#8 – F.U. To Chronic Fear, Mom & The Woman’s Movement, and My Sexy Story

Kelly blow-63

BEING SCARED TO DEATH AND DOIN’ IT ANYWAY

This blog is absolutely, one hundred and ninety-two percent, (I’m totally serious right now, too–really, what else do I have to lose but everything?) going to cover the items listed in it’s irritatingly long title, but first, I must get a few things out of the way, on a most dire issue, one that is a through-line for everything else to be covered here in this blog. Fear. Yep. Chronic, debilitating paralyzing fear. It must be dealt with head on. I’m just one of the many who’ve made the “I’m scared sh*tless, but doin’ it anyway” base-jump without a parachute. I’m looking fear in the eye and not only squaring things up with whatever ails me, which is a lot, got lots of fear, but my biggest fear is fear of what other people think of me…especially upon sharing my mental health struggles with the world. And you know? What I deal with sucks, but it’s not that big a deal guys, people suffer all over the place from things you never heard of, so let’s just drop our preconceived, Mesozoic era notions, grow up, get healthy, reinvest in our minds, be there for others, kick fear in the head, n’ you know, like move on already. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Or maybe you have, I just like the foreboding sound of that.

So yeah, back to fear. Oh goody. Fear stops us all, some more than others n’ if you’re one of the brave game changers sick of sitting in silence in fear’s dungeon-like waiting room, well my hats off (not clothes) to you. It’s a bad room, the fear-purgatory vault, very ugly, no HGTV show could spiff up this fakakta place, we just gotta accept it’s there, move bravely through and out to we find another room…one with a view (another fav flick).

I’m, as well as so many, checkin’ out being courageous, yes courageousness (not the Indiana Jones or Tomb Raider kind, the real life living kind–way scarier and more treacherous by far), this ain’t easy ya’ know–to put yourself out there, knowing you will be judged by all, mainly the ‘educated’ folk who seem to continuously prove they know far less than the ‘ignorance is bliss’ group. The ignorance crew just doesn’t expect too much from anyone or anything I’ve come to notice, they kinda take you for what you are and don’t over think. Very interesting. However, do not misconstrue me; I prefer education, in fact everyone needs a college degree, even if your 98 years old, willing, wanting and able, go back to school by all means! But don’t emulate the peeps who believe being well read, traveled, educated, and accomplished gives them carte blanche insight into your plight. No one can be you. No one can live your life. No one can see through your exact lens. Yet we all suffer fear, and I find the most fearful are always the most critical and hyper actively eager to scare the pants off you, so watch for these emotional vampires (and yes I have compassion for them too, they’re frightened AF).

So, it’s not for everyone, going ‘public or ‘vocal’ with whatever has gotten out of control in life, or scares you…but it’s important, vital even–without those who are vocal, change would not occur, and no change = no growth = no growth = stagnation, and that equals more fear and subjugation of all, and that dear readers = the decline of the western civilization (and no, I’m not referring to the totally bitchen 80’s documentary on the early punk scene). Again, don’t fear me or what my message is here–not everyone who’s ever suffered with any kind of ailment, situation, victimization, discrimination, has to go public with it or write about it, or handle it the way I (not famous) or others (famous) are, however, with that said, for your own sanity (I use sanity here, for my vocal topic is high functioning Depression and all it’s fun friends) you must do something for your own well being in your own way. Baby steps are always a good place to start, no one’s asking you to run naked down the street screaming “I’m scared to death and not gonna take it anymore!” Well not yet anyway.

