Grief Sundae

Grab a bag of confetti you guys, for tomorrow is the first appointment with my new therapist!!

Um, yeah. Which I’ve been waiting for since fucking July when I decided gee whiz, maybe I should go talk to someone because my mom just died rather traumatically, my ex-husband keeps poisoning me from afar, not to mention that I already have an ass load of mental health problems to take into consideration.

So let’s make her wait ON HER OWN for a few months and you know, I can always go to the ER in case of an emergency.

So they can lock me away in the funny-farm and I can weave baskets for everyone this Christmas!!


Wishing you a happy holiday season from Nutberry Farm!

Since I now compare every mental state that I’m in with how I was back in the spring/summer of 2015, at least I am ME.

(Anyone who suffers from mental health issues will understand what I mean.)

I am (mostly) one with reality, although it’s touch and go sometimes when my anxiety is high.

I don’t wish for death constantly, I just sometimes wish that I wasn’t here to begin with.

I don’t dream that monsters are trying to kill me and I don’t spend hours obsessing about one thing or another.

However, I am always tired, I want to sleep a lot, I procrastinate like crazy and I MISS MY MOM.

I keep saying that to myself…like a mantra.

So is that like an obsession or a compulsion?

I haven’t really gotten angry yet about what happened to my mom. I keep waiting for that to boil over. Fun stuff.

It’s just the truth and I don’t wanna. (Tantrum time.)


I don’t wanna celebrate the holidays without my mom. No music, no Santa, no trees, no gifts. Just screw it all this year.

My daughter is graduating from college December 15th and my mom should be there!


I promised to keep living my life and to fight the good fight. But there are days when I just want to stay in my safe, cozy bed and become one with that empty hole in my heart.

I am struggling with everything that I need to do right now. The pain in my legs and lower back is constant and I hate the bitter coldness of Ohio in wintertime. Fibro continues to be my foe and I wish it would GO THE FUCK AWAY.

Oh yeah, I am putting my condo up for sale. (More on that later and the thing that made me finally decide to do it.)

That might be adding to my stressed out, grief sundae right now, but knowing how I LOVE to put shit off, I need to follow through or else I will pitch the entire endeavor in the trashcan and then throw a Molotov cocktail in behind it.

No, it needs to be done. As difficult as it might be, it’s an integral part of ending the asshat era and moving on.

Nettles On My Heart: Don’t Cry

I’m starting a 6 part series that touches on my codependent relationship with my mother, who passed away on May 20, 2019 of a “mystery” illness that was finally diagnosed (alas too late) with her digestive system.


In doing so, I’m hoping to promote some healing for myself. I am not doing this to badmouth my beautiful mother, who was a loving human being with faults, like all of us.

Due to the nature of these posts, if you have any sort of thoughts or similar experiences, I invite you to share them with me.

I’m a crier. I’ve always been.

And more than likely, I always will be.

I’ve cried during movies, so many movies. Bambi. Love Story. Schindler’s List. Awakenings. The Passion of the Christ.

West Side Story (my mom made me watch it with her.)

I cried when I held my daughter for the first time.

I cried when my dad died. A lot.

I’ve cried over lost pets throughout the many years, big, fat, salty tears of sadness.

I cried when my ex-husband came to pick up the rest of his stuff that had been stored in the garage, sliding down the wall and onto the kitchen floor in a heap of wailing tears, because I knew then that it was truly over.

That was the exact moment when I completely unraveled after 6 months of pure hell (stay strong, right?) and I didn’t call my mom, although I could have. Instead, I called my best friend Cheryl, who had to tell me to calm down enough so that she could understand what the hell I was trying to say through my sobbing.

My mom didn’t like crying. If I had a nickel for each time that I was told to stop crying…well, I’d have a shit ton of nickels.

I think I actually saw my mother cry herself perhaps a dozen times or so my entire life. I know from my aunt that my poor mom did plenty of crying in private, but she never wanted anyone to ever witness any signs of weakness, which is probably why she stopped wanting people to visit her, especially the last year or so of her life.

Including her only daughter and yes, it’s a part of the whole nettles thing, because it still hurts my heart that she didn’t want me around. I’d push, she’d push back and oftentimes get a bit nasty about it.

And I’d cry.

I remember the first Christmas after my dad died. We were at one of my uncle’s for the yearly party (it was one of the last ones, sadly) and I was running around acting crazy with my cousins. I saw my mom hurry past us in the upstairs hallway, making a beeline for the bathroom. She had her hands up, covering her face.

I instinctively knew why she was crying. It was because my dad wasn’t there with us and as they say, the first of everything after someone dies is the worst.

My one uncle confirmed it at the foot of the stairwell. He looked directly at me.

“She misses your dad, honey.”

