Stop with the macramé, bitches


I live in a GLBT nexus here in the Pioneer Valley and I love the diversity.

Public same sex kissing and afffection is eye candy, you don’t find most places.

If it wasn’t for my repressive Catholic upbringing I may have even been bi-sexual, by now. Who knows?

I love freedom of expression and I embrace diversity.

That said, one thing I hate is when your freedom of expression interferes with my freedom to fucking breathe.

You granola earthy-crunchy-hemp-lovin’ bitches deciding to make an art project and braid your fucking armpit hair into some sort of macramé thing, needs to stop.

Can you not smell yourself?

I mean when you have a colony of circus fleas taking up residence in your armpit hair, there’s something wrong.

Very wrong.

Get acquainted with a razor and cut that bush back.

And while you’re at it, get a bar of soap and bathe, ’cause ya smell, and it aint good.

I’m not sure if it’s your diet of tofu and garlic. It must be the garlic…… are you drinking garlic frappes? are you trying to ward off vampires? ’cause girl your warding off everyone around you.  Hell it’s causing a gag reflex when I even sit next to you.   How does your mate even screw you? it’s coming out your pores so freakin’ bad.   Do you know people can’t even stand next to you ? how can you even land a date? let’s start there. Unless you’re dating some freak like yourself.  Honestly, one would have to be in such a dope induced haze, not to sniff you and not notice the smell.

And it’s not just the garlic, that stink….. its intermingled with sweat and sex that hasn’t been washed off in weeks……

In 6 months Calvin Klein will come up with a perfume called  HEMPSexGarlique it’ll  fly off the shelves to all the huppies who will buy it don’t cha know.  I think it’s made from crushed hemp seeds and smegma.   Huppies, those interesting combination of hippies and yuppies….

Remember.  Soap.  It’s not just for holidays anymore.

Possession is 9/10th of the law

“Crazy” is a label that people who haven’t experienced an ounce of trauma in their stable lives, ascribe to people who have lived through several circles of Dante’s Inferno.  Labels are diagnostic codes that insurance companies use to process claims.  There is no such thing as crazy.  There is however, such thing as evil; and I know this because I dated him.

Back when I read M Scott Peck’s People of the Lie in college, Peck distinguished mental illness from evil, it piqued my curiosity.  Being the Catholic girl terrified from watching The Exorcist (Warner Bros. 1973) I headed down to the local library to find Malachi Martin’s Hostage to the Devil: The Possession and Exorcism of Five Contemporary Americans.  It made me wonder if there was any truth or substantiation to a supernatural realm.

I spoke to my parish priest, Fr. John Walsh, who often incorporated one of my favorite authors, James Joyce into his homily. I asked him outright, his thoughts about evil incarnate.  Hocus Pocus…. myth….the old Rite of Exorcism, some Pre-Vatican II  antiquated bullshit……or did he believe that it could happen.  Demonic possession and the like.

His answer was not what I had anticipated.

He told me a story of how he was going to a man’s home who was elderly to deliver the Eucharist, as he was a shut in, and when he got to the doorstep he felt a heaviness in the air.  A coldness.  And as he approached the steps an unseen force…..something threw him back.  Literally pushed him off the doorstep to the ground.  To this day he states that it was not wind or anything visible that he could account for it.

When I asked a dear friend a Monsignor, the same question, I got a completely different response.   Told that the Rite of Exorcism isn’t used anymore.  And that today people see psychologists.

Two very different priests, two very different answers.  A schism within the same community.


When I began dating my now ex-Daddy Dominant, one of first times we had sex, we began talking as we started fucking and I said to him,

” I feel like I’ve known you for a long time and yet that’s impossible.  But I feel so comfortable around you…..your eyes seem so familiar like I have seen you somewhere before, isn’t that strange.”

He said as he thrusted deeper into me, “I have known you your whole life….”

I replied as I laughed, ” but I”ve only just met you recently”

He cackled, “Oh no, I’ve been watching you since you were a child.”

I stopped moving and grabbed him.  I sat up and said “who the fuck are you”

he laughed, “Oh, I have many names”

my blood ran cold right then.

