Just another day…

Dear Doc,

I know it’s been a minute since I’ve written. I’ve just been too discombobulated emotionally to gather a cohesive thought long enough to put it to paper, as it were. However, I would love to say that I truly enjoyed our session last week. I think that we really clicked for the first time. Not that the sessions before didn’t count; they have helped me immensely. But, I felt that you really understood me…the way I say things and such. Accepted. That’s how I felt, and I’m very grateful for that.

I’ve been sick for a couple of weeks. I did enjoy a short respite the day I came to see you and the one after. Per the norm, all good things must come to an end… In any case, I feel like I’m caught up in Hell’s bloody belly today. As we established; my mood is stable, although at a low point. I honestly thought it was as low as it would get, until I opened my eyes this morning. I feel breathless from the weight of this miserable feeling on my chest. It’s as though it has a body it’s taken to, just beyond my sight. I feel pushed around and sad to my core. And I don’t know what to do about it.

This happens now and then. I suppose, at my advanced age, I should know how to snap out of it. Actually, I should know a lot of things at my age, but even the simplest things that make life comfortable seem to escape my line of sight. All I can see are the big things and they are ugly and fierce and stronger than I am. Days like this feel as though they should be the last day. Nobody in their right mind would want to live another. I’m not in my right mind, though. A fact that I’m having to slowly digest. It’s okay. I’m realizing that I’ve never really been ‘right’. Thank God, because I don’t think I could’ve lived my life if I had been ‘normal’.

Sometimes, lemons really are as delicious as they are bitter. That’s what being mentally…different…is like. It saves you in order to distract you from how it plans to kill you. Either way…silver lining!


Dear Doc,

I’m unwell today. I don’t know why. Things began very nicely, but spun out around noon. Perhaps it was the exchange between my son and I. He is just like his father and speaks to me, more and more often, in the same way. I’m so tired of being called ‘crazy’ and ‘delusional’ when I’m telling truths. Gas lighting. He is an expert at it, as was his father, but I am on to that now. I understand it. Even so, it makes for a difficult and exhausting day to have to sort through that type of mental/emotional flood of pain.

I do feel fortunate today, as my physical pain is quite low. My pain level is at around 5. I cannot recall the last time it was so low. I think it’s because I’ve slept for the last two nights. For many nights prior…not too much, at all. I simply cannot make myself lie down and sleep. There are too many memories wrapped up in my dreams. I know that it seems ridiculous that I cannot face them, but I just can’t. I don’t want to be reminded anymore. I’m feeling so anxious and sad that it’s almost too much to bear. I don’t think it’s worth it, to be honest. Day after day of this millstone ’round my neck, with no end in sight, has worn me down to nearly nothing. And, now, to have my son echoing his father in the way that he does serves as a confirmation, of sorts. One that reinforces my feelings of not being meant to…be.

Yes, I know…melodrama. It’s unintentional, and I feel that melodrama is the essence of the problems I have. Things are bigger and more frightening…ten feet tall are my problems and I feel so small in their shadows. My heart beats out of my chest, begging for sweet release, but I stand strong and won’t allow it. But, my strength is waning, as is my resolve. These are the facts. This is my brain speaking, having grown quite tired of its host.

per chance to…oh, whatever. i give up.

Dear Doc,

It’s 3a.m. and I cannot close my eyes. My mind, dulled by my meds, can barely contain my thoughts, much less eradicate them that I may find peaceful slumber.

Something happened a few days ago, and I think it spun me out a bit. I slept for three hours last night, and five the one before. I guess that, at this rate, I’ll be zero to one hour tonight. It’s funny how that all works, isn’t it? Some lil ol thing in your brain is just pumping chemicals into your system…chemicals that should be there. Your neurotransmitters are firing full force, as they should. Yet, your brain opts for the path less travelled; it casts off the very chemicals it produces to keep you ‘normal’, and your neurotransmitters are shooting at a blank target, for all intents and purposes. They’re like a gun that misfires. It might blow your hand off, or it may just stop functioning, altogether. What fun!

I know you don’t believe me when I tell you that I can feel my brain, but I can. I can feel the damn thing inside of my head. I’ve tried to explain how it feels when I can only feel the top part. Like now. It’s like Houston traffic up there. I wish I could explain it so that you’d understand. But, I can’t. I’m having a lot of trouble with verbal communication this week, but I think it’s because of the sleep thing.

