You're in Therapy.

So, I would hope by now my readers have caught on to my writing style (or vicious ramblings of insanity.)

I like to use first person narrative to introduce my subject {"I" like toast {I actually hate toast}) and then leap into second person narrative ("You" [You the reader]) forcing the reader to be me via stream of conscious or "our" collective conscious.  HA! I am so clever. This is why I live on land and yet not in an igloo. The series of narratives allows for an awkward fluidity. A familiarity of phrase or voice that sucks you into my crazy and allows you to safely return to your normal every day life. Everybody wins! Fersrsly, I deserve a cake for this genius.

I also really like to use the /bold, /italic and /underline as well as fancy parenthetical things.I think letters (symbols) combined with symbols look very beautiful. Recognizable and sexy.

My therapist today said that I need to allow myself to grieve and that my "crazy and my trauma are intermingled and inseparable by my mind" (I paraphrased.) I feel reluctant. I also have such mixed emotions about therapy.

I've been thinking a lot about my friend, Laron, and how she lived her life. I still have an intense fear of being me in public. While, I think, Laron had her ups and downs for the most part she had a great grasp or who she was. I know who I am, I just don't like me.

I don't think I would mind being (because, unwittingly I have been), an advocate for mental health. This shiz is real. Yo. Diggity. No doubt. ... :D

Do you really think it's normal push every one away and be so selfish? Do you really think that it's normal to 'fly off the handle' when dishes are not put away? Does your mind sometimes not have that 'fresh' feeling? If you answered yes to any of these questions : 

Get Help and Quit being a selfish jerk.

I don't think there's anything wrong with me taking medication and going to therapy (privately, obviously, but I am trying to live like Laron for one week.) There are so many people living day-to-day who are undiagnosed with mental issues, who struggle much harder than I do. Or there are people who are well aware that there are issues to be dealt but would rather get the attention and be snobbish whores (I don't like those people.) I have danced around for a very long time and light-heartedly admitted to my problems. Well, now I want to own them, so they can't own me anymore. {Please search your IPOD for "Eye of the Tiger".}The difference between me and the 'people abusing the system' or 'the people getting hopped up on drugs' or 'people not like me' is that I am trying my damndest to be a normal functioning adult. I want to be happy. I want to work and support myself and my son. I want to not have a crippling fear every time I go out in public. I want to fight this epic battle. I am not giving up on myself yet.

I feel well aware of the stigma I get from the public because in private I feel the disapproving aura prickle my skin when I talk to loved ones. It's ok. Everyone is entitled to an opinion and I've always just kept it at that. I just think at this point in my life, during the circumstances, I need to be more assertive. I need to be me. I am mine. {And somehow I forgot.}

You wake up and you are sad. You go about your day because that's what you do everyday. Your mind is foggy, you act without thinking, your life is a blur. You eat your dinner with a dessert of a handful of pills and you go to bed sad. You can change your life. You can change the life of those around you. You don't have to be sad. You get up and you do the bravest thing you can think of: you ask for help. It's humiliating. You cry in front of your doctor (who has seen you blow dime sized boogers from every orifice {yet, telling your doctor you cry two to three times a day is so much worse}) and your doctor asks you a series of stupid and prying questions. Just answer them. Just get the help you need. You take the script to your local CVS and hope that no one knows the generic names for Prozac or Valium. You feel sad at the thought of needing to take pills to function. You reconsider 'getting help.' Just take your pills. It's okay to ask for help.

If your liver was failing and was acting up in such a way that the rest of your body was not able to function properly you would go to the doctor. The doctor would prescribe medicine and treatment to fix your liver and your life would slowly get better.

Your brain is an organ in your body. When it is sick; it needs treatment.

See? See what I did there? Srsly, guys, how do I turn this into a living? Man, I am going to bake myself a cake.

