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.

You *just* want to shave your legs.

Let me set this up for you:

{Imagine that like things go black and then there is like a stage and then like a big light goes "Ka-Cha" and a spot light appears. Enter -Moi-}

[Also, pretend that I am a sultry narrator and a really really good voice actor. You're the best <3 )

Not only do you work five hours a day as the hottest chick in your friggin place of employment, but you are also a cook, a maid, a surgeon for every stuffed animal in the tri-city area, a search and rescue squad for lost keys; socks; pants; sanity, and so on and so forth. Now in the wee moments between 'stuffing-their-faces-with-food' and 'disregarding-the-option-of-clubbing-them-in-the-head-to-make-them-go-sleepy-time' you have just enough time to rinse the day's sweat off of your totally sexy body. Yes. This is a precious time. The moments creep on into talking TV sheep time. You have 22 minutes to shower off 'yo stank' and, heck, that leaves you 20 minutes to shave your legs. This is the time in a young mother's life that fireworks should go off. :3

Now, like a wild lady whose clothes are on fire, you leap out of those nasty clothes. The water temperature is perfection in liquid form. All the items are there: soap, razor and water. (Sometimes when you've splurged the 3-in-1 soap/shampoo/conditioner stuff. It's like a shower in a bottle.)  You can hear the sheepy music of the telly and the baby is audible as well. From a room away, over the rushing water and even over the bleeting sheep you can hear him whipping around what *sounds* like cars across your newly clean floors.

"HEY! EASY IN THERE!" You yell...delicately.

Sweat is successfully off the body. Goal One Complete. You are a Goddess. You are bathing in a warm tub filled with ambrosia (well, 'yo stank') and as you scan your water palace...you notice a looker-on.

"Mama chower?" - {Translation - Mother, while I have noticed you have gone into the bathroom after announcing you were going to 'take a bath', I am aghast. Are you, in fact, at this moment, taking a shower?)

To which you eloquently reply:

Get out.

Back to the life of luxury, you soap up your legs and ready your weapon -that almost rusty razor-, your muscles releasing intense violence for all men and manly garments, you hear a loud crash with lots of little "pitter-pitter-pitters-splash-trample" and such.

Oh. My. Lawd-in-Hebben. If that was the millions of polished stones you just picked up, even the clandestine jerks that hid in the crevices of the couches, your mind could quite possibly explode. At least you won't have to clean it up.

"PICK THOSE UP!" - The Goddess from the bathroom shouts...oh, that's you shouting btw. You think, just one moment. Just a small collection of twenty two minutes of solitude and satisfaction...of just peace and quiet. (You can feel that wrinkle in your forehead just gloat). You can hear the remainder of whatever was left of a 'clean' living room being destroyed. You can also feel the temp of the water rising. Nay, you can *see* the steam you are causing by the anger inside you. The razor sweeps expertly down your leg. Schoo-Schoo-Schoo- You have enough control over body and mind to be all like:

"CAN YOU PLEASE JUST BE QUIET FOR TWO MINUTES?!"

That was a desperate move. They can smell desperation. You stop shaving. They can sense movement too. In one pinched second you begin to lift yourself -fumbling with the soapiness of the make-shift shaving cream called "Dove"- from the sheath of happiness (or tub) when you realize...silence....and it's not a trick. The sheepy is still singing on the telly but there is a halt on the destruction of your 600 sq ft apt. (IDK if that's true. In my mind 600 sounds really good when spoken aloud - 'specially in the awesome voice you've imagine. Bravo, you.)

Serenity. Warmth. Happiness....for two full minutes....

ohholycrapthebabyhaschokedonthosedamnpebbles!

You shoot up from the tub racing the two leaps it takes to reach the living room, sliding on linolium, stepping on sharp devil toys, *just* to see your happy baby sitting peacefully watching Sheepy TV.

"Mama owie." He points out. -Translation: Mother, I notice you have a wound. Look where I am pointing.-

Yes, young mother, you have shaved a third of a leg and scalped (applicable in this situation? I'm not sure, but, dude, fersrsly whatevs.) the rest of your hard working left right leg. The left leg pristinely covered in patches of hair. Oh yeah, baby, you shave a leg.

You're Exhausted.