I just nodded. I didn’t go to her, because I knew that she wouldn’t have wanted me to see her so fucking sad.

I’m cut from a different cloth, I suppose.

I don’t enjoy inflicting my tears and woe on anyone, but it’s really nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a human emotion and God gave us the ability to cry for many reasons.



Some of us are just more prone to it than others and not as proud to keep it a secret.

I don’t try to stop people from crying. Instead, I ask them why they are crying, because I want to know. I want to understand why those tears are flowing.

My mom has been gone almost 6 months now and that’s the reason why I’ve been crying.

Nettles On My Heart: Troubled Child

I’m starting a 6 part series that touches on my codependent relationship with my mother, who passed away on May 20, 2019 of a “mystery” illness that was finally diagnosed (alas too late) with her digestive system.


In doing so, I’m hoping to promote some healing for myself. I am not doing this to badmouth my beautiful mother, who was a loving human being with faults, like all of us.

Due to the nature of these posts, if you have any sort of thoughts or similar experiences, I invite you to share them with me.

I wasn’t your normal, regular happy-go-lucky kid.

It seems to me that I was born anxious, with a strong fear of abandonment thrown in just for good measure.

Or was it because my father was often sick, in and out of hospitals due to his heart condition?

Did I somehow manage to suck up my mother’s own anxiety and depression like a napkin absorbs spilled milk?

I don’t know why I was such a troubled child, but what I am sure of is that I became a troubled teenager, then an adult with a troubled life.

I believe that the codependency really started when I moved out of my childhood home at 22 after becoming pregnant with my now adult daughter. It didn’t take me long to realize that the father of my baby was an abusive bastard, but silly me, I thought that I could change him. (I finally know the truth, that no, you cannot change a person.)

My mom didn’t like him from the start, even though he tried to win her over with a dinner invite at his one bedroom apartment. He made ramen noodles and rubbery, overcooked steak for the three of us.

It didn’t work.

Mom offered to let me stay at home during my pregnancy and then for the first year or two after I gave birth. (I often wonder how my life would have panned out if I had taken her up on it.)

But no, I declined and decided that I wanted to move in with him and have myself a little family.

He was awful and my mom was well aware of it, but by the time that I was ready to go back home with my tail between my legs, my mom was in the process of selling the house and moving to a new condo with my aunt and younger brother.

There was no room for us and the last thing that I wanted to do was fuck up their plans.

But my mom was deep in the muck with me from afar. We developed our own little code language so Mr. Abusive didn’t realize that we were talking about him during the many phone calls that we’d share during the course of the day.

Mom: What’s he doing now?

Me: Oh, the usual, you know. 

Mom: Yelling and throwing things?

Me: Yes, that new recipe needed more cheddar cheese, I think.

Mom: Why don’t you take the baby and go downstairs to visit that neighbor lady for a little while, give yourself a break from him?

Me: No, I don’t think I should, it’s calling for snow tonight and I hate driving when the roads get icy. 

Eventually though, he figured it out.

He hated how “close” we were and used to tell me that I needed to cut the fucking umbilical cord already, that it was pathetic how I couldn’t even fart without talking to my mother first.

My mother was fully enmeshed in my abusive relationship with my first ex (and my relationship with my ex-husband.)

I’m sure my mom hated the fact that I was living with a monster. However, there wasn’t much that she could do about it other than to watch it happen and try to intervene when she could. This often included her coming over to extinguish his rage so to speak, to talk him down, one thing that she was extremely great at doing.

The cops were called a few times, but he was so damned charming and able to make them take his side.

You see Officer, my finance is a bit of a drama queen and she does things on purpose to get under my skin. You know how it is, right? I was just blowing off some steam. 

We never did get married, although we were engaged. That fact would make it so much easier when I really did leave him finally on February 17, 2002, after roughly 6 years.

During this time-frame, my mom and I began to develop our unhealthy codependent mother/daughter relationship because I told her every detail about my unhappy, miserable life that I chose for myself instead of doing what she wanted me to do to begin with.

I believe that my mom felt that it was her job to protect me.

It set the stage for the future. Even asshat used to comment and become annoyed when I shared so many personal things about our relationship with her.

“What happens in our relationship is OUR business, not hers!”

I hate to say it, but he was actually right.

invisible umbilical cord still connects mother and adult child


daily phone calls, emails, and text messages define communication

If one or the other didn’t answer right away, it set us into full-on panic mode. We needed to keep constant tabs on each other in order to function properly.

the relationship looks close, it’s often unhealthy, with secret resentments and fears

I resented not being able to make my own decisions and choices in life without ending up disappointing her and being criticized.

There will never be anyone else in my life who could both love me so much, yet make me so unsure of myself and my own intuition.