Last night, when I finally fell asleep, I had a dream that I was dead and in a coffin in a funeral home. I remember how thick the makeup was and that I thought I must have died a horrible death. Even so, I sat straight up and got out of the coffin. Alone in the sanctuary, I walked over to a mirror and saw that they’d dressed me as a man and that my makeup was blue, as though I’d died the day before, or something. I couldn’t understand the suit or the makeup, but I couldn’t stop staring. Then, I put one hand out in front of me and I pushed my way into the mirror and disappeared. It’s was an odd thing to dream, and though I love to interpret dreams, I couldn’t get a line on what this one meant. Still can’t. I guess it was just for entertainment value…very creepy entertainment. I mean, I can’t help but think that organs, such as our brain, must become bored at times. Sometimes, I wonder if that’s the place that pain comes from. Not necessarily our brain, but our mind which, though separate from our brain, is solely influenced by the information our brain processes. That’s my theory, at least.

I still can’t get my old friend, K., off my mind. I’m completely blocked on his last name, but I’d love to remember so that I could find him and put some money on his books. I’m almost 51 now and haven’t seen him since I was 16. That was the year before the double murder and, effectively, the end of his life. I feel like I need to see him one last time. I hope I can remember his last name very soon…

and, you are?


Dear Doc,

I slept a full night. As usual, it was a night filled with the darkness of my youth, mocking me as it danced through my dreams. I hate to sleep. Absolutely hate it. Were I not so exhausted, I’d never allow myself so much as the comfort of a bed.

I’m still very shaky today. Nervous and afraid. I need to be able to go take care of some business, but I can’t leave my front door. Not a toe over the trhreshhold. This crap makes me hate myself more with each passing moment. My diet isn’t going very well, either. But I do know how to get a grip on that, at least. I’m just so…I don’t know. Disconnected. Well, disconnected until my finger touches a live wire like going outside of my house. Then, it’s like literally being shocked. And pissed off. And I just keep thinking that this is not really me, I’m just living in someone else’s shell. ‘Me’ is a billionth of a billionth of a shade away from the me who writes these lines. I can feel her, just as if she were right beside me.

I know I’ve explained to you that I feel as though I have a twin out there, somewhere. Well, she’s not out there anymore. She’s near. Closerthanthis. The truth is that she always has been. I can hear her laughing at me and scolding me, sometimes. She hates me. She thinks that I am nothing but an insufferable cry baby and she wants me to get the fuck out of her way. I don’t see that I’m truly in her way. I mean, I know I’m more real in this dimension than she is. But I can still hear her. See her. Feel her. Smell her. The moment she is present, I smell Dahlia and Vines. I hate that scent. She smells like someone dragged her through a field of mismatched flowers behind their truck. Gross. I just hate that perfume and I hate how well it suits her. You’d think my twin would be more like…me. I love sweeter smells like Ciao and Viva la Juicy. OMG! Those two are just yummy! Mmmmm…and Flowerbomb. Yes, please! My signature color is pink; hers is black. My hair is black…she’s a blond. I’m fat, she’s thin. We are total opposites. She looks exactly how I did decades ago. And, since she never had children, she doesn’t have but a few lines on her face. I’d like to jut clock that bitch. How dare she judge me so harshly?

Oh, my…that was quite a rant. I apologize, Doc. I’d be happy to discuss this in session, but I can’t afford to. Perhaps I’ll be able to tell you more once I get insurance. Currently, I have to rate what we discuss based on priority. If it’s not worth four bucks a minute to tell you, you ain’t gonna hear it. lol! I also had an imaginary friend named Abaddon when I was little. His name was Abaddon, but I called him Dino. Dino was funny because he seemed to frighten my grandmother. If I really didn’t want to go somewhere, I’d say that Dino wouldn’t fit in the car and she’d leave me alone about it. I’d pay for it later, as with all else, but in the moment, she’d back off. But, that’s another story for another time, I suppose. In any case, it did feel good to write about my twin…just to talk about her. She’s been shadowing me for my entire life. I tend to think that, since I was conceived right after my mother miscarried twins, either a few cells of one remained living in her womb when I got there, or I was another set of twins and absorbed my wombmate, as it were.

