Don’t freak out, I’m ok. Kinda. Well no… I’m not actually, but I’m so high functioning I’ll get through today and tomorrow, but maybe not the day after. I never know, it’s become totally irritating. Like, who in the fuck is really waking up in the semblance of my body aside from Shawn’s Johnson? Shawn’s my husband. Can’t get over it. Not the dick part, the fucked in my head part. I mean, good christ–between every antidepressant, mood stabilizer, anticonvulsant, anti-psychotic, therapy session, meditation, deep colonic, Brazilian wax and IV Ketamine infusion, (this Special K stuff really works too dammit) AND with emphasis on the past two years especially, I’m someone I basically DO NOT recognize. Not one bit. At all. Done. Dead. Gone. Cya. Except she has the same big tits as me, the longish brown hair that’s always threatening to break off from damage on the ends as me, she’s got tons and tons of new and old compulsive tattoos as me. It’s me alright, it has to be me, but it’s not me.
I’ve become so fucked up with mental anguish and an increasingly cringe-worthy checklist of panic/anxiety and bipolar deterioration criteria (in which constant suicide sits on my face), well, I wouldn’t wanna be my friend if I met me at the local tavern. And I can be funnier than shit, everyone knows. Seriously. My humor is probably one of the things that keeps me going aside from my kids…it’s the hot glue gun that binds (by force most likely) the amazing people in my life, to me.
Comedy, humor, however morbid it may be, is life-blood to a person suffering chronic mental anguish, as so many do. I rely heavily on it’s healing powers which in turn relegates no person, place or thing off limits in the name of funny. I thank my late, as in dead (she’s in a wall at Mount Sinai), goddamn hilarious, Russian Jewish, New York, writer/comic/actress/mother. My mother: bat-shit bipolar and fucked up to the max, but I loved the bitch ferociously even though she was an asshole 75% of the time. So Yes, I’ll say and do just about anything to get a laugh.
There’s so many of us, call us heart-breakingly damaged people here on earth, I spot them everywhere–yet a lot of compassionate one’s too inhabit this planet, earth angels I call them. In fact it happened to me again recently; I met an earth angel at the AM/PM in the ultra disgusting high desert area of Victorville California, or more accurately, meth lab distribution country.
I was with my daughter and her teen friends lost one night (mentally and physically lost that is), a rainy lost night, and I had to pull into the AM/PM before I did something stupid. I went inside this fucking scary mini mart from Haities to get water and cry hysterically on the phone to my exasperated husband; see, I felt morbidly depressed, to the point I was sure I was disappearing right in front of myself and didn’t know if I could drive anymore. I had no choice but to go into the store, in a car full of teens and loud angry rap music, one doesn’t get to scream, cry, shrivel up and say they wanna die immediately on the cell phone. I had to go inside the meth mart and get my act together.
Once inside, it was like a real life movie set to some gratuitous CW teen zombie series, but with lice. The meth heads were so over the top ‘Special Ed’ vocal and tweeker fun, you just had to study them and wonder “what the fuck happened here?” I went on about my mental breakdown business with a “fuck these people, they don’t give a shit about me, I don’t give a shit about them.” Nice perspective, I know, it was a bad night.
Keeping it totally under wraps, so I thought, my screaming and crying I mean, wasn’t too hard– the place was going off with this drug addled ‘shrieky’ white trash; bad skin, dirty hair, pissed on pants, plus the utter lack of sustainable teeth (you could count’em on one hand, really, the mossy teeth), well, my life, next to the real living walking dead, looked monumentally pristine and problem free.
So, I think I’m co-existing out of plain sight, or at least like, blending–crying not so quietly on my phone while I grabbed electrolyte enhanced water bottle after electrolyte enhanced water bottle from the electrolyte enhanced water part of the fridge. I dumped all 5 bottles on the counter with no regard for anyone else’s space but mine, I had to pay and get the fuck out. Simple. And yeah, I was still on my phone while the clerk said “Hello” n’ I knew how rude it was, I never do that, I hate that. But I was caught by something the lovely, young, African American kid working that register did as I struggled to find my money. He waited patiently for me to collect myself, looked me gently in the eye and smiled.
I thought it was a little weird, why would this kid smile at me with a river-shit-bed of non waterproofed mascara tear stained vertically up n’ down my dumb mug and I’d been super rude. I made a constipated face back at him, it was a half reply smile and a “I’m too fucked up right now to have you expect me to be pleasant” half grimace. Then, well… I pretty much threw the money down, turned in high heals and ran out.
Of course it was fucking raining donkey dicks outside by then, and I slipped and pulled out my back a little. I cried. Again. “DAMN YOU GOD!” I think I said that, or probably something more along the lines of my typical “FUCK ME!”
I got into the car and all wide eyes were on me, guess I hadn’t flown under the radar even remotely. My teen goes, “mother, what in the hell?” and I stopped her right fast and said “Not now goddammit, I’m having a moment…can’t you see I’m always having a moment?” And I burst full on into ridiculous sobs, apologizing profusely and blaming it all on my clinical grade PMS. I lied. I just’d had my stupid period. I sat there wanting to die more than ever, my kid knew I was in trouble, her friends apparently did too.
The knock came loud and fast, and with the rain pouring down like huge donkey dicks, I screamed. We all did. Who the hell was at my drivers window? I was still parked in the terrifying AM/PM lot, I figured it must be someone wanting to sell me drugs. OF COURSE I rolled the window down, but instead of a tweeked out walking dead meth-mouth-motherfucker, there before me smiling, again, was the young, lovely, African American clerk. I was just dumb founded. Had I left my wallet? Had I really pissed him off that bad?
“I wanted you to have this miss.” He said super sweetly and handed me a piece of folded paper. I thanked him suspiciously, I mean, what the hell was written on that damn paper dammit?! He then told me to “drive safe” and went back inside.
“Oooohhh girl, he likes you Kelly!” One of my daughters friends said excitedly. “He gave you his number?! Oh my god, you’re waaaayyyyyyyy too old for him.” was another comment. I was just as astonished as my passengers, and as I opened the folded paper, on it was a number.
The number to a local suicide hotline.
No joke. On the paper, he had written me a sweet note that read, “it’s going to be ok, if you need to talk, call them, they can help” and then a 1-800-don’t-kill-yourself type phone number.
Yes I was mortified, yes I was embarrassed, but more importantly, I was touched. someone who had no reason to see me, see me in a moment I couldn’t see myself, stepped out of his own seemingly bleak looking existence with the whole AM/PM and the meth addict nonsense (listen, no one, and I mean no one should have to drive through Victorville let alone work there) and reach out to help a very externally put together, rock n’ roll looking wife in a new white Escalade. The whole picture didn’t fit and I was so glad it didn’t.
Shrieks, screams and joyous cackling filled my car as I read the note out-loud over and over, each time laughing till I cried. It was a happy cry, a thankful cry. I’m fucking serious, this was a big thing for me, for everyone in the car living that twilight zone moment together. However stupid and cliche’ it may sound, we are more connected than we believe, and that we are never really alone. I soon forgot the whole incident as life settled back in of course, but writing about it now has made me re-ignite the idea of human to human source energy–the flow from one person to the next. So thank you AM/PM earth angel, you made a difference.
(During this journey here on Earth, I’ve experienced it all: bouts of severe suicidal depression, paralyzing anxiety so bad I could barely blink, even issues with self harm, I’m still here and so thankful to be…suicide cannot be an option folks, especially when you have chosen to bring children who need you into this world…don’t abandon them. Talk to someone who gets it when you are bleak, for this too shall pass. It always does.)