He then flipped me over began fucking me again and sunk his teeth hard ad he could into my shoulder and as I screamed he sneered,

“God can’t help you now…………………… one can help you.”

Driving home later that night, I was thinking to myself, that maybe I would bring my laptop with me next time.  All of a sudden my cell phone rang at the exact moment and it was him and he said, “you should bring your laptop with you next time you come.”  The hair on the back of my neck stood up.   Could he read my thoughts or was it a mere coincidence.  What were the statistical odds.

My heart still serves him; long after he’s dumped me.  Makes me wonder who the fuck he really was….is.

One thing is crystal clear though, he was a nefarious liar.  A Narcissistic Sociopath.  And put simply, he is evil personified.

God CAN help me, if I help myself out of this mess.

Time for a good ole book burning on the village green

Shel Silverstein is hands down one of the best children’s authors ever.  I own just about everything he’s done in print; hard copy.   And I’m fairly certain that when my Zebra cake goggles wear off, the book will remain one of my favorites.

In light of the recent events of my train wreck love-life, I recently re-read “The Giving Tree.”



Can I just say that I HATE that tree.

“Take my apples.”

oh just plunder all my assets and leave me naked in the forest, boy.

“…you may cut off  my branches….”

Take a chain saw to my limbs and watch the sap run down as I bleed in agony….

“Cut down my trunk….”

Fuck me up the ass and leave me nothing but a stump for you to take a shit on…….

but I’ll still love you boy.



and then the tree waits and waits like a good empathic tree with no self-esteem does, and pretends to be happy being a used up stump.  and in the end ” the boy” comes back when he’s done using all the whores and he’s old and can’t fuck anymore and sits on the stump of a tree he’s used.   because she has no self-worth and wasted the best years of her life pining (no pun intended) for a boy who never loved her back.

The classic un-requited love story?

No, the classic romanticized portrayal of an EMPATH MARTYR-COMPLEX FUCKED UP WOMAN, POSING AS A TREE

I dunno, this post could be coming from a distorted perceptual lens  generated by marked glucose spikes from me consuming  a rather largish bag of M&M’s for lunch today and a couple of King-sized candy bars for dinner last night mixed with a Little Debbie Zebra cake.  It’s the Zebra Cake goggles isn’t it.  Or is it just another angry rant about getting conned by a sexual sadist narcissist with sociopathic tendencies.  Or do I just have an axe to grind with trees.

Someone either pass me the kerosene and a match or give me another fucking Zebra cake already.

Hurry up with the lobotomy already

I don’t know what’s up with me today.  I’m pumping gas and some guy is staring at me.  At first I assume I must have something on my shirt.  When I look down and realize that I don’t, I start feeling even more nervous and begin to presume that maybe he thinks “she’s the ugliest bitch that ever graced this planet.”  And I want to run and hide and wonder why I didn’t just find a frigin gas station that had no one pumping at it.  Some remote desolate fucking gas station with tumble weed blowing through, like the kind you see on old TV westerns with John Wayne.  Except that’s ridiculous, because tumble weed isn’t indigenous to Massachusetts.

Then I get to the grocery store and I’m picking out a head of lettuce.  Red leaf and romaine are both $2.49, so I stand there paralyzed like a deer in headlights.  Apparently this woman notices this and in an almost chastising way says to me, “it’s not going to jump off the shelf you know.”  ‘Well no shit lady, I think to myself’.  But instead, I politely say while forcing a fake smile, “yeah I know right? lol”  But that’s just it.  I can’t make a fucking snap decision between Tropicana Pure Premium orange juice or Minute Maid.

Later, I walk to the post office to mail some seriously over-due bills, and I feel this pain in my left lung.  It comes and goes, every few months.  I even had a spiral CT scan in my 20’s which came up clean.  But because I used to chain smoke 2 packs of cigarettes a day, I have myself convinced that I’m a sneeze away from terminal small cell carcinoma.  I start actually wondering who would come to my funeral, my wake, screwed up shit like that.  In under a minute, my catastrophic thinking has me dead and buried.  All from a pain in my lung…..Who fucking thinks like this?

Maybe…….just maybe……… this has something to do with seeing my ex  yesterday.

