Archives For Mental health

When my therapist advised me to check into a treatment center, all I could think of was how wonderful it would be to go somewhere restful and sleep abundantly.

It’s exhausting fighting for every second of your life.

“Treatment center” is therapist jargon for “mental hospital.” I prefer the romance of “loony bin.” It comes from the word “lunatic,” derived from “luna.”

There’s something comforting in the antiquated notion that I, like vampires and werewolves, am simply the victim of changing phases of the moon.

 

I have an ongoing fantasy of electroshock treatments cauterizing the endless loop of chatter in my brain. No “and how does that make you feel?” for days and months and years. Instead, flip a switch; fry my brain cells; I am healed.

 

I long to spend a month in bland, sterile surroundings which provide no distractions. There, I can knit together all the holes poked into my psyche by the circumstances of my life, and the even bigger ones torn raggedly by the self-destructive ways in which I coped with those circumstances.

But life relentlessly beckons. I am not able to take a month off from the very same daily minutiae that I find crippling.

Instead, I’m doing intensive outpatient therapy, four times a week. Two individual sessions and two groups.

The course of treatment is 8 months; maybe longer.

Yesterday, despite it being November 1, I wore my Harley Quinn costume all day, including to group. As I entered the building, I wondered if the need I had to wear it an extra day; to the gym, supermarket, work; constituted being crazy.

 

Yes, probably longer than eight months.

 

 

I didn’t expect my new therapist to be so adamant regarding my diagnosis, and even more so about how much treatment I needed to address it. Our first session she told me I was PTSD embodied in human form. She was surprised I don’t short-circuit even more than I do.

She listed for me the major causes of PTSD, aside from active duty in the armed forces. Terrorist attacks, natural disasters, rape, domestic violence, sudden death of a loved one, childhood abuse and neglect…

On paper it scared me to see how many of those things I was able to cross off an anti-bucket list of things I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

 

Before finding her, I did the responsible thing and typed my symptoms into WebMD. I either had PTSD or systemic yeast overgrowth. I went with PTSD. I located a support group through an online network.

This is how I found myself, one Saturday morning, in a smoky room filled with grizzled war veterans. It was as if Pippi Longstocking had mistakenly stumbled onto the set of “Platoon.”

I told the story of my brother’s brutal murder two decades ago; his brains and blood splattered all over his LA apartment. As I spoke the room grew eerily silent, the kind of silence that only happens when people aren’t shifting in their seats or even breathing. The stoic faces around the room softened with the one thing I cannot tolerate – pity.

Afterwards I fled, never returning.

 

 

Last fall, my mother and a different brother died the same week.

I imagine I will die alone, since I am opposed to marriage. But I hope not to die alone surrounded by uncaring strangers in a bustling airport; clutching at my chest and dead before I hit the ground.

It was in this way that my brother died; ironically, on the way to my mother’s funeral. His death was so unexpected that I went into rigorous denial. I invented exotic stories to explain his absence.

He was on an archeological dig in Papua, New Guinea. He was hiking the Peruvian Andes. I eventually floated so far away from the truth that I no longer felt connected to my own body.

One day I watched my disembodied hands typing at the keyboard and poured boiling water all over the right one, charring it with a third degree burn.

When I was younger, I self-harmed because my world view was derived from a damaged foundation. I’m renovating it, and it becomes sturdier all the time. But occasionally, the faulty misalignment at the base of my existence wavers, and I weave precariously out of control.

Now I go to therapy four times a week to somehow make sense of the unfathomable.

 

 

I have a steel cage around my heart. I dare not hope for love for fear of being deeply, painfully disappointed.

I date many rather than loving one. I float giddily from date to date.

I am no longer the ugly bucktooth kid left to rot in a group home. I’m not that awkward teenage misfit. I’m the motherfucking prom queen.

I slip out of their houses in the wee hours to avoid the harsh reality of morning in the presence of another.

Sometimes I need someone to hold me so badly I think I might die.

My fear of abandonment is like a bomb suspended in the forever right before it detonates. I build walls to keep people out, convinced that once in, they will only leave, and days I am the cheeriest are usually the ones I feel most dead inside.

