Had this really awesome blog started on my now infamous Ketamine infusions (it’s really only famous with a small group of my closest, most intimate friends. But after this next blog or so? Shit’s gonna really blow up, watch). Anyway–quick re-cap: I shot up (the doc shot me up, not myself) 6, sublimely fiendish, hallucinogenic trip inducing, brain plasticity expanding, emotional regulatory healing, ketamine syringes that stopped my obsessive suicidal rumination after infusion number 2. A miracle. But somehow managed to exasperate my ‘horny as fuck’ hyper-sexuality, so I was up against double the amount of plugged in (not battery operated) vibrations. Which is fine, by the way, great in fact.

Ketamine. Who knew? It works. Miraculous stuff.

So, 6, SIX infusions spread out over two weeks–all in a last ditch effort to save myself from myself. And it did.

I got through the first paragraph of the new blog (and trust me, it’s a good one so far) and had to quit. Not quit Special K, just the topic. For now. I will assure you, when it does post (next, it posts next..second to next) shit will be the funniest damn, most informative blog you’ve ever read. Not really, but you’ll def get a bang outta it not to mention some first hand ‘K’ accounting. So stand by.

It was because of my heart. It stopped. No it didn’t, but it might as well of. My heart started to ache in such a suffocating, like so goddamn bad, so painful was my whole idiot heart, that taking a deep breath was completely counter-intuitive to feeling better.

…shit’s serious when a deep breath only makes things worse, n’ that never happens even in the ER.

I stopped writing about Ketamine cause my heart was bleeding out, all over the place, but inside me, A hemorrhage of sorts. I could totally tell too, no need for the barium enema ct scan in the emergency room to confirm it. Unless that’s your thing. Enema photo imagery. I actually know tons of people who go to the ER just so the frazzled graveyard shift can be first witness to an x-ray revealing a whole jar of organic peanut butter shoved up an asshole.

No I don’t. I know no one who would shove an entire jar of peanut butter up their ass, just a lamp post minus the shade.

Anyway, back to me. So, I was feeling all light-headed N’ vomitous due to crushing chest pain, n’ like, was moving fast down that weird “shit I’m deaf” narrow hallway inside the mind–the one that happens right before you keel over?  You know, the typical but terrifying vasovagal response? Paramedics frequently use that term, it’s official sounding. Fainting, it means fainting. I got a vasovagal due to my overwhelming heartbreak, a heartbreak I still haven’t explored the genesis of yet, but was strong enough to cause a swoon, forehead first n’ face down upon my dirty keyboard.

It’s really a wake up call when your heartbreak hurts so goddamn bad it causes you to just up and pass out. I didn’t fully pass out, but almost.

You never wanna fully pass out from an emotional trauma, trust me, you might end up crushing an overpriced wooden pottery barn kiddie chair, hitting your head causing a mild concussion, then waking up 10 seconds later to the invigorating sound of a million fizzy bubbles bursting in your ear cause a can of coke is spilling all around n’ inside your newly blown out hair. So don’t do that, it sucks.

Chest pain, the non myocardial infarction kind, no matter what’s causing it, is a tell tale sign your heart has sprung a leak and your gonna die from blood loss even know you never lose a drop. Understand? It’s symbolic but it’s also real, you can die from a broken heart, it’s in the medical journals, it’s a real thing, so buyer beware.

I could not only feel it, but hear it– the sound of blood passing through one membrane only to fill up the next, till the entirety of my inerds were re-marinated in my own emotionally poisoned blood supply. Yuck.

So, in that instance, I Just couldn’t type another word. Not a word. I had semi fainted on my keyboard, mid ketamine blog, only to come back around to the fear of metaphoric blood getting everywhere. Crazy.  This blood, my emotionally disgruntled blood, ( I love blood by the way)  would just sprout out of me as if I were an over-filled water balloon punched with a million micro-needle-pin-point holes. A bloody balloon.

N’ you know what I’d be then? Do you? I’d be A-Red-n’-Ready To Grow Chia Pet Plant Person. There is no such thing, of course not, how fuckin’ stupid, but I’d be a blood soaked plant person. I just made that up, A chia plant person soaked in blood yet full of holes for seeds to sprout. How inert is that idea?  But wouldn’t it be a great white elephant gift? Like at the Christmas office party? That thing would probably go off.

