The ruler

Nearly every morning for as long as I can remember, I have stepped on a scale to measure how much I weigh.

and the number that is displayed ends up dictating my self-worth.

Strange I know, that a number should have that sort of power over me.

I have friends whose net worth equals their self-worth and I often tell them,

that they are so much more beyond their possessions, their material things.

I preach about how the intangibles in life:  health, family and good friends have the most value.

But I feel like a charlatan, because there I am allowing a fucking scale to control me.


Most days, in one way or another I am obsessing about my eating disorder.

Getting rid of food that I consumed.  Wishing I could eat and then feeling guilty for wanting to.  Feeling good when I am not eating.  Figuring out calorie exchanges.

It’s insanity.

I wonder what it’s like to be normal.


Then when I am out in the world I am constantly comparing myself to every woman I see and how I measure up.

or how I don’t as the case usually is.

How my outsides are not good enough.

The obsession is so gripping and powerful.

I hate it.


Why must this blasted scale be the ruler, a way to measure if I am good or bad?

My libido must be hiding behind the couch with Jesus


It’s official.

I’ve lost my sex drive and my faith in one fell swoop.

I think it’s the fucking Prozac.

or maybe the depression….

hell, maybe both.

I get down on my knees in the morning and say a prayer but there’s a disconnect.

In yesteryear I always I felt a strong connection with God in my life.  It was an awesome feeling.  I never felt alone,

no matter what kind of monkeyshit life was throwing at me.

This is the worst.   Such a painful horrible void.  I miss that relationship so much.  This, This is hell.


Life’s pleasures are slowly being whittled away one by one.

These days, I am not supposed to drink alcohol, binge eat/starve and to top it off I have absolutely no libido.

It’s like some thief in the night stole it from me.  The girl who used to having sex at least 5 times a day,

Doesn’t even care if she ever has it again?


Sigh.  Me thinks it’s because I’m taking the Prozac.  Manufacturers insert reads:   “It is thought that the action of this medication is….”

So the powers that be, don’t even fucking KNOW what this shit does to my neural network? they are simply extrapolating from looking at

a bunch of rats?

‘Cause gosh rats and humans are ever so similar….


Hmmmm….. well that rat is chewing off it’s own tail….so people might get suicidal on this drug.

That rat is agressively biting the fuck out of the other rat…….homocial.

This one is bouncing off the cage…….irritability

This one doesn’t sleep…….insomnia

And when the rats stop screwing each other?


Guess that’s me.


I’m getting off the shit.

I woke up this morning


after having watched the clock all night….





et cetera..

this has been going on for months now~

and feel weird.

can’t explain it.

just don’t feel right.

sort of a combination of

anxiety, racing jumbled thoughts, melancholy and a pinch of dread.

maybe I have rabies.

or it could be me getting in touch with my inner German.

Back to the salt mines

Then there is Calvin.

Calvin and I first crossed paths a year ago in the halls of AA while I was still with Charles Manson.

They say God puts people in our lives when we least expect it.

Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting to meet Calvin again where or when I did.

Nothing happens by chance.

“Nothing happens by chance, my friend… No such thing as luck. A meaning behind every little thing, and such a meaning behind this. Part for you, part for me, may not see it all real clear right now, but we will, before long.”-

Richard Bach-Nothing by Chance: A Gypsy Pilot’s Adventures in Modern America,


Calvin is everything I’ve ever wanted in a man.

God couldn’t have cooked him up in a pot with me in mind type of deal.

He has it all:    A gifted intellect, articulate, creative, artistic, wicked sarcasm, deeply compassionate.

And yeah the icing on the proverbial cake, he looks like a Calvin Klein model, but is humble enough to not even know this.

We have so much in common, if there ever was such a thing…. he is the male version of me.


Calvin is in detox right now.


You know what’s fucked?  There’s this strange dichotomous thinking in my brain.  Half of me is ecstatic he is getting the help he so desperately needs.

But yet some stunted adolescent part of me is fucking jealous.   He keeps mentioning the gourmet chef that cooks his meals, and the tai chi classes, and

all the round the clock supportive services he’s getting.   And I feel so left behind.   See, we share the same addiction.


In fact we have the same exact sobriety date.


So while Calvin is in this country club atmosphere safely locked behind external protective contraints.  I continue to go to meetings and then return to my apt. and stare at the walls, make phone calls, and struggle not to run to the corner store and just guzzle mass liquids til cognition ceases.   I wish there were external constraints.

I feel like I am walking on a tightrope a thousand feet up with no fucking safety net.

Half my brain tells me to just drink.  The other half tells me to stop isolating and call other friends of Bill W.  But I am exhausted of the whole process.  Just beat down.

I feel like I need a fucking priest to perform an exorcism on me….. not AA.


And so I, wake up tomorrow just like every other day and go back to the salt mines of my life.

and Calvin?  I guess Calvin does whatever Calvin is doing in there.

I’m supposed to keep the focus on me.   Hard to do when I miss Calvin.


I feel lost.  But that is how I have consistently felt, it precedes Calvin.  haunts me back to childhood.

I never felt comfortable in my own skin.  Ever anxious, ever feeling unsafe, untrusting of the world at large.

ever feeling alone, and un-lovable.


When you spend most of your life perfecting your near seamless veneer so that no one can see your authentic self which is dying on the inside, but you “pass” on the outside as if everything looks okay…..eventually you end up where I am.   Truly hopeless, transiently suicidal.

Blogging about how fucked up you really are,  having basically no friends because you have isolated far far too long in your adult years.   And ya missed that key developmental sensitive window to learn any real social skills because  you were too busy in your younger years trying to people please and be accepted by the “in” crowd, and your life was so riddled with trauma then  you wouldn’t have been able to learn it anyway.


Fucking pathetic is what it is.   Pathetic but true.


Two days ago I had Joan Crawford bearing down on me telling me what a fuck up I am, what an incompetent failure I am that I haven’t accomplished enough.  That I am wasting the college education that I, I” put myself through.  As if there’s not enough self deprecation already on a continuous loop for Pete’s sake.  So I brace myself for the “pull yourself by the bootstraps” speech, that I’ve heard so many times before.  That and the “surely you are exaggerating, that “stuff” happened so long ago, aren’t you over it by now?”  Referring to the years of  abuse and trauma both in my childhood and as and adult.

Pardon me, I hadn’t realised there was a time frame I supposed to heal.


Yep, back to the salt mines.

House of cards

They’re all the same though aren’t they.

Their names change.  Their faces.

But the pattern, it inevitably repeats.  Because I don’t change.

I keep building my house of cards.


I like my adrenaline rush with a side of cortisol please.

I don’t know any other way.

And yet there is a tiny seedling within me that wants something different.


The Hallmark industry has brain-washed me into thinking that some white knight was supposed to come with his steed and

sweep me off  my mother fucking feet and I was suppose to traverse into some fairy-tale and live happily ever after.

They lied and

I bought it.


Fact is there is no fucking fairy tale.  No white night.  And happy ever after?  Pfffft …..the closest I’ve ever come to it

was numbing out my pain in fantasy, booze, weed, or other escapist activities.


My two greatest defense mechanisms have always been humor and intellectualization.  I hide behind them like great steel gates.

The authentic me?  who the fuck even know what that is anymore.   who the fuck knows if I’d even be recognizable to myself, or even be likable?


What do I see in the fucking ink blot?

Oh yeah……..fucking rainbows and sunshine you assholes.

Even though I see black, death, blood.

Oh but I know the ” right” answers.

That’s the problem.

I know what you want me to say.

but at the end of the day….. I still can’t find my way out a fucking emotional paper bag.