So many things are scary at night, especially when you’re alone. And live just outside the woods. And have those huge floor to ceiling windows that just anybody wanting to could smash in with a brick and–

Just one sec, I need a Xanax. Are these chest pains from terror or too many chicken fingers and soft drink? Never mind, just look at this unknown fugitive.

The East Area Rapist/Original Night Stalker/Diamond Knot Killer



What an evil creep. Listening to the message he left on a victim’s machine actually made my eyes well up a bit in terror, and I’m the sort to enjoy urban exploration of supposedly “haunted” places, play Silent Hill/Siren/etc. in the dark, and other ill-advised activities. Not that I’m at all brave, just not easily startled, and everything I’ve seen and heard about this guy has, in the truest sense of the word, STARTLED me.


Abandonment issues much?

Nothing haunts me, nothing pains me, like being neglected by a loved one.




Meh, actually I just get really sad and have dreams about people leaving me. The people I treasured the most as a kid were transient, and it always felt like no matter how much someone cares for me, I love them more, and loving someone that much means suffering for them.

You get all the hugs.

Anxiety attacks suck. Anxiety attacks brought on by Paxil withdrawals suck hard.

Getting off of Paxil was excruciating and in the end it required staying in a hospital setting for a while to keep my seizures in check. I remain furious at my doctor for not telling me this could happen in the first place, and sympathetic to those going through the process.

What I have to say to them is to keep going. This isn’t forever, and it isn’t bad to distract yourself.

What you’re feeling now has you thinking that all the awful things in your head is the truth, and the truth is cold and brutal. But isn’t it possible that your mind is tricking you right now?

Is literally everyone you know, everyone in the world, wrong or stupid? Because no one could possibly know what you know and keep on going, loving, laughing, right?

It’s okay. It’s okay. 

The chemicals in your brain are going to be messed up for a while, and it’s going to be really easy to get scared of things that wouldn’t usually bother you. Protect yourself from them, wrap yourself in a thick layer of happiness and light. Watch Home Alone seven times, get a Neopets account and play some Gormball.

You’re not yourself right now, but you’re okay, I promise. Remember that the average panic attack, and I mean balls to the wall, I’m going to die right now, piss your pants terror panic attack, will last about half an hour. This is your timeline. If it lasts longer than half an hour then something else is going on, and you’re still okay!, but you can rationalize going to the emergency room.

Tell them that you’re having a very hard time coming off of an anti-depressant and need help. Be straight with them if you’re having thoughts of self-harm. There’s nothing to be embarrassed of and anyone who says otherwise is an asshole. You’re going through an incredible ordeal and might feel easily intimidated, but there’s no excuse for anyone to be treating you without empathy.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, has been disoriented and afraid at some point in their lives. You aren’t pathetic or weak.

Take a bath. A long, long, hot bath. If you can, take your tablet or whatever in with you and read, listen to a movie, anything. The key is to stay constantly stimulated. Resist the urge to sleep all day and stay up all night. The night is dark and invites terrible thoughts to those with their defenses down. It’s too lonely a time for you right now, so keep the shades up and make yourself take in the sunshine.

Keep the air moving. Everything sucks, including your personal hygiene right now. That’s okay, think of it as having the flu. Everyone’s gross when they have the flu. No shame in wearing a hat and dousing yourself in Febreze during this time.

If your friends try to make you go out and do something, let them. Just tell them upfront that if you decide it’s time to go, then it’s fucking time to go. They love you and are just trying to help, so try and oblige them. It might even help a little, and if not, at least you tried. It’s very hard to be brave right now but you did it anyway and I think that takes incredible strength.

I want you to feel better as soon as possible, my mentally interesting comrades. That means I have to discourage getting messed up, because all alcohol will do right now is make you confused and anxious. And possibly pee your pants. We don’t want that.

Weed doesn’t have much of an effect right now either, it seems. If you’re having trouble eating, I wouldn’t trust it to build your appetite because you’ll still be nauseous afterward. The best advice I can give you in that regard is to forget everything you learned in health class and eat whatever you want. I once went weeks eating nothing but popsicles and jello cups. It’s not healthy but as long as you’re eating, you’re good. Low blood sugar will only make you more disoriented and as awful as throwing up is, throwing up something gentle in your tummy is better than dry retching.

Feel better soon, friends. We’re all in this together.


Oh God.

I remember this feeling lapping at my fingertips.

Too welcome a host, too accommodating of these swampy, difficult moods because I’m difficult. Always having to take the hard way, and never for any noble reasons, no, just pigheadedness and a failproof inability to recognize my own limits.

I’m not brilliant. I can be compelling, rarely. Maybe back in the day, when life was fast and shining and nothing mattered. It isn’t like that anymore and that makes me boring, and one thing I’ve noticed about myself is that there’s a directly inverse relationship between how interesting I am and the depth of my feelings.

I’m not making sense. That’s okay. Just getting it out helps.


Yesterday was my 26th and I celebrated quietly by heading off to Moosey’s (of course) and spending time with her and someone I haven’t seen in quite a while but vaguely remember from a long-ago camping adventure. It was time for some serious asymmetrical hair and ’80s makeups.


Unfortunately I turned into a big fat downer about halfway through doing crazy yoga karaoke and waxed melodramatic about personal items that usually stay in my brain (for good reason), completely embarrassing myself, and waking up the entire house upon returning home by mistaking Moosey’s phone charger for my tablet’s and taking it with me, forcing her to ring at 4am.

Haha I am just super.

Today was spent house sitting and nursing what I’m beginning to suspect is the latest flu strain that’s going around, and staring at my mother with a cartoon jaw-on-floor expression as she relayed to me how an adorable herd of pygmy goats escaped their pen near the highway and the jeep behind her wasn’t able to swerve in time.

R.I.P. adorable herd of pygmy goats.





I got this from the NAMI facebook feed and was moved enough to share it. It’s a great quote putting words to a sentiment all too easy to forget, and Lord knows I’m guilty of it.

I’m not a huge fan of Martin Luther King Jr’s personal life (but then, who is, decades after a man’s death when nothing is personal and scandal is a best-seller), but as a figure, as a leader, he’s on the short list of people I genuinely admire as a hero. His firm, gentle strength resonates today, not only for the black community, but anyone crying for justice.

The Sandy Hook Post

I deleted the post about Sandy Hook “actors” because it was getting a lot of traffic and it occurred to me that some people who disagree with such kooky, liberal ideals like gun control might use the subject matter of this blog (namely, the mental health issue) for their paranoid crusade against the government.

The Sandy Hook Massacre wasn’t the worst mass shooting ever, not even this year in fact, but the fact that it involved small children makes it especially painful. When arguing with people over whether or not it actually happened leads to demanding autopsy photos of the victims, that’s when I throw up my hands and say “fuck it”- or, rather, “fuck you”.

If you don’t believe it happened, fine, that’s up to you. If you don’t believe it happened and become a caricature of the worst the internet has to offer in search of the truth, you’re being an asshole because what if you’re wrong? What if you’re wrong and every keystroke is a dagger in the heart of a mourning parent, sibling, classmate?