Monthly Archives: July 2018


Grieving two dead parents within 6 months is hard.  Having to make the decision to place my son into a residential treatment for both Autism and trauma was hard.  Already having a lifelong battle of depression and anxiety exacerbates these already difficult life stressors.

Some blogger came on here and left a reply telling me to grow up and stop whining.   Telling me I was disrespecting my mom? Look, stranger with no moniker, you don’t know me and you will never know my mom! She would have shredded you with her expansive vernacular.  This made me want to choke them out with my bare hands, come up here on my blog and tell me I’m whining?   God, help them if they come over here in person and disrespect me like that to my face.  Oh yes, I have a temper! Then I just wanted to cry.  Cry for the beautiful mother I lost.  Cry for the mean person that attacks a person who already is suffering.  That is the devil’s work.   Then a few days later, I withdrew.  Depression breeds isolation.

I begin to feel like I have leprosy.   Everything I touch turns to shit.  I feel so lonely there is just anache in my chest.  I miss human touch.  I miss talking with people.  And….I feel so unworthy that I punish myself by isolate and perpetuate this cycle of staying right where I am.

My belief system which is long-standing, reflexive, and well-ingrained goes something like this,” you suck and will never amount to anything.  If anyone does think anything of you it’s because they don’t really know the real you and once they do, they will run.”  So I figure it’s best to stay behind walls, or veneers and personae.   My belief system is like a prison compromised of impenetrable internal bars.

But every so often the desire for human contact, the longing to be cared about is so strong, that it supersedes my indoctrination and my belief system.

In essence, some part of me breaks free for a time from “the machine’ and runs feral.   I suppose if the timing was well played, if another collided with me while I was “out” running feral, then I suppose.   Well I suppose.  I suppose I … well I don’t know what would happen.   It’s yet never happened.

I do wonder about it.  It’s on my mind a lot lately.   Maybe a prison break is possible.

Best opening speech

I have watched this many times over the years.   It remains a favorite of mine.

Rest In Peace    Gunnery Sgt.  R. Lee Ermey



2 choices

Lately I find myself slipped back into darkness.  With only 2 choices circling in my grasp:  getting into my car to drive away, leaving everyone / everything familiar behind and suicide.

The latter seems more practical than the former on so many levels.   My parents  both dying within 3 months of each other this past January and April is weighing on me more heavily than words can express.  My mom has been the hardest grief to hold.  Missing her is like having a piece of my heart cut out.  The bleeding just doesn’t stop and the nightmare of losing her, my best friend and only rock, never ends.

I’ve also suffered another major loss,  just not a death.  The loss of my young teen son.  I have lost him to addiction and mental health issues; for now.     He is autistic and has complex trauma.  I needed to place him in a comprehensive residential program,  Over the past few years the most intensive outpatient  in-home behavioral therapy has failed.  This placement broke the remaining piece of my heart.

Theese losses stack one atop on another.  I feel like I am drowning at sea and have nothing to hold onto.   I am so tired of trying to get a breath of water.   Exhausted.   I haven’t felt joy in years and the drugs they give me provide no solace.  Maybe it’s best to just relax and let go.  Lean into the inevitable.

I think of Brad Delp, Robin Williams, Kate Spade, and Anthony Bourdain.   I don’t see them as defective.  I don’t see them as weak.  I see them as tired of struggling and having no hope.

We all need hope if we are to survive.   I don’t honestly know if I have any anymore.




Fri Cooking


The other side of the tracks


Photo:  mine –  6.14.18  Amherst, Mass

I grew up in an upper middle class suburb in New England, but we were not an upper middle class family.  Our house looked like all the other homes in the neighborhood from the outside.  We lived in a modest neighborhood.  My step-father was a blue-collar worker.   For the majority of my childhood my mom was a stay-at-home parent and my step-dad’s income was the sole source of income supporting our family.

Times were tough.  To get by, my mom shopped at church thrift stores for clothing at times.  She knew how to sew (she was an outstanding seamstress) and she made many shirts by hand for my sister and I out of patterns she bought at the local fabric store.  It was only in the last two decades that I realized was a labor of Love this truly was.  At that time however,  I cringed at this because I wanted all the same clothes that all my friends were wearing.   There was always a sense of shame around this.   Fear that my friends would find out about me wearing “used” clothing.  Fear they would laugh at my mom’s homemade things.

Times were tough.   There was other periods where we didn’t have a great variety of food to eat.  One summer I remember there was a sale on hot dogs and Mom bought score of them.  We ate hot dogs and beans for what seemed to be like a good 2 weeks.  To this day I find it difficult to eat a hot dog.

My sociopath step-brother “Wicked”, used to get high on pot and then sneak his friends in the house and eat all the lunch meats my mom had just bought for the week for my dads lunches as well as like 2 loaves of bread and a couple bags of chips and a gallon of milk.  So out of necessity, my mom put a bicycle lock on the refrigerator.

Times were tougher.   My two step-brothers both had ADHD and the doctors at that time told my parents not to have any sugary foods in the house. ADHD was poorly understood and was thought to be exacerbated by sugar. So my parents wouldn’t allow my step-sister or I have any cookies, ice-cream or anything with sugar.   It just wasn’t allowed in our house. I began to crave it and seek to get it outside of the home any chance I could.   While visiting friends houses, relatives, even stealing from stores sometimes.    I truly believe this set the stage for the eating disorder I developed later.

