#14 – When The Depression Returns

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I didn’t want to write this post especially–not during the public’s outcry n’ healing process over Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain’s suicides, I don’t wanna be a big fat downer…who needs more of those? But I feel I must since I write on this viscerally morbid subject and have for a while now. These suicides have been triggering for those who suffer suicidal depression and rumination for sure, but more outstandingly, they remind people like me how vulnerable to mental disorders we are…human beings I mean. Dogs too. But not like people. It’s our cross to nail ourselves to since we have no other defense mechanisms aside from foul language and the ability to critically think and yep, change the world. However, we are built for suffering. Just like the Buddha says. And in our quest in western society to rid ourselves from our own internal suffering, we can sometimes cause only more suffering.

The yin and the yang of eastern philosophy (concepts of Taoism) essentially embodies the concept you cannot be whole without the light AND the dark, that a whole person is the expression of both. To take that concept even further, in east Indian metaphysical metaphysics, depression is actually a highly spiritual state of being, a time when your soul calls on you to look within, to be with your heart, to work shit out. When you’ve done so, you get to reemerge with a knowledge you didn’t have before and like, go help people n’ stuff. That’s a normal sense of depression I can get on board with, not my bipolar 2 depression that runs it’s time clock 24/7. That’s of course different. In this instance, such an ailment needs medical attention including the spiritual as well, and I feel meditation is paramount in re-wiring the depressed brain, so does UCLA and their Mindfulness Meditation program alive and well at the SEMEL institute to be exact. Mindfulness Mediation along with proper medication and lifestyle changes, is a first line of defense against clinical anxiety and depression for psychiatric in-patents at UCLA and if it’s working for them, then dammit it’s gotta work with the rest of us. I mean, UCLA would know, right?

yin(attaching the Mindfulness Meditation link I swear by for depression and anxiety…I love the Mountain Meditation especially https://insightla.org/Media/Audio-and-Video/Series/SeriesID/10)

Back to the yin and yang. Our western suffering comes with the expectation this state of ill feelings is undesirable in all it’s natural forms (not talking clinical suicidal depression folks, I’m referring to the normal 7 bouts of near clinical grade depression the average person will experience in their lifetime), and is something we need constantly rid ourselves of, or to immediately over-medicate till its existence can never be felt ever again. Not so fast. And no, in no way am I referring to, again, I will reiterate this so there’s no confusion–Americans love to be confused, me included–to living in chronic clinical mental illness as so many of us do. I’m merely pointing out that western culture is UN-accepting of any level of depression and has villianized it’s more spiritual meaning of a wholly integrated human manifestation–a being of light and dark in which a balance is created with no one ‘vibe’ tipping the scales in either direction. Make sense? Course it fuckin’ does…unless you are totally like, bible inclined and that’s not bad if it makes you happy, non-judgmental, open minded and super altruistic! I’m Jewish, we love to suffer then come up with the best goddamn jokes on earth to counterbalance our annoying kvetching. But I kinda secretly love to complain, it’s super fun sometimes. I’m also half Irish Catholic, or protestant as my grandma Kitty used to hit me over the head with. So naturally, all this SFV original valley girl knows is us Irish-catholic-Russian Jews are a funny fucking bunch. Anyway,  I like the Buddha best, he was money.

So, you guessed it and or you couldn’t care less but your reading my blog, so you gotta check it–I’m in a depression, a really fucked up one n’ it’s affecting every part of my daily functioning, self conceptualization, and that includes the professional writing project I’m super excited and privileged to be involved in…yet, I realize I have the best damn people in my life and I’m not embarrassed to pontificate over that at least, even if I hate myself so much of the damn misconstrued as indulgent, time. I’m blessed. My kids–I will say it again, my kids are here to do great things and they’ve chosen me as their momma to go out and be great, so that right there is reason to celebrate. I do subscribe to the notion children choose their parents, and mine chose me…hope they weren’t asleep when they did that, but regardless, I’m not gonna let them down, not ever, n’ neither should you.

However, this depression sucks all kinds of dog balls and the anxiety it invokes is no barrel of monkeys either. Not that many of you would suspect I would suffer the way I always have (n’ I’m referring to the people who know me casually), for by my outward appearance and exuberant dark n’ witty humor has misguided you to,either think I’m 1–a rebel with a cause, 2–full of myself (so not, just terrified of aging which is stupid) and or 3–out of my goddamn mind but super intellectual and you’re maybe really jealous of my…mind. I know some people that wish nothing but ill will for me or anyone they find threatening, especially on social media–the very fact they keep you around to stalk  but never support in any way shape or form is just an indication of their small existence yet I feel compassion for them. Do these people go beyond themselves to help other’s in need for no profitable gain? Do they simply exist for themselves to be recognized for only their work output and not the parents they can be or the great friends and family members they are born to embody? Could this be you? Or me? It was me at one point at the peak of my depression and addiction, years ago. But I had a choice, and I chose the best fight against suicidal depression was to reach out and be someone other’s could come to. Do I have all the fuckin’ answers? Hell no, no one does. But I know more than a few things, and what I don’t know I study.

Placeholder ImageSo, I decided one of the best depression cure aside from the obvious, is to be altruistic, to help someone worse off than oneself n’ you know what? That works. Or you can just continue to wallow in your self hatred, hatred for others, and offer nothing but being a useless eater with a paycheck…go for it. And my last thing will be thus—parents. If you are a parent, god please do as much as you can to be with you kids in these years till 18, I swear the adults you will unleash upon society will be better off for it. Kids need their folks, even when pushing you away like the teen years presents itself as, but trust me, the pushing away is sometimes to see if you’re still gonna be there–chasing after you’re little rabbits. It’s not fun if you’re too busy with work, or getting ahead, or whatever, but you gotta do what you gotta do to pay the rent, I get it. But let’s not turn out this next generation of kids to be as depressed, lonely and isolated as my generation has…let’s change that karma for our little ones, they deserve it.tempo 2.jpg

(My daughter, the light o’ my life, with her amazing alternative band “Tempo Infidelity”   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AbeTeBn0SbY  (Recorded at Atlantic Records) photo cred…momma)

13 – Sex Sells…

Does sex still sell these days? I think it does…unfortunately or fortunately, it’s the way our biological make-up is hard wired. My anthropology teacher even says so, and he’s an expert on Hominids (early man, the really ugly horny kind). Regardless of hairy horny cave like creatures, there will always be a strong prey drive in some people regardless of episodes of hyper-sexuality, as is the case with bipolar people, hedonistic sex-tard addicts as is true of most 80’s rocker sock-in-the-tight-pants douches, and cult leaders who live to find sex slaves via the eagerly stupid, I mean, lost and impressionable fan-I mean follower base. It’s everywhere I’m afraid, and ain’t showing signs of dissipating.

Let’s just take pop stars and fallen Disney channel girls…the minute they turn legal, the goodies are open for business–but look don’t touch. Remember, jus’ cause a girl dresses provocatively or like a two dollar sailor whore (like me when I go out anywhere south of Ventura boulevard, but I’m kinda old now…so who gives two shits, really), doesn’t mean they wanna party. Take me…again. I’m of a certain age, but dress like I’m ready for hot cock-eyed action to a certain degree, but If you try and grab my bits n’ pieces I’m gonna poke you…in the eyes really goddamn hard–then use harsh, emasculating language to shame you to no good end. I can be like ipecac that way.

Naturally, being a writer, a creative, an actor, and more importantly, the mother of an up n’ coming musician teen daughter, I worry about the climate our girls navigate in–I worry about the rapey culture our boys feel pressured to be ‘dudes’ in…or ‘bro’s’…or whatever too. My kid tells me rape at parties by scum sucking dick-less-turds, who seemingly jus’ can’t wait to go to jail and be someone’s bitch, against unsuspecting drunk girls, is still alive and well and I can’t believe it. Why? Why would anyone do such a vile ‘karma’s gonna get you back eventually anyway,’ fucker thing? It’s mind-boggling, really.

That segway got a little dark, but sexuality runs a fine line between healthy, fun, aerobic, and fucked up…real fast too.

I love sexy lookin’ chicks just like everyone does, I celebrate the female form and love a woman who can strut around and be sensual at any age OVER 18 that is. In fact, an ageing women should be proud of her sexiness and maturity: we know more, have fewer hangups, and can freely laugh at you if you have a small pen–I mean, brain. And nothing is more appealing than a partner with a razor sharp sense of humor. A funny guy or girl is the sexiest thing alive to most women and secure men, really, check into it.

