I can write with a bit of humour, which is a massive improvement.  I dance on the cusp of despair, with the brink of tears in my throat welling.  Avoiding what I can, I remain on the fulcrum.  I could tilt any way.

We can make the Web our safety net.

Everything I touch is poisoned.  I am a walking trauma.  I fail at every turn.  I hurt more than I help.  I fail others as I am failing.  My world is a black hole that I want you to avoid.  Save yourself:  Cut me loose.

You may have noticed that I've been a tad tiresome of late.  I have been struggling with an ongoing low, which I really didn't want to face or own up to.  It has secretly alarmed me, injured me and fecked with my mind.  In particular, my humour, something I rely on heavily.

On Tuesday I told my p-doc that I failed to see the point of continuing medication, as I end up feeling this way.  Typical of my depressions, I cannot recall being happy or content.  He reminded me that I have felt better and that we'd wanted to see me stable for a while before I start to come off the meds.

To that end, he has prescribed a dopamine medication, as the Ritalin worked so well back when.  As it is not usually a p-med, the fecking insurance refused to pay for the $160 it took to fill the script.  I am so sick of the way I feel, that after I walked Griffin, I called CVS back and said I'd pay for it.

Which right now means that Cricket will pay for it.  She has shelled out the money to pay for me to go back to school, and more stuff than my pee-brain can handle right now.  Yet she is insisting I make sure I am well myself, first, before paying her back.

I hate myself right now.  I wish I were done.  I am too exhausted and overwhelmed.  I would leave this mortal coil, were it just me.  This sea of crashing depression is cold, harsh, relentless, with rip-tides and strong currents.  Even if I find a life-raft, it will be a short respite before I am tossed into the sucking, dark waters of despair again.  How can I continue and why?

For now I have to live.  I have no option.  My mess is something I would not wish on anyone.  I have cats that I have chosen to care for.  I have an incalculable debt to Cricket, which has nothing to do with money.  In short, for now I am living for her and my beasties, because I cannot bear to live for myself.

I'll try and write, but please understand if I am not answering emails, comments and calls.  Thank you.

Sometimes I have to stop listening to NPR.  The constant in-depth reporting of the endless maladies of our world lose their charm.  I have to give up for a bit, knowing that in amongst the doom there are many gems I've missed.

Tonight, I drove out to the Cannery, a medium security women's facility of the Philadelphia Prisons System.  I hold Monday night 12-Step meetings there.  After I'd signed in at ASD, I waited in the parking lot of the Cannery, listening to NPR interview my hero Temple Grandin.  Sad to miss the last half of the program, I went up to the gates at the appointed time.

It was a good meeting, ebbing and flowing between hope and despair, in a way an outside meeting does.  Only it's more so inside, in my experience.  We all suffer the mood swings of addiction, the women inside suffering lost freedoms, children, partners, yet expressing hope that this will be their last bid.  I may be glad to leave, but sometimes I succumb to hopelessness, thinking that the message of experience, strength and hope that I carry will only live behind the razor wire.

That really isn't my problem though.  If I trust the greater spirit, then my part is done.  I only wish I did trust more.  I see amazing women, who have humour and grace in an untenable position.  But when they walk out into the chaotic world, they are sorely under duress, lacking funds, life skills; the list goes on.

Anyway, as I drove home, NPR was playing the music of an African man on their PRI program that you can listen to here.  Until recently Victor Deme has been largely ignored.  Not because his music was bad.  Rather, it did not conform to the music of his country.  You may also like to see a video of Msr. Deme, which I offer you also:

Also, I would like to say that I am sorry for being away for a bit.  I've been loony-tunes with a bit of barking mad recently.  Awful, actually.  That said, I've been working on killing my computer with heavy doses of cat hair, relentless saving of useless info, a dash of liquid and bloody felines that see it as a great way to get attention.  To the point where I may open the first ever "My Cat on Keyboard" blog. (@2009)!

So for my birthday, Cricket is going to have this puppy tuned up, bless her.  Guess I'll have to pull out all that porn I've been down-, or is it up-loading when it's sexy?  Which means, boys 'n' girls, my berloody computer is going away.  As of tomorrow.  So I'll see you in the next decade.  Have fun, enjoy the Mad Tree Party we set up but have yet to invite anyone to and throw some Marlins on the grill.

Cricket will lend me her fancy-pants computer whilst mine's gone.  But you know how this is.  See you in a week or so, sweeties!

This title is pretty loaded with insinuations, inferences and ignominious associations.  In fact, it makes me a tad nervous to even address it.  But this year I learned to start to create boundaries.  It's a new beginning for me, spineless sycophant that I am!  Anyway, the reason why I'm writing this, is due to my friend "X".

