breathe, echoing the sound

I just want for you to be here to sit beside me.

I wish for the anxiety to be gone so my chest to relax and the shaking to stop.

I want to be held so the tears will stop and I’ll know its okay. I want the shaking to stop and I want to know its okay.

Today is a blue day.

The lenses in my glasses are blue. Not a dark kind of midnight blue but kind of a prussian blue. Seeing the world this way is very frustrating because I don’t like these glasses. They feel like I can’t take them off and change them out for my pretty pink ones. They feel like I can’t breathe. They make the little things look big and the easy things look hard and they make everything feel personal. The blue glasses put me on the roller coaster that takes me on the vortex ride and I fucking hate the vortex ride. I don’t know who designed that shit but they didn’t know what they were doing.

I try to be quiet and wait for the calm to come.

I try not to think about what I’m not doing and the mess piling up and the arguments I’m picking for no reason and the tears that I can’t stop. I can’t.

What’s to say, what’s to ask, I’ve no answer to give and even I probably don’t even want to hear the reality. So I sit and sniffle and wipe dry my tears and think about all the reasons that brought me here to this blue day. The reasons that matter and the ones that don’t.

Today is a blue day.

I just want for you to be here to sit beside me.

I wish for the anxiety to be gone so my chest to relax and the shaking to stop.

I want to be held so the tears will stop and I’ll know its okay. I want the shaking to stop and I want to know its okay.



this is not about you

If you build it, they will come….
If you sit and stare at it, words will appear…

That should work right? Okay lack of words is not the problem, it’s too many swirling in my head and not really knowing how to string them together in some coherent way that someone other than myself may want to read. Then again, is that the point? Well, it seems it’s become the point and that may be my issue. I seem to have lost that abandon with which I used to approach my writing. Back then I would sit at some random place with some random beer and write (yes with a pen) the skeleton of what would become my next blog. I continued writing merrily when the pen gave way to the portability of a 15# brick of a laptop. During the brick era is when I found I had readers. I panicked a little (someone reads my shit???) but trudged on affording protection to the guilty, only because I myself wished to remain anonymous. And then all shit hit the fan. I found out family read my shit. Maybe not regularly, maybe not even often, but they did.

well fuck.
The words in my head ceased to allow themselves out through my fingers. And before you say at least had a journal… uh no, the words weren’t hap-nin there either.

well fuck.
Periodically I’d be inspired by something and sorta safe writing would happen. I’d even had a brief reprieve from the verbal constipation while I changed up all my psych meds and had no filter (not a chance bitches, don’t even think it… you shut your pie hole or I will cut you). And on occasion I can still tap into that filter-less freedom. But not often.

Do you realize that when you write a blog it is basically a journal to which you’ve given the world a key. Like it or not anyone… that’s EH-KNEE-ONE can stumble upon your shit or troll for your shit if they really want. Even the most careful person leaves behind crumbs that someone could follow (note you’ve never seen my face and I’ve never said anyone’s name. And no, my parents were not angry activists or suffering from a trauma leaving their tongues partially paralyzed causing them to think hey… sars is a good name for a girl.). So when you start venting about your sister-cousin and her giant goiter… if she can operate her nubbin, she can read your shit. And when you got pissed because you had to lance mama’s boil for the sixth time because she didn’t want the hawt young Dr. Thibodaux to see she’d put on “some weight”… If she can get uncle LeRoy to show her how to find “Dr. Oz on the computer thang”, she can read your shit. Thus I filter. Though I have no sister-cousin or Uncle LeRoy, I do have this ‘I’m not catholic’ “Catholic Guilt” that plagues me. It tells me if I write about my mom or sister or a friend in a not so glowing light, they will read it and be offended. (They probably just felt me type that and will know they have to check my blog) I could just be good ‘ol fashioned venting, but they’ll never know and think it’s something different. And since my anonymity is shot there – my family and friends know who I am… ugh.

So I filter.
well fuck.
At this moment I have a head full of things ready to tumble out but I filter. BUTT… (that was a big butt for those still playing) I have things to say. Things I want, need to say.