I got used to seeing my friends getting the clothes they wanted, the food and snacks they wanted.   I got used to deprivation.  As used to it as one can get used to it.  I think that when one of my friends came over and saw the bike lock on my fridge and asked why  I didn’t even know what to say.  I was mortified.

As life moved forward my mom found work, things got a bit better but not a whole lot.   I got a job at fourteen both to earn money and also to escape my fucked up house.   I ended up spending the bain of my earnings on marijuana which Wicked secretly distributed out of our home, and alcohol which he purchased for me.  Both helped me forget how screwed up my life was.

Times got even tougher.

At some point I was introduced to several wealthy people.  Some young men and women in college.   Every one of them made me feel less than.   Every one of them made me feel insignificant.   Every one of them made me feel like I was so much more worthless than they were.  Simply because of the way I was dressed, the type of vehicle I drove, the apparent lack of jewelry I wore.   I didn’t have the status symbols they did.

There were the haves and the have nots.  And I was a have-not.

It left such an indelible and foul taste in my mouth that I developed a prejudice against wealthy people.  Such that later in life, if I found out a man I was dating,  had any sort of money, he never got a second date with me.

Intellect and reason tells me that surely there are wealthy people who are kind and benevolent; but I have such trust issues with their “sort.” Just can’t get past it.  I would just rather stay on this side of the tracks.

When I look at a homeless person, I see a person. Maybe a person who is struggling. Maybe they are addicted, maybe mentally ill. I do not see a person who is beneath me. I see a person who can teach me something. Maybe I can talk with them awhile. I feel more comfortable with these people than a wealthy person.  Now that says something.

I have never been able to reconcile why those snobby fools felt as though they were better.   Were they brainwashed from a young age to think so?   Indoctrinated into believing that only people from within their social class / power elite are worthy human beings? Are they raised without any moral compass or Christian values?

Why do some people with so much money denigrate others?  Where does their attitude of arrogance this come from?

Don’t they realize at the end of the day no matter how much one has in the bank that 1) we all put our pants on one leg at a time, 2) everyone’s poop smells gross, and 3) when we die, we can’t take a penny with us.

I once met a man on an epilepsy website. We had met on a chat support forum.  He was a Sargent on the LAPD.  He had to turn in his weapon and take a desk job from having had a tonic-Clinic seizure and was on medical leave until they could figure out the cause.  I told him my story.  How I was diagnosed with Temporal Lobe Epilepsy and was out on medical leave.  That I had been struggling financially.  I told him that nearly my entire life I have lived just above the federal poverty line despite receiving my college degree with honors.  So that coming from a tough childhood helped me toughen up for the hard times I was now facing.

He told me he had a very comfortable life.  He had a house, wife, 2 kids, a vacation house and as he put it “all the toys a guy could want.”  He said that despite all these things he was not happy.

He said,” To be honest, I was never happier than when my wife and I were first married and living in a tiny apartment with shag rugs.  We had nothing, but we had each other “Now,” he continued , “I sit here online I think about having affairs, my marriage feels empty, I drink every day til I pass out , some days I want to blow my brains out.”  He said , “Don’t let anyone tell you different,  money isn’t everything hon.”

If you had to choose only side of the track to stay on, which side would you choose to stay on and why? 









Mwah ha ha


The cost of Freedom is buried in the ground

Special thanks to all the courageous men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice so that future generations could enjoy freedom here in this great United States of America.

Thank you to all who have given service to our great country.

God bless you all.

The God Sessions


When I was a little girl, I used to say my prayers every night before I went to bed.  I was raised Catholic and so I started my prayers by making the sign of the cross, “ In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.“

I would then recite the Lord’s Prayer also known as an “Our Father” then move to a “Hail Mary.”  It was more to help me understand each word as well as to remember the prayers.  When through with those,  I would start asking God to bless my mom and dad,  brothers and sisters, and grandparents.  Then I would start going up our street mentally and ask for blessings for all my friends and their moms and dads, their brothers and sisters  (all by names) until I went down the whole block.  Then I got to my teachers at school, pets that lived in our neighborhood, special intentions for anyone I knew that was ill.  I included the children that were starving in Africa. Every night when Mom had to scrape our dinner plate into the trash she reminded us how there were kids starving in Africa and how they gladly would eat all this food that she was scraping off.  Then I always asked God to please help the person who needed it the most.    I wanted God to help that person first as I knew someone always has it worse than another.

During the day I had an abundant prayer life as well but it was a bit more quirky.  It was magical-thinking meets superstition meets magic 8-ball.

I would stand in my driveway by myself with my basketball and talk to God. In these God sessions I’d ask him important stuff as well as the very mundane.  No question was too big or too small.   Like,”are my parents going to let me sleep over Cindy’s house?” Then I’d hurl the basketball up into the net.  Mind you my little body and hands were so small I had to throw underhand.  If the ball went in the answer was yes.  If it missed that meant God was saying no.

If I was really disappointed with God’s answer, as the case sometimes was, I would say, ”let’s do this three times and 2 our of three times will decide.”  After doing  best out of three,  I would finally have acceptance at that point.

The thing was, I truly believed that God was speaking to my 8-year-old self through that basketball net. It wasn’t hocus pocus. Only now in retrospect do I feel a bit silly.  But only for a moment.  The larger part of me feels wistful and wishes I could go back in time and recapture that time again.   My faith was strong then.  I had such a deep connection to God.

I’ve had prayer life and deep faith for most of my life.  Now,  I feel so lost and don’t know how to get that back.  I’m scared.  What if I can’t? Maybe its the evil one whispering that to me?  But if I can get my prayer life back, how do I?  how?




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