X was my second sponsor in a 12-Step Program that I'm in.  My first was a male friend, so when X (a female) became available, I switched.  At the time X had about fourteen years or so sober, but it was her presence that drew me to her.

Within a few months, she was having a full on melt-down.  She exhibited behavior that I would never have tolerated in a "regular" friend.  It became so that I was her mental health sponsor and she was my incredibly needy sponsee.

I helped her move in with her fiance, packing up her house, carrying it into my van and bringing it into their new place.  As I unloaded my van, she sulked in a chair, angry at the man she was moving in with.  Did I mention that I'm not so great in the conflict area?

Despite being hospitalized for months at a time over the past decade, X visited me just once in lock-down.  The last time I was in.  She wanted to show me the new engagement ring she had.  Such a nice thought for a suicidal person on a locked down ward just after Christmas.

I'd given her the link to this blog some time back.  I wrote a post about her struggles with depression, which she sent to friends and family.  Heck, some of them might be reading this right now.  But I know X isn't.  How do I know?

Well, a couple of months back I got tired.  See, X only calls me when life isn't rosy in her world.  Given, X has some terrible health problems.  Like cancer.  But she wields her illness like a white flag.  Everything that has happened, or will, is under the flag.  She is above judgement, beyond reproach, excused and accounted for.  Her behavior is untouchable.

Her trump card is cancer.

The other day, she left a message on my phone, saying that she hadn't heard from me.  That she was worried.  That she was angry at me for not calling.  X said that she thought maybe I was in hospital, that maybe Cricket would call her.

It is true I haven't called her in the past four or five weeks.  Frankly I was burned out.  She was improving medically, so I wasn't so worried.  I needed to take care of myself as I crashed and burned after the death of Hello Newman.  So many of you, my virtual family, have offered support in my times of need.  When I had to put Hello Newman to sleep, I was moved by the compassionate and caring comments.

X has no idea about Hello Newman.  Although she linked my blog to family members when I wrote a couple of posts about her depression, she clearly doesn't read it.  Else, she might have a clue.

And here is the telling part.  If you are truly concerned about a friend, you let them know it.  You don't tell them that you're pissed.  That just makes the pissed on person dig in deeper, to avoid the spray.  Call me silly like a smiley, but implied threats of anger and guilt make me want to run away screaming like a little boy.

My current sponsor, with over twenty-five years of sobriety refuses to let me DTMFA (thanks             Dan Savage), saying we in the program are all each others appointed friends.  Others, like a previous sponsor, said that some are here to help you learn a skill like Patience, Compassion, Understanding  and Tolerance.  Fecking fabulous.

I just need the skills of Spine, No-fear, Up Your Bum (no, silly, it's a figure of speech)!  and emailing all the Xs out there.  Can I dump my sponsor for being so annoyingly right?  Can I DTMFA myself?  Just asking.

Please don't read this if you are feeling vulnerable.  Please go to the hot-line links on the right.  Thanks.

So, I've been kind of chatty here recently.  I've been chatty in my real life.  But I feel that I should be honest here, as much as possible.  I do believe that I mentioned my self-injury recently, but I'm not sure I gave it full credit.

I used to open my arms and legs with razors.  The cuts that got sewn up are thin with dots from the stitches.  Others are long and wide, thanks to no medical help and myself.  Cigarette burns make pale dots on the veins on my hands and tattoo bracelets around my wrists.  The final big burn up my arm took three cigarettes and shows it.  That one got me into the last hospital for three months.  Other injuries have done the same.

I have made a choice to no longer cut myself, burn myself, staple myself, hit myself, bruise myself or run my knuckles on bricks.  I have kept to that, for the most part and it has been hard.  What I do now is pick at bites until they become wounds.  Pick at bumps until they become wounds.  Pick until I am wounded.  And I am walking on wounds, as I have been ripping at the soles of my feet,

I am having problems walking, because of this.  We have changed my meds because of this.  But this is what I know:

If you are starting to hurt yourself, it will not get better.  You will only have to live with visible scars that you want to cover, whilst the inside scars still bleed.

If cutting yourself is your only form of control/release, please seek help, because you are worth it.  (On the right, I have a list of resources).

Although this may seem harmless, it's not.  Self-harm is a bad coping skill, a sign that all is not right and that you need help.  Some injuries may lead to death.  My last burn was to a degree that I was lucky to not suffer further.

It may seem cool and appealing now, but I'm telling you now at 42 years old, it's not.  Having to hide my scars under long sleeves and pants gets old.

Treasure yourself.

Well, how did you spend the OHMYGODITSCHRISTMASNEXTWEEK weekend?  I mean, after all, this is the holiday season, right?  In fact, the holiday season is the polar opposite.  Think about it.  At any other time of the year, the word "holiday" has a completely different interpretation.

