13 – Sex Sells…

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

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

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

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

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

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

# 11 – Mariah Carey Bipolar…2?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

#9 – Bullies, Babes, and Blow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rings…it was a thing.

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

Bullying: Electric chair worthy offense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s a lesson right there.

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

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

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

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

Let’s push on. It got weird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to bully’s.

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

 

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

The 80’s…The ‘Me’ Generation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dad did good.

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

 

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(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.

 

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  (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.

 

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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