Don’t Call Me…


Not fit to.
You made baths difficult to take.
It’s impossible to soak for long before memories surface.
Memories of you. Of what you did.

You gave me hang-ups about father-daughter relationships.
Why is that little girl pulling away from her father?
Does he play bath time games, too?
Does he let his dick hang out, then beat you when you notice?

Why is that teenaged girl walking four feet behind him?
Is she worried he’ll pinch her ass if she walks in front?
Maybe he’ll grab her chest and say “nice tits,” giving a lingering squeeze.
Maybe he’ll ask if she has any fuckable friends who can stay the night.



Did he teach you how to do that?
Did he do things to you, too?
Is that why you did what you did to me?

How about you, little sister.
Who taught you?
How to be such a raging bitch.
How to be such a big-mouthed hypocrite.
How to be such a fucking liar. And thief.

How about the both of you?
Who would abandon their own sister.
For turning her back on him.

Why should I give a fuck?
That the son of a bitch has cancer.
Why should I scurry to his side in his eleventh hour?

I live with guilt.
Because of what he did.
Because of what you did.
I’m the one who feels guilty.
I’m the one who’ll burn for not being there for him now.

But I won’t.
I can’t.
I don’t have a family now?
Well that’s your doing. Not mine.

Fuck you. Fuck all of you.



Not fit to.
I trusted you.
You were my friend. My comfort.
What mother abandons her daughter? Repeatedly?

You were brave. Strong.
You left him, though he threatened murder.
You risked it all and left.
I thought you were so brave.

If you were like you are now, then.
You wouldn’t leave.
You’d take the beatings.
You’d allow our abuse to continue.
And you would stay.

And now you want expect me by his side.
Now you write me off.
Ungrateful daughter.
She who refuses to grow up and get over it.
Abandoning me.
For him.

Fuck you. Fuck all of you.





Yeah. I can’t do those right now.
They’re fresher.


This isn’t meant to be poetry. I’m aware it’s not a poem. This is just how my thoughts came out. The structure I needed to write it in. The line breaks. The sections.

I’ve spent all weekend rarely straying from bed. I’ve slept through most of it. I wanted to clean house. Tend the garden. Do laundry. Dishes. Perhaps go to the park. Quite frankly, I couldn’t be fucked to leave the warm safety of the bed.

Heh. Safety. It’s funny I should use that word, because I haven’t felt safe at all. I probably would have felt safer had I followed through on the things part of me wanted to do. But that part of me was far too small and weak this weekend.

When I wasn’t using the bathroom or fetching something to drink, I was in bed. Cuddling a cat or a pillow. Sleeping and crying and crying myself to sleep.

And I couldn’t stop dreaming. A couple of the dreams were weird and funky and cool. But mostly they were painful and depressing. I couldn’t stop dreaming about them. I couldn’t stop dreaming about how they fucked me up and then about how much I’ve fucked it all up myself.

I want to be strong. During the week, I am strong. Even if it’s superficial. I’m strong at work. No one knows I’m depressed. No one knows I struggle with thoughts of inadequacy. Failure. Worthlessness. Death. Every. Fucking. Day.

I smile. I laugh. I crack jokes. I make people laugh. They think I’m witty and clever and smart and bashful and sweet. They see me blush at the slightest things, but then crack crude jokes with the guys. They see me master new software programs and help veteran workers figure things out. They see me attempting to unify departments and repair interdepartmental relations. They see me as an asset. At least these are all things I’ve been told there. At work.

But inside I’m dying. Friday afternoon, I got sadder and sadder as the clock ticked closer and closer to five. Everyone was excited, sharing weekend plans and asking each other about theirs. I dreaded the inevitable moment(s) when I’d be asked about mine. I smiled, gave a small laugh and averted my gaze, “Oh, nothing much, really. Looking forward to some downtime.”

And then five o’clock hit, and the lump in my throat grew to large to dislodge. I shook and cried all the way home.

I made sure the cats had food.

I watered the garden.

I fed myself.

I surfed blogs with The Amazing Race on in the background.

I went to bed. And didn’t really get up again until around noon today. Sunday. I’m writing this now, in bed. See, I’m still in bed. But at least I’m awake. That is a marked improvement from the rest of the weekend.

And the feeling that usually befalls me on weekends like this has struck. I regret it. Though I can’t turn back time, I regret it. I’m not necessarily beating myself up. I had neither the strength nor the desire to do anything differently. But I’m sad that that was my truth. I’m sad that I couldn’t enjoy these beautiful fall days. I’m sad that I imprisoned myself this weekend. I’m sad that I can’t stop being sad. And I’m sad that having work to look forward to in the morning is the only positive thing I’ve gotten out of this weekend. I don’t even really like my job anymore. And it makes me sad that it’s the only normal thing I have in my life. That it’s the only thing I have to look forward to. I’m sad that one day as I look back on this so-called life, I’ll only be able to say, “At least I had work. The only time I didn’t lie in bed thinking about how much I deserve to die was when I was at work.”