In more pertinent news: Poor Maxine is sitting in the driveway feeling neglected. She looks just as lonely as I am. I need to take her to town for an inspection before her sticker runs out, only I can’t get out of the car to talk to the people who do the inspections. Or anyone else. (J. said he’ll taker her in tomorrow. I really don’t know what I’d do without that kid.) But, my poor baby hasn’t had a good run in a week or more. I don’t run her like I used to because I need some better tires. Also, because I have traffic warrants I can’t pay, as it is. Okay, that’s a lie. I could pay them, but won’t, because the traffic laws are bullshit and I am tired of paying taxes, then having my hand slapped when I safely drive above an arbitrary limit that is only there to propogate more income for the state. I love Texas. If she needs a grand, she could just ask, not send armed enforcement after me.

I’m going to Mom’s house on Friday, I think. My cousin has moved down there recently and I’m going to spend some time with her. That’s going to be fun. Mostly, I’m going to see my dad. He’s so old and he’s really losing it now. I never thought his mind would go the way it has. But my mom does a great job at caring for him. I thank God that he’s got her. She won’t let me take him because I live in such a tiny home and, if he wandered off into the woods…well, he could die. We don’t have police and things up here like they do there. Of course, we have them, but not in large enough numbers to find an old ma lost in the woods. Not to mention what could happen to him if he walked up on a meth lab out there in those trees. Even so, I’d be careful with him, but I understand why Mom feels the way she does.

I guess that’s it, Doc. I need to get busy. This day isn’t going to waste itself!

quantum leap, anyone?

Dear Doc,

It’s a beautiful day, but I can’t seem to get it up to go outside and enjoy it. I hate to pound the same drum all the time, but I just don’t feel life the way I should. I feel so empty, except for this ceaseless sorrow that permeates every cell of my being. I just want to be like I used to be. But, none of us can go back in time.

I decided to get a high school diploma, finally. Online, of course. But, it’s legit and something I’ve always wanted. A GED is ok, but I should’ve graduated. It’s difficult to do that when you are an alcoholic being raised by the same. I don’t discuss that with you because I don’t consider it to be relevant, really. However, there are times when I see the unmitigated relevance of me being a binge drinker and, as often as possible, a daily drunk since I was nine. Even though I don’t consider myself an alcoholic now, and I haven’t lived my adult life as one, I look back on my childhood and I feel terrible for the little girl I was. If I knew of such a child today, I’d move Heaven and Hell to get her out of an environment where she could be drunk as a skid row granddaddy and nobody in her home would even take notice.

That’s been bothering me a lot lately; the fact that I was a straight up alcoholic by the age of 12 and nobody noticed. Per family tradition, I was highly functional, making straight A’s and what have you. But, I was drunk at every available opportunity, of which there were a’plenty. I raised two boys and I promise you that neither one could walk into my home having had a single drink that I would not notice.

Alcohol consumption wasn’t the only thing that went unnoticed; most of which I won’t go into. Academic achievement was all but ignored completely and opportunities to excel beyond my grade, up to the point of beginning college in my early teens, were waved off as though they meant nothing. Looking back, it’s difficult to live with those memories, so I don’t consider them very often. But, I’ll never understand. Never. I was bounced around between schools as often as my grandparents would have a split, which was very often. I don’t even recall the last high school I attended, but I know I quit in tenth grade. So…yep…that’s that.

I am getting a very late start on my day, as I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I got a couple of hours in this morning, but some bad news that I received yesterday seems to have FB_IMG_1477279514586triggered me in a serious way. I don’t feel stable right now. In what way…that’s difficult to describe. I’m shaking and exhausted, but my mind is going a million miles a minute. This is the first that I’ve stopped pacing all day.

I wish I understood what my brain is up to. I still don’t understand how I changed so quickly those long years ago when I had that lil breakdown. I swear…I think I must’ve had a stroke or seizure that I don’t know about. Something…anything…I just need to know what happened. How do you change from one person to another so very quickly? Why was I ‘normal’ on a Friday, and my entire personality was turned upside down by Sunday? Sometimes, I think I was poisoned. Or…I don’t know. B. hated me by then and I often wonder if he did something to me. Because I don’t understand this and I never have. I was beautiful and gracious and kept a perfect home and had friends and parties. Then…I wasn’t. Please help me understand how I became a panic ridden recluse almost overnight.

