It’s time for inside-out.

I’ve been sad and anxious lately, which isn’t like me. It’s possible that I have some PMS. But it seems more likely to involve the coronavirus. Or, rather, the situation. It’s worrisome whether our economy will be all right. And you know that government-provided stimulus check I was so excited to get? I don’t qualify, because I’m a dependent of my dad’s (due to my schizophrenia and other mental conditions). I understand the idea. I personally haven’t lost anything due to the coronavirus, such as employment income. But it’s sad because my dad, a self-employed lawyer, is Broke City. If I’d received the $1200, I was going to give most or all of it to him as debt repayment. Now he won’t get that. And he won’t receive an additional $500 for me (as his dependent) because I’m not under the age of seventeen. It’s not majorly upsetting, but it’s disappointing.

I don’t think that’s why I’m upset. I suspect that my puppy and my kitty are disrupting my sleep all night. I’m not sure how to prevent it. Mr. Kitty climbed onto my face at 6:45 this morning. It was irritating, but I didn’t react. Then, he started thumping my nose. Repeatedly. He meant business. And darned if that didn’t wake me up.

I understand why Mr. Kitty did it. He was looking out for Big Woof, who had to go potty. As big as Big Woof is, there seems to be no daily feeding schedule that enables her to hold it all night. In other words, she’s a giant 90-pound poop factory.

After I walked her, I couldn’t fall back to sleep for three hours. And just as I was about to fall back to sleep in bed, Big Woof curled up between my legs. Nice. Very comfy. But then, thinking it was a warm pillow (???), she hurled her entire 90-pound body onto my pelvic bone. (Thank God I’m female. But still.) And if you startle me right when I’m about to fall asleep, I shriek.


Well, my screaming made her leap off the bed. But I felt guilty, so I apologized to her and asked her to come back up, and she did. Then I fell asleep again for real.

It’s been a bone of contention (pun intended–in fact, Big Woof is chewing on a new rawhide bone right now) that Big Woof needs to poop in the morning. I know that’s the issue. Once I fell back to sleep, she didn’t bother me again until 1:30 in the afternoon, when I got up for the second and final time; and then she was ready to welcome me to the day with hugs and kisses all around.

I’ve tried feeding her at different times of day, I’ve tried feeding her less, I’ve tried everything. Oh well.

So I’m just tired. Very tired. I need good sleep. But I also suspect I’m anxious and depressed and moody and premenstrual and agitated, all because of the coronavirus and what it’s doing to our economy and citizenry. But in good news, I just used the word citizenry in a sentence, so there’s that.

I just feel worried. And anxiety is bad for me. It’s not something that I’m able to cope with. I’m used to paranoia, but anxiety isn’t something I can handle. It’s harder somehow. And when my equilibrium gets messed up by stuff like that, I can start acting irrational.

I haven’t been irrational today, though. I’ve been moody and tired and distant. I guess that’s all better than being irrational. (Just run.)

I also feel rejected and unlovable. My Words With Friends opponent got upset with me. She played SNOW, and I turned it into SNOWFALLS on the triple-word square. At the beginning of the very next game, she canceled the game. There was no way for me to do a rematch, so I made a sad face. At that point, she left the chat room and then freakin’ blocked me on FB. And no, I’m not leaving anything out of that tale of woe. That’s what happened. I assume she was… overly competitive? [Shrug.] That, or she freaked out because I’d changed my profile picture to this:

Image may contain: Meg Kimball, smiling, eyeglasses and closeup

I’m trying not to laugh now. That selfie should win an award.

And then, I struck up a conversation with a FB friend. I told her I knew she’d been bored, so I sent her a link to my eBay sales and told her she qualified for the massive friend discount. But she ignored me. As in, she saw my comments but didn’t deign to reply. I finally asked her if she was okay. Her response? “AFK.” I had to look that up. Away From the Keyboard. Ah. Then she muttered something about making soup and disappeared. I was offended.

I haven’t told her I was offended for several reasons:

  1. Maybe I’m being “too sensitive.” [Eyeroll.]
  2. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. It’s hard for me to do that unless I’m really provoked or otherwise motivated.
  3. I internalized it and feared that she saw me as being an obnoxious nuisance, and that made me feel sad.