I have touched on having a behavioral health disorder (the preferred term around here – I honestly don’t give a fuck what you call it, as long as after you find out you still call me friend) that has been “classified” Bipolar II (and even then, that is a label more for insurance than me). Basically (the super dumb version) is depression with periods of “hypomania” or not quite mania. For me this is linked to anxiety. (yay!) This is a tough topic to broach sometimes as there are those that don’t understand because its all “psycho-babble mumbo jumbo”. And when writing, I don’t preface with: ‘Warning this blog contains bipolar content or mom look away, I’m talkin’ about being fucking nutter right now!’ However, it gets across in a roundabout way sorta. Because I filter the fuck out of things when I am cycling instead of embracing the moment and letting my filter go. According to my besties, I am my funniest, do my best writing when I am anxious. Lots of jokes get made about being bipolar – I make jokes about being a Gemini and bipolar, but the reality is I got off easy because mania is a bitch. I will cut my tangent short here and save it for a depressed day.

Basically what I’m saying is my filter is clogged and I don’t want to pressure wash it. As Zimm said, I’d have to wring it out because you can’t stick that shit in the dryer it won’t fit anymore! So, I’m just gonna leave it at the curb. Let the er Engineers take it with them along with all the other waste. Filter-less writing is better writing.

Sometimes it’s just like that… you have to apologize in advance to the people you love because your intent is not to hurt their feelings. But you just need to say what you need to say, even though you have made clear before “if you don’t like it, don’t read my shit”. This time – it’s a pointed warning. So here it is, and you may never see it again:


~posted from my tablet thingy~



singing man

This week, well the last two, have been about as much as I can take on this ride. But its fortunate I have a vast collection of music to shuffle through my mindPod (and actual shite too if you must know… between the collections is about two solid months of non stop tuneage) and I happened to land on Austin Lucas. Ahhh Austin Lucas. Not a well known musician, though he should be. And today, he is my hero. His style may not be for all but he was exactly what I needed. Most specifically his song Singing Man.

The past few weeks have been that of feeling weak and inadequate. Regardless  of what anyone said or did I wasn’t going to get it. That is the nature of the little car that whirrs me round. But when its quiet and I can’t hear anything I tap my dbase of songs and here it is… Austin Lucas. So today was my dad’s birthday (dude! 69 – he’s gonna throw that around all year because he’s dirty… GROSS!). I hate family events for more reasons than I can tell you today but the short version is because my sister somehow  – with her super powers (do you get those during child birth? if so I may have to rethink shit) – flip-floped me in the line of birth order and is now the oldest instead of youngest and has a complete vulcan mind-meld hold over my mother. I think its because she is married and has a child and I myself have neither, in fact I do not want child and I am divorced, thus I am broken. so there’s that… So I couldn’t go. I just couldn’t. I know I disappointed my bro, and I hate that. But to be fair I was unwell on Sunday but, it was made all the worse by my anxiety. I felt well…. weak and small and like I mattered little. My solution was to say hey, I’ll come over on his actual birthday! So the last three days I kept hearing the words…

‘I had followed her on
Until breathlessly she said
Here’s my hand, won’t you take it, won’t you?
You are not weak
And not small
In my eyes you are mighty’

I realized its only in my own eyes that I am weak and small. I may not be the singin man but I cause my own shit storm sometimes. I need to realize she is the youngest, I am the oldest, I am not weak and not small but rather a person who is mighty…


this is just him which to me is more pure, because if you are struggling within – you don’t hear harmony. I sing and I don’t hear harmony. Though the link above has the harmony’s with the female voice (who I’m ashamed to say I don’t know).



Thanks Austin, needed you this week and thanks for the tweet…


WoW: Exercise 22 – Select a piece of music that reflects the mood of writing you’d like to aim for. Press play. Start free writing. Write the first words that come into your head. When the music’s over, so is the writing. I’d recommend finding out how long the song is before you start the exercise. You may feel cheated in your writing time if you pick a song by The Ramones. Of course, if you feel like writing a short, punky piece by all means, go for it!

the slope

I don’t think I’m boring, well, maybe I am boring. I never used to think I was boring. Okay I’m not its just one of those days.