Most who know me, personally, know that I believe that we live in a multiverse. I think that one explanation for my situation could be that something happened to cause me to slip into an alternate universe and that the ‘me’ I knew is still living her life…happy and beautiful and all of those things…just on the other side of the veil. Could I have experienced a quantum event? My younger brother talks to people who we can’t see, but he can see them. Not only that, they have real input into his life the way that friends do in the lives of most people. Maybe that’s what happened to him, too.

You have to look this up and see what you think. I’m going to bring you a book, next I see you, and I really hope you are open minded enough to consider the insights shared within it. I just have to know WHAT HAPPENED. Nobody changes overnight. They just don’t. Not like this. And, if I’m not living my authentic life, the one I was physically born to, then I need to eliminate this one so that I can go back. That’s all. But I need to know.

Well, Doc, I guess I’ve spilled my guts quite enough for one day. I’m going to try to focus on something long enough to finish it. I don’t know what, but I’ll figure it out.

Till next time…

thank you

dear doc,

i learned a lot today. i think it was the best session we’ve had and i thank you for listening and putting up with me. yes, i know it’s your job. and, you are quite well paid, if i must say so, myself. lol! but you…i imagine that you’d be helping people for nothing, had that been the way your life turned out.

my friend, L., called me on the way home from our session. he left the hospital of his own volition because they would not give him all of the morphine he wanted. he’s now decided that the only way to ‘get well’ is to begin to use heroin. HEROIN. i’ll be a sonofabitch… i told him that was not going to work. i reminded him that withdrawal from heroin is worse then those from booze. then, there is the methadone, should you taper off. after that, suboxone. after that…etc… i told him that, no matter what road he took, there was going to be pain involved. he didn’t like that. i don’t blame him. i wouldn’t like that, either. i tried to tell him that you don’t kill a fly with a jackhammer. i guess the next few days will be quite telling. i’ll probably go stay with him tomorrow night and…well, go from there.

as soon as I walked in the door, Mom messaged me. she is in the throws of forcing my bipolar schizophrenic brother to get help. he won’t. he’ll die crazy. i’m glad she refused to allow him to come live with her again, as i’m certain he will do her harm, again. he’s always been a violent man, long before his hallucinations began having real input into his life. i love him, but he’s terrifying and i’m happy that my mother is finally afraid enough to call his bluff, if only for her own safety. she won’t admit to being afraid, but i know she has to be. i’m like her in that way…i can’t stand the thought of being looked at, or feeling like, a victim. it’s funny, though…because she and i have both been victims.

something occurred to me on the way home from your office; some people seem to constantly stumble through life for nothing but the love of gravity. were it not for the falling, no one would rush to pick them up. i don’t think i’m that way. i hate to be helped up. even by you. but, i do recognize when i need help, but only ask for it if the bind i’m in isn’t of my own doing, if that makes sense. i hate it when people just keep on falling. you pick them up so often that you become exhausted from it…sick and weak, even. sometimes, i just just wanna smack people like that right in their face. but…i won’t. because, though i don’t like dogs, i’m a sucker for a lost puppy.

i guess i should try to get to bed now. i just wanted you to know that i appreciate you. and thank you very much for accepting my ‘normal’ mood. i hope to be a shiny happy type one day, but doubt it will ever happen. who knows? i guess it could happen. just not today. that’s all.

this, that…the other

Dear Doc,

I can’t wait to see you on Monday, although I’m not quite sure you’ll want to hear what I have to say. I don’t like the new pills. They make me irritable and groggy and blank. Same as the old pills. I hate to tell you negative things about my meds because it seems as though you feel insulted when I do. But, you need to understand that you are only a man, not a god. Though I do feel that you are a very shamanesque human being, I don’t feel that you are evolved enough to tap into that part of yourself fully, as your ego seems to be a bit heavy handed in that regard. No matter…I would rather not take any pills, anyway. Since I ‘have’ to, I’d prefer to try to take some that work better with my brain chemistry, thank you very much.

I’ve learned some lessons since our last session. The main one is that you should take people at face value. If they show you something, especially if it is unflattering, believe that they are showing themselves in true form. If they lie, believe them that they are liars. And, if they seek to use you, do not try to outsmart them, because you cannot. Take the word of the people around you, whether it is spoken to your ears or eyes. You’ll save yourself a lot of pain.