I’m not going to contact her at all. I’m going to wait and see if she contacts me. If not, I’m going to assume she doesn’t want to be friends. [Sad face.] Even when that’s not my fault, I blame myself and feel like a failure. Nothing’s more important to me than friendship.

And then, with another friend, I sent her photos of my brain, and she had some sort of freakout. I shouldn’t have shown her my brain.

Then Sonya showed up, and by that point I was a trainwreck, but not in any way that makes sense. I kept spouting weird gibberish to her. I could tell I was doing it, but I couldn’t rein it in. I started telling her how God spoke to me in 2007, and how I wanted to send her more socks, and how I needed people to stage an intervention and turn off my music. (I was listening to “The Working Hour” by Tears For Fears. It took me someplace primal. Spirits were falling.)

I couldn’t act normal by any stretch. I told Sonya that I was feeling rejected, and she said, “People can’t take cute weirdness.” [Nods.] I agree! They can’t handle my brain, either. Or my Words-With-Friends smarts. Or my inability to handle conversational death via AFK.

Both of the friends I haven’t named are mentally healthy. Very mentally healthy. As in, there’s no sign of mental illness in either one of them at all. It makes me sad that when I go through weird phases, my “normal” friends fall off the grid. I want people to accept me. It’s hard to keep up appearances of social niceties and normal behaviors.

How very Victorian! Yes, if you watch an onscreen version of Pride and Prejudice or anything else from that era, pay attention to what happens when a woman gives into sentiment and starts to cry or tear up. The nearest man will say, “Are you perhaps unwell? Please allow the maid to fetch a tisane. You can lie down for a bit,” or something. Because being emotional wasn’t allowed, so it was always cast as having sprung forth from physical illness (presumably a headache or hormonal distress or tiredness or consumption, etc.).

That gave the woman a cover. “Yes, I do feel unwell. I should rest. Thank you for summoning me a tisane. It’s most thoughtful.” And no, I have no idea what a tisane is. But they were always fetched.

Anyway, obviously it’s normal for humans to experience and express emotions. But with me, it can veer into weird territory. I need friends who are okay with that. The weirdness isn’t necessarily bad, I wouldn’t say. It’s just that my life has been so unique that I sometimes go to weird places. I’m okay with that, but I hate feeling like I’m inadequate for anyone.

That’s why I love Sonya. I suspect she was weirded out and had no idea how to respond, but she accepts me as I am. So I was able to flood her with all the weird thoughts that were crowding my overly emotional brain at the moment.

And that’s also why I love all my blog followers!! You guys never force me to be normal all the time. I appreciate that!! Personally, I don’t mind the state of flux my life always seems to be in. But anyone who’s looking for smooth sailing might not prefer to come along for the ride.












Mom’s plate.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that my brain is atrophying and/or has atrophied. Why? Because it’s funny. It reminds me of The Adventures of Pete and Pete. There was Pete; Pete’s brother, Pete; Pete and Pete’s mom; and Mom’s plate.

mom's plate | watching "the adventure's of pete and pete" ep… | Flickr

Yeah, she had a plate in her brain, which might be why she named both of her sons Pete.

I’ve always thought it would be cool to name sisters Jennifer and Virginia. They could be Jenny and Ginny. Or you could name some brothers Andrew and Anderson. They could be Andy and Andy. Or you could name some sisters (like I knew in high school) Megan and Margaret. They could be Meg and Meg. Or you could name some sisters Elizabeth and Bethany. Beth and Beth!

What was I saying? Oh, right, my brain is atrophying. Or it’s possible I misinterpreted the images in my last blog post.

I told my mom about my brain, and she and I decided I’ve inherited my schizophrenia from her dad, who believed with some vigor that he was Jesus. (He died before I was born, and that’s the primary thing I’ve ever been told about him.) My mom added some clarification today, saying he’d pound on the kitchen table and yell, “I’m Jesus! I’m Jesus! Don’t tell me I’m not,” in an angry rage.