This post is nonsensical and poignant at the same time, I’m not sure which, but it’s both? And I’m no fool either, even if you think I am, you’re like, so totally n’ fer sure OHMIGAWD soooo mistaken. I’m really smart actually….for a valley girl that is. And I realize the blogs of mine that get the most reads, are the one’s that use sexual type titles or sexy pictures at the heading. In fact, I’ve done the experiment, and the sex sells exploitative type avenue wins every time. So yeah, sex sells whether you like it or not… and that’s even when discussing suicide! Kinda disturbing, but like it’s been said a million different ways by a trillion different venues, “sex sells”….and sex sells bw.jpguntil it doesn’t, here’s another sexy pic.

# 11 – My Husband almost died of Meningitis…from a stupid mosquito

It was probably the shittiest time for him to pick almost dying on me, us, himself–our marriage was going through a particularly rough patch, work found itself more than challenging, and my mental health had steadily been in decline for the past year and a half. Not that it was his fault, my husband I mean, how was he to know his immune system was left wide open from his chronic Prednisone use for something totally unrelated to meningitis?

I knew though. And what ensued I can only categorize as a seemingly life-changing experience for my whole family, our friends, co-workers, and our, well, how many people go through something as out of the blue traumatic as what happened to my guy and come out, well, back to normal…so to speak–cause what the fuck is normal anyway? I can’t stand most ‘normal’ people, they’re too damn crazy if you ask me. I mean, is he totally over his ordeal? Pretty much. However, when you almost die of meningitis, it kinda freaks you out for a while. But only for a while.

You wanna know something really insightful though? How should I put this so I don’t sound like an ungrateful ingrate—Ok…you know how you always see those interviews of like, survivors  n’ such n’ how they’re always pontificating on the aftermath of this and that, n’ how after the said traumatic incident left them in utter appreciation for every waking moment there after? Nonsense. Things just go back to the same for the most part, you make concessions for the new way of life, n’ you know…that becomes the new normal. life just went right back to life. At this point? It’s like it never happened except for the stupid puzzles I bought him to do for brain plasticity exercises when he got home from the hospital. 3000 micro piece puzzles not even the person who designed the thing could put together. Lisa was the one who came over that day I got my guy home from the hospital, had the puzzle all spilled out on the coffee table, invalid barely able to blink let alone put two pieces together, n’ me standing over him like a dictator commanding ‘Do the puzzle! Do. The. Puzzle. Brain plasticity. It heals the brain motherfucker, do it!” I was crazed from 6 days of no sleep from the ICU of course, (I’ll get into my stint as his unforgiving hospital staff advocate later) so no, wasn’t thinking too rationally. Lisa took one look at the pieces falling off the table all piled up like ashes from my mom’s old Nova cigarette ashtray pull out thing, and scoffed. “Kelly! A 6 PIECE puzzle you fool!!! One made for 3 yr olds n’ autistic kids! What the hell?!”

“Oh…Well, I did not realize that, Lisa.” I apologized to my husband who couldn’t reply anyway thank god, for he would of gladly told me to shove every single jagged edge puzzle piece up my ass if he could—he couldn’t though, so opted for a stink eye kinda blank stare instead. In fact, he had no expression for the first week home at all, common of brain injuries even meningitis. Called ‘flat affect’. Creepy is an understatement, his nick name became ‘the walking dead’ till it subsided.

How you ask? Well, it’s kinda a long story,  but basically, he got bit by a West Nile Virus carrying mosquito somewhere by our home, the Prednisone had his immune system suppressed enough to let the pathogen take hold in the meninges of the surrounding brain tissue, and voila! Meningitis. From a mosquito bite. Motherfucker. Almost a $200,000 hospital bill later (thank god for insurance),  n’ all caused by a parasite via a simple steroid used to treat pretty much every inflammatory condition including a swollen toe. Dumb.

I guess that’s where this story begins essentially, or on the night he collapsed off the john, face first, semi paralyzed onto the hard travertine bathroom floor at 3 o’ clock in the morning. I was already up getting dressed right before, he’d woken up about 40 minutes earlier nauseated and dizzy as hell, double vision, and as he tried to walk to the bathroom to hurl, it was like watching a drunk falling down a flight of stairs. See, we thought 2 days earlier, it was just the flu…his general doctor thought so too–dude started him on Tamiflu and my guy threw that shit up instantly. We decided to wait the flu out together in bed. I’d change his soaked clothes and sheets, talk to him, watch TV, do a few errands, and hoped his mounting fever I’d kept checking would go away. But by the day of the night he ended up, well, almost dead, it was the highest it had been n’ I was set on the ER.

The scream from the toilet came furiously and it wasn’t a normal like, yell, it was a shriek of someone falling off a building. Or a toilet, face first.

I’ll never forget it, the yell—I’ve known this guy since 8th grade, and let me tell you, he ain’t ever made that sound before. I ran back in just as I was done getting dressed and letting my live-in sister know I was taking him to the ER and to console the kids in the morning–take them to school, n’ that everything would be OK.

Oh were it that easy. No. For what I saw following the scream, on the floor next to the john, was my husband of almost 18 years, half naked, face down on the tile floor, utterly lifeless, a shade of blue-green,  and covered in sweat. The scariest thing about it was, well the whole goddamn fucking thing was devastating, but his eyes in particular sent shock-waves–eyes wide open with a blank stare, but lights out, literally. I called his name, placed my hand on him, tried to get him up, help him, do anything I could to coax him to respond, but he couldn’t talk. I’ll tell you this, besides the initial scream that had no resemblance to the guy I’ve known most of my life, this was not my husband, this was a person–dying.

(To Be Continued….)

 

 

 

# 11 – Mariah Carey Bipolar…2?

I think everyone hates me. I do. I think you hate me right this very second as you read this…the title even and hell, Mariah Carey’s in it. And how can you hate the women who can make electric garage doors open with high notes so out of universally accepted octave range, even dogs are too unsophisticated to comprehend let alone even hear? Well you can’t. Can’t hate her. But you can hate me. Even if you don’t know me. That’s cause I’m bipolar, too. Or ‘bipolar 2′, the lesser of the two evils but they both suck. People like us, well, I’ll speak for myself here for the most part, but you know I’m right–we think everyone hates us and can’t wait to run screaming down the street naked after an hour in our company. Boy am I wrong about that too, so are you. We are the most entertaining people on the planet, episodes n’ all.

I’m assuming some of Carey’s bizarre performances and diva like demands such as “Can I have some hot tea, my throat hurts,” really threw some people. Not me though, I outted’er a long time ago. In fact, let’s be serious for a second: What truly gifted artist ISN’T bipolar? Too? It comes with genius my friends, so if you’re a sufferer, and no, don’t go all crazy  when I say this cause I’m sure as my rabbits rolling 50 million turds out their little furry butts, being bipolar is not for the feint of heart. It is not. I for one, live with chronic suicidal ideation and used to be an adult cutter, so, you know, I get it. However, I implore you to stop and really get this through your thick bipolar heads: We, you, Maria, Demi, Van Gogh and whoever else who’s been stricken, are pure Genius. Don’t you get it? People like us think differently…and that’s not bad, that’s incredible. We see differently…and that’s insightful. We feel differently…and that can feel so fucking good. Sometimes. Hell, I’ll go on to pontificate that we love, fuck n’ create differently too, and I wouldn’t change a damn thing. Well, other than a med here or there so I don’t get too fat, lose my nice long hair, or kill myself by accident.

However, I get where Maria Carey is coming from when she just recently stated something to the effect of how hard it was to keep her diagnosis hidden for years. A lot of years–that by doing so, she ended up wanting to isolate and cut herself out of everyone’s life so they didn’t have to ultimately deal with her mood swings and erratic perfectionist behavior…or her rather. A human. We are human. That whole ‘burden’ crap mental health sufferers deal with is worse than all my Jewish ancestors n’ their guilt rolled up into a gross jar of Gelilte fish–jus’ sayin’.

Unlike a jar of Gefilte fish, which stinks but probably doesn’t care cause it’s a jar–of Gefilte fish, I feel chronic feelings of guilt and shame and remorse and I routinely apologize for making my friends spend time with me even when they basically force themselves upon me cause I’m supposedly the most real and ray of goddamn light in their lives.  I sure hope my friends aren’t mentally disabled themselves…shit.

