Silent Crevices

I’ve witnessed many things that I will never be able to unsee.

Not with the strongest eye bleach on the black market, nor any cheaply made cornea wet wipes ordered on Wish that take two months to arrive.

There isn’t a strong enough medication available to erase these disturbing images from my mind, for they’ve been deeply seared into my memories flesh, until the day that I pass on from this world.

No alcohol, by volume or proof, would ever be capable of forever eradicating the series of traumas that I’ve been exposed to.

For all it would accomplish is rendering me unconscious for a spell, only to wake up many hours later, discombobulated, with everything a blur, yet still unfortunately intact.

The only way forward towards survival is to allow myself to feel it all, to absorb it into the core of my being, by somehow (with sheer determination and prayer) continuing to live with all of the heartaches, the sorrow, and the multitude of crevices that are now permanently a part of my infrastructure.

I’ve learned that it is indeed alright to cry, to feel sad and to just stay quiet if you need to, even though these are behaviors that are mostly undesirable, unwanted and not socially acceptable.

I’ve been very silent lately, finding myself unable to put my thoughts or feelings into action, the way that I’m accustomed to and which makes a lick of sense.

I’ve had to remind myself time and time again that it is alright to be this way right now.

Deep inside my ever-churning brain, that’s always been riddled with ideas, where my words and creativity used to flow so free like a water faucet, is now dried up.

Hopefully just temporarily.

Watching my cherished dog as she passed away recently, then looking on at my daughter’s pure anguish (and now her regret and guilt that she didn’t spend enough time with her best friend while she was still alive) has sucked up the last remaining droplets of moisture on my tongue and fingertips.


I love you, my sweet Maggie May. Thank you for everything.

I’ve learned many things during my grief journey and I plan on sharing them here this Wednesday, on what will be my mom’s 1st deathiversary.

Until then, stay safe and well. Thank you for reading.

A Loss For Words


I haven’t known what to write about lately…everything has been so fucked up.

I’ve been at a loss for words and all of that.

But I need to write about this.

Tonight, as my daughter and I watched some TV, our eldest dog Maggie started to pant profusely. After a few more minutes, she was struggling to breathe. She seemed extremely out of it and wouldn’t eat a piece of roast beef that I had offered her.

We called the vet office that we took her to last time back in January which is closer now to our new house and since they are a 24-hour clinic, they advised us to bring her in.

Since we were not allowed inside due to the virus, a vet tech came out to get her while we waited in the car.

She could barely walk.

It didn’t take very long before they called us with the bad news. She had a tumor on her spleen that had started to bleed into her stomach. They said that surgery wasn’t even an option because she was already in the process of dying.

They came out right away to get us, so that we could be with her during her last moments. In the rush, my daughter had forgotten her mask but they were kind enough to still allow her to be with Maggie.

I asked a few times to please hurry with the syringe of whatever it is that they use…we didn’t want her to suffer any longer than she had to. My daughter let me do the talking since all she could do was sob.

I cried into her fur, talking to her, petting her softly and thanking her for so many years of unconditional love. My daughter was completely hysterical. Maggie had watched Brooke grow up; she had been her best friend.

Maggie was an old dog, at least 13 years old. We’d gotten a reprieve back in January, just enough time so that Maggie could enjoy having freedom for a couple of months with a yard to romp around in.

Our surviving dog Maya is sticking close to my side while I sit here in front of my computer typing this. I’m up so very late (how can I sleep?) and her sister is missing.

Dogs grieve just as much as humans do, only in different ways.

My God, my sweet girl is gone.

How many cracks can a heart endure before it completely shatters?

My mom’s one year death anniversary is coming up on May 20th.

My best friend’s mom died going on two weeks ago from the fucking virus.

It feels like death is everywhere, there’s so much loss, endless pain and watching my daughter’s grief-stricken, shaking body hunkered over her beloved canine companion of the last 12 years was almost too much for me to witness.

I am burnt the fuck out. Almost completely depleted.

If I could scream right now without scaring everyone in the house, I would, so fucking loudly that the windows would shake in their frames.

Maya keeps walking around, looking for her now deceased partner in crime. How do I comfort her?

How do I comfort myself?

How do I comfort anyone when I don’t even have the words anymore?

humor from the bowels of darkness

I’ve been suffering some major writer’s block…I suppose that’s the correct term for it. I think about writing something but then I decide that it’s just the same thing, rehashed.

I miss my mom.

I hate asshat.

I feel like a turd sandwich.

I’m anxious again and sad.

Those are my themes, my issues, my major problems. And we all have those, don’t we?

Like, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.


Is funny, no? 

Being funny nowadays isn’t impossible for me in real life although it’s still hard work.

But how can I explain the pizza dance that I did the other night to crack my daughter up? I kept it going, adding more crazy moves (that my fibro body would allow) until she finally threatened to start taking a video of me.

I stopped, of course.

How do I tell you about how my boyfriend laughs just by the way I say something?

“It’s not what you said, it’s the way you say it!”

I’ve always relied on my sense of humor for survival, to make friends, to get through tough times, to relieve the pressure in a stuffy room, to make myself feel special. I think we all like it when someone tells us that we have a knack for something and from the earliest memories that I can recall, mine was being humorous.

My favorite thing in the entire world was making my mom laugh.

Although I have finally retrieved most of my humor from the bowels of darkness, applying it here on my blog is proving to be a challenge. It makes me question whether or not I’ve begun the slow, downward spiral of blog abandonment.

Honestly, what’s going on in the world right now isn’t fucking funny and it’s breaking me down, bit by bit, on a daily basis.

How can it not?

Plus, next month is May. It used to be that I only hated August.

It’ll be my first Mother’s Day without my mom and then a week later, May 20th will mark 1 year since she passed away.

I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since I’ve heard her voice, seen her, touched her. This grief is unlike anything that I’ve ever experienced before. My mom was special, she was my best friend and damn it, my life will never be the same. Accepting that is the hardest part, I think.

I never thought that I’d find my path again but somehow, I have. It’s a much more lonely one without her and oftentimes confusing.

I’m slightly embarrassed to admit that I bought a ticket for an online reading last Friday night from a popular medium named Matt Fraser. All week, I seriously expected to be chosen for a reading, I just knew that my mom would come through with a message for me.


Thankfully, I don’t.

Well, she didn’t. In fact, there was zero chance of that happening since over 700 people were included on the Zoom panel. The 90 minutes went quickly and by the end, I was extremely disappointed and felt like an asshole for wasting the money.

No offense to Mr. Fraser but he’s doing another online reading this Friday and urging all of the people to buy another ticket. In the end, it’s all about making money, quarantine or not.

So instead, I pray. I talk to my mom (and dad) directly. I’ve found my faith again and now without asshat blocking my path, I can openly display my religious artwork and speak of Jesus in my own home without ridicule.

Did I ever tell you guys that he was a guitarist for a black death metal band?


My mom watched Judge Judy every day.

Yeah, I sure picked a good one, didn’t I? He’d always claimed that it didn’t have anything to do with who he really was but like almost everything that came out of his fat mouth, it was a lie. Over the years, he got some Satanic tattoos and had an upside-down cross on one of his amps.

I shudder now when I think of all of the things that I allowed.

Well, this post has been all over the place but hey, it’s something.

Stay safe and stay well.

Also, Happy belated Easter.