The whole reason I told her about my brain was so that she could quit blaming herself for my mental illness. Yeah, she was beyond abusive, but obviously there’s a biological component I’ve been trying to ward off my whole life. Unfortunately, the news didn’t make her any happier. “It’s my fault,” she wailed. “You inherited it through my bloodline. I’m a bad, bad Mommy.” She burst into tears.

“Yeah, you sure are,” I muttered.

Sniffle, sniffle. “What’s that, dear?”

“You drive a nice car,” I quipped.

“Uhuh. Anyway, it’s so amazing that you do so many things with your life!”

I rolled my eyes. This is the same mother who spent decades being critical of my every mistake and personality trait. (“You dropped a college class? How could you? Your life is ruined! We’ll never recover from this.” And, “You call your stuffed bunny ‘Fluffy’? You’re an adult! Quit naming your stuffed animals.”) So she’s impressed with me now because it somehow feeds into her need for … whatever. I’m not sure. “I’m so proud of you,” she gushed. “And I’m so, so sorry I was a bad, bad Mommy.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’m excited to start reading your latest book, Behold Her Majestic Fog. I just know I’ll love it!”

“Great!” I didn’t mention that the book features a character who… sort of resembles her? Hopefully Mommy won’t feel a kinship with the character of Mummy. If she does, she might take offense.

“I love the cover art! I love the large font! I love the opening quote with Emily Dickinson’s fateful last words!”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “I must go in, for the fog is rising. Huh. Saying it doesn’t seem to have killed me. Now you try!”

“Ohhh, you silly.”

Well, I don’t have much else to report. I was exhausted last night. I took some extra Seroquel (it’s allowed) and it knocked me out for the duration. I’ve been so tired lately. But I think I’ve been sleeping pretty well.










Meet my schizophrenic brain!

My mom was pulling all the stops in our conversation last night. “I’m so proud that you’re able to function at a basic level and write your novels. I know you have a great life with your dad, and you don’t have to worry about earning any income. I can’t believe you’ve even traveled internationally. That takes amazing courage. I traveled to Spain in college, and I loved it. And I’m so glad you have a friend like Sonya who likes you despite how ‘special’ you are. Friends are everything.”


“Now, tell Mommy your diagnosis again. There are different types of schizophrenia, right? And you have schizoaffective disorder?”


“Is it schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type?”

“Uhuh.” I couldn’t have been more peeved with this talk, so my voice came out flat and dull.

“I was certain that you had a personality disorder. Do you have a schizo-something personality disorder?”


“I was sure Dr. Phlegm told me you did.”

“He told you I have schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type. It’s not a personality disorder.”

“Ohh, okay. And that combines schizophrenia with bipolar disorder?”


“You’re depressed, right? You struggle with depression all the time, don’t you?”

“Nope. In fact, I’m one of the least depressed people I know.”

“But then why do you take antidepressants? Why? Why? You’re on Prozac, right?”

“For the millionth time, Mother, I take it for obsessiveness.”

“But it might keep you happy too. If you were to go off it, you could become depressed, right?”

“I don’t know.” At this point, I’d lost interest in the conversation interrogation.

“What if it was my fault? Alas, alas, what if I mistreated you as a child somehow and it caused you to become schizophrenic?”

Interesting question. It got me to thinking, so I did some research on it. Here’s a common internet image I found:

Image result for disconnection in the brain of schizophrenic ...

And you can read about it here at this link.

And here’s my brain, people!

Screenshot (208)a

Trippy. Now, just let me clarify that I’m terrible at anatomy. Still, though, the images here are compelling.

I had a brain MRI done seven years ago because I was having some ataxia. (That’s a coordination issue where your hands close themselves, and that sort of thing.) The doctor decided that I was fine and suffering from psych meds side-effects. Regardless, I have my brain photographed for posterity, and it looks pretty darned schizoprenic from here.

The article I linked states that the holes there–the openings for the ventricles–indicate that part of your brain has shriveled up and disappeared. How delightful. I have a diseased brain, and it’s eroding or… shriveling up like a prune, or something.

Am I going to tell my mother about this? Heck no. Let her keep stewing in her own guilt, because she did abuse me, and it was horrible. The only way for her to overcome it is to answer to her own inner authority. That’s up to her. I’m not needed for it. Another thing she needs to start doing is quit smothering me with her guilt whenever she feels guilty.