It’s the disease we don’t want them to deal with, not us.

Those people in our lives? The good one’s that is? They love us crazy, in an episode, not in an episode…unconditional love baby. But again, I get her, high note hitter, cause I think everyone hates me and I have tons of friends. Go figure. mental health can really be annoying on self esteem sometimes, even if you’re one of the biggest music sensations to ever grace the Grammy’s and have a flashier wardrobe than RuPaul and Miley Cyrus put together.

Mariah, I get you, I’m with you, I hear you, and am so glad you, along with the other brave women and men in media as of late,  that you are being upfront and truthful about what you suffer. It’s not only compassionate, it’s responsible. Thank you for sharing your plight, especially with the one’s still hiding in the shadows of their potential genius.

 

# 10 – Depression, Anxiety, and Fitting In

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Short, sweet, n’ meant to rock your fuckin’ socks off, but not to the point you wanna throw down you’re half eaten bagel, the one you didn’t want anyway cause a’ your gluten free diet, n’ use that as an excuse to give up on me–writing about my not-so-normal life.  Or ours. Or us. As in my muse Lisa n’ I–bitch’s colonoscopy deep in this social experiment concoction we got laid out for ya’. All’s you gotta do is read on and reap the turds our amazing grasp of the obvious has exposed. Just like a Seinfeld episode. What? Well, wait a second. It’s tricky, very tricky, n’ I’m gonna try to serve this shit up all Beverly Wilshire Hotel High Tea Time style, but with the jet propelled speed of a fast food Del Taco in Van Nuys. Some of it has to do with one’s own paradigm–you know, you’re own personal values n’ ideals n’ all that nonsense, and or your interpretation of how secularization affects your own experience in this life as well as your mental illness. Kidding, not everyone has a mental illness or a secularization issue. Even if I think you probably do, and should be looking into it. Like now.

What in the? I know, but it’s really interesting community college stuff if you give it a chance. I’m talking total Sociology 101 right up in here. The Micro vs. the Macro kinda text book jargon crap. It’s good crap, no, fuckin’ fantastic, in fact.

OK, look; Macro-sociology basically encompasses a broader view of humans in the social world at large, where my area of interest lies in a micro-sociological approach, where our daily interpersonal interactions with each other and our immediate social environment produces our perspective…of sorts. the social sciences are, for obvious reasons, not so easy to prove with a glass slide, a few drops iodine and a magnifying glass—like frying an egg on a hot sidewalk 1983. Which, if you never got to do cause your childhood was stolen from you, was super fun, kinda scientific, but who really gave a shit but your drunk aunt with all the cats. Well, I do, and so does the new-media world. We are being studied just like a kid watching an egg fry on a blazing hot sidewalk, but shit’s like global now. N’ people care, just like your drunk aunt with the cats.

Did you know there’s sociologists out there right now, watching us, our behavior via online use? And, no dummy–I’m not just encompassing how we’re tracked and categorized by what we buy or look up online…well, partly I am. These social scientists are furiously at work, right now, building character profiles on us more goddamn accurate than a Briggs Myers Personality test. Taken voluntarily! Jus’ saying.

Anyway, fried sidewalk eggs aside, (it is Easter today after all) I’m kind of a traditional sociologist-like minded enthusiast. My ‘Micro’ view of the world in respects to our ( Lisa n’ I) gloriously simple, little social experiment should help prove, in a qualitative AND quantitative way, the impact we have on the social world and how the social world helps shape how we view not only ourselves, but how to become really good master manipulators. Which in essence, just fuckin’ means, our social research will have a real control group and a number of situations that are considered ‘the norm’ in which to produce a theory that doesn’t suck ass.

I’m full on traditional pragmatist right now–as in old school traditional sociologist George Herbert Mead? Remember him? He’s kinda my Freud to a psychology major. N’ I really get off on this guys ‘findings’, no matter how old n’ crusty they are, they make sense, cause I sure as hell don’t half the time. You might wanna light yourself on fire just trying to follow the trajectory of this here entry, it’s kinda like getting a fail in geometry but you fully synthesis quantum physics is what I’m getting at. Or not. I still watch cartoons.

Well, He was a pragmatist…like me. And I know you would never associate someone who suffers such debilitating anxiety, depression and even social fears ( I freaked out at CVS again last week), to be considered a traditional Mead pragmatist. But check it out: a pragmatist basically realizes that nothing is really ‘real’, that it’s not a big giant conspiracy somewhere OUT there in the universe who’s got it in for you. That in essence, our world is created by us…as we stumble, struggle, skip, run or walk through, INSIDE the world, thus our reality is then created. Or basically, it’s just figuring out what the fuck works for us as we interact with people at Target, school, work and in our personal relationships n’ chuck what doesn’t over our shoulder n’ speed off.

But then there’s those damn online, data collecting, social scientists tracking us relentlessly I mentioned earlier….hmmmm.

Anyway. Totally, serious fuckface.  Even if you suffer a mental illness, especially if you suffer a mental illness, taking a micro, pragmatist, sociological view of your world can rally you, you know, taking some fuckin’ pressure off for gods sake–really helps navigate you through a skewed vision of the world and how we, you, she, it and your dog fits in it. It’s helping me out of my usual go-to, as in my suicidal “goodbye cruel world, Christmas is cancelled” depression n’ all. Well actually, Christmas this year is kinda cancelled, but just my big giant party cause I need a whole 24 months to re-coop from last years fucking amaza-balls acoustic music festival, a thousand people invited—Xmas gathering.

We, as mini micro sociologists, yeah, you too, with or without a degree, can easily figure this shit out n’ how to effectively yet efficiently, always an energy saving approach with me, get what we want AND figure out how best to achieve that; using all sorts of our god given, instinctual ‘gut’ tactics. Like, begging, pleading, manipulating, faking, fucking, acting out, projecting, throwing things, you know the usual shit that produces results. No-no, don’t take that seriously, I’m taking the opposite approach, so is Lisa. That sorta bad behavior either get’s you an STD or 86’ed…for life. So let’s find a new approach.

A pragmatist. I like it. A lot.

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(Beautiful Lisa bottom left, Me in her white dress, Dear childhood friend Rachel in middle, Sister Josie above Rachel, sister Kat on far top right, and the lovely MaryJo far upper left above Lisa…phew! – Photo cred: The Talented Toby Fulp, shot on location at EVS studios, Glendale CA)

HERE IT IS FINALLY! THE MOMENT YOU’VE BEEN WAITING FOR! The Social Experiment spearheaded by non other, Lisa–my southern bee charmer (think ‘fried green tomatoes’ here) dearest friend.  Her brilliance never ceases to amaze me, even if she still doesn’t realize it, that she’s got something special. This is one insightful woman.

Here it is, my social mission via Lisa: I’m to dress, look (no make-up, no fancy hair), behave, speak, interact, and or mimic (fake it to ya’ make it) completely normal people, as in NOT trying to stand out and be so well, ME (we are asking ME to take a ‘together we stand, divided we fall’ approach in the city that only promotes individualism by any means possible, n’ yes, that includes hiding my tattoos, tits, cool AF wardrobe as well…boo Lisa). For a whole long day and night, putting as many situations in front of myself as humanly possible to see what happens. I will have assigned interactions to seek out is what I’m saying. And report back. In full detail, but of course.

Why? Why would we do this? Well, Lisa thought it could really help my natural propensity for confrontational interactions and unsolicited painful commentary via ‘those buttholes’ that drains me of my life force on a near constant basis n’ you know what? It’s not even my true nature to be like that! Or reap the fallout from such behavior! It’s fucking imprinting just like a duck the minute it pecks it’s way outta it’s shell and copies the first living thing it sees.

My mother was not the ideal woman to imprint off of, even if it did make for an exceptionally colorful childhood.

Relax, it’s just as an experiment to see ‘what if?’ Not gonna laser my ink off or get a breast reduction or nothin’. Even if this experiment proves such incredible, life-altering insights for me I can hardly stand it. I like my tits and tattoos more.

…Full sociological analysis and ridiculously detailed report of my ‘findings’ to follow once this plan is executed. Yes, I’m talking text book academia shit right here research paper. But that’s when, and IF, I ever put this experiment to the test…

….until then:

Happy Passover, Happy Easter, and Happy Happiness Hunting dear fellow humans!

Xo, Kelly n’ Lisa.