 

 

And thus I dream of the sizzle and snap of electricity rearranging twisted neurons and giving me a start as fresh as a child’s.

We are but specks in the infinite universe, finite and limited, but every action we take is to somehow create meaning despite our own brokenness.

This world was not meant for perfection. I am broken dishes; shattered life. Perfectly imperfect.

Despair and hope are yin and yang.  One cannot exist without the other. Hope without despair is hollow and dishonest. Despair without hope is bleaker still.

And so I stumble forward.

 

Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Come hang out with me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, so I can have friends without leaving the house. 

Mental-Illness 2

 

 

When you have a kid who’s “challenging” (euphemism for “major pain in the ass”), receiving a phone call from his preschool teacher at 8:30 at night is NOT a good thing. You know she’s not calling you at that hour to gush over what a little darling he is.

At 3, my son was defiant, intense, uber-intelligent, willful and aggressive. And while the meek may inherit the earth, in a room full of preschoolers – around my son? They. Were. Fucked.

“Is there a problem in your family?”

Mrs. Katz- Little Dude’s preschool teacher  – in your vast experience educating 3-year-olds, have you never encountered this type of kid? Even the best 3-year-olds make you want to drink in the daytime.

I’m sure it’s hard to be an underpaid, overworked preschool teacher with Little Dude in the room, making his weird-ass noises and destroying furniture and what not. But, lady – this is your JOB. Nobody put a gun to your head. So, figure out how to redirect, distract and socialize my kid. That’s why you’ve extorted these ridiculous prices from me, isn’t it?

Instead, I get a phone call from this woman prying into my personal life with that question. Did she really think I was going to sigh with relief, and say, “Oh,  YES” and then have a heart to heart with her?

I’d explained, in detail, to the the director of the school that my son had already been diagnosed with ADHD and Sensory Processing Disorder. I worked on these things with him constantly, thank you very much. So, please don’t give me shit about “is there a problem in my family?” We’re fine.

Or are we?

 

In 1990, I lost my eldest brother, who raised me. My Protector.

My EVERYTHING.

He was the funniest, kindest, gentlest man anyone ever knew, and when he died, I curled up into a little ball and died with him.

I stopped eating and sleeping and when it became apparent I would soon need hospitalization, my uncle took me to a psychiatrist who treated me for severe depression.

The psychiatrist spent 18 months having me guinea pig every anti-depressant on the market, looking for the one that would give me a reason to get out of bed in the morning. He eventually unearthed the right psychotropic cocktail to help me regain the feeling in my arms and legs, which had gone numb from the depression.

I got out of bed, showered, and went back to work. Better living through chemicals.

The psychiatrist articulated for me a childhood of feeling lost; a feeling of abandonment that I filled with overachievement and a quest for constant perfection and approval. A deep abyss of sadness that I covered with a comic facade and a sharp wit.

Is there a problem in my family?

I have 4 other brothers.

One of them lives in Florida with my mother. He is a brilliant patent attorney who graduated first in his class from NYU Law School. He was the poster child for “the best and the brightest” but somewhere along the way, the delicately constructed wiring inside his brain short-circuited.

He suffers from bipolar disorder which he treats successfully with strong chemical concoctions. But 10 years ago, when he decided he no longer needed his medication, he suffered a manic episode which distorted into a frightening psychotic break.

He changed personas daily, eventually becoming convinced that he was being persecuted in an elaborate government conspiracy. His illness took a frightening turn when he decided every member of our family was part of the conspiracy. He threatened us in extended, hostile, middle-of-the-night telephone messages.

Fleeing faceless demons, he drove up and down I-95 at 130 miles per hour, burning out his transmission and enough brain cells to land him in two different psych wards.

His doctors were finally able to help him chemically wrangle his illness into submission. He remembers nothing of his psychotic fracture.

He only remembers that he spent a year afterwards in his bathrobe, watching “The View.”

Is there a problem in my family?

My third oldest brother has a relaxed, likable personality. He laughs easily and makes a fabulous uncle/playmate to my kid.