Sometimes its like that when you are sitting listening to your friend talk about her life and things… I think I may have fallen off into the abyss of canned pears in heavy syrup boring. I never used to think that. I never used to think I was vanilla but lately when I look in my closet at the 25 long sleeved plain colored layering t-shirts I start to think there is a distinct possibility mensa may skip my house in favor of other applicants (mine were written in sharpie you know, color makes a statement).

So lately I’ve been feelin a little on the short scale of the bell curve. I’m feelin kinda like that kid who’s friends point over there, then swipe his chocolate milk because he looks, over there, every time. And then wonders where the hell he put his chocolate milk.

Today is a blue day. A Vanilla blue day. My real life is full of amazing and creative and brilliant and fearless people. I have been on a mission to slough of those that suck away my own creative energy… and yet still… today.

I feel like I am staring through the window watching the cool kids. I’m wearing my cute clothes that make me have a girl shape and I am here, staring… watching through the window hoping that instead of just wandering out on occasion to say hi or chat or get away from the annoying bitch they came with and laugh with me for a minute, they’ll want me to come in… and hang out, sit at their table. Maybe some of whatever it is they have will spill onto my plate and it will make me feel less small. Maybe I won’t feel so weak and vanilla. Maybe I will remember how it used to be to be pink. Yesterday. And then I can get out of this bed and pick up that magazine from the New York Times Sunday Paper that keeps taunting me, and I can remember…


welcome to my ride

Your hands are on your head and your mind is racing and you’re wondering ‘what the fuck, what the FUCK!’ What’s next and why am I standing here staring at my bed in tears wondering why I’m in tears. And why, WHY is a magazine from the Sunday New York Times sticking out from under my bed, ‘did I even read that??’ I need to clean up this mess and edit my closet because I have too many articles of clothing that I just don’t wear and shit dude! I’m so fucking sick of this mess. I can’t see the top of may nightstand (who names these things??) and that nasty drawer-thing by my door should just be burned in favor of a nice little table to set my keys on, because jeezis, that looks like something straight out of a dorm room and 18 years later you need to have a bit more class and a lot college chic.

Hands go back to the head… but not before wiping the tears and blaming yourself for the fact that the rest of your house is in a state of disarray, you have no children to blame, no… you are just a lazy slob, despite the fact you are not the only person in the house.

Okay, so maybe your mind isn’t doing this but mine is. well was, a few minutes ago. (did I mention this happened in the span of about 4 minutes?) The cycle continues and is repeats itself. Recognizing it, well, doesn’t stop the fucking cyclone from crashing through my bedroom er psyche, but I protected my shoes, so its okay this time. And it doesn’t just happen over the state of cleanliness in my house. Oh noooo. This is just one little trigger, one lever to shift the car down the track toward the scary loop-d-loop that I certainly didn’t sign up for (did I mention spinning gives me migraines?!?) but… We choose how to deal with the ride we’re on. So I try to remember the rose colored glasses I stashed in my seat pocket (and the meds so conveniently stashed next to them). Now that I know I’m on this ride, recognize it has traps that are trying to make me look like that crazy person who walks around talking to herself with tinfoil on her head, it’s gotten better. On occasion, I can even see the vortex of anxious coming and at least brace myself. Sometimes, I can’t, but it’s always an adventure, if not for me then it is for those close to me.

I am sparing the innocent victims of my blithering mess from having to endure public ridicule, shame or worse, pity for me to tell my story, by giving too many details or focusing on it too often. That’s the point of this really. Its my story, my life, the ride I’m on. Its my bi-polar express, two point oh (they gave me an upgrade, the original didn’t come with the anxiety package and the mania just didn’t match my shoe collection).

So lease keep track of your rose colored glassed and if you find the blinggy ones… those are mine. They fell off during my last spin in the vortex.


Thanks to Becca for Familial Friday which I will be calling Fucksox Friday because I have to give it my own twist… Like posting my first one on Tuesday. Because I lag.