 

IMG_7438

(mom 3rd from left, Liz Taylor look a like)

MOM & THE WOMEN’S MOVEMENT

The women’s movement of today has at last given me a glimpse of what the women’s movement of the 60’ and 70’s was about, only now I get the concepts, then it was all style over substance really—being a roughly 7 or 8 year old dyslexic west coast introvert, I synthesized most my info via a furiously divorced mother on the run from her old, out of control life in LA, to the age of non acquiescence in central park. And yes, it made me a nervous wreck. Being a staunchly easy going (lazy), dreamy (weird) California kid where dad was always the fun, patient (just the best dad you could ask for) guy with trips to Disneyland and Busch Gardens (yes, Anheiser Beer had its very own kids amusement park, with rides, in the San Fernando Valley) n’ who flirted with the idea life on a ranch someday would be ours, well man, leaving Los Angeles was a hard sell for a too fast paced, dirty transit, and verbally angry city. New York: I hated it the moment I crossed one of those big fancy bridges (despite the majestic ‘light-bright’ skyline). Plus, the whole thing was set up for failure from the start–our east side apartment (I’d only lived in a house) wouldn’t consider my 13 California cats (we were allowed a fish) suitable housemates.

New York in 1977,  Mom was all up in it. The ex-Broadway showgirl was east coast thru and thru, swore up n’ down she’d channel her hostile energy back in a place that really embraced such female tenacity (toughness) instead of being offended by her strong opinions (LA thought she was a total bitch). I knew she was furious over the gender disparity in Hollywood being a beautiful actress n’ having to put up with creepy producers n’ stuff, but I still didn’t know why the words ‘male chauvinist pig’ came up so often.

Anyway, as far as feminism went, going to New York to explore it’s non legal, women’s lib jurisprudence, was total money as far as mom was concerned–I just had to synthesize my new surroundings which consisted primarily of groups of semi outraged (but super smart) ladies astride crocheted blankets, in a dog dung infested park packed to the gills with steel drums, plumes of reefer, n’ droves of tanners with their weird silver reflector thingies propped under chins in hopes of perfecting the perfect George Hamilton bronze. New York, at that time in my young life, just traumatized the damn pants off me.

So, the revolution as far as I could tell, was really the stripping away of this vacuous female existence, for mom anyway–where being a valley housewife, ‘was supposed to be’ the greatest thing ever—where living only for your man and kids and the perfect (food pyramid) meal was reason to got to ‘Farrel’s Ice Cream Parlor’ and get a banana split cauldron brought to you on a stretcher.  Lest not forget, if you were fortunate or unfortunate to work (mom was still an actress but had dumb little day jobs here and there…”dumb” is a very big word with me in this blog, jus’ is), the ol’ boss chasing the sexy secretary around the desk was not only acceptable, but expected (she ended up marrying one of her dumb part-time bosses actually), n’ depending on what the ol’ guy looked like, that could be either really really good or really really…well, my step dad wasn’t too bad–till he ended up moving out and selling our house years later while I was away for the weekend. Not bitter at all though.

 

IMG_7430

  (mom and Sammy Davis Jr. NO, he never harassed her, it’s just a cool shot)

…n’ this whole sexual harassment Harvey Weinstein fiasco has me in a terrible mood too, just the whole ugliness of what’s gone down, the women who’ve been preyed upon, the old school dudes who thought this type of behavior was just the nature of the Hollywood environment (or perks). I don’t even wanna talk about it, though it needs to be—it’s just so ugly, all of it. I don’t like thinking that people can be as genuinely creepy as their behavior has dictated here, that so much of the ol’ starlet chasing was from an age long ago (like in one of my fav films, I have a few, LA Confidential), and of course, some behaviors infinitely more disturbing than others.

However, we have to be vigilant that in our present quest to level the field and implement true equality, the lines don’t get blurred somehow. The hope, of course, is to make the lines of conduct ‘crystal clear’ and to protect people from basic human affronts, which sexual harassment clearly is. When is normal male to female behavior acceptable and not deemed harassment? Will we all be suspicious of any and all workplace interactions from here on out? I’m already super paranoid, but awesomely easy going as well…talk about an oxymoron. Will all this ‘fallout’ institute a culture where we walk around putting each other “on notice” all day long? I don’t know the answer, maybe yes? No? Not the point? I’m just throwing it out there–yes, I want equal treatment and to feel safe and free from sexual favors for jobs (no duh), but to also NOT live in a fishbowl where one can’t meet someone special at work, maybe fall in love (mutual of course, the unrequited kind sucks), flirt or joke around (innocently, unless you truly do fall in love and run away together, again, mutually, otherwise that would constitute kidnapping), and it not be considered harassment. And I’m married! Maybe we do need to redefine how we relate to one another, that’s evolution in essence. So, yeah, guess I just answered my own question: All gender roles and interactions have to be re-evaluated, re-defined, and then posted on a job site wall just like OSHA does in a factory or something. Oy. Vey.