He is retired military. He was in the army over 20 years and was deployed to Somalia.

He NEVER discusses it.

If pressed, he will shrug it off. The outward casual manifestation of his attitude towards his time there is summed up in the ironic tee shirt he brought me back which is emblazoned with “Hard Rock Cafe Mogadishu.”

When he visits, he pretends to sleep on the fold out couch in my den, but only dozes.

Wakes up. Has a cigarette. A soda. Watches some TV. Dozes again. I hear him downstairs, moving around all night.

The sound of the patio door sliding open, then closing; the refrigerator door opening, the swoosh! of the soda can opening. The sigh when he settles back on the couch. The TV channels changing, changing, changing.

He has been diagnosed with PTSD – post traumatic stress disorder – which is a convenient way for the government to say, “We sent you to war, you saw unspeakable things, and now you’re completely fucked up.”

He toughs it out without meds or therapy.

He’s never been the same.

He has an impenetrable shell of nonchalant behavior, acting normal when nothing is normal.

The man has not slept in 10 years.

Is there a problem in my family?

My youngest brother is a lung cancer survivor. He works too hard, plays too hard, and even after losing a lung, still smokes.

He’s a frustrated musician masquerading as a Vice President at JP Morgan Chase. He earns a lot of money, and spends it quickly. He’s a confirmed bachelor because he cannot deal with intimacy or relationships.

He has bottled up rage against every single member of my family. His grudges date back to events that transpired over 30 years ago. No one but he can remember his endless list of our transgressions.

He’s brilliant, erratic, emotional, fiercely loving, and astonishingly gifted. He can listen to a guitar solo ONCE and duplicate it, note for note.  All he’s ever wanted to do is play guitar, and somehow he ended up in a corner office, his essence rotting like moldy fruit.

He takes all sorts of anti-anxiety medication to cope with a life that crept up on him when he wasn’t looking.

I am certain that his lung cancer was caused not by cigarettes but by the fact that he’s an acutely lonely man who spends all his time alienating those who would love him. A frustrated artist emotionally eroded by spending the last 22 years at a job that’s killing him.

Is there a problem in my family?

 

Did I bring a child destined to mental illness into this world?

Did I selfishly ignore the familial signs so I could give birth to a child who struggles with heightened emotions and diagnoses full of letters?

The doctors say no. They assure me, each baby is born his own soul; with his own temperament. His central nervous system is what it is.

Which is genetically linked to MINE.

He is my child. He is my heart.

I want him to be HAPPY.

At night, we cuddle and talk over the day.
“What was your ‘sad’ today? Your ‘glad’ today?”

Our ritual for years. It’s his safe place to open up to me about his world.

But does he?

 

Dear God, I want to know,

Is there a problem in my family?

We walk home from school as he chatters happily about his day.

It’s hard for my 10 year old kid to sit still all day. We both prefer for him to blow off steam before he sits down to his homework.

Today, it’s out to the trampoline in my backyard. He loves that trampoline.

It’s so important for his sensory issues; the compression and the movement. He craves it and it helps him release all that bottled up energy.

 

Today I want to talk. Today, I am writing this, and I am troubled.

Today I need to know that he is having a having a happy childhood.

Today, I want to know,

Is there a problem in my family?

I go out back.

But he’s not talking.

He’s not saying anything.

He’s just jumping.

Jumping,

reaching,

arms outstretched,

flying,

so high.

It looks like he’s touching the sky.

Yes. Like this.

Yes. Like this.

 

Do you have a child like this? Siblings like mine?
Talk to me. I’m listening.

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self harm

I’m brain deep in a conspiracy of lies.

A nastified little gremlin lives in the deconstruction zone of my confident facade.

like this, only with anal warts and horrible breath

like this, only with anal warts and horrible breath

His mission: expose my prodigious self doubt by verbally annihilating me with meticulously fabricated lies.

He’s good, too – he’s hot boxing his ditch weed, playing Flappy Birds, and killing me softly, without even breaking a sweat.

And to shut his FAT MOUTH up, I stop feeling.

Which perpetuates more lies.