He’s the ex-boyfriend, Daddy Dominant, sorry….. the sexual sadist. The man I’ve gone back to a thousand times after he’s treated me less than dog shit.   As we stood there in a parking lot to exchange an important document, he told me in a voice void of any emotion, that he was heading out to fuck a 27-year-old at a local motel and didn’t have long.  He is 52.  He doesn’t even know her first name and will never see her after today, but he will “use her til she’s raw.”

Tears began to well up in my eyes and I felt like I was going to puke when he said that.   He went on callously, “I’m sorry, but right now, sex with strangers is my number one priority.  Maybe someday I’ll want to stop, now I don’t.  I won’t ever forget you….you’ll always be my girl.  I think it’s best not to call me anymore, for your own good.”

His words hung in the air like a garrote, suffocating the last bit of air between us.  And as I sobbed, he approached me and stiffly put his arms around me for what seemed like a long time, except that I didn’t feel any emotions coming from him.  It felt almost obligatory, staged, a mere perfunctory task that  he must execute before moving to his next destination.

I can cook a mean lasagna.

I can give great head.

I can speak in several fake foreign accents and make everyone in the room laugh their ass off while doing them.

As a trained mental health counselor, I can de-escalate psychotic, suicidal, severely agitated, anxious patients in a locked ward.

I can read books to small children with enough enthusiasm to have special requests for” just one more”.

But for the life of me, I can’t love myself enough to walk away from him…..

The Stepford Addict

I don’t fit in anywhere.  I never have.  I will be anything you need me to.  But none of its real.  I do whatever it takes, act however you need me to, just as long as you like might like me…

I’ve lived in this God-forsaken shit town for 3 years and I haven’t made one friend.  I’m not looking for your pity or sympathy either.  This blog isn’t about that.  I’ve got my pillow to cry into and a therapist who hears me bitch enough about being a loner.   I am a loner, but it’s not by choice.

I just don’t fit into this cookie-cutter community.  Apparently I don’t know the secret fucking handshake in this one horse town.  Most women here are trust fund girls who went to Yale and probably have their silver spoons embedded up their snatch to prove their purebred status.  I’m the mongrel they secretly want to spit on, the girl of which a few of their husbands sometimes secretly steal furtive glances when they’re not looking.  Something about me makes these women uneasy, but I’m not sure why.  I’m college educated too, but I didn’t go to an Ivy-League school.  I had to get to a state school through work-study, scholarships, and financial aid.

But something about me threatens them, because they can’t even make eye contact with me when they’re away from the “pack” all by themselves.   You know, the clique they usually stand in?  The group of women that just like in high school, stand to the side and whisper in hushed tones as you pass by.   Most of them are approaching middle-age and have starved their way to being thin through daily yoga and pilates.  They walk around toting their children they adopted from a foreign country because they were way past menopause when they started their family and because it wasn’t working out having just dogs as surrogate children anymore.

Everything is sanitary, sterile, and healthful from clothing to food.   I don’t think any of their kids have ever tasted a cupcake with red dye #4 and high fructose corn syrup.  Hell no, they subsist off of organic soy and sunshine products that both look and tastes like cardboard.  But those kids won’t learn that until they get far enough away from mommy’s helicopter apron strings.

At the last PTO meeting I attended they were all clambering  who’d take home the compost pile from the Harvest garden at school.   I wanted to raise my hand and offer to take a shit in the compost bag just to see if anyone would notice I said anything.

When I walk by they don’t even acknowledge me.  As if I do not exist, like I am a non-entity, a non human being.  And in those moments, It makes me fantasize about being on my knees and sucking off one their husbands, purely out of spite.   But I wouldn’t.  I have morals and besides their husbands are just as narcissistic, arrogant, and filled with hubris as they are and equally creep me out.

And yet, I am still on the outside looking in.   Filled with a palpable sadness. A long-standing dolefulness that spans years.  The kind of penetrating sorrow which makes one turn a collar to that cold and damp, almost as if to shield oneself from its grip.

It’s like I’m seven years old again on the play-ground and some asshole kid won’t pick me for the team because I don’t have the “right” clothes.    It’s the same bullshit, just that those kids grew up and became adults.  Now they’re still the same pretentious elitist assholes just older….Same as it ever was.  And I, I still don’t have the teflon I need in life to let it all roll off.