IMG_5048MY SEXY STORY

I worked as an actress for roughly 12 years, and even though I’d been through your basic run of the mill creep here and there, it wasn’t anything the likes some of these brave women in Media (the brave women not in the media as well), have shared with the world in just the past 12 months. I’d always been kind of proud I’d ‘dodged the bullet’ so to speak, that ol’ grody, $400, diarrhea brown, Jennifer Convertibles, crap leather couch. The casting couch. Originally, I was under the impression the casting couch was a term long buried like the golden age of Hollywood, the one that Marylin Monroe and her sisters alike had to navigate in order to nab a chance at stardom, yeah that couch. The couch she was once quoted to “never have to suck another c—k on again.” A Bed in $10 dollar a night hotel has less mileage than a starlet sofa in 1950.

Okay, the good stuff…you ready for my little story? Onto my nothin’ compared to what we’ve heard from the big names lately audition, where sexual harassment played a part (kinda a funny one), so hold on, the nerve of this jack-ass will ire you or make you laugh, both maybe? But trust me, the spirit behind any sort of harassment to subjugate anyone based on gender is disgraceful and unfunny, so please don’t take my comedic-ness as anything other than me being funny cause I’m depressed so much (anxiety too) I need to lighten it up a bit more.

I’m 22 at the time, ready to “role” (get it), new to professional auditioning, however, I really wasn’t ready; I felt this creepy pressure in the form of “It’s a young beautiful business for, well, the young and beautiful, so you better hit it while young (over 25 too old if not established) or never get in, “never-ever-never-ever…never”. See, spent so many years in theater school getting sorta well, fat, but highly skilled (OK, thick, n’ good enough for a KCET public access show, but who cared about that), working on stage plays having nothing to do with the real world of acting in terms of a film/TV career. I spent years getting thoroughly unprepared, misguided, not to mention emotionally abused, before we were ever to be turned out…burned out.

So I quit theater school with one semester left (after completing what seemed to be fifty million) and hit the pavement. It was a good thing I didn’t have to go too far (traveling made me kinda nervous), I’d lived in North Hollywood most all my life, so my dreams awaited me right over Laurel Canyon.

Found an agent, got silly lookin’ headshots literally the next day, scored two good audition outfits at Marshals (sexy comedy girl, and sexy-model-ninja-assassin-serious…girl) n’ I get this super low-low-low, as in 50 bucks for a 16 hour day (plus a free subway sandwich), not to mention a shoot location almost two hours one way in the middle of nowhere, audition. And a bikini would be required but not provided, for the job…if I booked it. First ever professional theatrical audition.

I was soon deflated. At least the audition itself wasn’t halfway to Fresno, it had the good sense to be right in the heart of things, Sunset blvd. But not the part of Sunset you might of imagined, this was Sunset west of Hollywood High, in a borrowed, broken down insurance office next to a bail-bonds place and by an hourly rate hooker hotel.

Good news was?

It was also across the street from the ‘Rock n’ Roll ‘Ralph’s.’ You know, Ralph’s supermarket! The one on Sunset was super famous for it’s rock-star subculture who frequented the place, n’ If I was lucky, I could have a kick butt audition (one hopefully I did not book cause of the pay, drive, sandwich and dreaded bikini), then run into Guns’ n’ Roses at Ralph’s while buying a post audition Pepsi.  I was pumped.