And then I hide it all in an extravagant online cover-up.

Quite a network of lies.

I get dressed to go to work, and he says,

“Motorcycle boots?  Grow UP, you fashion magazine ‘DON’T.’ Go home and rot until your AARP card comes, loser!”

And then the black vortex sets in.

black-hole-photos-25

DEPRESSION.

But I can lie. And hide behind a gravatar and a whole lot of snarky comments.

I lie about the secrets I’m living, and the ones that infiltrate the grooves of my brain.

The Cycle begins…

Taste deafness. Everything tastes the same. Like nothing. When pizza tastes like fish, is there any reason to eat? So I don’t.

Brain fog. I lose my car keys/ wallet / train of thought / that thing I put on the thing / the – wait, what was I typing?

Forty-eleven voice mails about snow days and delayed openings. I end up bringing my kid to school on President’s Day.  A national holiday.
Now I get to keep my crown as Neighborhood’s Weirdest Mom.

I can’t bring myself to wash my hair. That movement of my arms is too uplifting and victorious. Or I’m out of shampoo. Whatever. It’s a THING. I go for weeks.

Where will we go?

I brush the shit out of it, and wear backwards Kangol hats I own in every color. They were my signature look when I performed spoken word.
In the 90’s.

Steve, once they sell them at Marshalls, they’re NOT cool.

I look more pathetic than that director of Pulp Fiction, what’s his name, and him wearing a Kangol was how the term “asshat” was invented. But Who Cares?

I’m just deleting these from now on.

NO sleep. I drift off at gray milky dawn. The music of everything just stirring to life is an ironic lullaby precisely 90 minutes before I have to get up to get my kid ready.

I’m OVER this. He’s “gifted,” he can put a damn bagel in the toaster oven.

Mama please don’t sign the papers.

My students are looking at me funny. Check it, I know I look like a slump buster right now. What you should be worried about is that my brain is on planet Zorfly.

So I have no CLUE how to explain what the horizontal translation of the equation of a function on the XY coordinate plane is. Which means you’re FUCKED.

I stay in bed. I cancel work. I don’t leave the house unless I have to. For therapy. To pick my kid up at school. That’s the worst.

These women spend their days grooming to go home to husbands they never sleep with. How much eyeliner do you need to buy cold cuts?

I haven’t bathed in 2 days, my hair is in dirty dreds, this is the third day I’m in these clothes and

I smell like a cat that got fucked over a garbage can.

or a dumpster

or a dumpster

My shrink says my depression tells these lies:

1. I don’t matter

2. People don’t care

3. I’m an imposter

.

Number 3 is the Gremlin’s specialty mind fuck.  It’s called “Imposter Syndrome” and it means I can internalize nothing I’ve accomplished.

My therapist is financing a beach house off of me and my Imposter Syndrome.

Number 2 – maybe, people don’t care?
Which is why I’m took Xanax to hit “Publish.”

Dr. Beach House wants me to reach out to people, but I’ve been independent since I was 16. I don’t like asking for help. I don’t want to be rescued.

But I’m over this Halle Berry Gothika nightmare.

I call my IRL BFFS. They don’t quite know what I’m saying; part sobs, part Barsoomian. They listen anyway. Dor sha-pan

Email is better. If I can feel my finger tapping the keys, I exist. I reach out.

To YOU.

And YOU are why I’ve healed enough to write this.

I get emails; offers to Skype or talk on the phone.

And each response is like novocaine in an excruciating impacted wisdom tooth.

The absence of pain is a beautiful thing.

TwinDaddy tells me there’s no need to suffer alone.

Jennie wants to rescue me from the abyss and mail me cupcakes.

Rara talks to me about the healing power of blogging. And helps me get this damn post up.

Sheena reminds me she’s always there if I need her.

Matticus tells me I’m amazing, and that I am LOVED.

Beth tells me she’ll walk in my rain, hell, she’ll hold the umbrella.

Guap reminds me that depression is a lying bastard.

REDdog is brilliant.
I told him I feared writing this, that no one might read it, and he understood. Because hate, he said, is not the opposite of love.

