If I didn’t like someone, and I don’t like most people, she would do a little shit talking just to make us laugh.

I was so proud of my cousin, I had to introduce her to everyone I knew.  I would say, “you gotta meet my cousin, Wendy, she’s the coolest.”  Because she was.

She had so many obvious positive qualities, you liked her right away.  Her attitude, a true sportsman, Wendy always saw the win.  Even in her darkest days, she would tell me how she was going to win.  I am ashamed to admit, I didn’t see how she could.  But, she did.


I turn 39 this month.  If I had told 9 year old me, that in thirty years, I would have no children, no husband, no home and no education, I would not have believed it.

Back then, I was in the fourth grade.  Reading was my favorite hobby.  I didn’t have any real friends.  My mother began working full time that year.  Father was traveling for work and Brother was depressed because the new high school he had to go to was really different from the last.  He wasn’t fitting in and his new best friend was kind of a douche.

They were the only ones around after school and I learned to stay in my room a lot.  The television, our family only had one at the time, was in the living room and was mostly dominated by my brother and his asshole friend.  When I was feeling gutsy, I would scrap with them both and get a few minutes to watch Nickelodeon.

This was the first year I remember having anxiety and depression.

We had just moved from a beautiful neighborhood in Grand Prairie, Texas and Mother, Brother and I had active social lives and we were busy with activities.  I was developing an accent.  Mother had friends at the tennis club.  There was a forest right behind our house and a within walking distance.

Now, we were in a suburb of Phoenix, Arizona.  It was a little more upscale, there was an HOA!  A planned community with a swim team and parks and a rec center.  The people were different.  They were cooler than Brother and I, that was for sure.  The girls in my class wore cheap earrings with bright colors in the shapes of pigs and ducks.  Not diamond studs.  It was the first time we saw a GUESS label.  They were mainly on florescent t shirts with the giant question mark.

The accent that was cute in Texas was a distraction in Arizona.  Kids could tell we had a little more money because Mother insisted on zooming around in her white Z28 Chevy Camero and dressed fancy.

I had found a crowd to be my friends, but they didn’t seem as trustworthy as my friends in Grand Prairie.  They swore outside of the earshot of adults, they argued with the teacher, boys fought and girls ganged up on other girls.

This is when I began making up stories to make my life appear better than it was to other people.  I wanted to impress the new friends and I wanted my parents to think I was doing well in school.  I wasn’t.

I wasn’t doing my homework.  It seemed a bit overwhelming.  I would lie and tell my parents that it was done when it was not.  I would tell my teacher’s stories about why I didn’t have my homework.

I had hope for adulthood.  My mother told me one day, I would marry a very handsome and rich man and I would be a mother and very, very happy.  I had crushes on boys, but was too shy to speak with them.  When they spoke to me, I would get very embarrassed.  I began to notice the “popular crowd” and how different I was from them.  And how much they didn’t like me.





I don’t know if other D&A sufferers share this feeling I have when I meet other D@A sufferers, but I fucking hate it.  Out in the wild, not in groups or hospitals or anything.  There, it’s actually a little helpful to hear how others experience this weirdness.  It makes me feel like I have a club or a gang or something.

“Yeah, we’re misfits!”

“No one gets it but US!”

“You take three different antidepressants and still cry when you ruin your own eyeliner??  ME TOO!”

“Fuck YEAH!  We are crrrrraaazy!”

FYI, if you have never been handed tranqs in a paper cup while you are in your pajamas in a hospital on a floor that the janitors are afraid to clean, then you have no right to call anyone crazy.  Don’t do it.  It will only provoke us to show you how fucking crazy we actually are.  We wait for this shit.

I once set a futon on fire because a boyfriend called me crazy.  I watched as he yelled and ran around to put it out.  I didn’t show it on the outside, but I was smiling a bit on the inside, “well, would you look at that… you were right.  I am crazy.  You are not as stupid as you look.”

When I meet other people with mental health concerns, I inwardly freak out.  Not because I am scared of them.  Crazies LOVE to watch other crazies lose it.  If we are feeling balanced, it reminds us that we are having a good day and that is just as good as having a good LIFE.   We hurt for them, because of course,  but for the grace of balanced brain chemistry go I.

I inwardly freak because of several reasons, the first is having to engage with someone who knows something about what I go through on the daily is intimidating to me.  You can’t fake them out.

“Your nose is not red because of allergies.  You were crying in the bathroom like a weirdo.”

“You are not ditching our plans because you have explosive diarrhea.  Your own brain convinced you that only bad things will happen if you leave your house.  Again.”

“You didn’t drop out of high school because you were too cool for school, you dropped out because you were always embarrassing yourself.  You thought the teachers hated you and any effort you made to learn would look pathetic to them.  You thought no one could take you seriously.

Tell Me About Tu Mama.

4pm  It’s near impossible to explain what I am feeling when I am feeling, “bad.”  I am often asked to explain it by doctors, family, friends…  I usually just say, “I feel sad.  Not myself.”  It’s the best I can do.

I can describe my behavior.  I can say, “I want to lay around quite a bit.  I neglect my hygiene and general self-care.  I only shower or brush my teeth if I am going to be around people.  I avoid people as much as possible and daydream about ways I could be alone forever.  I allow myself any and all vices in order to feel better.  Food.  Drink.  Weed.  Movement can sometimes be scary.  I cry when frustrated and allow this to ruin my entire day.  I don’t believe in myself.  I don’t trust myself.  I feel like people look down on me.  That one could be true.   I feel like my cats get me.  I act childlike when I need to be responsible.  I am always nervous.  Always.  Sometimes, I want to sleep forever.  Not die, that would make people sad, and plus there has go to be some FUCKING POINT TO ALL OF THIS!  I am always trying to fool people into thinking I am fine, so they don’t think I am crazy.  I know I am crazy.  Sometimes, I pretend that my illness is a super power or something that makes me special (good – special) and possibly one day fix all the problems of the world and humans everywhere will live in harmony and joy and everyone will thank me and my depression and anxiety.”

I never say all that.  I say, “I have to fight myself in order to complete menial tasks and not lose complete hope,” to describe to depression.  “I’m scared all the time,” sums up my anxiety in the most trivial way possible.  It sounds weird to hear someone say they cannot leave their room and live a normal life with work and love and progression.

“Sure, you can,”  I have told people who tell me they have depression and can’t snap out of it.  “Go for a jog, listen to a great song, keep busy or start exercising!”  It really seems to be pretty easy.  Even as I sit here and write these words, I have no idea why it is so fucking hard for me to complete the smallest of tasks.

Often, I bribe myself.  “If you make a doctor’s appointment, you could play the Sims without guilt for about 15 minutes.”  It works more often then not.  The action will take an hour or so, but I am IN ACTION!  It’s a big deal sometimes.

So pathetic.

I know all this is weird and pathetic and I spend a lot of time thinking about how weird and pathetic it is.  Obsessed with how weird and pathetic I am.

I know I am not alone.  I hear it all the time.  My mother is always encouraging me to call other people I know with depression and talk about it.  That sounds fucking horrible.  I never do it.

I clench my teeth and feel my stomach turn.  I need a distraction.  Or a nap.