“Everyone starts somewhere…n’ why does this entry way smell like hobo piss?” I told myself as I climbed the super 70’s rock-wall staircase of the split pea colored ‘tear down’ office building. If the beginning of the joint was that rank, I couldn’t imagine how much worse the rest of it would go. I sure hoped I didn’t have to go the bathroom, a heroin shooting gallery was way more than I could of handled. So you know, Environments really take a toll on me for some reason, it’s kind of a bummer.

Whatever the pee building smelled like, or the potential heroin den I encountered in the john, I had to keep my head on straight; this audition experience was crucial to my development as a professional young actress.

Got to the office suite, opened the crap door with the half rusted off handle, hoping to see other actresses excitedly awaiting their turn to shine or at least talking smack about each other, n’ to my horror, I was all by myself. No receptionist, no one prettier nor uglier, no one to see myself in, no one to commiserate with. What had my brand new C- level agent sent me on?

After 20 minutes of nothing, as in waiting and no one coming out to talk to me, just me by myself hanging out with the not-so muffled sound of Eastern European type yelling coming from behind the audition door (think Tommy Wiseau), some old familiar depressive symptoms started to creep back in: you know, like my self worth issues, deep feelings of lack, no reason to live…that type of stuff. I finally had to get tough, all tough love, like put an immediate stop to the pity party, and you know, bucked up.

Went back to concentrating on the work, which was a good thing. But then made a very bad mistake– checking my reflection in the half melted, heavily warped, buck fifty full length mirror on the wall of this piss flavored insurance/casting suite.

Kelly Simon gun-196“Oh. My. God. What in the HELL?! My dress! No, ME! It—I, well, did we look THIS bad at home?! Was I blind an hour and a half ago or what?!”

 The image being projected back to me caused insta-panick-naseauam and a horrendous cold sweat to suddenly break, and to make it all the worse, my puffy bangs started to frizz from my own humidity.

“Stop it Kelly, you’re going crazy, jus’ crazy…calm down, you have to. I mean, this is a dumb job you don’t even want and I’m no dummy.” And that worked if you can believe it. I’m actually a really effective self talker when I need to be.

Four minutes later I was feeling infinitely better about myself–I’d done a quick method acting dynamic relaxation, got outta my own way, remembered the ‘soul contract’ talk I’d recently had with my friend Paula (we’d been, still are, talking about this topic for years) about people and situations being consistently offered up in our lives in an effort to teach us lessons not previously learned in prior incarnations (I know, you can exclude that part if you want), and you know, I was ready. I was good.

Bravely ready to re-fresh in the fun house mirror, again. So, I teased out my hair even more to counter the new frizz, which was already David Lee Roth to begin with, n’ my new perspective had me even looking not so bad. I actually kinda liked what I saw, I saw Kelly.

Did some positive mantras, more dynamic self talk to my reflection, or like, lied to it effectively enough, n’ got real focused. “Slow deep breath in for 8, hold for 8, exhale for 8.”

Then BAM!

“YES!! HELLO MISSES! COME EEN! YOU READ NOW, RIGHT? THIS EESE YOU?” The highly unattractive-medium-plump casting /producer/writer/editor n’ kraft service guy boomed. I almost fell out of my white pumps he startled me so bad. Plus he had on some kind of Barry Manilow get-up that jarred my senses even further.

“Oh me? Uhhh, yeah,… No, yes! Totally. It’s me, I’m her, Kelly I mean…oh my god, I’m sorry, such a spaz… I’m ready, yes.” I cheerfully answered him followed with another overzealous gesture, my hand to shake. Ugh, dude—you never shake these people’s hands by the way, they’re all afraid to get sick n’ usually get super mad if you put them in such a situation. He didn’t seem to notice though, just turned and basically ran back into his office and left me to follow.

Once inside, he pointed then grumbled something rude having to do with me standing on the blue tape on the ground. To my horror, once again, it was in front of another image reflecting device, only this form came in an effortlessly cheap looking camcorder.

