#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.”

The Cranberries, Jessie’s girl, suicide, and staying here…

 

Dolores O’Riordan, lead singer of the Irish 90’s band ‘The Cranberries’, as it points to, took her own life via drug overdose at 46 years young yesterday–46 is young by all current standards, however, when you deal with constant, chronic, debilitating depression/anxiety/bipolar disorder, well, 46 seems a long goddamn time to suffer here on earth. I’m 47, been suffering most of my life, in fact, I don’t remember a time (other than with my kids, they are true life savers) I wasn’t wishing for a quick painless death to end the morbidly invasive thoughts, the constant terror attacks of emotional grief I’ve learned to get used to at this point (if you can’t beat’em, join’em). I navigate it daily. But I don’t want to just ‘navigate’ anymore, I want to thrive, not succumb to this illness, and yes, I, as well as she, as well as all of us, have intense moments of sheer joy and intensely happy times. My kids have given me that. My kids have helped me see beyond myself in many respects, I get to be here to make sure they have the very best life has to offer, and damn it, if they too are inflicted at some point, I’m the North Hollywood, San Fernando valley bitch who will be their biggest advocate and protector.

That’s if this illness doesn’t destroy me first. Shit.

And therein is the problem with it. At least being a writer gives me an outlet, so many have no outlets other than escapist remedies, and trust me, I’ve tried those too.

We have lost some really crazy talented folk in the past year or so–Chris Cornell, Chester Bennington, now Dolores O’ Riordan (there’s more, I am not leaving them out on purpose, I’m just so upset I can’t think straight right now…I’m beside myself). And let me divulge what we’ve all learned about these people we’ve come to know but don’t really know; these were highly intelligent and high functioning, cosmically conscious (by reading the quality of their intellect and grace in interviews n’ such) talents who were parents as well as creative visionaries. As I’ve read of one suicide after another, the through line is always the same–their families were the the real reason to keep going, the music second. Being a human first, your work second, seems to be what we are having to learn the hard way.

I’m no celebrity, and that’s troubling in many ways when I disclose my own mental status, us normal folk tend to live in fear of being discriminated against or worse, not believed (I can’t tell you how many people think mental health issues are total bullshit till one of us finally kills ourselves, oops!) for our openness, where someone in the limelight often get’s more vocal and or fan n’ peer support, and that in no way takes away from their suffering one bit. To suffer in public is probably harder than to suffer in front of maybe, like, 10, and I’ve been a performer and such for most my life, but ‘the masses’ I am. Yet, I have an amazing support network, I must establish that–how did I get so lucky to have the friends and family who support me through my mounting turmoil? I’m a lucky one in many respects and I thank god for the people in my life who take the time to nourish me when they got their own shit going on. We all got shit.

The famous folk who have been brave enough to come out with their illnesses have raised awareness for people like me and my emotional kin, and I’m so so so incredibly crushed some had to end up losing their lives in the process. I hate having to post this today, but Dolores O’ Riordan’s death has hit me hard due to the similarities in our personal lives. I felt I had to.

Suicide has a very creepy side effect, and yes, it’s the fact that it’s somewhat contagious. Please take care of each other, please reach out, please support, please be a community who cares and helps out, do favors for each other even if you don’t feel like it, it’s what heals, it helps, It makes a big difference, it really does. You know the saying “together we stand, divided we fall?” It applies to mental health not just the military, so get on board even if your hella’ busy.

As far as I’m concerned, mental illness has never been accepted into the mainstream, cancer has, drug abuse has, shit, almost every ailment gets more do-overs than we do. But that’s the lack of education on the subject–and you can’t look at depression under a microscope as easily as a high white blood cell count, so that’s an issue when getting people to invest in your recovery.  But you know, we are all of you, or more precisely, there’s more of us than you will care to admit. I bet almost every other person you know is hiding their own emotional dysfunction, some better than others, and that boss or boyfriend, or teacher or cop you encounter day in and out, might just be suffering in silence themselves, as in clinically depressed or meets at least one on the myriad of mental health disorders on the deli sized menu. You never know what’s lurking in the hearts, minds, and chemical make-up of someone else, but It’s rampant, that I’m experiencing the more I come out myself as an advocate for mental health.

But I get it, coming clean is fuckin’ scary, it is, n’ I don’t care how accomplished you are, hell, doctors have one of the highest depression rates amongst professionals who suffer–suicide: it’s not just a dentist’s disease you know.

‘Tis a double edged sword to disclose your mental health, you know exactly what I’m talking about too, especially if you love your work but love your kids more. The shunning is real, the not hiring is a dirty little unknown fact, and you know, the not being included sucks all kinds of assholes even if you are more qualified on all other levels than the folk doing the judging.

Sad state of affairs if you ask me, and you can ask me anything and I’ll be honest with you–honest but supportive, supportive but wickedly (humor heals, not just love) funny, and yes, I will always try and get a laugh out of a depressed comrade by any means possible (no PC humor here folks, can’t risk it at this point).