And there you go, Ketamine blog on hold, and this one dead on arrival.

I know you wanna know what caused the heart pain, and I’ll tell you what I do know: it’s from un-felt feelings. That’s it. But not just any feelings, that would be ridiculous. I’m talking about not confronting the big guns, the Nazi regime, the full over-stuffed enchilada. Unexpressed, unfelt, and unacceptable feelings of love and heartbreak. The feeling you are living a life of complete and utter unrequited love, yet no one’s actively rejecting you. It’s just always there, gnawing, aching, stabbing, sequestering, crushing.

So I typed this instead.

I end with the best advice I’ve gotten in two years, got it texted to me last night from my very perceptive muse actually, you know, Lisa, I’ve told you a little about her.

Lisa, she’s just simply the best, you know? She really is. N’ how lucky am I to have someone to share this ride with, you know? Who really gets it, the whole ugly mess of it–juuuusssttt fuckin’ gets it, no explaining, no nothin.

She’s the fuckin’ bees knees is what she is. And smart and beautiful, and funny, and In fact, I love and admire her so much I wanna eat her whole face off. That’s actually cause she’s way prettier than me, n’ I’m the poor mans Lisa even though I’m quite thankful in the looks department, but still wanna eat her head off.

Anyway, when I told her my emotional pain was so profound from not dealing with it, like super traumatizing emotions n’ stuff, she offered up the wisest piece of advice ever: “you gotta go deeeeeeep Kelly, into deeeeep denial. Keep those feelings waaaaay buried, that’s what I do n’ that’s called nailin’ it.”

Gold, fucking self-help gold. It is, and she was right–I wasn’t able to process the level of pain I was confronted with, so instead of having it almost cause my heart to implode, it would of been a much a better choice to choose to not let it ravage me when I wasn’t high, I mean, prepared enough. Get it? Finally, advice that actually makes some fuckin’ sense.

3 – morning blow

Was supposed to go to Vegas for my son’s big baseball tourney with Shawn (that guy I’m married to) today after school, I mean, the whole thing’s this really big deal for my kid’s new team n’ my dumb husband’s been like packed to go since last week. Not me though. I felt the disturbance in the force…I knew like Yoda things were not what they seemed. I could just tell by Shawn’s 4AM coffee and jumping jacks wake up call this morning, “fuck it”, I wasn’t going anywhere.

Shawn gets up at 3:45 everyday…for fun. He doesn’t have to, he likes to. Unlike me, I hate the mornings. Depression always peaks in the early hours–science even says so.  All I had to do was roll over in bed, take one look at his exuberant let’s tackle the day face, n’ I knew I wanted blow my head off. Again.

“Gotta get up babe, it’s late already.” He said all too fuckin chipper, then handed me my Paul Newman organic coffee in a to-go cup, just the way I like it.

“Late? Whattya mean it’s late? It’s like 5:52 AM, middle of the fuckin’ night.” I told him all  irritable as shit.

“Wait a minute, how can you be in a bad mood already? Nothing’s even happened yet, no need to be mean, c’mon Kelly.”

Mean.

I hate when he tells me I’m mean, even when I’m being mean. What? Doesn’t he know I know I’m being mean? I wasn’t trying to be mean, it’s just the mornings are brutal when in the lexicon of an episode. My episode was locked in, two weeks in to be exact, and had no signs of calling it quits either.

“Shawn, really? Just give me the fucking coffee and fuck off for 15 minutes, k? Then come back and be happy as a pig n’ shit about this day.” I rolled back over, hot beautiful coffee in hand, and quietly cried to myself. There was a beautiful scene out my bedroom window too–two giant elms stared at me as I cried to them like I did almost every morning this week.  Poor trees, they deserved better than me always dumping on them, I mean, they housed every crow in the county, they had enough nonsense to deal with.

Tears were, no, are especially easy to come by upon waking, but no other time thereafter.  For me anyway. Fucking weird. However, I wasn’t being a total selfish bipolar bitch, I felt so bad I’d put the kibosh on Shawn’s morning, I cried even harder. It really was his favorite time of day.

