Youda thunk ida gone done and learned by now.
And yet… NOPE.
I’m a big Nopey McNoperson in this regard, every. single. year.
I get blindsided by Easter/Birthday season.
I forget how hard it is for me. I forget how the way my brain works is going to kick into high gear and my Bits N’ Pieces are gonna need a lot of care and attention.

Birthdays are much less a big deal now that i’ve hit 50. It’s been that way since i hit 40, really. I’ve never much cared about the number insofar as how OLD i am or how old i look, or how much time i have left. None of that. As i stated in my blog entry right before this one, it’s the lack of accomplishment and the low level of functionality that trips me up. However, that’s only been since i’ve been functional enough to critically assess my levels of anything. Heh.

Birthdays, however, have always been an issue.
We were so poor at times, that there was no money to celebrate.
My mother was often incredibly stressed out on any holiday or for any celebrations, the brunt of which i often bore.
More than once i was sick on my birthday. I was mostly left to fend for myself whenever i was ill. To be fair, if she didn’t work we didn’t eat, and her parenting “style” left me incredibly independent anyway. At 4yrs old, for instance, she would often leave me on weekends. I’d wake on Saturday morning and she wouldn’t be home, so i’d watch cartoons until noon or so, longer if there was a Stooges or Abbott and Costello movie after, and then i’d go outside to play for a couple of hours, making sure to come back inside in time to put the roast in the oven and peel the potatoes for supper, as per the instructions she’d left on a note for me. Yes, FOUR.
So if i was sick, i’d just watch telly and occasionally vomit in a bowl. Or if Mom was watching telly i’d be in my room reading, and occasionally vomit in a bowl.

More than a couple of times i would be sick on my birthday. Stress made me vulnerable i think. There were some family members who could swoop in and make birthdays wonderful, but that wasn’t every time. One year, 2 Auntie type women that i adored were coming to celebrate. I think it was my 6th, and i got the Mumps. Not only was i severely sick and feverish, i endured my mother’s fury because the party had to be cancelled. She beat me more than once before i recovered.
Then there were the birthdays where i was put in my best dress and she’d do my hair like for a picture. A man i didn’t know or already knew i didn’t like would be invited… And that is all i’ll say about that.

I won’t say much about the Easter season things, either. Just that there was conflicting indoctrination going on. During that time i was under constant stress to act one way at Mommy’s church, and another way at Daddy’s. I was almost constantly switching from one part of me to another, depending on what was being required. Everyone had one face at one church and a completely different one at another. Everyone close to me was volatile and mercurial. The rituals, the purported inescapable supernaturalism, the drama, the surrealism, the abuse, both subtle and overt, the sick and hungry practitioners, the fakery, the fucking circus… It twisted my brain into so many knots so tight they frayed, and some split entirely, requiring new knots to keep them together.
Do you see?

Every year since i began seriously dealing with my past and trying my hardestfreakingbest to manage the way my brain works and enjoy a better quality of life i have been 2X4’d in the head by this bloody season. (There was no punctuation in that sentence because i said it all in one breath.)
So yeah, i got coldcocked – again.

This is the part where i do what i have been practising to do when i get into a mental jam like i am. Where i assess the damage, look for the positives, and make any changes or alterations necessary to handling it better next time.
I’m happy to tell you it hasn’t been that bad.
The voices in my head rose from their characteristic background mumble to a constant, reverberating rumble – but there was no roar.
I lost the face more than a few times, and i even found myself walking on the road a couple of times – but none of my people did anything damaging or even particularly inappropriate, and i didn’t hitchhike into the city and lose myself for hours or days to high-risk behaviours.
I drank a bit too much – but not enough to make myself shake, puke, or wish i was dead. And it wasn’t every day, all day.
I’ve been wicked-depressed – but not suicidal. No ideations, no plans.
I haven’t picked any fights with my husband and there has been no drama of any kind with any other person.

I guess i kinda knew it was coming. Not consciously enough to avoid gettin’ bonked on the head, but once i got back on my feet, i wasn’t utterly gobsmacked that it had happened. I’ve been able to look around and get my bearings and say, Yeah, it makes sense for me to be here.
I’ve been able to communicate to my Peanut Gallery that it’s okay, but some things were less okay than others and let’s work on those things… I’ve been able to negotiate some internal deals that i think will really pay off in the future.

There was no drama.
There is no debt.
No rides in police cars and no trips to the hospital.
No crushing booze/drug hangovers.
Communication amongst me and my people has actually improved.
My husband and son are impressed and proud of me.

I didn’t even turn to food.
Yesterday i tried on the jeans i use to track my weight loss progress.
They fit fine and i wore them out to supper.

Don’t get me wrong, this has not been an easy couple of weeks. The way my brain works has been incredibly difficult to manage lately, but this is my life, and this may always be my life to some extent or another. I have found a way that works for me – a way to manifest long-term changes that have lasting positive effects, and contribute to a happier and more functional life.

Tubthumping is defined as expressing opinions in a loud or dramatic way:
I will not stop, no matter what.
Every time i fall and get back up, that statement becomes more true.I get knocked down, but I get up again
You’re never gonna keep me down
~Tubthumping, Chumbawumba

Have a happy day if you’re able. If not, try again tomorrow and know that i’m cheering for you and i want that for you.

Love and Peace to All,

I’m Fixin’ to Sing


Holy Moly. It’s not going to be as easy as i’d hoped.

  1. Have a good, hard think.
  2. Have an epiphany, or even just a good realisation.
  3. Share it with others.
  4. Feel better.
  5. Resume living as before the “incident”.