The Funny Shit: it helps me but only after being validated. See how that works? Validation first, comedy second–won’t even secretly judge and laugh at you even if your paranoia convinces you I will. I won’t, believe that. In fact, you just might end up being my goddamn hero. So like, maybe we don’t need to be sneaking around in the bushes n’ under the covers smelling like ‘a bag of armpits’ or like, creepily spying on the neighbors in fear of losing what we have? People who listen and don’t judge you on your mental status like me exist, you just got to find and create your community of go-to’s and not make the mistake of ‘casting pearl before swine‘…that’s super important with this illness (until society catches up and catches on, and they will, it’s coming). So hear this; investing yourself in the wrong people can do more damage than good, so in that case get a life sized Halloween doll (I have a 6 foot 5 pennywise clown) and talk to it if you must or your dogs (that’s if your aloof canine doesn’t get up and leave the room if your anything but super happy,  so yeah,  that can backfire and  make you feel like drinking bleach, so beware with animals, too).

*Choose your audience wisely is what I’m saying. And they’re out there, the earth angels I’ve blogged about the very first time we met, you just have to manifest them and you can. You will.

While I’m on this rant, I’ll go on to say, to remind you or anyone dealing with a loved one who suffers, that it’s not personal when we, they, you, he-she-it, can’t cope and or lash’s out…maybe that’s why we tend to isolate so much, no one wants to dump on a partner all day long, that’s contrary to popular belief, I know, but that’s the truth. We love you too much to want you pulled down into the muck even though your down there with us and can’t figure out how to help.

Here’s the part of the blog where I get more clinical, like science n’ shit, n’ you know, I just don’t want to rant about how shitty this disease is, I want to help find solutions and so do lot’s of people in the medical field, so let’s light a fire under the asses of scientists and get some truly curative treatments on the market. Ketamine is a big start in the right direction, but it’s not an end all be all.

*Note, Depression lies to you. It’s one of the most seductive sexy liars you’ll ever encounter in your whole damn life, no joke. Seriously, it can get you to off yourself, it’s seriously bad news. Don’t believe the lies.

*Depression destroys your faith in not only yourself but in everything you used to love and were once fuckin’ pumped over (but still are, you just are being sabotaged and fooled, don’t believe it, you’re still worthy, you’re still viable, you’re still hot, you’re still better than everyone else…kidding, well sorta..made you go “Ha! Wait, what?” at least).

*Clinical depression on any level will drain your internal resources if you don’t find a way to monitor it and keep it in check…remember (not that you forgot, maybe you never knew?), your brain is as plastic as you keep it, and I’m not talking cheap plastic ‘chachkies’ made in china either, I’m talking physiological ‘plasticity’–the ability to keep the mind pliable and flexible, able to synthesize new information and create new neuro-pathways, the kind that tend to die off with age and chronic trauma. Gotta keep’em working, gotta keep’em growing. (Check out the science on telomere length; BTW, telomeres are the caps at the end of each strand of DNA that protect our chromosomes from aging, fascinating in fighting diseases of the mind and body. Hoping to see meds made in hopes of keeping these telomere lengths long and lovely when a cell divides, that instead of dying off due to age and chronic illness.)

*It’s just the same as working out your physical body, your brain needs the same or more as you age, for depression and the other fun AF disorders that co-inside with it, tends to get worse as we trudge on, not better, so get on it A-holes! I am! And trust me, I’m pretty screwed up but still doing A+ work (but at my pace, not your pace, the pace that allows me to not collapse, so know your boundaries, know your rhythm, know what works for you and stick to it), so you can too.

*And let me remind you, if your a sufferer, you must be on your own recovery all the time, never letting up. Just how it’s gonna go, so get used to it and move on.  If you’re not on it every single day,  you can relapse or get worse, even in a remission period, so support yourself through it. Sorry. Sucks, I know. But there is hope, and yes, there is help, and yep, there is healing and you don’t have to become a hot-yoga-sugar-free-vegan to obtain relief.

In ending, I’ll leave you with a piece from an article I just read up on yahoo today in honor of Riordan’s passing.  It’s from the great empathetic mind of someone in the media who seemingly has it all, Rick Springfield. I totally and completely admire both his honesty and talent, Springfield’s unabashed candidness regarding his own brutal suicidal depression and the self loathing, something he’s struggled with all his life, gives me some strange comfort–I’m not alone, no matter how cheesy that may sound. If Rick Springfield can suffer and he’s still here, then there’s hope for me. I don’t know why that makes sense, but it does, so thank you Rick Springfield, you help me every time I read up on you when I’m in the trenches. A reminder to all that mental illness does not discriminate as we’ve learned just today with the sickening loss of Dolores O’ Riordan.

From the yahoo article:

“Springfield described his depression, which he calls “Mr. D,” as something that “you kind of become acclimatized to … almost like a friend.” He added that suicidal thoughts are “part of my makeup.”

‘When you get to the really dark point nothing’s enough’

The father of two said he has always “been very open” with his two children about his depression, saying: “They see the darkness in me.”

He added that while he knows taking his own life would “devastate” his family, in his darkest moments, he isn’t able to think about that.

“You think, ‘They’ll, you know, they’ll get through it.’ And they will, because we’re human beings and we deal with stuff,” he said, adding that during his worst bouts of depression, all he is able to think about is “just getting out.”

But he’s still here, and I believe he will be for a long time due to his commitment to keep awareness at the forefront. Be vigilant people, be supportive, to be available to comfort and listen to each other, and you can always count on me to be some-kind of light for you cause I know you are valuable, and we need you here. Know I will tell myself this same thing 25 more times today, even when I don’t wanna believe it, cause depression lies…lies, not reality, remember that.

#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.

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

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