#9 – Bullies, Babes, and Blow

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If one more kid kills him-herself due to near constant bullying with no one putting a fucking stop to it, or a foot in someone’s ass, well, you know, I’m gonna pull a self-BBQ-monk-on-fire move that will surely send a shocking message to the perpetrators, future bullies, their enabler families, and to the schools who really do nothing to stop the sickness. You want action? I’ll give you action. Being an actor/ filmmaker/former bullied victim myself, I’ll do a series of effectively real looking suicide re-enactment videos–like investigation ID or an oldie but a goodie–a pseudo ‘faces of death’ web series, where I come up with all these really creative ways to kill myself on camera (simulation of course, but my disguises will keep’em guessing), while giving full media credit to the bullies who’ve help push victims into early graves. Names, addresses, college applications, will be on full media display for all the world to see…and I know you know that karma cliche’…it really is a bitch. This will be huge, like the fact I’m ‘faking’ killing myself in protest for what these scum sucking rectal warts have done to their victims…’rectal warts’ is what I will now call blatant bullies, just so there’s no confusion over whether this is also an STD PSA blog entry. It’s not. But use protection regardless. Bullies will be publicly outed to no end, talk about wearing ‘A’ scarlet letter. If you have been guilty (and we must make sure no one is falsely accused) of bullying some poor sensitive soul to their self inflicted death, you deserve no sympathy from me…or anyone on Facebook or Instagram…snapchat too.

I wanted to kill myself starting at 12 years old. Needed desperately to get out from under my own systematic bullied existence–there wasn’t a person, place, or thing I didn’t have to scope out first to make sure valley girl terrorists weren’t’ waiting to jump me around every corner. I’m a valley girl by the way, a real one. Born and raised SFV ( like, the San Fernando Valley?) and keep reading to get the full meaning of the enormity of such a statement. What in the hell? Just trust me.

Anyway, by 13, full blown panic and anxiety had set in, accompanied by spells of such paralyzing fear episodes so severe, I’d almost fainted n’ pissed myself a few times. That along with the smorgasbord of nervous tics I’d developed much to my mom’s total irritation. All this shit…just from the thought of having to face bully girls another day.

And even as a fucking smart, evolved and cognitively aware adult women with kids of her own, I still have to watch I don’t attract these energies in some form—it’s the lesson I must learn in this crazy life: to stop being so damn afraid and awarding rectal warts any power whatsoever (loving this rectal wart reference by the way, so glad I came up with it…but also happy I never had one. Eww).

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(my official ‘valley girl’ stomach tattoo next to the panther that watches out for my feminine mystique)

Fer sure. I’m a very loving, compassionate girl, but I’ve been fucked with growing up valley. A lot. And I can name 2 other girls I still totally talk to regularly, that had it way rougher than I by miles in terms of being bullied almost to death. I don’t think anyone realizes what the mean girls were truly like in Tinseltown, 80’s val style. Unless you were here, and no, the San Fernando valley did not invent mean girl bullies, hardly, but we sure helped put it on the map. Having your ass kicked in Jr. High at my school, meant aiming to get punched in the face by knuckles bearing loads of silver rings–you know, just to cut your meal ticket up a bit. Girls putting ‘rings on’ to go kick other girl’s asses…and for no valid reason most the time, not like kinda decent motives such as “Hey, you fucked my dad!” or “You bitch, I can’t believe you fed my dumb canary to my brothers stupid python n’ at my own goddamn birthday party?! I’m kicking your ass!” Now those could be reason to wanna jump someone. Sadly, most of the motivation behind a good ass kicking had nothing to do with fucking peoples dads or killing their birds, it was vapid nonsense like, “Hey geek, you think you can wear a red and gold shirt? Like, wrong. I’m kicking your ass…and I hate you by the way, even though I don’t know you, wait…what’s your name again?.”

N’ check out this forced accomplice shit some had to live with, like me this one time–I got bullied into handing over one of my cheap, Tijuana, 925 stamped silver rings, so one big scary girl we’ll call ‘Katie’, could go kick another big scary girl’s ass we’ll call ‘Alessandra.’ And just so you get the visual–quite a few of these mean girls in 7th and 8th grade looked 35, slutty as all hell, and tough as nails.

Rings…it was a thing.

The fallout from such bully type violence via a not-so-accurately-portrayed-in-pop-culture 80’s valley girl, rectal wart scenario (yeah, don’t know if that worked either), could translate negatively in one’s future interpersonal relationships if not handled with intense therapy early on; and even then, pure hell awaited you for the most part.

Bullying: Electric chair worthy offense.

I suggest if you have kids, girls especially, watch for it like crazy without being crazy. It can kill, it has, and it is. So just stop it.

My own torment went as planned as far as having abnormal interactions with loved and non loved ones, especially the men in my life. And with myself of course, but the romantic relationships seemed to suffer far worse than my love and trust of female friends, aside from obsessive clingyness, super panicky n’ controlling behavior, n’ being over-the-top demanding of a friend’s allegiance to me. That was unfortunate, but I was under 18 when it was really obnoxious, and shit gets sealed when your under 18. I’m in the clear with girls by now. Still needy AF, though.

Didn’t fair so well with guys, however, negative patterns repeated themselves into my 30’s and even now into my 40s. But on a much milder scale since I’m considered a Jurassic fossil by LA standards n’ I’m pretty self-realized at this point. But It went badly for a long time, and I put myself and my family through gangs of worry, cause for me, a romantic relationship just didn’t sit right without near constant physical, sexual and emotionally threatening behavior. And not every boyfriend, but most. I’ve since corrected this negative pattern, at present, my primary source of interpersonal male to female issues lies mostly in my struggle with being invisible, or like, monumentally blown off. N’ that blows–as had been done to far too many who didn’t deserve one of my specialties. Kidding. But only about the amount, it was low, so don’t freak out. And no, not every guy treated me like a pile of dead ants, but more than I care to admit. It WAS a problem, and one hundred percent my fault for allowing it. And the blowjobs.

However, I’m happy to report things have absolutely gone up hill since those days, like, phew! Was really worried for a while there, too. All up hill as far as my blurry, 40 something eyes can squint. Up. Hill.  And I’m feeling excellent about where I’m at with the guys in my life! Oh yeah, I got guy’s in my life, I need men as friends regardless of what Harry says, he’s wrong. I like ex-boyfriends too, now that’s a real special bond where you can feel close enough to disclose your feelings and not censor yourself. I hate censorship. Way too intense for that boring pastime. And yes they’re JUST friends, the guys in my sphere, but it’s different than what I have with girlfriends. My girlfriends are my heart and soul and support system we women can never get from the opposite sex, but my dudes are my protectors, counter-point partners, and ego boosters when I need. It’s just a different vibration. Nothing wrong with vibrating.

And in terms of my marriage n’ stuff, well, no physical or emotional berating in any way shape or form, put that crap where it belonged, in a dingy n’ let it set sail in a Venice beach harbor jetty. I like Venice, it’s a freaky place, like my mind.

Now I only struggle with being totally invisible. Said that earlier. It’s really annoying having to remind my husband I’m still around, like in the house next to him? He’s just super independent and I totally respect that, I mean being needed is so overrated.

But it’s lookin’ good, I’m feeling it, I really am. I am…love is a hard one though, for all of us…just go to the movies or pick up a Nicholas Sparks or John Green novel. I have only fallen for people who don’t love me back for most of my existence, the way I love them that is, and or want to be loved. And that’s my cross to bear in this life. And of course, so is this whole self love, acceptance, respect, basic hygiene when depressed, feeding myself correctly and staying off of drugs, thing.

And that’s a lesson right there.

I really don’t want to love anyone too much ever again either, just my kids. They can’t, well, they can, of course they can, destroy you, but it’s a different pain…they can’t hurt you the way the outside can and I’m not explaining myself correctly, but that’s the rub right? “Being born naked in a sandpaper world.” When you suffer depression and anxiety and feel things so so deeply it cuts you–you cut you.

I’d kill to be a sociopath, it’s really the way to go. And I’m working on it. Feeling anything is just dumb, or like my favorite quote “like watching a one legged man in an ass kicking contest.” Which yes, is funny as fuck and a real crowd pleaser, but also sad, pathetic, and totally irrelevant.

People will always disappoint you, and it’s not their fault, it’s yours for putting such emphasis outside yourself–and that’s even if these people have the best intentions. Probably why I collect animals, like my useless rabbits, nothing bad can come out of a conversation with a rabbit. Look, we are all doing the best we can, life IS hard, but beautiful too, so go smell the roses or someone’s panties. I do.

