This Used To Be My Playground


I was notified by WordPress yesterday that I’ve been blogging for 6 years. I knew the anniversary was sometime in October, I just wasn’t positive of the exact date.

I used to be able to share every detail of my life without much of a problem. But nowadays, the idea gives me a bad case of the nerves.

Me no likey being open, raw and honest anymore.

Life changes…people come, they go, they break your heart, they stay, they love you, they hate you, summer turns to winter, children get older, suicidal urges take up brain space, handfuls of pills are taken with sips of Aquafina, husbands cheat…the earth continues to rotate and reality television stars become president.

I won’t be a drama queen and say that I’m closing up shop, but my days of posting on a regular basis are over with. If you don’t see me around much, I can promise you (about 87%) that I’m just peachy fucking keen.

I haven’t been a fan of Madonna since like 1988, but to steal the title of one of her songs, this used to be my playground.


The Many Masks Of Merbear

I’ve been experiencing some low to moderate voltage depression these last few weeks and as per my usual way, trying to keep it rather quiet.

Isolation is an easy thing for me to accomplish. Shit, I’ve been doing it for over 3 decades now and it’s so natural for me to just pick out my mask in the morning (right after I drink my coffee, of course).

The “fake happy” mask.

The classic “smile though your heart is breaking” mask.

The “no, I’m okay, really” mask.

The “totes zen” mask.


I haven’t worn this one in a Cleveland minute.

Ever since I received the shocking news of my cars imminent demise last week, my depression has taken a turn for the worse. When I drive it anywhere now, I just crank my radio up so that I can’t hear its death rattles.

I’m on a money diet, meaning that I ain’t touching a penny for nothin’ that I don’t need to survive. If my car can keep running for a few more months, I might be able to buy another piece of shit car that, if I’m lucky, will last me at least a year.

I’ve also been contemplating the idea of selling my condo. I’m not attached to it, especially after what happened with asshat. It’s really the only thing that I have going for me, that I’m the proud owner of a 46-year-old condo that’s in desperate need of a remodel. It’s in a great neighborhood though, with low crime rates and excellent schools that my kid got to take advantage of. She can attend CSU no matter what city we move to so that is no longer an excuse to stay here.

It’s not worth much in its current condition, but you know what the memes say; take a chance, live your life and don’t be afraid to fuck up royally.


Eh, fuck off, stupid meme.

Something like that.

Oh yeah, the depression thing. It’s the newest model and comes fully equipped with anxiety! Anti-lock brakes and Wi-Fi tops this baby off, it’s a must see! Hurry in for your test drive today!

Both of my ex’s did quite a number on me, there’s an unstoppable major trauma on my horizon (feel free to ask me privately) and I need help.

I’m just so bad at asking for and seeking it out.

Another Plight of Being Poor

The car that I bought last November is headed for the junkyard. It’s only a matter of time.

The look on the mechanics face told me something was tragically wrong before he even said any words.

“Bad news Miss. Merry.”

He walked over to me in the cushy Hyundai dealership waiting area. “You’re pistons are shot, especially in cylinder 4, which is where that noise you heard was coming from. You might not even be able to get it home today or it might last you another month or so. You need a new engine at the cost of $3,000, so might I recommend a trade in? One of our salesmen would love to help you get a new or used automobile!”

I sat in shock for at least 30 seconds, staring out of the window at my soon to be departed car. They had already taken it off of the lift.

“My credit is shit and I’m on a fixed income,” I replied slowly. (Yes, I did actually use the word shit.)

A nod. “Oh, I understand. But our guys here do miracles for people, are you sure?”

“Yes, it would be a waste of my time, seriously. The highest car payment that I could possibly afford is $100 and even that’s cutting it close.”

“Well,” he responded, “the car is safe enough to drive, but the engine will fail. I just cannot predict when that will happen. I’m really sorry.”

I felt numb. I managed a smile anyways. “Thanks.”

So I got into my car and drove it home. I remained numb and calm until evening approached. Then I became depressed and severely pissed the fuck off.

I went to bed early because I just wanted the day to come to an end.


It wasn’t what I was expecting at all. Here I was trying to be responsible and take it in soon after I noticed the “cha-cha cha, shee-shee shee” sound that it started making about two weeks ago instead of just ignoring it (procrastination is one of my specialties).

It’s weird having a car that still runs, but with a terminal diagnosis. Usually my cars are just DOA and that’s that. End of the line.

So I’ll drive it into the ground and try to save up some money somehow so that I can hopefully replace it. It’s the only option that I have.

I survive benefit to benefit from the gov and there’s not much at the end of the month to stuff away.

I usually take being poor rather well. I live a simple life, I’m careful with the money that I do have. I make sure that my bills are paid, that I have a roof over my head and food to eat.

But when disasters strike, for example when a washer or hot water tank breaks, I’m basically screwed. It’s a horrible feeling to be so helpless.

Having a car, to me, means freedom and independence.

The mechanic told me to stay local and only drive it when I absolutely need to, like going to the drugstore to get my medications or grocery shopping, various doctor appointments and things like that.

Perhaps if the good Lord sees fit, he’ll give me a few more months before it takes its final mile.

I know it’s just a car, but for me and millions of others in this world, it’s just another plight of being poor.