As weird as this may sound, I feel like a normal person. (More or less.) But my mom loves to elicit sympathy by wailing and lamenting to anyone who’ll listen that her daughter is schizophrenic and completely incapacitated and dysfunctional. (Yes, no, and no.) I’d rather be schizophrenic any day than narcissistic and awful like my mom.

It’s so weird to think that I have a schizophrenic brain. But where would I be today if I’d had a calm, stable childhood and adolescence? You have to wonder. It leads to the interesting question of how life experiences interweave with biology. I’ve encountered a lot of people who had hellish childhoods like I did but who aren’t schizophrenic at all. I’ve also encountered people who had idyllic, loving, nurturing childhoods, but as soon as they hit puberty, their brain chemistry went off-kilter and led to hospitalizations. I guess I had a bad childhood and a bad brain. I’ll say this, though. My life has been interesting and unpredictable. And I sort of like that!


Darn that Oprah and her infernal book club!

Well, there goes my happy buzz. I just spoke with Mother on the phone. She’s been reading an Oprah Book Club book about some parents of twelve kids, half of whom got schizophrenia.

“They blamed the parents,” she wailed.

I could see where things were headed at this point, but there was no polite escape.

“What if it’s my fault that you’re schizophrenic?” she asked. “What if it has to do with how I treated you as a little girl?”

I sighed. “Yeah, it’s likely. But just forgive yourself and move on.”

“Nooo! I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”

“Okay,” I said. “You’re seventy-one years old. Who else are you going to hurt?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I just want my children to be happy.”

“I am happy!”

“I know you are,” she gushed. “But you aren’t happy enough. You enjoy writing novels, and you’re friends with Sonya, and you’ve traveled to Prague.”

I wasn’t able to interrupt her, or I would’ve listed all my other friends, too.

“Why have you never had close friends before?” she wailed. “Is it because of your schizohprenia?”

I rolled my eyes. “No. It’s because I needed internet, which didn’t used to exist, to meet people from afar who I actually have stuff in common with.”

So then, she insulted my primary social media photo I use.

Image may contain: 1 person

I get that. I do. There have been times when my friends use bad pictures of themselves. But I keep my mouth shut.

“Take it down!” she sobbed. “Use the nice photo I took of you at the restaurant.”

Yeah, that photo’s around here somewhere. I use it on my author page, I think. Ah, here it is.


But now she’s vexed me, so I’ll change my social media photo to this one, and she’ll have only herself to blame:

Image may contain: Meg Kimball

And this is how she insulted me: “Oh, my daughter, you’re a beautiful woman.” I thanked her, and I should’ve sensed a “but”. “But that photo of you is dreadful.”

HA HA HA HA HA. I just now changed it on FB.

The conversation was dreadful. She tends to start feeling guilty and tap-dancing around how she abused me as a child. So, after she kept going on and on about how she wants me to be happy, and I assured her that I am happy, she said, “I want to atone.”

“That’s not necessary, and there’s no way to do that,” I said.

Now, I’m sure plenty of abuse victims would love to have their parents trying to atone. But her gloominess when she gets this way just makes everything worse. I was having a good day. Now I’m not. Put it that way.


My ship has come in.

Wow! I got a package in the mail today. A HUGE package. Of dog food, from Amazon. It came with a gift receipt. Holy flip. And it’s Big Woof’s vegetarian formula, worth about $50 for all 28 pounds of it.

Then, I went to the post office. When I came out, a nice-looking man asked me something, but I couldn’t answer, because two cars were about to drive into each other, and there was honking. Once things settled down, I asked him, “What?”

“Oh, I was just asking if that’s your car.” He pointed to Carlene.

Moment of truth. Would I acknowledge ownership of my 1995 Saturn with its dings and scrapes and fungus growing under the seat? With its broken fender parts that are this close to falling off the main body of the car? With its back seat being used as an open-ended trash receptacle? Would I admit that yes, that’s my car?

“Yeah, that’s my car.”

“Oh! I was asking because I backed into it trying to exit this parking lot.”