For eleven months out of the year, a holiday is a concept that is treasured.  It brings forth fantasies of escape, relaxation, avoidance and fun.  A holiday finds us free of the daily grind and releases us from our tiny corner of our world, in many forms.  We indulge in activities, fashion and frivolity that our regular lives prohibit.  We go to other places, in order to make sure that we are far from our daily demands and requirements.  We eat unusual foods, bask in the elements of different climates, leave our cel phones at home and dream of living this life in perpetuity.

However, the month of December has in effect, closed down the holidays.  It doesn't matter what faith, creed or colour you are: this is not a holiday time for you.  To wit:

1)  You have to see people you might otherwise not, in large batches, or close quarters, or both.

2)  You have to cook food for the people you might otherwise not see, using unfamiliar recipies and utentials.

3)  You have to get out of your comfy PJs and dress up for (see 1 and 2).  Unless you live in the Fishtown/Kensington/Port Richmond areas of Philadelphia, where PJs are Haute Couture on the shtreet.

4)  You have to travel to a place buried even deeper in the snow than your place, in order to (see 3).

5)  You spend too much money buying dreck for the people you have to visit (see 4)

6)  You begin to dream of being a foundling, with no history, no guilt, no obligations and a livelihood in the place you would normally stay.  If this was a holiday, and all.

Luckily for me, my family wants nothing to do with me, so I'm off Scott free!  I'm going down to Long Beach Island with my best friend Cricket.  We'll be entertaining Griffin, Nigel Nancyboy and Zebedee Minky Star.


A holiday is not a holiday if it creates stress.  This is a difficult time for many people.  The winter blues should not be taken lightly.  Please reach out to others, if you are feeling overwhelmed, depressed, stressed or in pain.  There are many people who know what you are going through and understand.  Please check into the Hotlines and resources link on the right, to find a bridge to your help.

I'm working on a concept that could be quite big.  I've noticed that we all take care of each other on-line, maybe more than others in our real life.

So, based on the model of Chicago's Mad Tea Party, I hope to create a virtual support system.  One that is based on trust, like Facebook, that is regional like Freecycle, that is invested like Mad Tea Party and is driven by people like you and me.

I want to stop the use of the phrase "Mental Health Consumer", which is patently absurd.  None of us shopped for our diagnoses.  No one diagnosed with, say, cancer, is labeled as a "Cancer Consumer".  The phrase has been created in a terrified world.  A world too terrified to face the truth about ourselves.  A world where we think it is better to hide illnesses behind pat, comfortable and softened words.  A world where shopping is implied within the mental diagnoses.

As I've written before, I'm willing to take any insights you might offer.  I plan on contacting the site-builder this week.  My therapist suggested that I apply for a Government grant.  I guess I need a business plan first.  LMAO!  (Laughing My Arse Off)!

Wish me luck.  This could become a fantastic tool in the fight against mental health ignorance.  I hope that it will help readers become informed, whether it be about symptoms, medications, hospital stays, links to pet and plant care for those in hospital, forums and support.

I saw my p-doc today.  As I watched him looking at my shaky, restless hands I tried to slow the stream of words.  I told him that I was much better than the last time we'd met, but that I was rapid cycling.  My speech rushes along to push the relentless patter of my mind out, while I handle my anxiety by tearing at the skin of my feet.  Waves of depression swell over me, leaving me achingly sad.

He took me off Pristiq, which we'd added last month as I was at the outside level of Effexor that SSDI insurance covers; 300mgs.  I have done well on 450mgs, but can't afford it.  Pristiq works better at lower doses and Doctor Z said that my rapid cycling was a result of too much anti-depressants.  I have been unable to work, because of my stressed mind, which is not great, in light of the expense of life, this season and the on-going debt that I owe Cricket.

Cricket is my best friend, who has sometimes been confused, by some, like my doctors on lock-down wards as my imaginary friend, or when they meet her, my life paramour.  She stood by me when my sister shut me out, when my father refused to see me ever again, when I should have been put in a State Hospital.  Which, without her, would have been my lot in life.

Anyway, I was over at Liz Spikol's site, where she had a link to an article about Holiday Depression Busters.  I haven't read the whole piece, because of relentless pop-up ads, one of which gave me pause.  The ad was for Pristiq, which along with being annoying, was a little offensive to me.

The ad features a woman of no particular ethnicity.  (Having studied voice-over as well as on-camera acting, I know that is now highly desirable, after decades of Caucasion persuasion).  But my problem lay not with the woman, but with her wardrobe and pose, which revealed a plunging cleavage.  It may just be me, but if I, as a heterosexual woman, finds my eyes looking at the decolletage, then what does it say about me, the ad and the message therein?