Indifference is.

The truth is, when you’re ill is when you find out who your friends really are.

Yes. I said it. This is…

A mental illness.

It’s “situational.” It happens when my life implodes.

My illness is depression combined with some OCD combined with an urge to self harm.

Self-harm creates distance from emotional feelings. Picking until there’s blood is a distraction from the agony in my head.

Self harmers are encouraged to wear rubber bands around their wrists.

Last night, my kid and I are watching a movie and

SNAP! SNAP! 

OUCH!

That sucker did the trick.

Luckily my son is ADHD and he fidgets with SO MUCH SHIT he’d make Ghandi want to punch a cow. So, he just goes with it.

We had chips and salsa.

I chopped jalapeno pepper in my salsa. It stung like fiery hell. I was choking and snotting and tearing up. But it doesn’t scar.

My kid thought it was hilarious.

My gremlin popped in,

“Look at you, sad-dy face, your life is WORTHLESS. You’re watching a stupid hip hop movie with your ten-year-old, you know you turning him into a homosexual, right?”

Only I’m not even watching the movie.

I’m imagining myself

SLAMMED!

Hard by the tractor of an 18 wheeler. I bet that would be better than car sex, which I normally dig, cause how many things do we own that are both an object AND a location?

I’m imagining

BANG!

The back of my head blown away, big time, full-time, by a 45 caliber Glock, not some pussy “handbag” 22. I’d hold the gun sideways in my mouth, gangsta style.

This is suicidal ideation. It’s an OCD thing. People with suicide ideation don’t usually try to commit suicide. I personally have no interest in dying.

I just have these images.

They’re comforting.

BANG! DONE!

Sometimes, for me, they’re pleasurable to the point of erotica. I’d be jacking off to them if I could feel my vagina.

And sometimes frightening.

Which is why I can’t drive to my bestie’s house and lay on her couch while she feeds me tea.

I’m afraid to drive 100 miles.

Between snapping rubber bands, replaying my erotic deathscape, and blowing jalapeno snot out of my nose, who has the energy to shampoo?

Little Dude asks, “Mama, how exactly during intercourses does the sperm fertilize the egg?”

WHAT THE FUCK?

“Where did you learn that?”

“Health class.”

“They’re teaching THAT in 4th grade?”

“Well, only to the kids whose parents signed off on it.”

That’s what happens when you’re in a depression. You sign things you have no memory of signing.

Now my blog isn’t a lie.

I’m sitting here.

Filthy haired.

Under my blankey.

Under eye circles like Uncle Fester.

My kid’s googling “intercourses.”

Number 1 IS a lie.

I matter.

Because-

1. You’re reading this, and maybe you feel less alone?

2. I’m my son’s only mother.

He gets all I can muster. At night, when we cuddle, he strokes my face and tells me how much he loves me.

That’s how I know I matter.

Everyone keep saying it’s been such a hard winter, and I’ll feel better when it’s spring.

I personally love the fall.

Did you know that leaves don’t actually change color?

Those are the underlying colors of the leaves.

They’re just covered in green, like a veil, because of the chlorophyll. In the fall, the leaves stop producing chlorophyll.

The green veil lifts.

And what remains are those brilliantly vivid colors of fall leaves.

They were there, all the time.

They were just covered.

Quentin Tarantino! That’s his name! Awesome flicks!

But he looked like an idiot in those hats.

I’m SO washing my hair.

Author’s note: I’ve been listening to Lenny Kravitz’s debut album Let Love Rule compulsively. Fuck Cinna in Hunger Games. Kravitz is a genius songcrafter. Played every single instrument on the record.

This track is dirty funk; a retro ode to 70’s R&B. This dude can pocket a bass groove; he’s got the raw, gritty vocals; and I dig the 60’s uplifting Farfisa organ at the bridge. It gives me hope.

“And all I do, is sing the blues…”

Do you ever get depressed?  Or know someone who does?
Talk to me. I’m listening.

Outing Myself

January 24, 2014 — 120 Comments

meanpeople

A blog is a great place to hide what a

MESS

I am this week.

