I’m an old teenager. I’ll probably never grow the fuck up. It’s OK because I kinda have my shit together and I go on adventures from time to time. They may not necessarily be exotic ports of call or luxury spa hotels but I do prefer those. I’m a woman who has lived many lives in one, but being smack dab in the middle with very little to go on in terms of destiny, passion, goals or plans, I’m constantly reminded that life is fleeting and French existentialists tend to be right. Enough of the melodramatic introduction.
Why are you here?
I guess it’s because I want to share my experiences in a strange (to me) yet familiar way. I don’t blog but after my whirlwind year, I figured it’s time people got to know me. I’m fighting social anxiety with internet fire. Hopefully it doesn’t burn to an ashen crisp!
I will write some fiction from time to time so bear with me as I love short stories in the vein of Saki or Maupaussant. Style is everything, my darling but substance always gets abused.
So after this last implosion, I have decided to go into therapy. I can no longer burden the few friends I have left to go over another failed relationship. I haven’t been in therapy for 8 years- last time I went was to deal with my granny passing away. That dude gave me so much drugs! This time it’s a more targeted approach as I know what I need to work on. This is exciting for me as I really hope to make some positive life changes. I’m posting this to bring awareness to those who suffer from psychological trauma and disorder- if I can gather myself in a calm, rational and logical way and motivate myself to get the help that I need right now, you can too. All I wanted was a Pepsi and she wouldn’t give it to me, so guess what? I got it myself.
I never really addressed the underlying problem that’s been hindering from getting my shit together. I don’t really like therapy but they’ve come a long way in treatment for the condition I have. I was one of the early cases of borderline personality disorder back in 1999. I know, it’s the hot thing to have these days but I’m pretty much a classic textbook case and the mental health community never knew how to deal with me. I’ve tried to get help for years but with intermitted insurance and my lack of faith in the therapy community, it’s been hard to get myself motivated to seek help.
I’m just tired of not having a clue or any motivation to do anything in life. Sometimes, I just feel like I’m alive and going through the motions of living. I have no real passion or goal that I want to stick to. I know I can’t keep going like this. Every day, I don’t know if I want to die or live- love or hate. Meanwhile, I try to retain this facade of being totally fabulous while trying to figure out who’s going to piss me off today. I feel very alone in my illness although my friends are my rock and have been there for me through many of my hardest times. I’m really tired of it. So I’m trying to figure out what to do.
I ordered a few workbooks and plan to start a support group for people like me: I feel too much. I can’t just drop it. I hate every guy I date, then realize that I do love them (in my own weird way.) I often chose men who are not available because that’s what I thought I can handle. I don’t know who I am and what my purpose is. I try to pretend it’s OK but I know it’s pretend and I end up feeling exhausted trying to look like I’m OK. I have so much anger and suspicion about society and everyone in it. It’s just really exhausting and I can’t focus on getting normal things. I have the luxury of working when I want to but I know I can do better if I just try, but I don’t because it’s all pointless and absurd. I fear meeting people or hanging out in social situations because I find myself utterly boring.
If you’re struggling with this and would like to talk, I would like to talk to you.
adult rituals to be performed to Rick Wakeman involving pendulous appendages, scented candles, ripaway Thunder From Down Under pants, manzilian, piggytails, granny panties and polka dot socks
ain’t love grand?
turmoil wrapped in turbulent emotional breakdowns of tears, cottage cheese, sunbreros, sonic toothbrushes, milk spongebaths and murky dish water.
sometimes it hurts
my ears ring in silence while drums thump inside my head. oh whereforeart your ass, Romeo? speak softly and show us your giant stick…of gum
discarded glitter from david lee roth’s stage costume, can emptiness really be this meaningful? let’s dance on graves to find out
for thine is the kingdom
he’s on his way over and your booty just accepted a collect call from prison. get me a powder puff and some lip stick, i want to look pretty while you push my face down into a pillow and i secretly wish it was a glittering refreshing pool from which i don’t come up for air
sick as a godzilla
never ever shall we part until i run off into paranoia neurotic eroticism and disgrace
Can someone tell Dave Gahan I will lap dance him to I Feeeeel You in exchange for front row? OK. How about if I let Martin Gore put on my leather teddy while I spank him with my riding crop? Pee play might be involved with me as fire hydrant to Andy Fletcher’s broke ass kids during summer in Brooklyn circa 1984.
Let’s make this happen!
Everything counts in large amounts
The grabbing hands grab all they can
Everything counts in large amounts…
I told you I’m not well. Um, did I mention I’m 40 years old? Going on 18 with a bullet?!?!