Just Sprinkle Me Into Lake Erie

I’ve found a few interesting things that I apparently still own while going through my crap, like this little retro gem, my high school ID card, from my senior year.


She’s only 17…

What the hell was up with my bangs? And don’t even get me started on those glasses…

Packing 10 years’ worth of accumulated stuff is hard work. I have more trash than I anticipated and all of it is going onto the tree lawn tomorrow evening for bulk pick-up. We got a couple of strong guys to help us out. The one kid from B’s work said that he wouldn’t take any money from us, which is awfully darn sweet of him.

We’ll have about $400 dollars left when all is said and done. As much as I was hoping for more, what’s really important is that we were able to find a decent place that we both love and somehow, we’ll figure out the finances. My 23-year old daughter has better credit than me, so if we need to use her credit card to pay the movers, then that’s what we’ll have to do. I’ve tried everything, all in vain. I cannot get a loan or a credit card because of what they call a “thin file.”

Once I get settled, I’ll look into obtaining a secured credit card and attempt to start all over again.

I’m rather adept at that, figuring that I’ve had to do it so many times that I’ve lost count.

So, it’s been utter chaos around here. My poor dogs are freaking. I keep telling them that it’ll all be okay and soon, God willing and hopefully, they’ll finally have their own yard to poo and piddle in.

I just wish that they could understand.

Back when I was still working, I tried one of the only 3 medications approved to treat fibro, a medicine called Lyrica. Since I had to wake up at the ass crack of dawn (4:30 am) I had to quit taking it because it was difficult to get myself up so early. (Lyrica has some hang time.)

But my pain has been ridiculous lately, so bad that I’ve considered buying a saw so I could cut off my legs.


Fat Max to the rescue!

So last week, I asked my doc if I could try this med again but at the lowest dose.

You guys…my pain levels have decreased by at least 40%. I am overjoyed, thrilled, shocked…you name it. The way B and I busted ass yesterday packing, I’d normally be a waste of space today and at a level 8 on that stupid, useless pain scale but instead, I’m hovering around a 4!

No nasty side effects either. It’s a freaking miracle. I just hope that it keeps working. It’s no cure but shit, I’ll take it.

Cutting off my legs could get pretty fucking messy, eh?

I was sitting in the car last Saturday morning waiting for my realtor so he could show my brother the new house. We had gotten there early and the realtor dude was running behind, so my bro and I got to talking. It’s rare that we have one on one time.

I mentioned that I wanted to write a will and he agreed that it was a good idea.

Me: I’m leaving all of my earthly possessions to the kid. Also, I don’t want a funeral, I want one of those celebrations of life things. Play a few songs, eat, get drunk, you know, share stories about how awesome I was.

Brother: Ah, okay. Cheaper, for sure.

Me: Yes. Also, I want to be cremated and my ashes spread at Lakewood Park, I got lots of good childhood memories there.

Brother: That’s illegal.

Me: So? People do it all of the time, just keep it on the down-low.

Brother: Where do you want your ashes spread? In the sandbox?

Me: Oh shit, can you imagine? Some little kid comes and says mommy, I found a piece of bone in the sand!


Mommy, Timmy found a femur!

Brother: Ha! Traumatize the kid for life.

Me: Eh, just sprinkle me into Lake Erie or behind some bushes.

Brother: Okay, you got it.

We both laughed. He has the same twisted sense of humor as I do, which makes me happy.

I failed to mention to him the songs that I want to be played at my celebration of life thingy.

The other two are Amazing Grace and Bridge Over Troubled Water.

A little bit rock and roll, a little bit religious and a little bit sad.

Mindful Self-Compassion

I’ve been emailing a man named Martin for about 3 weeks now.

No, it’s not a romantic exchange. I’m pretty sure that the guy is married and I have a boyfriend, although lately, things have been…eh, complicated. (Story of my life with men.)

There’s this place called Rivers Edge and it hosts a ton of wellness classes and courses for women. Mostly it’s yoga, meditation and things of that nature. I’ve seen their upcoming events on my Facebook feed and then I’ll click the “interested button.” But I’ve yet to actually attend one of them, mostly because of the cost.

Mid-January one of the courses really caught my eye:

Mindful Self-Compassion (MSC) is an empirically-supported training program designed to cultivate the skill of self-compassion. Based on research by Kristin Neff and the clinical work of Christopher Germer, MSC teaches core principles and practices that enable participants to respond to difficult moments in their lives with kindness, care, and understanding.

Rapidly expanding research demonstrates that self-compassion is strongly associated with emotional wellbeing, less anxiety, depression, and stress, maintenance of healthy habits such as diet and exercise, and satisfying personal relationships. And it’s easier than you think.

The goal is for participants to experience self-compassion directly and learn practices that evoke self-compassion in daily life.

The course includes 8 weekly sessions of 2-1⁄2 hours each and a 4-hour retreat. It is compatible with a wide range of religious and spiritual orientations, and with having no religious or spiritual orientation. No previous experience with mindfulness or meditation is required.

Well then. This looked like something that could really be a great thing for me, so I filled out the background info form and that’s when Martin emailed me back.

The problem was the price, a whopping $350. To me, that is a lot of cash to come up with, especially since I have moving expenses to worry about and I will just be breaking even on the house sale. So, back and forth we’ve gone, trying to sort out what kind of discount I can get based on the fact that I’m as poor as a church mouse.


Money is evil.

I think we’ve finally hit on an amount that I can swing. Dr. Martin (he’s the one who’s teaching the class) truly wants me to attend because, after everything that I’ve gone through the last few years, it would be beneficial to my healing process.

He’s such a nice man.

Kind…and I’ve been in short supply of that since my dad died.

It starts on St. Patricks Day and I’m looking forward to it. Now I just need to anty up the class fee that we’ve settled on and to look at it as a gift to myself.

All Of That Garbage


After telling my new therapist the entire asshat story (the condensed version due to our 50 minute session time) she simply said one sentence.

“Aren’t you glad that you’re not underneath all of that garbage anymore?”

“Hell yes,” I replied, noticing that my shoulders felt a little less heavy than when I had walked into her office. “I did, in fact, love him once upon a time.”

But that love has now dissipated and a combination of indifference, mingled with intense disgust has taken its place.

She asked me when I started to realize that my marriage was a sham, abusive, hard to focus on exactly what the problem was, a dark, shadowy union.

“When I started getting sick in 2011. But of course, I was in denial. Just two years after we got married. He told me at the end that he felt entitled to do whatever he pleased because I got sick.”

An angry, sickened looked flashed across her face. If I hadn’t been paying such close attention, I would’ve missed it entirely.

“How long were you two together before you got married?”

“Around 7 years. We’d lived with each other for just over 5 years.”

She nodded, writing something down in her notebook. I always wonder what it is that therapists are penning next to my name. Is it something profound or just a random doodle?

Just like the secret of how long it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop, the world may never know.

“I thought I knew what abuse was from my daughter’s father.”

“But there are many kinds of abuse,” she said sagely.

“Yes! Insidious, secretive…shady and manipulative.”

“Those are some big words.”

We smile at each other and I’m filled with gratitude.

I genuinely like this woman and she’s damn good at her job.

It’s always a wonderful feeling when you meet someone who understands you, even if they’re getting paid to do so. She’s in the same office that my doctor is in and once I move in early March, they’ll both be quite a bit of an ass haul away.

But if you ask me, the gas, distance and extra travel time are worth it.