“Ok misses, you any questions? NO? good…Yes, yes, say you name, you agency, homes phone numbers, you age, the height, the weight, OK?” He hammered into me while I adjusted my tight, spandex, chocolate brown rocker dress.

“Wait, my home number?” I sheepishly asked. “My agents info is right there on–.”

He hated that. Started to freak out like a crack-head with no crack, “I CALL YOU ON WEEKEND WITH NOTES! YES?! NOTES IF I WAAAANNNT YOU BAAAACK–OK?! Now let’s go.” He barked and turned on the camera than took a seat at his dumb looking desk.

“Oh…Ok, I guess, sure.” I whispered looking around the gross office with the hundreds of headshots depicting hot girls in bikinis and cervix exposing cocktail dresses pinned to walls and all over the place—models, all models, not actresses. I started to worry.

I think he picked up on my sudden heart-failure, for he stopped the yelling game n’ instead opted for an overly condescending sing-song’y thing, “Come-out-come-out- wherever-you’s-are’s…let’s be ready little girl, no?” He sang, badly.

Of course I couldn’t believe my ears, or eyes for that matter, but I had to do this, I couldn’t get dropped by my C level agent after my first bad audition. Talk about disastrous for my already teetering self esteem problem.

“Yes, you want me to read directly to camera or with you?” The question outraged the beans outta him, again, I mean, I’d never ever read on tape at that point, what the hell did I know? He started to berate me in broken English.

“OK, OK, I’ll read right to you, I’m soooo sorry– kinda new at this? like the tape recorder n’ stuff…sorry.” I trailed off as embarrassed as I could possibly be.

I was asked to slate my name and do a whole little twirly thing for the camera, you know ‘my profiles’ and before I could even complete one full turn he went right into the first line. And then it was over. Super Fast, just like the 3 guys I dated in theater school. What an incredibly unfulfilled feeling too, but I dared not ask to read again. That was another ‘no, no’ in the acting world (even at the D list level), thankfully I knew that.

He fussed around his desk for a minute, wrote some scribble on my headshot and didn’t look up for a quite sometime it seemed. So I thanked him, and turned to leave.

But he caught me off guard with a total attitude change and called out to me to come back.

A surprisingly patient hand waved me over–his head gently shaking with a chuckle from side to side. What was this new found jovial-ness? He was suddenly pleasant as a litter of purring kittens. “Come, come…please, to come here.”

He sensed my uneasiness (good thing too, I was ready to bolt), broke into another big warm smile (I decided to stay) and told me not to worry, just to come to the side of his desk.

“Come, come….” He said purring.

My mind was a blank. Go over to’em, why? I fretted without looking directly in his eyes but just between’em.

His body language indicated he wasn’t gonna wig out or nothing, so I acquiesced– uncomfortably smiled back at him even, n’ I mean, he just sat so damn calmly at his dumb looking desk with it’s fifty thousand water cup stains and bikini model headshots.

And I slowly strode up to the side of the desk, arms wrapped self consciously over my ample boobs, n’ planted myself right where he nodded for me to go then stopped. Yep, my pelvis was fully facing this man who just held my gaze. And he started to laugh, a lot.

What in the hell’s so funny? I mean, did I have a massive booger hanging out my nose? Pepper in my teeth? Was this the moment he was finally gonna fill me in on it? Things really weren’t that hysterical between us from the start, so this was just weird.

“Wow, something’s funny, hope it’s not me.” I said or something like it.

And like it always does in situations regarding this industry, the energy changed as fast a Kauai rain storm—sh&t got real serious. Then he just looked at me. All over. When he was done with that, he slowly leaned his upper body (head attached) towards my squared to him pelvis, his dark brown eyeballs penetrating mine, me starting to sweat truckloads of adrenaline out my pours n’ I felt my teeth even start to chatter slightly (that happens when I’m real deeply nervous, kinda a dead giveaway I’m about to freak out), and I instinctively went to take a step back–but not before he caught me by the hip with a fat handed death grip.

Me: Frozen…like yogurt. I couldn’t move.

Him: Proceeded to ask me goofy questions.