But fuck it, not everyone can be as intuitive and observant as I–n’ I feel really bad for the out-of-touch, I really do…a shame they’re way more successful in life than me. Hmmmm. Whatever. I’m gettin’ that ‘sandpaper’ quote tattooed on my arm next. Real good idea…Walk around pointing to it when I see a potential emotional ninja karate chopping his-her way towards me. Smart move and super obvious. I love the obvious, I’ve told you. I think? I dunno, my brain is having weird sexual exploitation fantasies as I type this, so I’m kinda distracted. Boy, that sociopath thing is sounding fuckin’ money right now.

Let’s push on. It got weird.

At least I’m no longer being actively bullied…only by my kids of course, but that’s this whole ‘non spanking’ generational thing. Not that I ever did spank, in fact, I can’t punish or ground for shit, my kids just laugh at me if I try to take things away too, like if they fail a bunch of classes or get caught ditching or take the car without a license or permission.   Pretty much get told to go fuck myself without actually being told, “Hey mom, go fuck yourself.” It’s an issue.

However, my children are just the two best, most genuinely kind, ridiculously gifted, and yes, beautiful to a fault, funny, and caring little rays of universal light I’ve ever met, and or created, I did something right…you bet. Oh, and of course these two are well aware the effects bullying has had on their mom, her friends, and people in their own lives–they’ve been taught to stand up and fight for the vulnerable. My daughter actually has had a bully target on her back for a quite some time, n’ I hate it for her. Well she did, the bully bullseye on her back, we’ve had to work on it, and she’s dealt with depression and low self esteem due to it’s evilness. She’s come out the other side thankfully. But you have no idea how hard it’s been to restrain myself from the one’s who’ve gone after her. Good God, it’s been a challenge.

She’s incredibly more compassionate now for the experience on one hand, my kid, she really is. I mean this girl’s just the loveliest teen human I’ve ever met, and being a singer/songwriter, her lyrics cover this pain and suffering and overcoming the darkness with such depth and soul and vocal, guitar and phrasing chops, well you’ll be seeing her around soon enough. She’s just the best…when she’s not being super moody…

Most real bullies don’t take responsibility for the sorrow they sew, it’s a narcissistic approach, ends up somehow being justified by ‘their own pain’. And this is painful to think critically about, you know? Some pretty bad shit went down in the homes of bullies we grew up with, still doesn’t get them off the hook, however.

Whatever. I love saying ‘whatever’ even when it’s not warranted and makes absolutely no sense. Who cares? I do…I think. I’d make a great addition to the ‘upside down’ at this point. Thank god for shows like ‘Stranger Things’ where being a misfit is total money.  I accept being a misfit. I am a misfit. I’m a totally bad ass looking misfit at this juncture, and that’s no accident. Like my look n’ stuff, I mean. I’m a punk at heart, cause I love punk rock, but my tattoos, arched eyebrows, penetrating stare, big boobs, deep voice and no nonsense attitude are my amour, I mean armor. And don’t like, go blabbing about it now, either. But it’s all surface, my tough girl act. I’m as sensitive and sweetly natured as a fruit roll.

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(Giving credit to this amazing “Snow white lines” EP…to whoever. #CreativeGoals)

Growing up can really blow...Just like my mom’s old Malibu cocaine dealer with a really funny name I can’t remember. My sister and I went with her this one time–and man, you wouldn’t believe this super bitchen beach house this bizarrely small man with the funny name I can’t remember, lived in. So she could party. Cause she was sad. Funny thing was, this really ‘small’ big-ass dealer, used to double as a Beverly Hills hair dresser. N’ that wasn’t uncommon in Los Angeles in those days. In fact, who else could get away undetected as easily as someone who had droves of legit clients coming and going all  day long? A Beverly Hills hairdresser, that’s who.

Yeah, so my little sister and I go with mom to buy blow from the scary small, hair dressing cocaine dealer, and they do a bunch of lines together, mom and the drug midget. I did some homework. Then my sister, who was like, oh I dunno, 10 at the time, gets all philosophical (if that’s even possible for a 10 yr old), and starts freaking out on our mother, that mom doesn’t love her anymore. It was our mother’s fault, not my sister’s, mother always took sides…anyway, the argument went from, “you like Kelly better than me don’t you?” to “You do, just admit it, she’s your favorite!” to “You LOVE Kelly more???!!!???” And mom being so goddamn high, was kinda like, “Well, yeah.”

Holy fuckin’ shit-balls. Let’s just say, even the drug dealer couldn’t deal anymore, made a peanut butter sandwich and went to bed. Very strange 80’s night. A school night no less.

Back to bully’s.

And I’m gonna go out on a limb and say something even more shocking about bullying: I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re a bully who’s only repeating the cycle of violence you as a child experienced yourself—not an excuse, assholes. Too many resources available for you online, free counseling n’ crisis centers n’ shit, medications, support groups, schools who DO care, and outreach programs, only a click or iPhone call or text away. You got too many things available to you if you feel compelled to harm someone, destroy their self worth and personal security, and unless you are seriously diagnosed with a pathology as in a personality disorder, where you actually do not know right from wrong, well…that still doesn’t get you off the hook, fuckface. So from me to to you, all the bullies out there, from a victim of chronic non stop harassment as a kid herself, this valley-punk-new wave-girl has a message for ya’: “fuck you, fer sure, like totally.”

 

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(Keep reading for the source of my “fuck you like totally” reference as well. You’ll get a bang outta it if you’re over 40, or a cool edgy teen like my insanely talented singer/songwriter musician daughter.)

The 80’s…The ‘Me’ Generation

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(Me on the left, a cutie I have on my Insta in middle, and my BFF, Paula, still is, on Right)

The San Fernando Valley in the 80’s…the most gloriously kick-ass-bitchen-rad-tubular-like ohmigawd! Place to grow up… but treacherous as fuck emotionally. The tie in to my opening monologue is this: an egregiously bulled kid in the 80’s (regardless of any decade actually) becomes 1 of 2 things as they develop…or at least 7 or 8 in a mosh pit of all things once good now fucked. These include: Being hyper sensitive, neurotic, depressed, antisocial, obnoxious, galacticly aware of other’s feelings, suicidal, homicidal, a cutter, a drug addict, socially retarded, painfully afraid, (which could equal unparalleled paranoia) ‘tic’ inclined, a chronic masturbator (self soothing technique), and most importantly–breathtakingly compassionate, which is a good thing, or a BULLY THEMSELVES—perpetuating the psychological theory that the abused go on to be a abusers themselves…big one’s.

I’m a kid of the LA valley girl/new wave/punk scene circa 1980, so I know what the hell I’m talking about—Even if that sounds somewhat counter-intuitive—albeit—stupid even. You hear valley girl, you either think the movie Valley Girl, as in Randy (Nicholas Cage) and Julie (Deborah Foreman) as totally star crossed lovers caught between one’s dedication to the Hollywood punk rock scene (Randy) and the other’s Sherman oaks galleria shopping up a shit-storm bad habit (Julie)—or the pop culture hit song ‘Valley Girl’ by Moon Unit Zappa and satirical rock star dad Frank. Look, what I’m saying is, I was totally fucking obsessed with both the song and the movie, I mean, a cross section of us all kinda talked like An-dre-ah Wilson, the central Encino val from the track Moon so perfectly roasted (with emphasis on certain syllables to give a generic name like ‘Andrea’ an exotic new sound). I’m telling you, this song was such a hit with us girls at Walter Reed Jr. High in Studio City—I even stole the best lines from the song n’ ran around telling everyone to “bag their face’s” n’ tried to claim the phrase as totally mine first. I was kinda an idiot.

And c’mon?! As far as the goddamn movie? Valley Girl?—I mean, Who the hell didn’t wanna bang a hot punker guy like Randy from Hollywood High—all too edgy n’ ready ta’ roll a lusty “fuck you,” no respectable val girl would utter let alone give a handy to.

The flick was way bitchen n’ super rad but totally unrealistic. Every val bird I ever shot a sideways, wet’n’ wild, turquoise eye-shadowed glance at, cussed so epidemically, me included, like, we all could of mass produced giant dicks out our dirty mouths; just like Orks born of shit-pits in Mordor.

