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.

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A Tune Revisited

The 2nd anniversary of my Discovery Day just passed. (July 31st.)

I had asked you guys for angry fuck you songs to help me cope with the swirling emotions of being cheated on and realizing that I had wasted 15 years of my life with a piece of pond scum.

You guys delivered some great tunes, but my favorite one is down below, introduced to me by my good friend ES. It’s a classic 80’s anthem of breakup/divorce and I think that I’ve listened to it at least 100 times.

I’m legally divorced now and happy about it. It’s amazing really…how many things can change in just 2 years.

He ain’t worth the salt in my tears and he never was.


Martin Briley Salt In My Tears 1983

I never did it
No I won’t admit it
Why should I lie for you anymore?
You never loved me
You pushed and you shoved me
I seen a woman I never saw
I saw you laugh when the knife was twisted
It still hurts but the pain has shifted
I’m looking back at the time that drifted by
But I won’t cry for the wasted years
‘Cause you ain’t worth the salt in my tears
Feeling neglected
Used and rejected
You need a shoulder to lean upon
Maybe you’ve picked him
Found your next victim
Don’t worry someone will come along
I broke the spell that you kept me under
I’d had enough of the rain and thunder
I lost track of the time and I wonder why
But I won’t cry for the wasted years
‘Cause you ain’t worth the salt in my tears
I’ll sit around and drink a few more beers
Until the memory just disappears
‘Cause you ain’t worth the salt in my tears

He’s engaged, by the way.

Poor woman. Looks like he found his next victim.

Trying to Suck the Funny Out

When I first started blogging in 2012, I posted at least once a day. I think it was mostly because I needed something to do with myself that made me feel somewhat productive. (And not just a loser who couldn’t keep her damn job.)

I was waiting to be approved for disability and feeling extremely worthless.

But alas, the words stopped flowing. I realized that I just couldn’t keep up with such an insane pace. I started to write when I felt like I had something to write about, even if that meant days or weeks went by.

Or months.

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I wish I had been doing this whilst I was away, but alcohol me no likey.

It’s amazing that I’ve known some of you guys for almost seven years. Blogging seriously saved my sanity and gave me something to be proud of. I’m not even talking about my follower count or how many likes a post gets. Just knowing that maybe I cheered someone up or made them feel less alone lifted my own dampened spirits.


I’m naturally good at four things; writing, cooking, being funny and driving.

Everything else takes a bit more effort. Like, math.

Fuck math.

But I haven’t been all that humorous in what feels like ages. I can still bust out a joke and see the humorous side of things, but damn if it isn’t often just a cover-up to hide my emotional pain.

But, you know, most of the funniest people in the world are depressed.

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The more you know.

Yes, I use my sense of humor to distract people from seeing my damaged¬†psyche. I’ll admit it.

I was told so often as a young child that I was hilarious, so I suppose I started getting a bit of an ego. For someone who has sketchy self-esteem, it’s way out of character for me.

Like, if someone tells me that I’m funny, I’ll just shrug.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a gift.”

Look at me, being all smug and shit.

If I completely lose my sense of humor, then there’s something seriously wrong with me. Please call the nearest comedian and then throw chocolate bars at me, while playing a video of George Carlin doing stand-up.


Life has desperately tried to suck the funny out of my bones.

(We all have our stories of sadness and woe, I’m aware of that, but this is my blog.)

I had mental health issues as a little girl. I saw my first psychologist at 8 years old. (I get a kick out of repeating that tidbit of info.)

I was an awkward and unpopular kid who attended a small, repressed Catholic school. The boys teased me relentlessly, the girls were all mean bitches and I was always chosen last for any team sports.

“You can have her!”

“No!! You can have her!”

“Oh man, we’re gonna lose. Thanks for sucking ass, Mer.”

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No problem, I hope you break a vital body part.

I didn’t have a real best friend until I started public high school, but I sadly continued to be teased. Even on my fucking graduation day, my two main tormentors for those entire 4 years um…tormented me.

I watched as my father died the day after I turned 12.

I was date raped at 19.

I lived with my 1st abuser, my offspring’s biological father, for 6 hellish years.

And on and on…you get the gist.

I’ve had good things happen. Great (real) friends, awesome parents, a beautiful daughter and finally a wonderful boyfriend who treats me so well, I wake up every day amazed that God put him in my life.

Life hasn’t been all shit on wheat toast and I’m ever so grateful for that.

But all of that bad shit, it loves to follow me around. It’s like having a slideshow of bothersome memories inside my head, on repeat. It doesn’t seem to matter where I am or what I’m doing. I could be out somewhere with my boyfriend Steven, having a lovely time. Just trying so hard to live in the moment.

All of a sudden, there’s a clip of my first ex telling me what a fat, ugly bitch I am.

Stupid, he whispers.

Kiss my ass, I whisper back.

“What?” Back in the present, my boyfriend asks me.

“You have a nice ass,” I say.


I’d like to end this post with some song lyrics, a little ditty by the great Tim McGraw.

One of these days I’m gonna love me
And feel the joy of sweet release
One of these days, I’ll rise above me
And at last I’ll find some peace
Then I’m gonna smile a little
Maybe even laugh a little but
One of these days I’m gonna love me