I drove my beloved child to school, but not before my 15 year old teen daughter berated the fuck outta me for saying I would drive her too—the idea I could handle such a difficult ‘one block in distance between location’ task was just absolutely outrageous to her. Outrageous. By the time the berating and “are you kidding, what the hell’s wrong with you” crap was done, my daughter had like 4 cardiac arrests and a new case of acne. Of course, my super supportive husband came to my rescue and told me he’d handle it from there on, I had enough to deal with (that’s code for “Kelly you’re retarded”). I’m not retarded just so you know. I’m autistic. Not that either actually, just dyslexic.

So there it started really, two kids going to school one block apart and I wasn’t allowed and or capable of dropping one or the other off in one swoop. One block. Whatever. No one was trying to hurt me, they were just being themselves trying to accommodate a person who couldn’t be themself.

I can feel the jonesing for something grip me by the back of my hair, literally, I can feel a hand, a man’s hand at the back of my head, as the three of them bicker over who was to drive the other n’ this n’ that. One block apart, one block.

Part of this craving, the jonesing n’ stuff,  isn’t only for mood altering substances, but for immediate and super in your face intense intimacy. Now. I need it now. Not in five minutes now, not tomorrow now, NOW now, I need rescuing now. It happens sometimes, the rescuing damsel in distress racket, but not today, today I’m left in a snowy tree-well of shame. And that’s how this hustle works.

Only a truly intimate encounter (yes, right now) can alleviate my crippling emotional pain, be it a deeply loving sexual encounter (the 9 and a half weeks kind preferably), or a really connective emotional one. I wouldn’t shrug off an intellectual (as in lets discuss a good book) gig either, or even a spiritual (like the east Indian swami kind) alleviation as well. I need to feel something real on the level only people like me understand, and the real life doings of normal people, as in my family, wasn’t cutting it. And I know that’s really bad and counter-intuitive to my cognitively evolved psyche, but I don’t care right now. I need what I need to feel good now, and I feel anything but good, in fact, I feel downright out of control in desperateness if that makes any fuckin’ sense, so sex, drugs, N’ Ghandi sound real good at the moment.

I wanna cry too, naturally, but I don’t, and we’ve gone over this I know; I’m dried up from the inside apparently since I got outta bed, which is weird cause I’ve already had 4 glasses of water this morning. I look around the kitchen for something, anything to alleviate my mounting anxiety but there’s nothing but an unfilled Adderal prescription and a bottle of cinnamon extract to abuse.

I allow my family to bicker over my lack of navigation skills in my current mental state–don’t say a fuckin word, just blankly stare at’em all like Boo Radley standing in a corner on your porch.

It was decided. I’d drive one kid, the light of my life, my son.

God I love that kid, both of them–love doesn’t even scratch the surface of how I feel about these two divine little beings of my vagina…thank god for kids, truly, they are miracles. But that boy o’ mine, especially, he just gets me.

Drove the-light-of-my-life to school, walked him in on the verge of tears but with no tears of course, and hugged him goodbye; I knew I’d not be seeing him for the next 3 days even know I was one hundred percent supposed to go with him to his Vegas tournament. And as he walked away with his cute little backpack and newly bleached bangs, I felt like the biggest deadbeat parent alive. How could I let my heart and soul down like I was about to? My son, I love him more than anything, I just told you that. I don’t know what’s worse, the feelings of panic and desperation or letting him down—whichever one is worse they’re both no slouches in personal feelings of failure department and everyone knows I’m a great mom, that part of my life I got down at least.

I make a mental note to get the Adderal filled fast, and to binge on 5 cherry oat bars from starbucks before they sell out—that’s what the cinnamon extract was for by the way, helps stabilize insulin when I abuse processed white flour so I don’t get an ass bigger than the one I already got…kidding, I got a great ass if you really wanna know. Didn’t used to though, had the worst ass in the valley at one time, so I worked my ass off for an ass I’d be proud of doggy-style. Bulimia: it really works.

Ha! No it doesn’t, seriously, the opposite actually–makes you fat in the long run. Don’t do it. Gave it up in my late teens then dropped 20 pounds, cause I started eating like a normal person again. Showed some goddamn self love for once, like taking care? Now I just starve myself 3 days at a time and that works infinitely better.