Mental and physical exhaustion is the shittiest thing in the whole entire world.

aaaaaaaaaaaaand thanks for reading my blog.
;)

During mental exhaustion it is very hard to stay on task and not just do whatevs-the-hells you want to. I would go so far to say: Insanely hard. <Yeah, allusion to a past post, whoo!> Mental exhaustion creeps up on a person. Have you ever noticed that? I have never like all the sudden noticed that I am really frikkin tired of concentrating. It's usually like this:

 5 minutes into project:
Outloud: All right, bitches. Let's do this.
Mentally: All right, bitches. Let's do this.

10 minutes into project:
Outloud: Hell yeah! Look at how much I've accomplished.
Mentally: Ok, it's ten minutes in I've done about 18% of the work so I should be finished at about, ooooooooooh, seven ish. That's plenty of time to play COD: Black Ops and watch that movie was suggested two months ago. Yes!

15 minutes into project:
Outloud: My eyes are soFRIKKINSICKOFSEEINGTHISTHING. *Deep inhale* Just maintain for another ten minutes. Get this halfway done and call it a night.
Mentally: whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?

45 Minutes into Project:
Outloud: Bleeeeeeeeeeh *drool*
Mentally: *drool* {Side note: Someone draw that picture for me. Your brain drooling. Heh. I'm hilarious.}

----
Physical exhaustion is arguably worse. Getting bored is fixable. Hop on facebook every two to three minutes; refresh page; get annoyed that there are no new alerts and stare at word processor again with pure rage. :D However, physical exhaustion is only (usually) resolved with sleep. (KEEP READING! I'M SORRY I SAID SLEEP. I'M SORRY! PLEASE DON'T LEAVE.) Sleep for a person within my circle is like a four letter word. Only it's like a four letter word that actually offends them; not the four letter words that they spout off in greeting {Patrick}. This being the case: sleep is never a fix to physical exhaustion. Staying up as long as possible and pumping chemicals into the body is the only reliable tried and true method of myself and those about me.

THIS IS WHERE IT GETS HILARIOUS.
Often times mental exhaustion leads to physical exhaustion and the test that I like to use on how exhausted someone is, is how accepting they are to the idea of coloring. {Say, what?}

Yes, coloring.
Kind of exhausted: Yeah, I'll color in a minute.
Exhausted: I guess.
Totally exhausted: Oh, maaaaaaan, coloring sounds so great right now.

Coloring is creative which alleviates the stress of the mental exhaustion and is extremely easy to pick up and put down. Coloring is not strenous so physical exertion is never an issue. This is also true for someone who is completely and totally wasted.

Next time you see me at a party; I'm carrying crayons. :D

You're Crazy.

Everyone is a little crazy.
That's a pretty well known FACT ABOUT LIFE and also quite obviously there are different levels of crazy. Continue reading - hilarity ensues shortly; it's going to be funny...because it's true.

Everyone has tiny episodes of crazy. Some express said crazy by creating a empirical and shocking change to themselves. For instance, nail polish color; hair color; piercings; binge drinking. These tiny bursts of crazy are often accompanied by short or enduring stress. Totally logical: when things are so out of your control it is desirable to control *something* within your control.
--
Oh noes! The friends of my friends are teasing me. I cannot control people's actions but I can control the color of my hair. Hello, blue!
---

Everyone can have prolonged crazy. This is often the direct result of manipulation or lying. I, for instane,  thought I was in love. Whoops. This is reasonable because lies can sometimes define your decisions. It's cool. Eventually you forgive yourself and people stop gloating.
---
No scenario needed.
---

Most people have a good ole fashion 'crazy.' Which, I think, is needed for most people. Some times you just got to let loose and go all crazy-nuts for a night. It's cool just own up to it when you're down the whole: I just went crazy - excuse is lame. However, the I went crazy - excuse is spot on. :D
This always seems like a last resort kinda thing. Like oh-shiz-all-of-this-stuff-just-needs-to-escape-my-body-before-I-blow-into-a-million-pieces-let's-drink!-drink!-drink!-and-beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-crazy-for-a-night. {My gawd, I crack myself up sometimes.} This can be a good or a bad tension releaser but ultimately it doesn't stick for more than ...oooooh....somewhere between one night and four months. :D :D
---
I kinda did the scenario thing already. This format isn't working like I had planned. Tee-hee!
---

There are a few people that are just constantly crazy. Which sucks. Constant crazy is an intense insanity. There are actually philosophies out there that challenge the acceptance of reality which asks of you to be paranoid and examine details closer. Can you imagine that not being a choice? To constantly question if what was presented to you as factual. To doubt every choice you make. Well, don't imagine. That's silly. Just know: It sucks reaaaaaaaaaaaaally bad.