“Oh my! Well, don’t worry. It’s no huge deal.”

“But you should hate me! You should want something from me! You should be angry, fer cryin’ out loud.” He stared at me.

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, look at this scrape right here. I did that one day while driving past the Great Wall of Kroger. She’s a clunker. People drive into her all the time.”

He seemed super-grateful. He gave me his business card and asked for my address so he could send a thank-you note. And, oh my goodness. He’s an owner/operator at McDonald’s! I think he’ll express his gratitude to me in fries! Yummytastic!!

Oh, gotta run. Time to walk with my dad!



It’s all about the kitty litter.

I get off on expressing my anger. This is fact. I went to the grocery store today to return some kitty litter. I bought it back when I feared that the zombie apocalypse was nigh upon us. In good news, there are no zombies. (Yet.) In bad news, they wouldn’t take back the litter.

And here’s what makes me angry. I went to the Kroger website before I left the house so that I could specifically check their return policy. It said, and I quote, “Due to the current COVID-19 pandemic, we are temporarily suspending product returns on Food products, Cosmetics & Apparel (clothing, shoes & accessories).” Well, guess what? Kitty litter isn’t eaten, worn, or applied.

I didn’t get the bigger picture. What they meant was that they aren’t accepting returns, period. I misunderstood their message, not unsurprisingly. They were trying to cover their bases about returns. A better way to have done that would’ve involved saying they were no longer accepting returns, period. Instead, they waxed poetic, and I got yelled at.

“Hello,” I said sedately. “I’d like to return this kitty litter. Mr. Kitty disapproves of it. He has discerning tastes.”

“No! No! No! There are no returns! Don’t you see that sign right there? No returns! No returns! Oh, God! No returns! Why is this happening to me? We’re all going to die.”

“Yes, I saw the sign,” I said. It said something like NO RETURNS, if I’m recalling correctly. “But I very carefully checked your web site before coming here, and it said something different.”

“I can’t help you! No returns! No returns! Oh Lord, the world is over. Fire, plagues, pestilence! Keep away from me with your unused kitty litter!” The young woman behind the counter seemed sort of panicked. I was on my good  behavior, so I guess she hated having to enforce the no-returns policy.

“Can you change your web site?” I asked. “This has inconvenienced me. Meg doesn’t like being inconvenienced.” I raised an eyebrow at her.

“No, I can’t change it. But… I’ll share the message with my bosses.”

“Great. Thank you.”

She seemed relieved as I turned my cart around and wandered away. I bought two boxes of doggie treats at the U-Scan and  then left the store with the kitty litter in tow, and thankfully, no one accused me of stealing it.

I’m sure I have a reputation at Kroger. She was probably fearful that I’d start flipping her off and yelling that I hate her, and God knows what else. But she isn’t the woman I can’t stand, who’s been bugging me since last summer. Regardless, I was massively peeved to have been given faulty information.

It’s weird. I have reading comprehension issues, and I always have. In particular, my comprehension is slow. I taught reading comprehension for over three years, so I’m an expert in how it works. It’s just that I have some weaknesses in it.

Whenever I’m at the NYC Midnight forum and I comment on people’s stories, I’m able to use that as a buffer to make it sound less harsh if I couldn’t understand their story. (“This could be my slow comprehension issues, but I’m having a hard time visualizing…”) And I’m being honest in saying that, so it’s a win-win. But when I fail to comprehend outside of the forum, I feel bad about myself. Like I should’ve been smarter. I’m mad at Kroger for making me feel stupid. And trust me, I’ve let them know.

Before the reading center hired me back in 2001, they gave me a rigorous battery of reading tests, including technical reading (phonics, emphasized syllables, etc.) and comprehension. They said I failed only one of the tests, so they wanted me to retake it. It went like this: “We know we asked you to read the paragraph as quickly as you could and then answer questions about it. But… we didn’t really mean to speed-read it that fast. Try it again, and go a bit slower.”

And you can see the problem right there. I take people literally. They told me to read it as quickly as I could, and I read it so fast that I gave incorrect answers about the paragraphs’ contents. Why does this happen? Why do people say one thing and then give a little wink and expect you to read their mind? Especially when you’re being tested for a job and are stressed out and socially aroused? This is my hugest gap in comprehension. I mean, of course I can tell if someone’s being sarcastic. But this is different. I can’t grasp invisible implications.