With my carefully constructed cyber facade you don’t get to see that I’m

Disoriented. Panicked. Anxious.

My hands are tingly; almost numb.

I’m making a whole lot of typos.

For once, I’m grateful for spellcheck. I normally never use it. I actually didn’t know it was even up there, until about a week ago.

Clueless. Yeah. I’m like that.

 

I was accused this week of being a liar.

Everyone who knows me knows that I suck at lying.

“Mom, what’s gay sex?”

“It’s when two men insert their penises in each other.”

“Where?”

“Wherever they can.”

 

I am, however, guilty of lying by omission.

What I present to you here is funny, cool, snarky, New York tough, great mom, wild Samara.

Sometimes I just SUCK.

Sometimes I’m close to CRAZY.

Sometimes I’m MEAN.

 

Let’s start with this “You’re such a great mother” thing.

This blog post my kid did. Yes, he was awesome.

But by 10:30 last night?  Two hours past his bedtime?

I was ready to beat him over the head with my laptop.

But since this is the yelling generation, not the hitting generation, I said,

“Dude, I’m exhausted.

He wanted to look for more kraken pictures.

He needed just the right kraken picture, because nothing is worse than a bad KRAKEN picture in a blog post.

“You have GOT TO GET TO SLEEP ALREADY!”

“Mama, scroll back –

“NO.”

‘But there were –

“NO!”

“But I-”

“Seriously. GO the FUCK to sleep!”

Dropped an F bomb. BOOM.

Yeah. I’m like that.

 

We have a lot of fun. I am definitely a “fun” mom.

Just last week, I made him run around the car at a red light at a very busy intersection.

BUT

It’s not fun around here if he brings home a “B” on a test.

I don’t stick toothpicks under his fingernails, but I don’t say, “That’s great! Maybe you’ll get an “A next time.”

HELL no.

I say, “What did you get wrong? Let’s look at it right now.”

As in, right now.

This is called Tiger Mom-ing.

Yeah. I’m like that.

 

I once heard him tell his friend, “I like to do well in school so I can eventually compete in a global economy.”

He’s TEN.

 

I make my kid do homework all summer.

Yes, you read that sentence right.

He gets to have fun. Go to camp. Romp in the dirt, pick dingleberries out of his ass, collect farts in a jar – whatever it is boys his age do all day.

He also has to do homework. Every day. 30 minutes.

Because I’m the mom, and I say so. That line of reasoning.

Also, because there is a documented loss of retention in school age children over the summer months.

Even during the summer, we visit the library every week to take out books.

You know who’s in the library in August? Me, Little Dude, and 6 Chinese families.

 

It’s not just school work I torture him with.

I’m like that about everything.

He studies Tae Kwondo.

When he competes, I make sure he trains hard.

“Master B says, as long as we all have fun, we all win.”

I HATE that “everyone’s a winner/give everyone a trophy/ let’s just cut the balls off society” attitude.

“Oh really? Well, if winning isn’t the point, why don’t you all just hang out and spar at the dojo all day? Why even bother to compete?”

Once, at a competition they paired him with a kid who was several inches taller.

When the match began, my kid instinctively took 2 steps back.

Oh, HELL NO.

Afterwards, I said, “Don’t you EVER back away from an opponent during a match. EVER.

When that match starts, the first thing your opponent should see is YOUR HEEL coming at HIS FACE. You got me?”

Yeah. I said that.

 

He brings home a trophy every time. But still.

Should I be saving for his college education? Or his therapy?

 

MY New York BFF said the Polar Vortex Collapse is responsible for a whole bunch of shitty things converging in a horrible way for me.

Sickness. Death. Financial problems. Huge domestic blow ups. Work related crises.

When everything falls apart at once, so do I.

I don’t do multiple crises well.

I can only hold it together to make a pretense of sanity for my kid.

 

I’m not sleeping.

I wish I drank or smoked weed. Perhaps that would take the edge off.

I don’t like alcohol. I get drunk off of 1/4 glass of wine.

Can you imagine me getting sloppy drunk, alone? That image would make a carefree person suicidal.