Ok, bad Lord of the rings analogy aside, we as Hollywood and not so Hollywood kids, had to face some facts in all reality…like, this is ‘real time with Kelly Walsh’ right now—Randy stood for what any girl would want; an anti-hero of cataclysmic authenticity, rocking no hang ups in his spellbinding confession of heartbreak n’ love. This of course was due to Julie turning her ‘Contempo Casuals’ back on him, as he wails painfully to the effect of: “I fucking love you Julie!!! Get it?! It’s your fuckin’ friends, isn’t it? You’re choosing your valley friends over loving me, aren’t’ you? Fuck Julie!”….She says nothing, but you can see the pain etched on her super squeaky clean valley girl face. Yes. It’s true–she loves Randy, goddammit she does, but the valley is just too totally rad to leave behind. Of course I’m gettin’ to the best line ever written in cinematic history, and it comes straight from the punkers mouth as he realizes valley girl Julie ain’t budging on true love over popped Izod collars: As Randy turns in his creepers (or some punk rock kick) to leave, he stops himself, turns back, and yells amazingly  ‘So fuck you, fer sure, like totally.” Never a better line written.

Alas, This movie got so much wrong, but the through line proves sustainable: you can’t choose who you are going to fall in love with—unless they have a bad blond bowl haircut like Tommy, the dorky val dude Julie chose over Randy, and or they say things like, “ She’s totally freaking out, what other val dude can touch me?”

Christ, Nothing like Randy and Julie from ‘Valley girl’ the movie ever happened to this valley girl in real life and I’m the real deal. Well was. Got no action in Hollywood or pacoima or any fuckin’ place–my love life was a total bust. Only thing I could ever hang my Micky Mouse ears on, was constant, non stop, kick your ass bulling wherever I went. Kinda kills the mood for romance anyway, so maybe not having a guy wanna finger me wasn’t so bad. But don’t get me wrong, I lusted so hard after so many guys, well, I’m not gonna disclose too much about my time alone in the bathtub with the hot facet water, but when I start releasing pages here and there from my semi-autobiographical coming of age 80’s novel, you’ll get so much straight forward, uncensored sex stuff your head will fall off.

So fer sure, I gave up on myself early on as far as sex or like, even a ‘hello’ from a dude —n’ I got used to the notion that due to the bullying and mean girl culture I grew up in, where the more physically violent a chick was, the more kinda popular she’d be; that growing up “valley” was totally awesome, but polymorphously dangerous, too.

…I get asked all these really goofy mystical questions with such awe n’ wonderment, you know, like what it was like being an LA native n’ stuff? I even kinda have an attitude about it, I need to get over it too, I got nothing to be all uppity about. It’s funny for me, though. I get, “What was life really like in Los Angeles California…Hollywood!?” That’s a geeky one. Foreigners from like, Texas or Florida, east coast imports as well, ask me this shit all the time. Hilarious. It’s such a weird question too, I don’t know any other life, do you? I mean, from wherever you hail from, your upbringing was your upbringing even if it was hillbillies n’ moonshine like people from Texas. Face it, everyone in LA, not originally born here, is looking for fame and fortune in entertainment in some fashion, n’ it’s a big deal to be originated from such a star studded place. I get it. We are a town of permanent out-of-towners.

My dad was kinda famous. Don’t know if you knew that. Still is. He’s a cult movie icon in many respects n’ I just love the shit outta it. That was fun growing up, but non of the teen mean girls who’d promised to have a couple of guys follow me home, then rape me, got the memo, so that didn’t matter non.

He wrote and produced this cult classic, Robert Altman directed film called “California Split” starring Elliott Gould, George Segal. Great iconic talents lending themselves and their expertise to such an awesomely written and directed piece of film-making magic. Real film-making, when story and character development meant something, not just quick edits, super hero nonsense, CGI and explosions.

Dad did good.

But our car still got repo’d in the middle of the night, mid 80’s style. So that kinda sucked. My mom even chased our leased brown and tan monte-carlo down the street at 4 o’ clock in the morning, screaming ‘YOU MOTHERFUCKER!’ at the top of her lungs in her underwear. Scared the shit outta the whole North Hollywood neighborhood. Man, That was a scene and a half, so was the next day when we actually went to collect the car back from the repo lot, and mom sucker punched the bag-man in the stomach bringing the jack-off to his knees. Those were good times, I really miss that wonderfully goofy gal.

She died 9 years ago, my mom…n’ I’m still here…and that’s a good thing. Still totally n’ fer surely fucked up over it, though. And that’s the rub.

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(Me, on left, again, as I morphed into my New Wave phase…and yes, that’s Hesher chick in middle)

Dedicated to 12 yr old Gabbie Green, who recently took her own life via hanging at the hands of ‘schoolyard’ bullies, as well as their new cowardly medium: Cyber-bullying. I Dedicate this blog to all children who have fallen victim to this cancer, in fact

#7 – My Impromptu “Sh&t depressed parents say…to themselves” comedy skit

So, I’m in the middle of (the nexus, the eye of the storm, “wherever you go there you are” kinda rhetoric) one of the worst depressions I’ve had in a month, it hit about a week ago, and no I don’t feel funny at all.

I don’t wanna write funny, but I’ll try.

I don’t wanna talk funny, so I’ve quit talking.

But I certainly don’t wanna look funny–talk about a real vapid motive to take a long walk with one foot on a banana peel and the other in the grave (an oldie but a goody).

In fact, I resent funny at the moment even more than I’d loath a horrendous case of rectal herpes. Kidding, of course I am, how awful. AND I can’t imagine a medical presentation such as anus acne, but I could be very wrong, in fact I am–seems there isn’t a part of the human body exempt from zits and or an infectious outbreak according to a google search. So, there you go. More useless information from me to you–a little gem of utter nonsense you will never use, but will also never forget. You’re welcome.

Anyway, what I’m trying to convey is…I feel kinda crappy. A lot of people feel crappy lately, so much going on in the world, the media, so much to fight for, so much to be affected by. and I want to wrap my arms around all who are suffering and commiserate. “It’s gonna be OK, really, I’m not just giving you a sunshine enema.” That’s what I’d tell you if you were in my arms.

But still, as far as I’m concerned, it’s a little harder for the self consoling, you see, I’m flat. Not my chest, that’s huge (34 DD if you MUST know, jesus), I’m flat…AND humorless AND that’s when it’s really concerning; this native North Hollywood High School valley girl is almost always funny (and noooooo, it’s not subjective, It’s kinda a fact, like I’m so sure. I’m a lot of things, but humorless ain’t one of’em).

Not today, though, not now, funny n’ stuff, and all I wanna say to myself is what my 16 year old tells me every time I make the mistake of breathing in then out in her direction, “can you just not?”

I cannot, not today, like I’ve just said. Lisa also went through something very similar, this flat emotionless zombie person thing, she even made a goddamn sweatshirt that read “I can’t” on it when hers hit like a metal pipe to the back of the head. Put up a damn sign on her damn front gate even–stupid damn thing communicating the same exact message as the flashdance, cut collar, off the shoulder sweatshirt she made that simply stated, “I can’t”. Brilliant stuff folks, I’m tellin’ ya.

Boy this girl Lisa of mine, well, she just kills me. Just slays the hell outta me, and that’s hard for a comedy snob such as myself–takes a lot to make me laugh that real deep down n’ dirty cackle, the one that actually heals some of the cuts life has helped slash. She’s truly funny, miss Lisa, and more importantly, the bitch knows how to suffer (some people suffer in real irritating ways, see, with their mental disorders n’ stuff…not that I’m being judge’y, well I am actually…but you know what I mean. Lisa suffers in style). For example, Lisa’s always onto something trend setting when it comes to her own depressions and stuff, like making an ugly n’ plain, gun metal grey sweatshirt totally fuckin’ cool just by putting her emotional boundaries on it. Smart move, really, it’s bold and courageous and you know, it’s just rad-bitchen-fresh-awesome-tubular and every other valley’ism you can come up with.

Why is her sweatshirt so important? And why am I harping on something so seemingly, well, simple? Because it is. You need to know what you need not only from yourself during an episode of whatever drama you’re experiencing, but what you need from others as well.

“I can’t” worked wonders in this scenario for Lisa.

To honor thyself when in the throws of a highly uncomfortable ‘wax museum, zombie, flat-as-fuck,  apathy attack’, is gold even though suffering such is not–the zombie is aluminum, a rusty piece.

