Still Nuttier Than A Squirrel Turd

I’ve missed me.

I mean being Mer…you know, over here on this ancient ass blog.

Starting a new blog was exciting and I’ll be honest with you, it’s pretty fucking great being anonymous. It was sort of like drinking wine out of a¬†Pringles can while tooting around a Walmart parking lot on a zippy cart.

Freedom, bitches.

And I’m pretty sure that I’ll be keeping the new blog, but I put my heart and soul into this blog for six long years. To keep it private felt like the right thing to do back in November, but I’ve since decided to reopen it again.

Emotions, right?

I’m hanging in there. Happy in love, probably for the first time in my life.


I took my sweetheart out for his birthday on January 4th.

I’m still nuttier than a squirrel turd, still a chronic pain warrior (with a 101 bowling average using my 6 pound ball) who continues to swipe daily at my dark, icky thoughts. I’m still me, but I’ve changed so much.

That isn’t a bad thing, though.

I’ve missed this place and I’ve missed you guys.


Woe Is Me


When I push my body to the limit, it repays me with pain and exhaustion. I’ve accepted this fact as a part of my reality. I’ve also accepted that others will not quite grasp the realness of my disease due to the fact that I look healthy on the outside.

I have to know when to stop and take a rest. It’s my body, after all. I’m the only one living inside this skin of mine.

I don’t want to alarm you guys, but my anxiety and depression is making a comeback. I’m still an extremely damaged person, even though I do my best to control it.

Hugging my mom is like hugging a living skeleton.

Change isn’t a simple process. I’ve removed toxic people from my life. I’ve changed my mindset and have come to finally realize that I deserve to be treated with respect and kindness (we all do). I deserve to get back what I give to others. If people cannot do this, they have to go. It doesn’t matter how long that I’ve known somebody.

Time means jack shit, one month or 28 years, it makes no fucking difference.

I read yesterday that the majority of people who have fibromyalgia are also empaths. This makes a whole shit ton of sense to me. I mean, where else would the negative emotions go if you don’t know how to rid yourself of them? They get absorbed into our flesh and bones, manifesting into a lifetime of chronic misery.

I feel like hiding today, away from the world. I want to wallow in my own melancholy stew, flavored with a seasoning packet of woe is me.

Not Too Shabby

I went bowling the other day with my boyfriend and scored a 98.

Big deal, right?

For someone who has disability status fibromyalgia, you bet your booty it is.

I used the lightest ball that the bowling alley had, a 6 pound one that the kids use while attending a birthday party for their cousin or friend. I couldn’t even lift the 16 pound one that my boyfriend owns. (He’s in a league.) We laughed a bit about that, I even asked him if he was He Man or something.


I’ve handled bigger balls in my sleep.

It’s absolutely amazing to me that this cranky, painful, weakened body of mine would actually allow me to throw a lime green kiddie ball down the lane without causing me a trip to the emergency room.

“Now be careful, I don’t want you hurting yourself, honey. I’m happy if you can play just one frame.”

I shooed him gently away with a grateful smile.

I did have to quit after two games and then happily watched as he played another by himself. I always loved to go bowling in my younger and healthier days; there’s just something nostalgic about the sound of the pins continuously falling, the faint smell of oil on wood, the light chatter of the other people gathered in harmonious activity.

My boyfriend doesn’t feed my fear, opting instead to inspire me to do the things that I never thought I’d ever be able to do again.

I sat in this condo for years, day after day, thinking that my life was basically over. That idea was perpetuated by asshat, who wanted to keep me docile so that he could feel entitled to do as he pleased without any guilt. (Fuck anyone with a willing vagina, for example.)

When I hit a strike, I turned around to see S’s beaming smile of pride and fell into his sturdy arms for a congratulatory hug.

“Wow! Nice job!”

“Yeah,” I replied, giggling. “Not too shabby.”