On the other hand, I have been on a spending spree that is going to have to stop. If I told you how much I’ve spent in the last two weeks, you’d choke on it. I can’t even try to justify it. It felt good and that’s why I did it. I will say that half of it was during a semi sleep state, but, I do think I could’ve stopped myself, had I given it a try. Few things feel better than spending money. And, I do good things with my money. I help a lot of people, in the tradition of my mother. I don’ think it’s fair that I feel guilt when I spend on myself, for a change. I refuse to use the word ‘deserve’ in reference to my reason for spending on myself. I don’t deserve anything I have. Nobody does. But I do feel well rewarded and fairly so.

I am trying with everything inside of me to look towards the future with positivity and confidence that I will overcome my solitary disposition, as it were, and find myself able to engage with those around me to the extent that I can, at the very least, grocery shop for myself. Even the thought makes my heart skip a beat and I feel the cold chill of anxiety welling up inside. But it’s not going to win. It may take the battle today, tomorrow and the next, but one day I will prevail. There has simply got to be a shred of the old me left inside, somewhere. And, if there is, I know she wants out. NOW.

Elle doesn’t live here anymore… 

He never gave real thought to his words. Had he done so, I’m certain that his interpretation would be very much like my own…
“Your brain can no longer tolerate its lone occupant, so I’m going to give you some meds. They’ll either cure you, or kill you in some way. 

Either way, you won’t get out of this without losing yourself completely. 

On the bright side, you died inside long ago, for all intents and purposes. Though I can’t guarantee any of this will help, remember it’s for your own good…”
After a few months of taking poison, the realization hits me, on this gorgeous Mayberry morn, that he was right:

Elle doesn’t live here anymore. She was simply too hard to handle. Her roar is now a whisper, and her love of all things mysterious has been contained in the vacuous chasm once occupied by her soul. Gone are the silly daydreams and imaginations that made her life colorful. In their stead, a screen, blank and bland, reveals only chemically induced normalcy. People who know her think this is a wonderful improvement. She does not share their opinion. 
  –  End 

Bite me

Dear Doc,

Things are getting different and I’m not sure what to do, or if I can do anything. I feel afraid and lost. I know I’m not unique, but I am alone and my world is very small. Sometimes, I worry that it’s going to grow so small that no one at all can fit into my lil world. At times, that’s frightening…other times, it’s a relief.

My affect is still very off. This was last evidenced by a woman who said she was going to punch me in the face. Needless to say, her words did not provoke the fear response she felt they should have. Honestly, she was unarmed…I can’t get it up for that. I sat there, watching her tirade, with what I felt was a pleasant smile on my face. This was a constant source of agitation to the woman, so the situation escalated. I didn’t have to go through with what I planned to do to her, as she finally freaked out and revealed her hand; She was jealous and enraged that a certain man ‘lights up when you come in the room and I’m tired of feeling like a second class citizen!’. I assured her that, having no class whatsoever, it was impossible for her to be a second class anything. I know…gas on a fire…I get that…now.

In any case, it’s not just my vacant emotional response that’s getting worse. It’s that the voices I hear, sometimes, are changing. I hear a woman’s voice now, along with the others. And, when I was lying in bed with a friend the other night, he said something, and I heard it as my late husband’s voice. And there are hallucinations. I’ve always had them as a stress response, but these are different and frightening.

I can’t help but wonder why I’ve gotten worse since I first began seeing you. I think there is only one answer…Meds. In fact, abilify can cause hallucinations. I simply do not understand why I was prescribed that drug. I hope you understand that I have no intention of taking it. I may tell you I am, but I hope you get it when you realize I’m not. Because I’m going to get better and I’m going to do it naturally. I will find a real medicine man. In fact, I know a shaman and I will consult with him. I’m so angry at you, Doc. You can’t just throw a diagnosis, or four, on someone and then scribble out the name of some medication and expect everyone to be ok with it. People are individuals, Doc. You can’t paint us all with the same brush.

