But, You Know, Whatever.

My bones are cold. There’s a constant, aching chill, and find myself shivering then try to stop myself. But I can’t feel warm.

My jaw hurts from the pressures of keeping it together. The urge to sob and scream and burst into hysterics all mingled into my ready smile should someone look my way.

It’s always the corner of my eye. Or not so much the corner, but just barely beyond perceptibility. Dark shapes, light shapes. Metamorphosing into some terrible nightmare fodder. Humanoid, demanoid. “It’s just my imagination” I tell the slowly-growing shadow. My jaw aches.

I’m quick, though. They’ve always told me I have “wit.” So while in the company of others I laugh and I joke and wow so normal until a moment’s silence and I remember everything terrible that’s ever been and ever will be while the shape in the doorway grins at me and reaches out then I think of a clever response and get a few laughs.

Silence is painful. There’s a hum, and it’s not just from all the concerts. I know. It physically hurts. Drives me to tears when I wake at night. Because they’re trying to reach me. That faint hum before the speech, the dying to say what can’t be said and I’m afraid of what they’ll say. So I put the pillow over my head try and snuggle up to the warm mass who snores and moves away from me and I’m forever left alone in my head with these new ghosts and the old ghosts who won’t leave me to a moment’s peace.

When I drink my cheap, fruity liquor I’m too engrossed in my phone and trying not to have drunk face that it’s peaceful for a moment. But heaven forbid I have to pee or go somewhere else alone because they follow me and they take advantage of my fear and my tears and they laugh and I have to pretend I’m not scared out of my goddamn mind because no one likes a drama queen.

I’ve hallucinated before. It’s been years. And I’m terrified.

I’ve been desperately trying not to be so whiney or dramatic (hence the infrequent posts) and even to friends I’m like eh I’m depressed but whatever but damn it even as I type this they’re brushing me on the shoulder and trying to whisper in my ear and I shudder and try and remember where I was in my thought.

And I thought being coherent was difficult before.

Is this the bipolar? The dissociation? The stress? Have all the many, many, long years of too-frequent nightmares started following me into daily life, desperate to be heeded?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

It’s almost the anniversary of my last utter descent. Makes me think it’s bipolar. I made a promise it’s almost impossible not to think about. Even now my pants are sticking to my hips and my sleeve to my arms and my jaw hurts and my usual hurts hurt because everything hurts but it’s “just stress.”

But you know lol everything fine it’s good 🙂  how’re you?


Look at this Photograph

Okie dokie so I’m taking the plunge with today’s topic. Belive it or not, I don’t enjoy sounding like a whiney whine-face. I do like whining, though….


Anyway I wanted to blog about my issues with my mom and my dad’s divorce. This really ought to be old news by now, seeing as they  divorced almost 24 years ago, but I feel like it affected a lot of my personality and traits and important skills like coping and knowing how to trust and all that and stuff. Mostly because I was around 1 year old and I literally grew up with it. (And I still had to deal with fighting, damnit. So much fighting).

There’s a lot to the story because they both got remarried within a year, and I have what I would call “a curious history” with all 4 of my parents. It’s mostly because I turned into a crazy bitch near the end of high school. Plus there are the (half) siblings and the ≈20 living arrangements I’ve acquired on top of the occasional verbal bloodbaths that ensued between 9 of the possible pairings of these 4. Maybe even more so if you take into account the incredibly tense vocal-almost-phsycial-half-the-time wars between just 2 of them. And if you include my yelling and being yelled at 🙂

Basically from the time I started developing a clear memory my mom was dating/engaged to my stepdad. Then, by the time I was 6, my dad married my stepmom out of the blue. Surprise! My mom and stepdad married less than a year after that. I only got to be at one wedding. But boy did I look good in that flower girl dress! And somewhere there is VHS video footage of me stealing swipes of frosting from the wedding cake during the reception. And I thought I was sneaky. Imagine all the fun I’d have had at 2 weddings within a year! If I could turn back time… (is my issue with this apparent yet?)


I lived with Mom mostly forever, then at 16 I did that thing that teenagers do and decided to switch parents. Then my mental breakdown really happened and I moved back in with Mom because I make no sense and wanted to be 3 again cuz I was a hopeless dipshit and everything sucked and suddenly I was 23 still living with Mom. That simply wouldn’t do. Now you’ll find me in (how funny, in’t it?) Matt’s mom’s basement. Almost 24. No big deal, right? RIGHT?!

After all this time, and all this history and all of these parents having to (try to) cooperate at least sometimes for school stuff and music stuff and stuff and I only own 1 physical picture of my mother, father, and myself.


It’s from my baptism in 6th grade. Though I wasn’t the happiest camper that day (another story; I won’t bore you more than what’s necessary for this 1 post ;)) I insisted that I get this photo.

I believe I got one at my wedding, but I can hardly remember because I was such an anxious wreck and I got really drunk that night so I only remember the more wedding-related things.