“You good actrees, no? Yes, I think good. Better than good, no? Maybe yes, maybe no?… Haha (insert weird over-the-top-laugh here)…But I haves questions for you here…and I want to know this answer, ok…Ees this you favorite dress? Ees new?! What you like eat, hmmm?.”

“Ummm, uhhhh, I dunno….well…yeah?” I answered back one hundred and fifty percent unsure of myself. He liked my response I could tell, cause he started back with the laughing thing again “hahahahahahahaha”—but for only a few seconds. Then, it happened, the bad part.

As his laughter subsided, his mouth settled into an almost solemn grimace–then he looked mad or something (talk about bipolar) and his hand went from just ‘on’ my hip, slid a few inches down, not all the way to my ass, but right above it–and grabbed even harder if you can believe it, onto a big, giant, squishy handful of flank. My. Big. Fat. Flank—or Muffin top, and squeezed the holy cream cheese outta it.

I yelped, of course I did, who wouldn’t, it kinda hurt, but that didn’t stop him, he mulled me, ‘it’, around between his fingers while making the most ‘thinky confused face you ever saw in your whole entire life. Clearly this part of my body mystified the man to no end.

Frozen, still. Oh. My. God. This ain’t happening…dude.

My first real audition for some ultra low-low-low-extra-low budget flick, had me not only nervous, bummed about the job, upset with place, and now utterly fat shamed and humiliated as well…and most likely sexually harassed, didn’t know. It didn’t stop there, after he grabbed onto my fat flank and kneaded it into baking dough, he spoke about it like it was a cancerous tumor needing immediate removal.

“WHAaaahhhhT IS THEESE?!” SOOOOO alarmed he was, amazing reaction.

“Whattya mean?” I stupidly asked walking into his punch.

“THEESE! THEESE EES SO BIG! I CANNOT BELIEVE! SKINNY LEGS, SKINNY ARMS, BIG FAT THEESE! I CANNOT USE….NO! We can’t use…” He went on with his incredulous blah blah blah, jus’ wouldn’t stop. “KERRY (got my name wrong, too), you GOOD, but theese BAD!”

Scrambling for something to say, or comeback to his deplorable decent rights behavior violation, if there is such a thing. I told him off…nicely of course.

“What’s what? OMG, That’s called runners butt, don’t you know? It’s muscle, like it’s just from running and I teach aerobics? You know…like running n’ stuff….”

Boy did that sound stupid, runners butt. Yes there’s such thing, but I most certainly did not have it.

Didn’t matter, my explanation really seemed to do the trick, or turn him on or something weird. I had to make something up, I was easily 15 pounds overweight from stuffing my pie hole in fat-fat-the-water-rat theater college with these Asian ‘Betsy rolls’ we all used to buy at the Korean bakery up the street. And the fat-shaming bastard must a been all up in it, cause he proceeded to ask me out to dinner. Oh yes he did.

“Wait, what? You want me to go to dinner with YOU? Uhhhh—that’d be a no?” I told him somewhat incredibly amused but sad as hell, I mean, I was real caught off guard by his whole bait n’ switch routine.

“Eh, let’s go! Come come…you just loose theese thing, we have good times.” He said encouragingly.

“Ummm…that’d still be a NO. But thanks.”

As I walked back to my car mulling over whether I still had it in me to run into G & R or Motley Crew at the ‘Rock n’ Roll Ralphs’, I made peace with the way I looked. That low budget creeps ideal of what beauty looked like didn’t interest me at all, didn’t even want the stupid job…till I got in my car, cried my eyes out, then went on to loose 27 pounds to the point I was considered too skinny for everything. Of course that led to a two year battle with anorexia and bulimia, but I recovered. However, never forgot the scar the incident left etched on my soul. Literally. Now I just tattoo over the parts of my body I hate. There are no accidents, no experiences I don’t learn something from, and this one taught me to be a more compassionate person. But less fat and I hate that.

 

#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.

 

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.)

 

 

 

 

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