 

 

 

2 – Dry Cry

I wanna cry buckets–I need to cry buckets if you really wanna know, it takes the edge off of my intense suicidal rumination habit. But I can’t cry, just can’t, nothin’ there.

So yeah, there’s that.

It’s this damn fucking rumination! Over n’ over n’ over n’ over, it never ends, I swear, it’s what’s killing me actually, not the means of my carefully mapped out method of death–cause I’m NOT dead yet. Just ruminating about being dead. Over n’ over n’ over. See what I mean? If I were dead, there’d be no more ruminating all over the place, cause I’d be, well, dead. And when your dead, you don’t think anymore. No thinking equals no more thoughts of death and that’s a really good thing to look forward to. I’m not dead, don’t you worry, I got this…today.

I’m very much alive even if my whole vibe at the moment would rival that of Gollum without his ‘precious’–perceptually tortured by something you just can’t fucking find anymore. I can’t find me goddammit. And I think I’m getting tired again, I hate getting tired like this again.

But hey…no one’s totally fucked in the ass here, certainly not me. Like, I think I have some leeway,  you know…a few days before I start the urge to cut again, and I’ll take a few days cause it was almost everyday a ways back and oh-what-a-mess-that-shit-was with the blood n’ stuff. Yet, it was always meticulously cleaned up within minutes, no time to process it, enjoy it, nothing. As long as there were no tell tale signs of self harm or really creepy leg shaving mishaps, I was in the clear…even know I knew I needed to stop. It was hard to stop, it felt good in a way I can’t possibly describe, other than it put an immediate end to that other really bad pain that makes you crazy, the pesky emotional kind? Yeah, that kind; it sucks all kinds of ass.

Oh come on, don’t act so fuckin’ shocked. You had to know by now I was probably gonna say I was a cutter at 47 years old. Right? Well I was till I got busted by a couple of very watchful friends and retired. Amazing friends, the right combo of adult family, plus the almighty special K infusion therapy, and my self harming hobby was over. Thank god too, cause there’s so many of us (there isn’t actually, it’s quite unheard of in fact…to start cutting in your mid to late 40’s when you should be thinking of taking a crystal cruise instead).

It’s not just for moody morbid teen girls ya’ know, cutting, anyone can do it. That’s a horrible thing to say, I know. I’m sorry, can’t help it though, I got a problem holding back the truth these days, side effect of having one foot here, and the other out the door. And not the door to my house either. Yeah I’m an undercover cutter and I hide it pretty damn well…not anymore, I’ve been totally exposed; hid it just great for at least a year and two months, though.

There is good news here, just gonna preface it now before you get all upset and hang up on me, so don’t. I’m just about to start IV Ketamine Infusions for 15 million a pop (you need 6 outrageously priced infusions to start, then 2 boosters every 3 months…forever). VERY BIG NEWS. Even the cover of Newsweek says so. Special K, who knew? A pioneer in the field of mental health and I’m fucking signing up. Can’t wait, I love drugs, especially one’s that go in your veins. Kidding, most my drugs I take rectally, I mean orally.

And I hold onto the idea that these infusions are gonna turn it all around. I gotta believe these treatments will turn it around, I really truly need something to help turn me around cause I’m all turned around, n’ I mean, how many times can I masturbate and fuck my husband a day? Oh yeah, that’s sorta a weird side effect of bipolar disorder, hyper-sexuality. I got that. Especially when I’m really depressed and wanna light myself on fire? You know… can’t wait to fuck all brains out.

So, yeah. I’m back to the dry Crying in my kitchen like I just told you about at the start of this entry, so let’s go back there, ok? I ramble too much, I know, but it’s my fuckin’ blog, so you know, just keep reading. If you want. I probably wouldn’t, but that’s me.

So I’m dry crying, but without liquid, it’s liquid free weeping and I hate nothing more than when people use the word ‘weep’, bugs the shit outta me, but I’m weeping all the same and nothing’s fucking comin’ out. And this is my morning so far.