(Like the fact that Matt was really trying not to cry but he’ll never admit it. Or were his eyes peeing?)

Even when I made a card for my mom and my dad after the wedding as a “Thank you for Birthing Me” present, it physically felt weird to write “Mom and Dad.”

Call me weird, but I find that weird. It’s uncomfortable to put my birthers next to each other even on paper, for biscuits’ sake!

Now, I’m not saying I wish they were back together. No offense, Mom and Dad, but you would kill each other off. Honestly I don’t even remember really wishing this getting back together. I had my “father figure” from the time I was around 2 years old (thanks Darrin), so I never really felt like I was missing out? I just got bonus family on Tuesdays and holidays and stuff!

Then came the step-mom-into-the-story days at age 6 then I got to go on a plane by  myself 654,665,465 times a year and that was fun. Plus all the presents. I even got to miss a lot of school around the holidays. School hated me. And I, it.

(One time I got in trouble on a test because the teacher was reading us the questions and then we were supposed to answer, but I was 3 pages ahead of everyone, because DAMNIT woman I was in FIRST GRADE I KNEW how to READ.)

How many tangents does it take to make me feel like I’ve made a good blog post?

Like, a hundred.

I wish I didn’t hold this divorce grudge. Or rather, I wish it didn’t affect me as much as it did. And I wish divorce wasn’t so fucking prominent.

Matt, I swear to potato, you’re stuck with me.



Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

I’ve had trouble building up the courage to do what needs done. Too shy. Too ashamed. Like I’m a betrayer. But it does need to happen. Already I am red and scabbed on my inside and more on my outside. At this rate I won’t have any skin or teeth left. Burned away or cut away. Stress and a feeling of failure and incompetence because I’m stretched too thin, “like butter over too much bread.”

A weekend not of fun, but of shame, shakes, sobs, and more red. Some pink. Shirking responsibilities to make way for the intention of normality.

Don’t get me wrong. Everything is great and I’m lucky to be alive and all that but damn do I need some coping skills.

Something tells me my current arsenal for self-destructive-deal-with-it techniques are somehow unhealthy.


UPDATE: I finally quit the second job. Hopefully the worsened depression subsides shortly.

My Singer/Songwriter Career (Pending Approval)

I’ve decided I’m going to write a song. Maybe I’ll upload it to YouTube and be a viral hit. Probably not. I’ll probably just keep it in a notebook under draft status forever.

It will be called Privilege.

It’ll be a satirical account of the ridiculous things we care about.

Don’t worry. The phrases “I can’t even” and “frappe” WILL be included.

Lyrical genius and my big head.

Ok bye.

Maybe This Isn’t The Best Time to Post This

Don’t know if you all know this, but I work extremely hard to make sure people like me. I try to please everybody. I aim to be neutral in disagreements. I am to not piss anybody off. I aim to be as helpful as I can and act with as much tact and poise as I know how to; especially at work.

I have nightmares that all of my friends, or coworkers, or family, have pretended to like me all this time and have plotted against me. I’ve woken up in a cold sweat because I felt like my inability to make/keep friends was going to be never-ending.

Nightmares really do come true. Well, in a sense.

Tonight I found out that several of my coworkers talk about me. Bad. Like, they don’t believe me when I’m sick, and they call me lazy, and they say I have an excuse for everything.

I have one of the best work ethics I know. When I call in sick, maybe I don’t have food poisoning. I’ll admit it. But when I throw up, it’s usually anxiety related. I will make myself so crippled from anxiety and worry and stressing about the assholes I’ll have to serve seafood to throughout the day that I just can’t handle the thought of going in.

It gets to a point where if I had to step into that restaurant, I would find the nearest cliff to drive my car off of on the way. I’d forget to turn my car off or open the garage door with my running car in the garage. I’d accidentally cut too deep. I’d accidentally overdose. I’d accidentally go off on somebody and end up fucking up my chances of getting good references from the job I’ve stayed at the longest.

Apparently, even though I thought I’ve made huge strides in my work ethic and my mental health regarding work, it doens’t mean a thing.

I’m not trying to say everyone should pity me and my anxiety.

But being mean to me? We’re all inconvenienced sometime. How many times have y’all inconvenienced me? This entire job has inconvenienced me! I’m am FAR TOO INTROVERTED to do this job well. Yet here I am. I even got employee of the month, for biscuits’ sake.

Even the manager I thought liked me (the only one I thought liked me) makes snide comments about me.

And this all just came down the grapevine to me tonight.

How the hell am I going to face these people? I want them to feel guilty, but I know they won’t care.

I don’t know what to do.

I wish I had some decent coping mechanisms right about now.

No one fucking understands and I’m fucking tired of being paralyzed by my stupid neurotransmitters.

And I’m fucking tired of being judged for it.

And I’m fucking tired of being blamed for saying it just as an excuse.

I just

I just

Fuck. Fuck it.