I’m not opposed to weed. It’s not a gateway to make me start banging dope.

But this urban dirt weed?

Forget it.

I used to know people from Northern CA. Near Humboldt County. Do you… know where I’m going with this?

They were purveyors of the Kind kind. If I could have THIS kind of clean, uplifting brain tingle, then perhaps.

But I’ll be damned if I’m going to call one of the cast members of The Jersey Shore to sell me some Swamp Grass.

So I can pollute my lungs with with paranoia-inducing chemicals, and reflect for hours upon all my conspiracy theories, convinced that the CIA is tapping my phone.

So, I just,

LOSE IT.

 

I had no patience for my students this week. A CRUCIAL week.

When a student didn’t know that “It was his 16th summer” meant he was 16 years old,

I rolled my eyes at her. A real visible hairy eyeball.

Yeah. I did that.

I wanted to tell her to forget going to college completely and suggest cosmetology school.

Except my hairdresser is very smart and that would have been an insult to her profession.

I almost suggested the pole. She’s very pretty.

I stopped short of that. I actually bit my upper lip so hard, it still hurts.

From 2 days ago.

 

Someone I know was recognized in a positive way this week. I’d felt wronged by him in the past.

And because I was hurting for a completely different person, who is suffering at the moment,

and because the two things HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH EACH OTHER,

except that they both dwell in MY head,

I bombarded the first person with horrible, scathing emails. Many of them.

Yeah. I did that.

 

My college BFF didn’t too so well on her first chemo. She’s supposed to have months of treatments.

She ended up in the hospital after her first.

I’m not sure why, but she didn’t call or text me. She posted on Facebook that she was in the hospital.

I don’t go on Facebook.

Facebook is a Whore.

I have a business to run. A child to tend do. Live people who I have to work in front of, every day, NOT a computer screen.

I can’t frolic and cavort on Facebook every day. If I could, I’d be on my company’s Facebook page.

Not my personal one. Which I haven’t been since 2011.

I don’t have time to gape at vacation albums; the cyber depiction of America’s Relationship with Credit.

Not my blogging one, which doesn’t exist, because of that pesky business/child thing.

My ex goes on Facebook. Of course he does! He texted me. “BFF is in the hospital.”

I was so freaked – and angry – at her for not letting me know.

Because it’s Samara’s World! And her cancer is all about ME, goddammit, me!!

Not about the fact that she may only be alive another 6 months.

I texted her, “What the FUCK is going on? You’re in the hospital? Why didn’t you text me? I don’t go on Facebook, how the FUCK am I supposed to know you’re in the hospital?

Yeah. I did that.

To my best friend with cancer.

I didn’t think about why she might have done it,

or even that, whatever she does, it has to be okay.

Because she’s probably dying.

 

What if, I died tomorrow, and this had been my last week on earth?

Holy Shit.

This would NOT be the way I want to go out.

It would be like, getting hit by a bus and dying just as you’ve been released from jail for stealing White Castle hamburgers.

 

Little Dude came over to practice his solo for temple tonight while I was writing this.

I had no idea what he was saying. I don’t know Hebrew.

 

Temple was a nice comfortable 55 degrees this evening. My vagina went numb.

Jews are nothing if not frugal.

 

I cried like a bitch, watching him up on the podium, cause in less than 3 years, he will be reading from the Torah.

And 5 years of Hebrew school and Friday night services will culminate in his Big Moment.

He led the Congregation on his page.

 

Was it a coincidence that his page from the prayer book was

“TO LOVE AND CARE”?

and we read the English back to him:

“We thank you for implanting within us a deep need for each other, and for giving us a capacity to love and care.

May we always be grateful that we have one another and are able to express our love and acts of kindness.

Keep us gentle in our speech.

May we waste no opportunity to speak words of sympathy, of appreciation, of praise.”

 

Maybe, It was my reminder to pray tonight. To be a better person.

I’m so glad I get another chance.

To be

The person I can be. The friend I can be. The mom I can be.

Or maybe

It was a just nice to be somewhere where they serve a lot of cake.

We love cake.

 

Have you ever felt like you just screwed up really badly? With everything?

Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

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DEATH OF A BLOG

January 19, 2014 — 110 Comments

depression (1)

I can’t write anymore.

I have 12 drafts sitting here. Mocking me.

Tick. Tock.

He commented on my first post:

“There’s a huge world between “black” and “white” (avoid the beige, the fucking Gap khaki beige),

so write truthfully what you’re feeling, wherever you are.

Make this blog at your image(S).

Keep this blog about the real you.”

 

But I’m afraid.

Can I say that?

I’m never good enough.

Is that what you all come here to read?

If I comment, she screams at me.

I haven’t washed my hair in a week.

Tick. Tock.

 

 

I came here

After another blogger decimated me.

Destroyed my family.

Destroyed my child.

Out of the blue

reached into my life, took hold, played with me for a few days.

Got bored.

Threw me in the garbage.

 

 

Didn’t know I’d had a childhood in which nothing I ever did was good enough.

Didn’t know it was the first time in 20 years I’d written after a horrible fall from grace.

And I was broken.

 

Don’t go pushing yourself into my life and disappear.

Because I damn near died when it happened before.

“Sweet Samara, I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

So where ARE you?

Again.

Tick. Tock.

.

I love my child so much I sometimes look at him and can’t breathe.

Just looking at his eyelashes against his cheek when he sleeps takes my breath away.

“Mama, you’re wearing the same clothes again today.

It’s like, the third day.”

Tick. Tock.

 

 

I want him to be the person in his blog.

I want him to be the way he was when he first emailed me.

So. I go back.

Hoping.

Never finding what was never there in the first place.

“All writing is betrayal.”

Jen once wrote, “the more you want closure with someone, the less likely you are to get it.”

Tick. Tock.

 

 

I’m sitting here waiting.

I can’t walk home with all this poster board and the mechanism I constructed to illustrate

Kepler’s Third Law of Planetary Motion.

The square of the orbital period of a body orbiting around a larger body is proportional to the cube of the semi-major axis of the body’s orbit, which is basically the body’s distance from the larger body.

Which made sense to me in the 6th grade, but I can’t even process that sentence.

And I can’t carry it all home

And the first place trophy.

You said you’d pick me up

You forgot the science fair was today.

Again.

fuck.

TICK. TOCK.

Really loud, that one was,

cause it’s cold out.

 

 

“Here – here’s my world. Please handle with care. ”

He never even looked.

You said, in that considerate and polite way you have,

I’ll read and comment appropriately, if you’ll let me.

That would be good. That would be healing.

It never happened.

Just carefully constructed words

To hide a painful lack of interest.

Again.

Tick. Tock.

 

 

“Mama, can we have dinner together, please?”

“Baby, I made a great dinner for us.”

“I meant – will you EAT. Not just sit there.

You’re doing that thing where you push the food around your plate.

but i can tell you’re not eating. Give me a break.”

 

 

Pain.

So tired of recycling it.

I want the bliss I was put on earth for. That I’m certain we were put here for.

Not this recycled pain.

From 1974. 1979. 1994. 2013.

 

We were put here for something different.

I know because I wrote it in my comment section.

Three days of making it through 200 comments.

Yes, I know there are 40 more in my queue.

Tick. Tock.

 

And when she wrote,

“I can’t take it anymore! Why are my child and I even HERE?”

I responded, “because YOU are worthy of love. You deserve bliss.”

So it must be true, since I wrote it. I must have believed it.

 

 

I’m right back where I started last fall.

Only

 

There will be no one to pick me up this time.

No one to champion me on.

I can’t write.

 

My blog was on life support.

It’s unplugged now, and dying.

 

 

I put my son to sleep a while ago.

We cuddled for sads and glads.

He said, “mama, where ARE you?”

“I’m right here, baby.”

“no you’re not.”

I’m failing him.

Again.

 

Freshly Pressed. 209 new followers.

nothing to say.

I’m failing you.

Again.

 

 

I have an old grandfather clock in my foyer.

It was my uncle’s.

My cousins gave it to me when he died.

It’s really loud.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Tick.

Tock.