Despite what people think, addicts have feelings too.


I’d been introduced to friends of Bill W. at around age 19.  But never took to the program and left after only a few weeks.   At that time in my life, I was on Prozac for my first suicide attempt and benzodiazepines for anxiety attacks.  I was anorexic and binge drinking on pints of Peachtree Schnapps ’cause I didn’t really give a shit whether I died in my sleep or not, after they let me out of the psych hospital.  The people in the AA meetings were all in their 30’s and 40’s and talking about either prison, OUI’s, or their spouses divorcing them.  I wasn’t them.  I was a college kid that was just drinking to forget my past, numbing out trying to deaden pain.  We had nothing in common, or so I thought……..

The first joint I ever smoked was around 12.  My brother sold it to me for a dollar, cut-rate seeing it was in the family and all.  He used to grow in our backyard and rapid dry it in the microwave when our parents weren’t home.  My mother could never distinguish it from any of the other weeds growing behind the shed.  It got the right amount of sunlight and shade.

When my parents went away, we’d sit around the kitchen table all four of us siblings.  I was only about ten when that operation started.  I was donned “stem girl” as the name so implies.  The pile of pot then pushed my way to pick the stems out, then I passed it to my sister a year older than me “seed girl”, she’d push it over to my older brother who would place the right sized clump on the rolling paper and then he’d push it to my oldest brother who’d lick it into the finished blunt.   Then we’d hop into the back of his Chevy Nova and he’s spark it up.  Although I never smoked it, I certainly got a contact high from all the smoke and fumes.

Saw my first 8-ball at around ten as well.  White powder on a mirror with my brother’s friends with a 20 dollar bill up their nose.  I watched with morbid curiosity as he yelled for me to go back upstairs.   When my parents came home I told them what I saw.   It was completely innocent, not snitching as I truly didn’t know what to make of it.  He got sent to some juvenile rehab where we had to drive to visit him on Sundays and he had to earn points to come home for a visit.  When he finally did come home, in the dead of night where my muffled screams couldn’t be heard, I paid a very dear, dear price for opening my mouth.  And I didn’t know it then but I would continue to pay a price for years to come.

The one advantage of having older brothers was they could buy booze for me at the package store, which is what they did.  I could also buy a dime bag of weed at a cut-rate.  Which I did.  My high school years are a haze of black-outs and a two times of alcohol poisoning.   I could drink most of the football team under the table and for some reason I felt proud of that.  It was always important that I not be perceived as weak.  Maybe because my sister who was a year older and stronger than me, was throwing me up against the wall at home to intimidate me could kick my ass….  at least outside the house, I present myself as “tough”

My eating disorder got worse too.   The number on the scale began to dictate my self-worth.  So starvation and over-exercising became a way of life.  I had a morbid fear of purging so I could never become bulimic.  By the time of my hospitalization, I had lost 15% of my body weight and was beginning to hallucinate.  My thoughts were becoming distorted.  My brain itself,  deprived of glucose and key nutrients, began to improperly function.   Subsisting off of 500 calories a day for nearly a year fucks with your brain.

Eating disorder, Alcoholism, substance abuse, smoking cigarettes? I was a 2 pack a day-er.

This is important to mention because it took years for me to understand that alcohol, drug use, and eating disorder(s) were all secondary addictions.  The primary addiction that was not being addressed was codependency.

I was in constant pain, feeling alone and hurting. To cope with that pain, I began using all sorts of other secondary things to self-medicate.

Come to think of it…..I have  gone my entire life, not knowing how to sit with painful emotions without over-eating/starving, self-mutilating, taking drugs, getting drunk, masturbating, compulsively spending, compulsively cleaning, cruising personal ads, or my personal drug of choice using relationship with men as a “salve”.

I still have all these other addictions going on.  They are all quite still real and tugging at me sometimes whispering, sometimes yelling at me.  On any given day I am struggling with wanting to drink myself into a stupor because the ex doesn’t call me and I miss him so much it hurts.  Or I might want to eat a pint of Ben and Jerry’s to numb out the pain.   Or maybe I watch some porn on the internet and then go masturbate, or maybe pop some percocet.  ANYTHING not to feel that gut wrenching pain of rejection that feels like I am dying from the inside out.

