Sunny Days Always Bring Me Down

I hate when the sun rises and illuminates my bedroom, indicating that it’s time for me to get out of bed.

My phone no longer rings at 8 am. My mom is gone and she called me every morning to help me with the difficult transition from sleeping to being awake. How I miss that daily call. I know that I’ve mentioned this before, but I can’t seem to shake the need to repeat myself.

I get this really icky feeling that I can’t seem to find words to explain, which started during the summer of 2015 and has recently made a comeback. It’s dread, fear and panic rolled into one nasty emotion.

Is it a form of existential dread, wonky brain chemicals or what, I haven’t the slightest clue.

Some mornings are better than others. I come downstairs and take care of my dogs first, food and water for them, then I let them outside to do their thing. I make my solo cup of coffee and then use the restroom myself. I take my morning medications and when my coffee is ready, I go sit in front of my laptop and turn it on.

Just do the next thing, the grief group book advises.

My boyfriend sends me a good morning text and I’ll respond, as soon as I can think straight enough to form words. He’s the main person that’s keeping me going right now, my lantern in the darkness.


Today would have been my 10th wedding anniversary. How things can change in just one decade. This date means absolutely nothing to me now, yet it brings back memories of how happy my mom was to finally marry me off to someone she trusted, that promised to love and care for me.

Well, we didn’t know.


There’s no way to guess how many years I have left. Only God knows the exact date, time and circumstances. He even knows if I’ll lose my battle with my own self and jump off of a cliff when I’m 51.

Fuck, I am morbid. Steven hates it when I think like that, but I’ve never hid it from him. It comes with the package.

Yes, I still often wish that I could pop off sooner than later, but this is a thought that I’m so accustomed to having, I barely take notice of it anymore. Just like the tide, it comes and goes.

I read something interesting the other day, on how to deal with anxiety and other unwelcome thoughts…face, accept, float, let time pass.

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This book is on my reading list, but I’ve watched a few videos and read some of Dr. Weekes advice. She even recommended that suicidal ideation be treated with that same mantra, unless there’s an active plan being put into place.

These are all thoughts of a tired mind.

Well, then I suppose that my mind is pretty damned fucking tired, doc.


I think that I might start sleeping on the couch at night. Maybe a change of scenery will help keep that icky doom thing from laying its ice fingers on me.

I could use a break from it.


I don’t get to see my new therapist until December 5th. The woman who did my intake interview told me that there’s so many people who need psychiatric help and only so many providers to offer that assistance.

I’ve been going to my grief support group at the church every Monday evening, although there’s only two other woman, besides the two lovely ladies who are in charge of it. But they are all extremely nice people and I’m glad to have met them.

It helps somewhat to know that I’m not the only one who feels the need to share my grief instead of keeping it all to myself.

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It Starts Inside My Head

I’m really good at trying to destroy myself.

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Not with alcohol or drugs. Not by being promiscuous or by acting recklessly.

It all starts inside my head. The voice that whispers that I’m never going to amount to anything much, that I’m just a loser who can’t manage her own life. A woman who can’t even work, for fucks sake, that has to depend on the government and her daughter just to barely survive.

A woman who must have “abuse me” written on her forehead.

I’m free now, but there’s so much damage to sort through, I’m absolutely overwhelmed by it all.

He got to skitter away without a scratch and I cannot even begin to explain how much that pisses me off.

I canceled my doctor appointment earlier this month because I couldn’t get myself to leave the house and face my health (or lack thereof.) I rescheduled and it took everything I had just to show up. It started to rain so hard that the roads instantly began flooding. I started having a panic attack because my brakes are starting to get pretty wonky and I can’t afford to get them fixed right now.

So I just don’t go anywhere unless I absolutely have to or I’m with my boyfriend, usually in his car.

Because of my credit, I’ve been denied for every loan that I’ve applied for, even though it’s gone up 25 points within a year. This fuels the voice in my head that I absolutely suck ass.

I’ve been having the most wicked fibro flare for about two weeks now and it just won’t let go of its grip on me. I wake up each day with the hope that I’ll feel better and I’m so bitterly frustrated when I don’t.

I want to call my mom. I’ll forget sometimes that she’s gone and I’ll reach for my phone. Then the realization hits me hard and I start to cry softly.

I’ve missed two of my grief support groups now and I’m ashamed.

Do I even own a sense of humor anymore? Where did it go?

There are so many ways that you can destroy yourself. In my case, it’s an addiction to feeling like I’m a piece of worthless shit.

Annoying Mosquito

Sometimes, I just don’t want to be here anymore.

I’ve fought hard and continue to try to banish this unwelcome emotion and for periods of time, I’ve even succeeded. I’ve gotten too cocky about it a few times, thinking that I’ve finally accomplished what seems like the impossible.

But what’s really near impossible is being able to just talk about it with someone without scaring them so badly that they either:

A. Avoid me like the plague, which happens 89% of the time

B. Try to lock me up in the psych ward

It seems to me that suicide is becoming more of an epidemic because people just don’t want to get involved.

I would go back to weave some nice baskets if I honestly thought that I’d follow through with a plan to end this thing called life once and for all. I really would, even though the accommodations and quality of care were less than desirable.

They stopped my pain medications, gave me insulin when I didn’t need it, upped a med that was making matters worse and their idea of a mattress absolutely destroyed any chance that I’d be able to sleep, heal, rest and not wake up in severe pain every morning.

They also served me decaf coffee.

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Yet as much as I fear having to go back inside, in order to save my life, I guess that I fucking would.

It helps me when I can talk about what I am experiencing openly without being afraid of the assumption that I’m holding a steak knife across my throat. 

I really just want somebody to listen to me and that was what my mom did, bless her beautiful soul.

Here’s the craziest thing…I can go a few weeks without the thought even crossing my mind. Actually, the idea of it absolutely appalls me to my very core and I’ll wave my hand at it like it’s an annoying mosquito (that I know deep down will be back eventually to suck at my blood.)


Since my mom died almost three months ago, the notion to bring on my own demise has come back around hot and fresh, just like my morning cup of caffeinated coffee.

I’m also astonished how my grief is being handled by the few friends that I claim to have.

They mostly avoid me like the plague.

It’s blaringly obvious (more than before) that I don’t have many people who consistently check up on my mental state.

Even then, what is there to really say?

It’s really hard for me to make friends and it’s always been that way. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a introverted empath or if it’s because I’m just a weirdo with a mood disorder.

Hell, it’s probably both.

Back in the old days when I still was able to work for a living, I socialized with my coworkers. Those relationships fizzled out once I went on disability, which my mom had told me meant that they really weren’t my friends anyway.

She always had a knack for explaining the world to me, especially when it came to relationships.

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I’m starting to think that I’m just destined to be on again/off again suicidal. When I look forward at the big picture, it’s the one thing that loves to land on me, trying to suck me dry.