Then, earlier today, I made an offer on an eBay item of $50. I offered $40. They rejected my offer without countering it or including a note. Just for the heck of it, and in order to irritate them, I raised my offer to $40.02 and wrote, “Just my two cents because you can’t even counter. I’ll take my business elsewhere.” (I’m guessing they’ll reject my $40.02 offer. Or, more likely, just ignore it.) I expected them to counter between $45 and $49, because why else would they make the offer available? (On eBay, you don’t have to include the offer feature. You can have the simple buy-it-now price only.)

I’ve been on the other side of that. I’ve got one person who keeps harassing me to sell him my dad’s National Review archive at a steal. I finally had to block him.

Anyway, my point is that I don’t get past something if I can’t let the person or parties know how it made me feel. I’ve been on edge lately. I don’t think I’ve been getting enough sleep, but I’m not sure. I mean, who needs eleven hours of sleep each night? I’ve been getting nine or ten. That’s more than most people. Oh well.

So after the disaster at Kroger, for which I blamed my own stupidity, I felt exhausted.

Oh, hey, I have fun news. I’ve gotten my dad onboard to do the 100-word microfiction competition with me. I’m going to enter him and give him his assignment and upload it for him, and everything. (He doesn’t use internet.) I’ll beta read for him, but I won’t force him to make changes. It should be fun! At $13 ($2 of which goes to help the coronavirus), it’s the most affordable contest they’ve ever rolled out. I’d love for any of my friends out there reading this to get involved! Join in the fun! You know you want to.




Oh no, this is too funny.

This is hilarious. I’ve been doing eBay sales lately in order to take advantage of how everyone’s trapped at home with nothing to do but shop online. I sent a message today to a buyer, and I said, “Thank you so much for your business! I appreciate it, so I’ve included a free gift! It’s packaged and will ideally get to the post office this afternoon!! I kind of overtaped the packaging box, but it opens like a cigar box with a lid.”

And she wrote back to me and said, “Thank you. I have always wanted to order. This quarantine has given me the courage to tap into my power.”

And I was like, “Wow, that’s amazing!! Shop on, I say!!”

Yeah. I don’t know if my buyer has a wacky sense of humor or what, but I like her style.

I thought of something else funny. Do you all know how there’s always someone onscreen speaking American Sign Language during the coronavirus newscasts? Like when the president or a governor is speaking?

It got me to thinking, what if the sign language speaker were to get a bit creative?

The governor could be saying, “The death toll has risen, people. We need to engage in more social distancing.”

And the sign lanuage person is signing, The governor is so hot, and I want to have his babies. Do you hear me, ladies? 

“I want to thank all the doctors and nurses at the front lines,” says the governor.

I mean, look at him. He’s the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. I wonder if he likes missionary? 

“And I want to urge everyone not to attend church for a while.”

Social distancing is the only thing keeping me from hurling my body onto his. That, and his wife. The sign language person points to his wife.

And of course, only the deaf people have a clue what’s going on. That would be classic.





So I’ve been thinking about my relationship issues and the abuse I suffered as a child. Ashley Leia thinks I engage in “splitting,” which is a concept from borderline personality disorder. Based on what I understand, it involves seeing people as all good or all bad (black and white without any gray) and/or shifting back and forth from one extreme to another (leaping from idolizing someone to thinking their trash, and back). I’d suspect she’s right that I engage in splitting. Because I was thinking about it today, and I realized something rather obvious.

When my dad abused me, I was nine or ten years old. Fourth grade. Prior to that point in my life, I trusted him and thought he was a loving parent. (He was a loving parent, but he went so drastically off-script by abusing me that he made a mockery of being loving.) What he did left me feeling humiliated and degraded and ashamed and soiled. In that incident, which lasted forever, I had to split. There was no way that my brain could conceive of what he was doing. He’d morphed into a Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde sort of monster, at random, for no good reason, and with no provocation. (He was mad at me because I kept asking him to leave my room so I could be alone. He didn’t leave.)