The funny part: Crazy is ok.
There is a huge stigma against mental health issues and that's bullshit.
The other funny part: Everyone goes crazy a little bit; so you're not alone. There's not shame in it.

I think I may have lied a little bit and pulled an after school special on your ass. {Which cracks me up.}

You're a Hypochrondriac.

Actually, you only get it if you're a hypochondriac; a worrier; a pessimist and a person who hasn't had health insurance for a bit. {colon capital letter 'd'}

I think the health insurance program gives a person a sense of comfort. With insurance if you feel as though you have a bug you can just go to your doctor and they can pretend to run tests and give you some antibiotics and bim! bam! boom! Don'cha feel so much better?

However, for such a short period withour insurance it creates these pangs of paranoia.

<Go with me on this train of thought>
Shortness of breathe? Did I get that on the job? Is it all this dust I'm inhaling? I know I should've never started smoking - but I don't have any other stress relievers! - Is it "PNEUMOTHORAX, a condition in which air gets between the lungs and the chest wall, or a PULMONARY EMBOLISM, in which a blood clot may have moved from a leg to the lungs, or ATELECTASIS, a collapsed lung." {Taken from familydoctor.org} IT COULD BE ANYTHING AND I DON'T HAVE THE MONEY TO FIX IT.
<OK, thanks for following>

Now that I have insurance I *want* to go for everything but I am TERRIFIED of what it could be. This is where being a pessimist gets a hold of me. Not only is it a shortness of breathe but it's what happens to me if I can't get better? What happens to my bills and then my child and then my life?

I can't imagine it being different for other people. Having no insurance breeds fear. It's hard to gain confidence when you're own health is not in your hands. The posistion leaves you powerless. Sure you can try to heal yourself and 'wait-it-out' and pray that you are healed. However, certainty is not given.

I believe that when you let it rule you; you let it it.
If you let fear rule your life; you let fear in. You are no longer in control.

Likewise:

If you let hate rule your life; You let hate in.
If you let jealousy rule your life; you let jealousy in.
Does it make sense?

Lemme further explain:
You need to own your hate; so it cannot own you.
You need to own your jealous; so it cannot own you.

Life seems to be a mental game. Life also seems to be about responsibility.
Ha. I'm not sure. I'm a hypochondriac pessimist and I have numb hands.

You're a Wall.

I am not a wall. Walls are the best listeners in the world. Walls hear everything: creaks, little pitter patter; television; crying; laughter and they never ever tell your secrets or yell at you for being a botard. Yes, walls are excellent listeners.

As mentioned above, I am not a wall.

I like to have conversations and I like to gossip and make those 'uh-uh's and 'aw, nah, he didint' motions during a conversation. I also like to ask questions to reinforce to the speaker that I am listening. I also like to talk about things that happened to me and my opinions on things. I like to be critical and funny. I will have  conversation at any time and love it. I am always there for anyone who needs to talk.

I do not like to sit there and listen to people talk...and talk....andtalkandtalkandtalkandtalkandtalk. The first time, sure I understand, I get it. The second time, ok, annoying. However, at about EVERY time I never want to hang out with you EVER.

There needs to be a word of people who have a story about everything. EVERYTHING reminds them of a funny story about themselves.

<Scene: ME and SOME OTHER PERSON WHO COULD BE COOL IF THEY COULD LEARN TO STFU seated and talking>

OTHER PERSON: Oh my gawd, that's so funny you said that because I... <endless story about how their animal someone channeled their spirit and it was magical.>
ME: Neat, I had a dog once that...
OTHER PERSON: Oh, my gawd, this one time I had something similar happen to me but it was completely different I just noticed that we weren't talking about me.
<ME accidentally smother OTHER PERSON with a Spanish pillow.><END SCENE>

And these stories last forever. If you allowed a word in it is quickly overran with another story that has the same word. Like the world 'like' or 'the'.

I have noticed that these people can acknowledge and point out people who 'only talk about themselves' and they steer away from them and blah blah blah.

What's that saying if you don't know what I'm talking about then I'm talking about you.
 *SIIIIIIIIIIIIGH*

I'm blessed that most of my friends are legit and have intelligent convos. However, there are those select few that just can't get over themselves.

What I'm getting at is: Please remember: People are not walls.