I recall how disappointed you were about the lithium. I remember how you told me that I couldn’t feel it that early on. But, if you put a foreign substance into a human body, their body is forced to process it, so it’s a ridiculous imagination to think that the person would not ‘feel’ one drug, or another, as it is in that person’s bloodstream for the whole ride. It made me feel so stupid when you said that. It was as though you thought I was lying. I assure you, I was not. Perhaps if your grandmother had filled you full of Valium and speed and pain medication since you were a small child, you’d have a hard time processing meds, too.

Another thing: You promised we didn’t have to do any gut wrenching therapy. But, you said we’re going to talk about dreams when next we meet. You do realize that those dreams are pretty fucking gut wrenching, right? I don’t know if I can sit on that couch and go over my dreams. I did start keeping a dream journal. It’s full of fairly sick shit that I decided not to post. I like to post my thoughts here. I think that my opinion counts. Some else’s counted to me, and that is what put me on the road to you. I’m not saying I don’t have any issues. I am saying that knowing what caused them doesn’t matter. None of it matters. I am not short on insight into my ‘condition’. I know exactly what caused it all. Does it help to know? Nope. Does it make it better in any way? Hell no. Does it make me sick to know? All day, every day.

I’m sorry for the rant, Doc. Overall, you’re great. There are just a couple of issues I have with you and your script pad. If you can’t start understanding more, then I don’t know what to tell you. I love your art, and your shamanesque nature. I wish you’d explore that part of yourself more so that you could share it with people like me on a deeper level. We’d benefit more than you know. If you are just in it for the money, I guess that won’t matter. I’ll figure that out, sooner or later. I will figure you out, Doc.

ehhhh…what’s up with this shit, Doc?

Dear Doc,

I should probably be sleeping by now, but I don’t want to go to bed. I’m having issues that I’m not comfortable discussing, but don’t know what to do about on my own. I guess we all have our sleepless nights, don’t we?

I’ve been up and down three times today. I hate that feeling. My mood just changes and there’s no going back when the bad moods hit. I’m not sure that there is anything so unusual about it, though. Your profession is based on some utopian view of society, where everyone behaves in a relatively uniform, happy, way. That’s just now how humans are. We are all flawed. Why is that so bad?

I’m not going to take the abilify any longer. It makes me nauseated and bland…dizzy and confused. You know that I have fibromyalgia, yet you prescribed me a drug that makes my legs hurt so bad that I can barely walk. I’d rather be sad one minute, happy the next. If I had to be that type of ‘normal’ all the time, I’d kill myself. I can’t imagine that there are people who live at that base line of emotion. It just isn’t possible. I think that psychiatry may just be a business model and not a cure, or resolution, for any real thing. I understand that there are people who are truly in need of help, but not sure that I’m one of them. Of course, I have some problems. I need you to give me some meds that will resolve those problems until I am able to figure them out, myself. Otherwise, you’re something like a parking meter that I feed in order to keep track of my troubles for me.

Not for nothing: After researching abilify, I cannot understand why you prescribed it. This is a horrible drug and I’m having serious side effects. What is it about you shrinks that causes you to guinea pig your patients? Is it fun? Are you a sadistic lot? I’m unclear on that, at the moment. I’m also quite angry. You have prescribed me a problem in a bottle. Here is a bit of info about this lovely drug…


As I am positive that you have the same access to information that I do, why have you given me this drug? That’s all I want to know.

I apologize for sounding so ungrateful. It does ease the mind to chat with someone like you. You are kind and honest and give excellent, if not somewhat simplistic, feedback. I get that it is purposely simplistic, but that doesn’t really work with me. I’m not a simpleton and it seems that the more you try to simplify, in the stead of giving me actual clinical input, the less insight I garner into my disposition. That insight is what I’m paying four bucks a minute for. I’m no genius, but…seriously…c’mon. Is this thing on????


Dear Doc,

I’m shaking like a leaf today. I don’t know why, but I feel so discombobulated. Last night’s dreams, today’s racing thoughts and the numbing anxiety are really almost too fucking much.

I slept in bed last night, for the first time since I came back from L’s. I knew there was a reason I didn’t want to sleep there. But, I did, anyway, because I needed to use my cpap and stretch out. So, I did. And he came for me. All night. He almost got me, too. I can’t tell you who, because I still can’t see his face. But he got so close. Oh my God, I can’t stand it sometimes. Your fucking nightmare pills don’t work on him. Not even a little. I swear, I’m dying from this shit.