It became a defense mechanism because I realized on an innate level that the parent who’d been the “good” parent thus far was not trustworthy, reliable, or good at all. Now I had two bad parents, and I was completely on my own. And someone had to keep an eye on my little brother so he wouldn’t realize that both of our parents were unreliable and unpredictable. I’m not sure if my brother ever realized the capacity my dad had for violence because I’ve never asked. I like to think he survived unscathed, but I have no confirmation of such. And then when he entered puberty, my mom realized he was too well-adjusted, so she did something that ruined his life. It was pretty unthinkable. I couldn’t protect him, either. He became a juvenile delinquent overnight, and he wound up going through the whole hellish world of being in mental hospitals and told, “You’re a lucky boy. Your parents are so loving. What’s wrong with your attitude, anyway?”

Just too much pain and abuse.

Sometimes I don’t want to take ownership of it. Things go wrong with me and a guy in ten seconds flat, and I hate my dad for putting this pattern into my psyche that gets played over again and again and again. Not unlike the abuse. (He dragged it out for some sort of sadistic pleasure. That was my fault. I was numb with humiliation and physical pain, so I didn’t even cry out, and he assumed he wasn’t hurting me hard enough.)

Sometimes I hate my dad for making me so broken. He should’ve been the good parent. He really had a chance there to be a hero to his kids. Epic fail.

I saw a guy on social media who I thought seemed interesting. He’d commented on a post by NYC Midnight, so I sent him a friend request. He rejected it and marked me as a spammer. So I’ve been triggered. I realize now that he’s a horrible person. (See? Splitting.) I don’t care that he’s a horrible person. But I’m upset that I keep going for guys who are self-absorbed twats. And I realized something today. They’re all self-absorbed twats. Whereas you might think logically that I’d have to pick some a few times that are good guys, due to the law of randomness, it doesn’t work that way. Every single guy I ever like is a worthless pansy. At this point, if I’m interested in a guy, I should consider, for reallishness, that my psychic powers are shouting that the guy’s not worth it.

It’s like I’m repeating the pattern with my dad ad nauseam. I see a guy, I hope he has loving and compassionate characteristics (like I thought my dad did), and then the guy rejects me or acts like a self-absorbed clod in some other way (like my dad showed me that he couldn’t be trusted to treat me with basic dignity), and I get mad and realize the guy’s worthless (because if I couldn’t trust my own dad, who could I trust?).

So I subconsciously (or even consciously) set myself up by seeking out a guy who’s a total self-absorbed flake, and/or maybe he’s stuck on himself, and/or he’s got his head shoved up his [bleep], and/or he’s shamelessly passive-aggressive, and/or he’s in love with his own reflection; and I set myself up to get hurt by said guy, and then I relive it all over again, and I feel lost in despair that I’m never going to overcome it, and therefore I’m never going to have a boyfriend. In short, I’m cursed.

I’ve got to quit doing this to myself. I deserve better than guys who wallow in self-pity and/or self-absorption and/or self-adulation. But I can’t find better, because I’m cursed. Damn!

The only good news here is that I don’t think I do the splitting with anyone else in my life. My friendships are solid, and I don’t need my friends to be perfect (well, not all the time). I just need them to have that indefinable quality of valuing personal growth and trying hard to overcome stuff.

My headache has come back. Pills, I need pills. Maybe I’ll take some extra Seroquel (it’s allowed) and get some action tonight with my kitty. HA H AH AHAH HA HA HA. (Ahem. It’s not that funny, Meg.)




Why’d you do it, Mr. Kitty?


Oh my gosh. This is too funny not to blog about. Last night, for the second night in a row, I took some extra Seroquel (it’s allowed) and wound up getting a bad case of restless leg syndrome. My dad’s reaction when I told him? “You’ve got to go down on the Seroquel!”

Here’s where things got dicey. Last night, as I was lying in bed waiting to fall asleep, my legs were mostly calm. But then Mr. Kitty came along and started humping me.

Mr. Kitty has been neutered, but he doesn’t seem to know it.