“I can’t” can be just as important as “I can,” and yes, that’s incredibly counter-intuitive to what we’ve been conditioned to believe. Over committing in order to be liked or to not let someone down, especially when you are in no position to do any such thing (n’ I’m not talking about selfish laziness guys, I’m talking about the real deal shit, the times when you’ve hit the wall), is in the end, the irresponsible thing to do. You will not only let everyone down you try to over commit to, you will be setting yourself up for failure. Not that failure is a total fail either, failures are part of the learning curve. Say you “can’t” when you need to re-coop, say “I can” when you have gathered back your source energy.

Sometimes making a sweatshirt saying what you can or can’t do, cuts having to explain anything to anyone. I did something similar myself today, and yep, Lisa’s mental health apparel trail blazed: I made a stupid skit with my dumb iPhone cause I felt the urge to work through my zombie block but not apologize or change it. I simply ‘covered’ it from an observational perspective and you know, it fuckin’ HELPED. And then I sent it out to a bunch of people and uploaded it here, and I can only hope you get something from it, or at least know that I see you even when you are secretly suffering and you have kids. You are human, we are human, and humans go through human things.

Back to my iPhone video skit. Ok, so I took all the wonderful input from other high functioning mental health sufferer parents and did an on the spot skit depicting the internal conflict that goes on for a depressed caretaker, especially when a moody teen is giving them, you, me, a run for your money. And rightfully so, that’s why the term “moody teen” has become a term of somewhat endearment, and yes, it’s their right of passage to go through these critical growing pains without us overreacting. Remember, when depression and anxiety is afoot, the lens you see life through can end up like one of those macro one’s, like the one where you’re nose looks fifty thousand times bigger than your ass? Right, that one.

Us parents have to wear not only the normal two, but up to eight ridiculously different hats (in the kid raising kingdom), AND that includes adult diapers as well (yes, I mean metaphorically, don’t go crazy, no one is shitting on no one…hopefully).  I find people who suffer great heartache are able to radiate the most authentic support and compassion for their friends and families. I find most ‘normal’ people to be completely out of touch and utterly uninteresting and yep, kinda boring even, and Jesus Christ! I kinda hate that! I don’t want to think all normal (well, is anyone really normal? What’s normal? Look who the “everyday normal people” put in the white house?! Uhh…Fucking scary these normal folks) are actually the crazy one’s.

Could I be, I think I might of just discovered, a mental health snob? Like, I’m coming to the realization, the more I blog that is, that the more people I interview, and talk to, study and read about who suffer the greatest amount of mental anguish are committed to their process and success, are my most favorite humans on the planet and the most accomplished, the most talented, the most hilarious, and most excellently real.

Friends, family, emotional kin, please enjoy the comedy skit…with all those viral “the Shit my mom, dad, grandma, dogs n’ parakeets say” videos all over YouTube, I’m launching my video series of “Shit Depressed parents say…to themselves.”

#6 – Special K part one

My Ketamine clinic smells like a field of lavender awash in a cup of beta-dine cinnamon hot toddy whiskey–why? I dunno, but I suspect it’s the super enticing kurig machine sitting on the side table as you walk into this very fancy upscale office, you know, the one calling your name but you cant’ have cause your fucking fasting cause it’s K-day (You fast for infusions or you’ll never stop throwing up, special K is an anesthetic after all, not just an EDM dance club party drug to chase with Ecstasy you know). It’s torture cause they got coffee pods with flavors even starbucks didn’t know existed.  And it’s weird cause there’s no surgery goin’ on behind that door with the push code lock on it, just syringes full of pure clinical grade Ketamine, the new front runner in a failed field of depression treatments that have included every antidepressant and mood stabilizer on the market. Fails, as far as I’m concerned, traditional antidepressants are total fails plus they make you fat as a house n’ lose your hair n’ rob you of your only other happy place–your orgasms.  Ketamine works on the brain in an entire different way, it works by repairing the glutamate receptors, one’s that are damaged from the very act of depression itself. Ketamine rebuilds and repairs, not masks, not covers up, plus it makes me horny, so there you go.

Anyway, the darn smells of this place don’t hit you in any distinct order when you walk in, it’s like wine tasting, all these different notes of fruit, dark chocolate and   pharmaceuticals caress or like, punch out your palette, but you gotta swish it around and make a really pensive ‘thinky’ face to truly get what the hell’s going on. I don’t know what the heck it smells like, but I like it. A Lot. And this clinic is kinda fancy, like I already told you, almost like a Beverly hills med-spa, I mean, I don’t know whether I’m coming in for my mental health or botox. We’re LA people after all, as in everyone in the clinic that lives in Los Angeles looks kinda fabulous, even if completely teetering on the ledge of utter emotional collapse, but not the one’s that fly in from North Dakota n’ stuff. Those people look about as bad as they feel–roadkill comes to mind here. And this is not a total put-down or surface’y observation only, see, this disease, the disease of mental unrest (I hate the follow up word ‘illness’ it has just such a weak ring to it) not only ravages your soul (it does), but your physical aging as well (500%). It’s the hormones released I suspect. Makes sense. If cortisol, adrenaline and all the other stress hormones that serve that life saving ‘fight or flight’ response when like, you are truly fighting for your life (supposedly a temporary state of urgency), are constantly dumped into your bloodstream 24 hours a day due the imaginary gun shoved in your mouth, well, your looks take a shit. A big one. I’m no doctor, but I know that much. I learned a lot in my anthropology class, what can I say, got an A.

When you witness someone who looks as bad as they feel, I dunno, you just get what this disease can do to your life. Clinical Depression sucks out your essence through your asshole, then makes you eat it back up, then you hit the repeat button. And the same thing happens over and over–an endless treadmill run you never get conditioned from. Just trashed. Unless you stop it. That’s what I’m doing at this fancy Ketamine clinic, saving myself from myself, just like all the other roadkill in here (the lovely LA one’s too, we’re all roadkill at this point regardless of the protective shellacking).  But man, if I owned this place, and trust me, I’m jealous AF right now that I don’t, like it’s already a cognitive med-spa for suicidal mental disorders n’ the like, but oh so easily could combine an esthetic approach as well. An add on option. Just hang in there, let me explain before you violently discredit me. So, if depression, anxiety and a fanatical urge to drink bleach have made you look like freeze dried gorilla shit, like your whole head sucks at this point, you see, getting an infusion of Ketamine to cover the mental side PLUS 24 units of botox and half a syringe of juvederm could work fucking miracles on the entire damn self. The inner and the outter, it’s symbiotic, it’s team work, it’s the fucking real one stop shop we’re always hearing is the way to go in life. A One stop shop and that’s all I’m gonna say on this.

Not Lisa though, she fuckin’ hates it. The smell I mean. You know Lisa by now, she’s my partner in crime, she get’s it, she’s up in it, she’s the one sending me inspirational quotes everyday from Buddha and his pals and jus’ like, keepin’ us both going I think. She walks the walk better than me, but I’m more messed up than she by far, so there’s that, but we are in the same boat together non the less. Sometimes it’s just a blessing to have someone you truly adore be in the same boat–life raft if you will, even if the roaring rapids your on end in a massive waterfall drop upon jagged rocks. Anyway, she can’t stand the clinic smell, I love it, so we differ on opinion there, but that’s in no way a slight to either one of us or the place, we are both in cahoots the shit is IV gold. Who cares if the joint smells like Santa and his Christmas crack? It works.

Both us girls on the K-train now, me first, I trail blazed, but she brought up the caboose and now the bitch is doing better than me. Can’t believe it. I’m so glad though, being in the throws of any mental disorder is nothing to get jealous about, and I can see how amazing these 6 infusions have been for her and another dear friend of mine suffering just a very difficult bout of ‘situational’ depression. It works for that too. Heck, I’m reading the young hot social media creator billionaire’s club are lining up to do Ketamine infusions to free up more creativity in their cluttered brains. Crazy. Kinda like a good mental douching. Great Idea if you ask me, and it’s super fun, the K psychedelic trips, or ‘dis-associative experience’s’ as it’s called clinically–I just get high as fuck n’ love it, so it’s again, a win win and your done in an hour.