How fucking pathetic.
What a fucking joke.
What a fucking waste of life.

Life is precious.
Life is beautiful.
We only get one.

Stop fucking wrecking it.
Make it meaningful again.
Stop being a whiny, simpering bitch.

Get up. Get out. Live.

I’m trying.
I know it doesn’t sound like it.
But I’m trying.

I’m trying so fucking hard.

I can’t go back and edit this, y’all. I can’t. Or I’ll delete everything and go back to sleep. So, while I’m trying not to apologize for shit (I’m a professional apologizer) since this is my blog and blah blah blah, I can’t resist apologizing for any egregious errors in this post. I just can’t go back and read through this.


The Versatile Blogger Award: The One Where I Follow Through

Yesterday, I told y’all that my buddy over at wwwpalfitness nominated me for The Versatile Blogger Award. I’m flattered and pleased as punch and embarrassed and and you get the picture! Please check out his blog – fitness folk will enjoy it, but it’s not all about fitness. So there’s something for everyone.

versatilebloggernominationsAward Rules:
If you are nominated, you have been awarded the Versatile Blogger Award. You should:

  • Thank the person who gave you this award and include a link to his or her blog.
  • Select fifteen (15) blogs/bloggers that you’ve recently discovered and/or follow regularly. (Choose blogs you find excellent!)
  • Nominate those fifteen (15) bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award, including a link to the original VBA site.
  • Notify your nominations!
  • Finally, don’t forget to tell the person who nominated you seven (7) things about yourself.

7 Things You Didn’t Know About Meh:

  1. I once caught a baby possum and brought him inside. I put him in a shoebox and tried to feed him cheese. I kept petting him even when he hissed at me. I knew he was just scared. I mean, he hadn’t had time to get used his new mommy (me) yet. I used baby talk and cried when he wouldn’t eat. He looked so sad. I can’t remember what I named him, and I released him after an hour or so. I missed him so much. When I told my mother about him, I thought she was going into cardiac arrest. She begged me never to do anything like that again.
  2. I did things like that again. And again. In fact, years later, as an adult…a possum wandered up onto the porch of my little two-bedroom rental house. I fed him cat food and delighted in watching (through the peephole in the door) him argue with the stray cat over just whose porch and cat food that was. I tell myself that was the same possum from my childhood. An actual good memory coming back to me for a change.
  3. I like big butts, and I cannot lie. Okay, actually, I just really really like horrible, cheesy songs. You other brothers can’t deny. Also, I don’t have anything against big butts. Except my own. Except it does provide nice cushioning. Except enough with the exceptions.
  4. I named my cat’s butthole. It’s Senor Stinkerton. I’m actually half lying. I never named either of my cat’s buttholes. Until now. And now, it’s named Senor Stinkerton.
  5. I’m pissed that I can’t figure out how to make the little accent over the n in Senor. Things like this drive me bananas on the daily. If you see things like that, chances are I saw it, too. And, I promise you, it’s driving me even crazier than it’s driving you. And when I miss typos…if I haven’t corrected them, it’s because I didn’t catch it one of the ten thousand times I re-read for editing. I’m sick in the head.
  6. I’m sick in the head. Wait. I can’t use that one. You already know that. Uhm. My favorite band in the whole wide world, in the known universe and beyond, is the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Perhaps I’ll tell you why one day. For now, the why doesn’t matter (except it always matters to me). Just the bowing. Bow down to RHCP. Do it. Now. I’m waiting.
  7. I have this cute little woven hair thingy that I bought in the gift shop of a national park. Last summer. But I promptly lost the little stick that holds it to your hair. So now, I twist my hair up, slap the little woven hair thingy over the sloppy bun and slide a black warrior pencil through it to hold it in place. People pick on me for it at work. And then I forget where my pencil has gone. Like a few minutes ago, but I had to get another because the alternative was to have my messy hair spilling down. And here’s a bonus fact: I like my hair long, but I rarely wear it down. It bothers me on my neck and in my face.

Booyah. Now that’s done, let’s do nominations, or as I shall affectionately call them: nommies. Because that makes them sound tasty.