As he went to town on my leg, the sensation started exacerbating the restless leg syndrome, and my leg started twitching and thumping around like crazy. I tried to get Mr. Kitty off of me, because I was seriously concerned that I’d hurt him (or, you know, his tiny cat parts). But he wouldn’t budge. He can be really horny when he wants to be, and the fact that my restless leg was probably as wild as a vibrating bed at a sleazy hotel had him coming back for more.

Eventually I fell asleep.

In other news… wait. That can’t really be topped, can it? I’ll stop while I’m ahead.


Watching spirits fall…

Here I am feeling sane again, so I thought I’d ask and answer some oddball questions. If you’re out there reading this–HA HA, too late! You’ve just been tagged, and you must answer the questions too.

1) Name a song with lyrics that really make you sad.

I’d go with “A Month of Sundays” by Don Henley.

I used to work for Harvester
I used to use my hands
I used to make the tractors and the combines that plowed and harvested
This great land
Now I see my handiwork on the block everywhere I turn
And I see the clouds ‘cross the weathered faces and I watch the harvest burn
I quit the plant in ’57
Had some time for farmin’ then
Banks back then was lendin’ money
The banker was the farmer’s friend
And I’ve seen dog days and dusty days;
Late spring snow and early fall sleet;
I’ve held the leather reins in my hands and felt the soft ground under my feet
Between the hot dry weather and the taxes, and the Cold War it’s been hard
To make ends meet
But I always kept the clothes on our backs;
I always put the shoes on our feet
My grandson, he comes home from college
He says, “We get the government we deserve.”
My son-in-law just shakes his head and says, “That little punk, he never
Had to serve.”
And I sit here in the shadow of the suburbs and look out across these
Empty fields
I sit here in earshot of the bypass and all night I listen to the rushin’
Of the wheels
The big boys, they all got computers; got incorporated, too
Me, I just know how to raise things
That was all I ever knew
Now, it all comes down to numbers
Now I’m glad that I have quit
Folks these days just don’t do nothin’ simply for the love of it
I went into town on the Fourth of July
Watched ’em parade past the Union Jack
Watched ’em break out the brass and beat on the drum
One step forward and two steps back
And I saw a sign on Easy Street, said, “Be Prepared to Stop.”
Pray for the independent, little man
I don’t see next year’s crop
And I sit here on the back porch in the twilight
And I hear the crickets hum
I sit and watch the lightning in the distance but the showers never come
I sit here and listen to the wind blow
I sit here and rub my hands
I sit here and listen to the clock strike, and I wonder when I’ll see my
Companion again

2) Name a rather obscure song that you love, even though no one you know has ever heard of it.

There are too many to name, but I’ll go with “Pale Shelter” by Tears For Fears. “You don’t give me love! You give me pale shelter. You don’t give me love! You give me cold hands.”

3) Name an album with a theme of mental illness.

I’d go with Try Anything Once by Alan Parsons. One song is about schizophrenia and/or dissociative identity disorder (“The Three of Me”), one song’s about depression (“Siren Song”), one’s about paranoia (“Back Against the Wall”), and one’s about suicide (“Oh Life, There Must be More“). (Fair warning: that last song really glorifies suicide. It’s gorgeous, but still.)

I grew up listening to the heady tunes of The Alan Parsons Project. The eighties were an emotional time. The aforementioned Try Anything Once album came out in the mid-nineties, and I listened to it in the college dorms.

4) Name the primary albums you were raised on.

  • Songs from the Big Chair by Tears For Fears
  • The Best of the Alan Parsons Project
  • The Best of Hall & Oates
  • Brothers in Arms by Dire Straits

“Something happens and I’m head over heels. I never find out ’til I’m head over heels. Something happens and I’m head over heels. Don’t take my heart, don’t break my heart, don’t–don’t blow it away.” And then they sing, “And this is my four-leaf clover.” Due to my hearing issues, I spent my entire childhood and adolescence thinking they were singing, “And this is my only sofa. I’m on the line. One open mind. This is my only sofa.”

And in another of their songs, they’re singing, “Find out, find out what this fear is about.” And I grew up thinking they were singing, “Fall down, falling down–watching spirits fall.”

Fall down, falling down–watching spirits fall.


Create your website at
Get started