And all of you?

Fuck you.

(Except for the readers that have some compassion. In which case, thank you. I love you, too. Have a good evening.)

P.S. The funniest part? Through all this turmoil tonight, I thought “This wouldn’t be such a problem if I were skinnier.”

I’m just a failure entirely.

The Prestige

I’ve done it.

I’ve finally figured out what keeps me from being a good server.

It didn’t come to me in a dream or epiphany, but rather steadily over the last few weeks.

Since I started in the service industry at the very beginning of 2012, I have improved a great deal. My mind and body sync up a little more nicely now, and I owe a lot of that to having to “deal” with people all day. I started as a hostess, moved on to a bartender after a few months, and now, I do a little bit of everything from bartending, serving, hosting, even training new employees and I even know how to work in some (easier) parts of the kitchen. Getting along with and connecting with my coworkers and feeling an actual desire to do well at this job helped me gain a lot of my sanity back.

As mentioned, I started serving after bartending and hosting for a while. I didn’t like just being a hostess. All these servers talking about their tips and tables and knowing when to bring salads and all the menu items and where everything was… so dreamy. PLUS they got to wear the long, slender-like pinstripe apron I wanted to be able to wear. Two giant pockets. Anyway I started bartending because the managers thought I’d be good at it. I was. Everyone I worked with loved me because of my work ethic. I always strived to do everything the right way, while also being a crowd pleaser overall. Then, I started getting bored.

Yeah, I got to wear an apron and serve tables sometimes, but this apron was tiny, and I wasn’t really making any of the tip money I kept hearing about from the servers. I wanted to know how to dole out change from my personal bank and carry big trays more than twice a week.

The servers all seemed to be in a special club, too. They just glided like serving was the most natural, easy, and financially rewarding job. Sometimes it got really busy, but as long as the hosts didn’t seat them 100 tables all over the restaurant, they normally seemed fine.

Then I got to be a server. My hours in this job code increased, and I kissed the bar and the podium goodbye for a time. I got to wear my heavy apron and get my own server book to put pictures of my loved ones in. I got to take orders and sing happy birthday and complain when I got a table who wouldn’t give me the time of day… just like I’ve always wanted! (At least for the year leading up to that point.)

Unfortunately, I started serving full-time during the busiest time of the year. During our namesake promotion, I served tables for 50 hours a week for a little bit (while overtime was allowed) and made a lot of money, and a pretty high cost. I had my first panic attack at my new job. Not only had I gone over a year without one, but it had been so long since a job stressed me out. I had to go home early and I cried so hard I threw up repeatedly. Every time I walked back to the kitchen for biscuit refills or tea pitchers I’d start balling and heaving.

I think it traumatized me a little. I used to be really gung-ho about being this great server who cared about everyone and never made less than 20%.

Eventually, I stopped caring.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not heartless or lacking compassion. When people come in for a birthday or anniversary I really do care! I think it’s exciting! Everyone should be able to feel good about going out and having fun on their special occasions. On the other hand, I can’t make myself talk about more than the bare minimum. I do the singing, I do the little jokes, but I don’t let myself really care. People have started to scare me so much, that I just don’t really care about them as much as I used to.

It really sucks because I think of all these connecting things I could say, but I never get out there to say it, because I’m afraid they’ll look at me funny or say it’s none of my business. Things of that nature.

It’s gotten worse. It’s why I’ve actually asked to go back to seating tables instead of serving them, but in reality, I can’t support myself on those wages anymore. I tried getting a second job to help my brain cope with serving to make the most out of my hours, but I hate the responsibility at the new job more, therefore causing me to raise my hours serving tables again.

Maybe this is all the new anti-depressant’s fault. Who knows. Either way, I can’t wait until I graduate and get to work at home with my cat.

Breaking Schedule Intentionally

Last night during class I had a craving for a cheeseburger. I figured “whatever. I ran today,” so I went to Burger King to get my cheeseburger. The young lady at the window asked me, “Are you always this polite?”

“Yes. I’m sorry if that’s unusual here.”
“It’s just… refreshing.”

Pathetic. When politeness becomes so rare it needs to be mentioned. While it’s nice that not being an asshole doesn’t go under-appreciated,  it’s sad that people being rude and jerkfacey because they can is the norm.

When I started my service job I was told to expect the bitches and the fuckheads because people go out to eat after a long day or a long week and they want everything perfect and a reason to take their life problems out on somebody.

Have you heard of courtesy? Have you heard of positive self talk? Figure out something, man, because you’re not special. I don’t give a shit how your day was. Don’t you care about anyone besides yourself? (A great book.)

The warning was nice, and it definitely was heeded because now I successfully fear every potential tip that walks through those doors.

Sorry for the swearing. I’m at the end of my filter’s rope. Too much frustration on the inside. Thank goodness I’m going to a metal concert tonight.


P.S. All I did was use my pleases and a thank you.