You shoulda/coulda/woulda (A series of incomplete thoughts)

I cannot preface enough: This is going to be ramblings. Feverish and unrefined. I am literally spewing (Shakespeare just high-fived me.)

Laron was born exactly one week before I was. I have no idea what happened in that one week that made us so dynamically different and yet so spiritually the same.

Laron and I graduated at the same time. We have the same sense of humor. We are both unbelievably hot.

If I could live that one week like she lived her life....

Everyone has their own way of grieving. I am an insane person. This is how I have grieved:

I feel like my body was the first to get over the grieving: I no longer moped and laid in misery sinking into ritualistic unhappiness. My mind was next. Logically, I cannot be mopey. I have a two year old. Logically, I cannot be a victim to my sadness; I was a lucky one. I knew Laron Short. She touched my life. She let me love her. She was a phantasmagoric gem in my spectrum of love. However, it is my heart that will not allow me to let her go. My heart yearns to the shoulda/coulda/wouldas. My heart aches to hug my friend and feel her warmth. My heart hurts.

Denial -
You awaken. Bluntly, you are told your friend has died.

Impossible. Laron just got home. She just lost her phone. No. She is still delayed in CA. She's not even in OK right now. This is stupid, Laron just got home. Home is a safe place. Laron is safe. Fumbling. Rearranging things to be orderly and correct (as you have severe OCD) No, see the shoes are in the shoe rack so Laron is safe and alive. She's laughing at the idea that everyone thinks she is dead.

There is a crippling pain in your back. You realize it's not your back. It's your heart and chest crumpled in over itself making your back ache. You have an anxiety disorder attached to a heart disorder. Your heart is not healthy. Your mind is not healthy. In turn, it makes your body not healthy. The pain in your back aches and you focus on your chest crippled in on itself. You feel like this concaveness is making you lurch forward. Falling.

Listlessness-
Luckily, your OCD is so bad that routine just falls into place. Work. Unfortunately, your OCD asks you to count in fours and your overwhelming sadness has cleaned your memory of numbers. Which means your world is not right; which means your friend is dead. Blank. Stop. Stare. Why didn't I talk to her more? Why can't I manage my time better to be a better friend? Why does my back keep hurting? Your mind snaps back. You're at work. Four steps to the ice machine. Four scoops of ice. Four steps to customer. Which means your friend is alive because everything makes sense. Success! Your heart aches. You don't deserve to be happy. You're in mourning. Wait? What am I doing?

Anger -
Chickasha is FILLED with assholes. Evil meth heads. Twisted drug dealers. Liars. Cheats. Thieves. But Laron was the one who died. JUST HOW FAIR IS THAT? It is UNACCEPTABLE. She was making a difference. She was challenging the world; the people; the collective mind to think and change and be better. She had such a defined sense of truth of right and wrong and the world is filled with EVIL. SO WHY HER? SO WHY HER?
There is no answer in the air. The world; the people; the collective mind is silent.
There is a building of tension in the shoulders at the base of the neck and the root of your mind that is filled with anger. It hurts. Which pisses you off more. Destruction is not an answer. Yet release is not in sight. anger anger anger.
There are people laughing at the restaurant. Without notice you are violently angry with them. How dare they laugh when precious joy has left the Earth? What fathomable reason do they have to feel the bubble of giggles when there should be a solemn pain. Hate.

Compliance-
Mind; body. They wait for you. With open arms. Just accept that you are hurting. Your mind and your body have accepted it. So why is the heart of you refusing to come?

I keep missing opportunities. I missed them with Laron and my heart aches uncontrollably. Who else have I been a bad friend too? Who else doesn't know how much I love them? My heart aches so bad. If I could just live one week like she lived her whole life I could be a better person.


In the same day someone has died and another has been born. The world is cyclical. My heart (my racing thoughts are/) is cyclical. I am a remorseful ball of confusion and yet of hope. This ball of confusion just keeps rolling forward. Stronger. Faster. With more confidence.