Sometimes I get angry that some people in the meetings have one addiction and that’s all they have to contend with.  Jealous.  How fucking petty of me, that I sit there and wish that’s all I had to contend with.  Then I hate myself for being an angry piece of shit.   I am so not right-sized.  Then I know that sitting on a pity-pot isn’t going to get me anywhere in recovery.  And I DO know that somewhere out there, there’s someone who has it wayyyyyy worse than I do.  So I better shut the fuck up and listen.  Pray for humility and listen.  And on good days, I do.

I do belong to several 12-step groups and I go to a shit load of meetings every week.  I feel like I am dancing as fast as I can.  Some weeks, it feels draining.  Like a game of whack-a-mole.  Just when you get one addiction in remission, another one pops back up to rear its ugly head.  And some days I don’t even want to get out of fucking bed.   Sometimes I feel like I will never get better.   I am feeling hopeless today.   I am sitting with a lot of fear today too.

The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous even says, (pg 58 4th edition) “Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path.  Those who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themselves to this simple program, usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves.  There are such unfortunates.   They are not at fault;  They are naturally incapable of grasping and developing a manner of living which demands rigorous honesty.  Their chances are less than average.  There are those, too, who suffer from grave emotional and mental disorders, but many of them do recover if they have the capacity to be honest.”

I have the capacity for rigorous honesty.  But what if I am too damaged emotionally, too fucked up from my childhood?  what if I am one of those Bill W. spoke of? one of those unfortunates?

fuck me, I hope not.

The doll scares me

Went to my shrink this morning and she told me that it’s my inner child that ‘s the addict.  The broken fractured part of me that’s looking out love.  I nodded in agreement.  She told me she thought one way I could nurture this part of myself and not looking for my ex Dominant who floats in and out of my life between his red-light district activities to fill that need, would be to buy a baby-doll.

My jaw dropped.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“Well, she went on, “if you could get yourself a baby-doll and hold the doll everyday, and give it some love and nurturing, maybe this would be a concrete way you could nurture the younger part of you….the younger piece of Lexi,  the little girl living in you, who still seeking out love so desperately.  I had another client and this worked for well her.”

I stared blankly trying to hide the huge amount of uncomfortable-ness it was triggering.  I do that…. I don’t know why I still reflexively hide my emotions.

“Oh, like hold this dolly in lieu of……. sitting on Daddy’s lap while he slides his cock up my ass and tells me I’m his good girl, ya mean?”




“I……I……..I……..I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

Of course privately I was thinking FUCK NO!  There’s no fucking way I’m sitting in a room with a fucking doll and calling it my name, and hugging it and shit, that’s totally FUBAR!  That reminds me too much of some Kumbaya,  artsy-craftsy-let’s-all-hold-hands-and-fart-rainbows therapy group they force you to attend, when I got locked up after my first suicide attempt.  It didn’t help then and it’s probably not going to help now.

I have only gone to about ten 12 step meetings, read their book cover to cover over a fortnight, finally “get” that I am a sick cookie and now this?  I’m supposed to sit down with a fucking doll and talk to it like it’s me?  This is wayyyyyyyy too much to take in.   I feel overwhelmed.  I think I’d rather be spanked, flogged, whipped, caned, cropped and pissed on IN THAT ORDER than to sit with a doll and call it my name and hug it and shit.  And that must say something for my level of dis-ease.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, after trying to white-knuckle my way through no contact (NC) with my ex-Dom because he dumped me for NSA sex with anything with a heartbeat, I “slipped” and ended up in his bed again begging him to” love me back” last weekend, which of course made me  feel totally humiliated and degraded.    Last night he ended up screaming at me at the top of his lungs, because I asked a question he didn’t want to answer.  Told me I don’t respect him enough and threatening to never speak to me again if I don’t (fill in whatever action he wants).

When will I hit a bottom?

What if there isn’t a fucking bottom?

What if bottom is death?

The doll scares me.

I scare me.

Not getting well scares me the most.