Y’all I am so new to this. I mean, I’ve been reading blogs off and on for years, but I’ve only just had my WordPress cherry popped. Ew. I can’t believe I just said that. That’s fucking nasty. Anyway. So yeah. I’m gonna nominate fifteen of my new and current favorites that I think the adjective “versatile” suits. (Here’s another bonusbonus fact: this is tough for me, because I live my life worrying about things like hurt feelings. Y’all please don’t get hurt feelings if you’re not here. It would hurt my feelings. And it doesn’t mean I don’t like you. I like you plenty. Will you marry me? Can we paint each others’ toenails?) I’m sharing the award with:

  1. B.G. at Getting Through Anxiety – Anxiety, drawing, books, funnies.
  2. Melanie at This Is My Corn – Piccies, funnies, punnies, stories, lovelies.
  3. James Radcliffe – Music, books, aging, nature.
  4. Kally at Middle Me – Advice, career, stress, social media.
  5. Richard Davies at Critical Dispatches – Street art, sociology, commentary, poetry, reflection.
  6. Nick Triolo at Jasmine Dialogues – Judaism, art, travel, culture, humanity, photography.
  7. Rachel Ann at Start With Sparkles – Reflection, humanity, inspiration, rambles.
  8. Beeps at Letters Never Meant To Be Delivered – Writing, anxiety, snark, three cheers for potty mouth, TARDIS.
  9. Noirfifre at Yelhispressing – Writing, history, travel, food, passion.
  10. Margaret Bell at The Musings Of A Magpie – Food, nature, family, books, games.
  11. Claire at Wanderings (And Wonderings) – Marriage, travel, food, piccies.
  12. Yaz at The Falling Thoughts – Photography, poetry, commentary, travel.
  13. Joelcy Kay at Edge Of Humanity Magazine – Culture, humanity, politics, food, philosophy.
  14. Meg at Write Meg! – Writing, family, books, food, photography.
  15. Carisa Adrienne at Sometimes Silver Linings Are Blue – Poetry, love, family, music, heartache.

Please check ’em out; you won’t regret it. They’re all great blogs! Personally, I think you’re about to discover some new faves. 🙂

Just a little unwell

Disclaimer: This post addresses mental illness and suicidal thoughts. Please read with caution and/or avoid if you are wary of triggers. Please also know that this is an outlet for me to vent; it is not a cry for help. We’re all here, blogging, as an outlet for something or other. Sometimes mine will be deeply personal. Today is one of those days.


The title of my post is totally telling on myself. (I say totally a lot. Get with the times, man.)

“I’m not crazy, I’m just a little unwell…”

You know. That little lyric from some Matchbox 20 song? I started to be embarrassed:

(a) That I quoted a Matchbox 20 song, and
(2) That I actually kinda liked some of the songs from that one album that time.

And then I said, well you know what? Fuck it! I used to like some Matchbox 20 songs! Kiss my ass! (Yeah, I’m still blushing. Suck it.)

Sometimes (nearly every day) I become convinced that I’m losing – or have already lost – huge irreplaceable chunks of my mind. Do you ever feel that way? No? Fuck me, that’s further proof, innit?

Time for a Tasters’ Choice Moment. So get ready to be made uncomfortable, or just run. Now. And far.

Why do I feel crazy unwell? Allow me to count the ways:

  1. I talk to myself. Okay, look. I’m not the only one that does this at work. I talk to my computer or mumble to myself sometimes when I’m trying to work something out. But that’s not what I’m talking about here. I mean, I stand in front of a mirror and look that bitch straight in the eyes and tell her what a no good piece of shit she is. And then I enumerate the reasons. One by painful, sickening one. And I rage and cry and shake, this wild look in my eyes. It’s sick and twisted and so fucking insanely unhealthy. And I just. Keep. Doing it.
  2. Every single day, I harbor thoughts of death. And I don’t know whether this distinction will make any sense (or any difference) to potential readers, but…it’s not that I want to kill myself. I don’t. It’s that I no longer wish to be alive. Here. On this Earth. With no meaning. No purpose.
  3. Do you ever look at a coworker and (while she’s running her mouth) scream inside your head, “GO EAT A BAG OF DICKS AND JUMP INTO A FLAMING PILE OF FLAMINGO SHIT ALREADY!” Okay, somehow I don’t think this one makes me crazy. I think this one is perfectly normal.
  4. I sometimes sit on the floor, in the corner, at home. Curled up. For an hour or more. Staring off into space and crying. Oh yeah, we’re back into abnormal territory now, baby!
  5. Lately I have nightmares or bad dreams every night. This has been going on for a few weeks now. They used to be more sporadic. But they’ve been every night of late. They’re either really fucked up superscary, dark and terrifying shit. Or they’re really fucked up shit from my childhood. Which, for some reason, my lovely little healthy brain has decided to revisit and replay in sickening detail. Over. And over. And over again. My brain is a fucking asshole.

I need to get back to nature. I’m craving it. Viscerally. I need to get the hiking boots out, dust off the tent and return to the wilderness soon. To remind myself that I have a soul. And to reconnect with it. To commune with nature and be at peace. To feel alive.

*Please know I’m neither soliciting nor hoping for sympathy or the telephone number for National Suicide Prevention. In fact, for those in need, that number is: 1 (800) 273-8255. If you feel that low, call. Call now. I will also kindly direct you to thoughtfully read this.

I just needed to vent,  y’all. I really needed to vent today. And hell, I may not be done. I may be back for more. We’ll see.

Thank you, for listening.