Now listen, I’m not gonna say Ketamine is the answer to all problems, it’s not, but it sure does fix some damage you can’t just repair from deep breathing and a vegan diet, there’s some real observable science involved under a microscope here, and I’m all about science. But I’m still teetering, I’m still struggling, but it’s taken a big edge off.  I’m a harder case, however, in all areas of my physical being, always have been, always will be, I’m sorta a DNA marvel in that respect….it’s not that god hates me (I really should pray more, it’s true, in fact, I’m gonna pray my ass off as soon as I post this) but maybe my calling is more about some karma I gotta work out in this life or something. Maybe I killed a trillion baby squirrels n’ ate’em in my previous incarnation, maybe I was a dead beat dad n’ just fished a lot and didn’t pay child support. Who the hell knows, I sure don’t. But I’m not giving up, I got great kids to turn my bad karma around by being the best authentic selves they can and I’m behind them a million percent and they are the greatest most excellent things I’ve ever done in this life–in that respect, I win (this winning thing is very big with me today for some reason).

Stay tuned for next blog, that’s were I tell you about how great it is to get really high on Ketamine in a clinical setting and not get arrested for it.

5 – Suicidal Tendencies…and not the band

We sat across from each other like we always did when we met up in his majestic all-windows-over-the-city office space impeccably decorated in an upscale Tex-mex motif–he, his usual chipper compassionate cute as a baby bunny self, me, my usual suicidally sarcastic funny girl with a side of big bouncy tits and velvety red puffed up lips. The usual. Yet upon closer inspection from a very keen eye, a stupid eye even, you could see something was gravely amiss—comatose even, about the whole exchange. No. Not even as good as comatose. For me personally that is, my doc is always a breath of fresh air, nothin’ was his fault, in fact, if it weren’t for him, Lisa and my kids, I’d be deeper than six feet under…It’d be at least 12. At least comatose means you still got a chance of coming around at some point and everyone’s still goin ape-shit praying at your bedside and bringing flowers n’ balloons n’ all that ‘get well soon’ horseshit, right? Well, Not this time. This time there wasn’t gonna be flowers or balloons, no praying to lord baby Jesus, no cheering section to whisper in your ear “Hey, keep fighting ya’ hear?” No more horseshit. Not this time.

We sat, my psychiatrist and I, in what could only be called, after all our successful sessions together, an uproariously uncomfortable exchange that consisted of half strained silences interlaced with clinical banter—strained clinical banter then dead silence, all my fault–we had run out of conventional drug cocktails and shock therapy was off the mental health menu 192%. Yeah yeah, I know…I know how new research says ECT is all the fuckin’ rage again, like how it’s so simple and effective, kinda like getting your pussy waxed, but I’ve also heard one can lose considerable memory. Understand something about a writer and her memories: that’s all we have, good one’s, bad one’s, extremely disturbing one’s, it’s those memories that make us interesting and soulful.

“Like what do they do? Tie you down n’ zap the shit outta you till your ears bleed? And you need a series of these things? Like 9? Can I get a punch card maybe? Like, if I do 9 the 10th is free, kinda like a complimentary green juice at Robeks?” The minute it left my red lips I had decided against the barbaric practice even if it wasn’t so barbaric anymore. Not to take away how effective it has been for so many who are deemed ‘untreatable’, for them, this procedure is life saving even if you come out like ‘warren’ from Something about Mary.

Next.

“Doc what’s left? I feel utterly terrified by my trajectory here? I mean, I kinda feel like I don’t have that much time…not being dramatic, but I’m getting kinda desperate, n’ me desperate is something no one wants to see unless you love movies about concentration camps.”

My wonderfully patient doc just took me in, he pondered my worries, he thought about my pain, he knew I was in trouble and finally ‘saying so’ and above all else, he knew how much I hated feeling vulnerable. I could be vulnerable with him cause he always had my highest good in the highest regard, but man, in general– vulnerability is pretty much a state of being that bites you in the dick. Especially if it’s cast before swine, you know? I’ll cast nuggets of shit-balls in front of swine all day long, but no fuckin’ pearls. That’s a mistake I’ll never make again, not even with my beloved dog Jack. Sometimes when I’m so down and out n’ telling him, my boxer Jack, all my problems, he takes a deeeeeep breath, let’s out this fantastic sigh which makes me feel he’s really there for me, then gets up and goes into another room and doesn’t come back.

Mother. Fucker.

Nothing can make you feel worse than mans best friend being a dick. So I’ve decided, you know, being vulnerable is stupid and dumb and anyone who engages in it either has an incredibly low emotional IQ or was dropped on their head as a baby.

The best part about my doctor aside from his great bedside manner? No matter how awful I feel, he always laughs his ass off at my ill but perfectly timed jokes. It’s really the best medicine n’ I can be funnier than shit, already told you that. My humor is at it’s peak when in the active throws of suicidality, and why not? Makes total sense. Got nothin’ to lose but laughs at such a point, and I really work it for those laughs. I can’t tell you how much. Always lookin’ for a smirk outta someone even when I’m planning on being dead  at some point soon.

Didn’t matter though. Nothing mattered much that day. My doc was almost gonna call me in a bed at the psych hospital, but I made him an official promise I would’t hurt myself and I would never let him down. My Doc and I, I’m really grateful for his active HUMAN concern, not just doin’ his job, ya know? So we sat across from each other, Me, being sarcastic and fatalistically hilarious, him, trying to figure out our next course of action.

Couldn’t escape it though–the sense of hope oozing away out my ass, down my slinky thigh, then past my toned calf and ending in a very muddy puddle of shit on the floor next to my super sexy high heeled suede boot. I dressed for today, I felt I had to, it would be the last thing I could offer this cruel world–to look good goddammit.

“Ketamine, Kelly.”

And the light went on. For reals.

“Yaaassss…special K! It’s my last hope on earth!”

“Well, NO it’s not, Kelly, there are plenty of options still, (2 options actually, and the one that included electricity was 192% off the table).”

“Ok then…I’m fuckin’ in. How much does it cost?”

“Not too sure, but the clinic I’ve referred patients to does not take insurance and I think it runs at least a few thousand for a series of 6? But don’t quote me, I’ll give you the number.”

That right there I could not process no matter how depressed I was in the moment.

“Wait what? No. Noway. What? Really? For Ketamine? As in Special K? The ol’ dreaded K-hole? The EDM dance party drug everyone sniffs then chases with ecstasy? Thousands of dollars? We’re not talking china white here, Doc.”

“I’m afraid so, but it’s been very effective for treating your type of depression, the research is incredibly promising in fact.”

“Well so is going vegan to lose weight, but I’m not paying 50 grand to feed myself nothin’ but smashed beans, rice, and kale dust in place of a real turkey sausage.” I said something lame like that anyway, in fact, I don’t recall anything exactly from our sessions, but you get the picture. But I’m pretty sure he laughed hard at my vegan comment, and I’m pretty sure it made me feel comically validated.

“Ok then. I’m gonna do it. I have to.”

My sweet smart doc agreed with me, even saying he would call the clinic and talk to the head guy himself or something, or maybe it was the other way around, but all you need to know was I was in good hands, and that, if anything, gave me some hope. Plus I really love drugs, so this could be a total win win situation for me.

“Alright, Ketamine…gonna do it. You sure you can’t superscribe me extra long acting opiates though? Seriously, opiates are the only things that take away my depression and morbid rumination on contact, as in immediately? In fact, it never fails. Why the fuck is that? There has to be something in the brain pleasure receptors that gets activated in severe depression with this class of drugs, right? I mean, I’m not crazy. Well, I kinda am, but you know what I mean. Maybe that’s why I’m obsessed with’em…oxy, norco, even a little time released dilaudid–feel fuckin’ great and problem free within 15 minutes every single damn time and it lasts for days…you know I have interstitial cystitis, right? Like I lived in pain management for years, how you think I’m so incredibly educated on the molecular struture of pharmaceuticles? I know some things.” I musta sounded either super smart or super retarded cause it garnered me a good hardy chuckle.

“No Kelly, I don’t think that’s a great alternative.” He said something like that. Then probably laughed. A lot.

He didn’t shoot me down as fast as you might think, however, for I am insanely academic (community college smart) and intelligent. So he thought for a second about this very touchy topic, for it actually holds some medical journal merit—even read about a doctor/author who touts a book called the “opiate cure” out of Canada n’ it’s all about opiates and the brain in pain.

Dr. Ashton, my shrink (finally gave you his fake name) thought about it for a while longer, he always gave me the benefit of the doubt cause I get straight A’s in all my social and behavioural science college classes like I just mentioned (I’m an adult return student, and yes, it’s the most humiliating thing in the whole wide world), then he spoke.

OF COURSE HE OPTED OUT! He’s not fuckin’ stupid. I figured as much, if I were him, I’d of unsubscribed too.

Ketamine it was.

 

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