So, we got dry crying (brand new), dry heaving (a real go to), and then we have dry humping (an oldie but a goodie). I’ve apparently discovered the ‘dry crying’ one, at least I’m contributing. It’s the sounds of crying, the faces of crying, but no actual crying.

Fuckin’ uncomfortable is what it is, don’t-like-the-feeling-at-all, like, “This cock’s fuckin’ new.”

A whole shit-show’s going down in the kitchen first thing in the A.M and I’m telling you, kids need to go to school real soon here and it’s fuckin’ friday. Got so much shit to do you got no goddamn idea how overwhelming it all is…like driving down the street, going to Trader Joes, having a full force panic attack at Trader Joes, then one at CVS right after, the list goes on… Plus it’s Friday morning, the end of the week and I should be happy! I love Fridays, thank god for Fridays, TGI Fridays, Friday’s a big deal.

Anyway, It’s as unnerving as fuck not to mention totally retard-I mean, “stupid” looking. No tears, no runny snot, none of the tell tale signs of bottom feeder despair. Just really gassy, inbred looking facial contortions. What. A. Fool. Here’s the thing; I gotta be taken seriously at this point, no more fuckin’ around, been doing that for too goddamn long and now I got scars all up and down my long octopus arms to prove it.

Long arms, I got the creepiest longest arms, good thing I love my totally rad n’ kick ass, sublime sleeve of hypo-manic tattoos.

So, I’m standing in the kitchen, freakin’ out over the weird dry crying thing which is new by the way, and I fall into a massive panic attack on top of my liquid free despair–now I’m convinced I’m not even worthy of my bipolar disorder anymore. Like the disorder has judging criteria or something n’ it’s a big fail for me. A total fail n’ I should just kill myself right now in the garage and get it over with, right now, and in the garage.

See, someone in my family is bound to come into the kitchen and catch me, it’s almost school/work time and here I am dry heaving non existent tears? Idiot. Gotta keep up appearance’s, you know, like appropriate emotional suffering or I might be accused of being a big fat poser. A faker. Christ, that’d be the goddamn worst. N’ I mean, If that happens, well fuck-me-in-the-butt, I’d lose all credibility in this family n’ really have a valid reason to gas myself.

I try positive self-talk, you know the kind that starts real good, but ends real fuckin bad, as in, “now listen here bitch, you better shit or get off the fuckin pot n’ cry already, or I’m not even gonna score the oxy I promised you cunt. Serious shit, you got kids who look up to you, get it together already and just fucking cry like a normal fucked up person. Got it? Good.”

Didn’t work. Crying real tears wasn’t in my genetic make-up that morning, n’ I accepted it as quick as I’d crucified myself…can you believe gracefully even? I did. Flipped it n’ reversed it just like Missy Elliot n’ even did a one minute deep breathing excersize to quiet my mind. I did it too, quieted my mind and what manifested, thankfully (“oh thank you god lord, the universe, Jesus, baby Jesus, Jews for Jesus, earth angles for baby Jews for Jesus.”), was a clear thinking moment, a freeze frame. I saw what I was doing, and what I had control of doing, and I wasn’t doing what was in the best interest of my kids if they were to catch me dry crying all around the kitchen at 7:25 in the morning and just minutes before departure.

Just a thankful recognition of my ability in a critical moment to not fall victim to everything my polluted mind wanted me to embody, then blow my head off with.IMG_7987

I failed, of course I did, my insight only lasted as long as my rapid cycling did, which was a change of mood every 3 minutes. Whatever. I tried.

Lies, depression lies, I will keep saying that every now and then, cause it does. But, not always the case! N’ I fucking hate using exclamations in my writing! Nothing’s stupider and more boringly descriptive! But I’m kinda excited to digress a second here anyway, like taking a piss, shit, and a vomit break on a long road trip. I will attempt to enthrall you with a really obnoxious ‘teaching moment’ I was taught but have ignored almost every single day of my life.  In fact, I’m gonna forget about it the moment I’m done fucking telling you, so you can too, shove it up your ass, that’s what I’ve apparently done with everything I’ve learned. That’s how it works. You just shove things up your ass and forget about’em, instead of shitting’em back out to use when you really need’em. Just Like a drug mule does.