I said some shit to my mom last evening. It needed saying because I’m sick and tired of the ‘fiction’ game. You and that ‘fiction’ bullshit…seriously. Just because you call a lie a ‘fiction’ doesn’t mean it’s no longer a fucking lie. I will say that I so love the term ‘fiction’. ‘Oh, she’s caught up in a fiction, dear, she doesn’t remember what’s true.’ It does sound lovely…to be caught up in a fiction. It sounds as though someone is lost in a paradise of their own creation. But, it does mean something altogether different, right, Doc? I’m sorry for ranting on about it, but that has just bugged the shit out of me since you said it. I don’t need you to candy coat things for me. I believe that truth is truth and lies are lies. It’s very simple in my fucking world. It has to be.

Anyway, we were having a discussion about my dad’s birthday. It’s in two weeks. Nobody really wants to attend. Why? Because of his past. He has had the luxury of a very long life, the first half of which he was a stone cold motherfucker. Even those who weren’t even born back then hold a grudge about it. What the actual fuck is up with that? I’ll tell you…It’s Mom. So, she tells me that he hasn’t exactly done anything to endear himself to his grandchildren, great and great-great. I lost my fucking mind when she said that. That motherfucker saved my goddamn life. He was and is my hero and I am not dealing with more of the same. He’s almost dead, for Christ’s sake. Why can’t they just let it fucking go? Bunch of assholes. No fucking respect, no real need for an old man who hasn’t greased their palms. Fuck. Them. All. I don’t need them, either. I’m so fucking tired of the family bullshit.

Nobody was worried about Dad being a piece of shit when they handed me over, were they? Not my mom…my queer as fuck father. Nobody. But they sure have been around for the punishin’. Yep. Fuck that old man…who does he think he is? We’re real Christians. He’s just some Bible thumping ex drunk. Blah…blah…blah…= FUCK EM ALL

Mom took a bit of offense to my statements. I can understand. I sensed that she is a bit afraid of me, for some reason. My grandmother was terrified of me, only that was due to her guilt and nothing of my own doing, I assure you, Doc. I told Mom that I have a right to feel as I do. She agreed, but was still in a lil snit. Later, she messaged me as though nothing was said. That’s the norm. The usual. The dreaded…always is. I will let the subject lie, as I said what I needed to. But I will feel the same way, no matter. I can do that now, with no regret. I dig that.

I know I seem unhinged right now. Perhaps if the shaking would stop and I could get the memory of last night’s dreamfair out of my head. Alas, it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere any time soon. I think I’ll have a drink. It’s a beautifully gloomy day and I’m in for the duration.

Till next time, Doc!


Dear Doc,

I think that I finally figured out why my mother gave me away to my grandparents…

My mother discovered that my father was/is gay shortly after giving birth to me. He left town, afraid that he’d be exposed. She had a breakdown, during which she gave me away, for all intents and purposes, to the two people she most despised in this world. I’ve never quite figured that out. I’ve never understood it. Until now. It occurs to me that, after growing up with their abuse, (it was severe), when she looked at me, I reminded her that she had gotten fucked over, yet again, by my father. I reminded her that she was vulneralble. She couldn’t stand to look at me for that reason, so she gave me to the people who made her feel vulneralble her entire life. Then, she had all of us…everyone who made her feel this pain…under one roof. After that, she never had to worry that any one of us could hurt her, or remind her of the heartbreak and pain she associated with her childhood or her first marriage.

I know that sounds like it’s a bit much, but when you consider that she divorced my father, remarried, had a legitimate child, all in the space of nineteen months after my birth, I think it’s right on the money.

The irony of the situation is that I, in turn, reminded my grandmother of my mother so much that she could not stand the sight of me, either. lol! Can you imagine? She just got my mother out of her life and then I bounced into it. Though, the story my mother tells is one of she and my grandmother fighting over me, but I believe that the evidence stands on solid legs. I could never tell my mother what I think. She is caught in what you call a ‘fiction’, which I call a ‘lie’, as there is not such a thing as a fiction when there are available facts. Actually, I think your ‘fiction’ is an abuse of the language and an excuse for liars to fall back on when needed.

That’s all for now. Just wanted to share with ya. I knew I was on the verge of figuring that out…for the last two decades. lol! Time, time, time…see what’s become of me…la la la… 😉