It was relatively effortless to get out of bed at 5:30 and get Man-Thingy and Kiddo off to school, i think because they needed me to do things for them. I make lunches, i hunt down lost items (i think the uterus may truly be a tracking device, Roseanne), and i send them off with affection and best wishes for a good day. But then they’re gone, and my Little Crooked House is empty, save dogs and my own thoughts.

It’s only sheer force of will that has me writing this. I very much don’t want to. You see, i know the purpose of this is to keep me moving forward. I’m committed to plodding along, no matter how slow my pace. But i don’t want to. What i want to do is nothing. I want to go back to bed and hide in my dreams. I feel heavy – slow and tired. What i want is absolutely counterintuitive to what i need. I know that writing will help, but i don’t want any damn help, pleaseandthankyouverymuch. I would prefer to stop typing right now; delete all these words, go to bed and pretend it never happened. But i have it here, and this cursed site keeps telling me it saved my draft… And i would know i’d deleted it and i would feel like a failure. I would know i’d given up, when i could have given a little more. I would know that i’d taken the easy way out when i was capable of taking the hard way. I would know these words on this blog had been here and i’d come at least this much closer to being just a little more functional in my life. Maybe i’d feel a little bit more successful and maybe, just maybe, i’d feel a bit happier and a bit more satisfied with who i am and how i live my life.

Can you hear me talking myself out of going back to bed, and into action? Because that’s what i’m doing. I warned you that the coming blog posts may be, well, kinda shitty. I believe i used animal testicles by way of metaphor. I didn’t have a plan when i started this blog, beyond sharing how my brain works. I had hopes it would keep me moving forward, perhaps even give me some momentum -not too much because manic- but just enough. I also dared to hope that i might be able to help someone reading about me and how my brain works. The benefit of accepting the general consensus that i’m odd, is that i think i might just have a unique perspective, one that someone else who reads this might find resonant, comforting, encouraging, or even just informative.




Jeepers Creepers. Yesterday was a day.

So as i was finishing writing that last little bit, i knew that i had to stop writing and go do something. I had to accomplish something that took physical effort. Movement beyond that of my hands typing on a keyboard was required to get out of the funk in which i found myself. I saved my draft, and got up to make bread. With 2 men eating 2 sandwiches in their lunch nearly every day, it saves us quite a bit of money. Plus, i feel more competent and successful, and the men in my house feel special. The rewards far outweigh the effort. I dragged myself into the kitchen and i made bread.

I’m thinking as i work, and my thoughts go from deep and contemplative, to lighter and more focused on my daily schedule. What do i need to get done today? What would i like to get done today? What would bother me at bedtime if neglected?

While the bread’s rising, i get laundry going. I reward myself by playing some games on the computer, and then the bread’s done rising. I get the bread in the oven and i clean up some clutter and i finish the laundry. Wow. I feel better. Lighter. The activity is easier and my feelings are less dreary and draggy.

I sit down and pull up my blog to tie it all up in a pretty package with a nice bow. I pulled myself out of the ditch and i’m back on the road, w00t!

I cannot access my drafts.
In fact, it says i have no drafts saved.
I know immediately that this could crush me, and send me back to Square1. Hell, it could put me at Square-1.

I decided not to think about it, and just go do something. I have a new rug, that i got off of a local give-away site, and it desperately needed shampooing. That required me to move our coffee table, which is made of stone and metal and is wicked heavy, then remove the rug and the stays underneath so i can drag the new rug in and clean it with my handy dandy shampooer. Physical effort + concentrating on the task at hand = maintenance of lighter mood.
I’m starting to do more than just figure things out, i’m actually moving on to putting what i’ve learned into action. This is huge. I mean, huuuuge.

As i dealt with my past, i saw the greatest abuse done to me was that which was done to my brain. I’m not talking about any hereditary illnesses i may have as an accident of birth. What i’m talking about is the selfish and depraved way my mind was purposefully molded.

By the time i was old enough to begin asking questions, i already knew not to ask them. I thought what i was taught to think. I used my intelligence only to reflect my parents’ beliefs and only to achieve their ends. To say i was “discouraged” from independent thinking would be putting it mildly. My mind was locked away in a prison cell, and it took me many years to even realise i was confined, let alone break out.
If you’ll indulge me in continuing with the metaphor, although i broke out of solitary confinement, still, i wandered around amongst the general population with fellow prisoners. I was so grateful to be connected to anyone, that it didn’t occur to me to look for a door. One day, as i was out in the yard, i noticed other people who lived outside – beyond the chain link fence topped with razor wire. They spoke to each other in a different language and it sounded like music to me. I wandered along the fence, trying to get closer to them, wanting to hear more songs, when i happened across a door in the fence. It wasn’t locked of course, and so i opened it and stepped through.
It hasn’t been easy to learn their language, but they’re all teachers in that they all have a song to sing. I listen and learn and i want to sing too – but i’m afraid i’ll mispronounce a word or i’ll go sharp or flat on a note. What i’m learning is that everyone sings beautifully, and when it’s the right song, even being off-key, or flubbing a line sounds good. So now i’ve just gotta get my ass out there and start singin’ my song.

Getting up off the couch and making bread is a song. So is doing the laundry, and washing my face, and brushing out my dog, and calling my husband’s mother who’s in failing health to tell her i love her and chatter away about nothing.
I was not supposed to sing.
What i mean to say, metaphor aside, is i can’t just sit around thinking about life anymore. I get this restless feeling inside me, like i’m itching to get moving. It feels wrong to stay still for too long. This is an amazing and wonderful thing. Me, always afraid of screwing up. Me, who needed so many masks to get any kind of living done at all.

Tra lala lala


Frickety frack i forgot to tell a most important thing! At the end of the day, i checked my blog, and there was my draft – sitting there waiting for me all smug like it taught me a lesson, or something.

I suppose it did.


Love and Peace,