Ok, before I’m not the only suicide on my hands, I will hurry this up before you end up swinging from a backyard tree. Kidding.

Ok. So, this supreme teaching is via some super duper metaphysical Indian swami spiritualist author and public speaker, a big mucky-muck in the “cosmic consciousness” industry, and yes, my dad stuck an actual gun in my mouth to get me to read his stuff once–just kidding, all he did was ask.

He was really famous in the late 80’s, the Indian guy,  n’ everyone was going ape-shit buying his books and killing themselves over attending his 15 hour a day meditation retreats. Indian teachings back then were a really big thing come to think of it. Why not? As in Ghandi knows best? He really does, well he did, he’s dead now unfortunately (all the good one’s die too young, it’s the law of the universe, just look at Amy Winehouse).

Cut to the present outlook on mental health and metaphysics, and well, with what he had to say then, now? I mean fuck it… people would just up and wipe their asses with his books and teachings in a psychiatric setting, no doubt about it, and I’m all for intensive therapy.

Ah, who gives a shit. I’m just irritated I can’t come up with his impossible to remember name, it’s rude. It is, it’s rude ( I stole ‘rude’ from my muse Lisa, what would I do without her?) to have a name that’s impossible to remember or pronounce, especially for bipolarly depressed patients such as myself–I mean, we already suffer significant memory loss and shortened ( as in damaged) telomeres which in turn cut’s our ability to focus and concentrate down to 50% of 50% of what’s its supposed to be.

Anyway,  the Indian basically taught that not all depression is harmful and bad and that’s a very counter-intuitive concept to digest; especially in a society that’s embarrassed by the very utterance of the word. DEPRESSION. You can’t tell people you’re depressed! How dare you make’em uncomfortable with a very natural mental state according to this self realized Indian guy with the name so impossible to remember I’m getting mad writing about it.

He’s totally right, though, most Americans consider mental health disorders worse than cancer. Depression–better off telling people you fuck farm animals.

Some melancholy states, the wise Indian swami says, are actually intuitive and somewhat incredibly spiritual, like nature’s way of slowing one down and asking you to check in, take stock, clean house, have a drink-hot bath-n’ a smoke, you know, see how things are really going. It’s like, depression, in this instance, is the impetuous to get one to pull within and stop being so damn superficial. Something like that, his name’s not the only thing that’s impossible to understand, try reading the whole book in broken English. But the message is clear and stands, it’s the drama and fear we attach to this highly intuitive “depression” state that really causes the pain, not the depression itself. That’s the cliffs’, cliff notes on it. And not good one’s either, so don’t bother to ask me to fucking cite this page or whatever, you get the idea that’s what matters.

In wrapping this up, I got all kinds a multi-faceted depressive states, some the natural beautiful kind, sure, but most the clinical not so natural kind, and some so profoundly bizarre and disassociativly euphoric (work with me, it’s hard to describe), well hell, I’ve had my deepest experiences of love, longing, lusty heartache (the real horny and masturbatory kind) and the fully felt expression of every single emotion co-morbidly attached to it. The depression. It can flush out feelings and amplify them times 100. We are so lucky to be able to be beings who can feel this damn color wheel, shades of colors on the stupid-dumb-stupid color wheel.

No it ain’t easy, don’t be a fool.

Some got it really bad, I know I do, but I’m also open to the possibility It’s a fucking miracle to be able to feel this deeply and that I’m probably better than you for it. Kidding, I’ll never feel better than any of you, “I guarantee it,” just like that really annoying  guy from the Mens whorehouse commercials pontificates. Warehouse! I meant “warehouse” commercials (that was an actual real type-o, so I left it in. it’s funny).

I leave it here for now, the kids just came into the kitchen n’ shit just got real fuckin’ real…really. I need to handle the next few moments with grace and great east Indian metaphysical insight. Or not, I probably won’t. I’m seeing a major fuck up crawling around at my feet all of a sudden, and I don’t got the where-with-all to just put a goddamn cup over it and stick it in the bushes outside. Sometimes you should just put things in the bushes.

 

 

 

 

 

1 – My Suicidal Depression: It’s Not Funny, It’s Hilarious

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.

Kelly Simon-141

(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.)

 

 

 

 

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