Where’s the Humor?

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I still believe that my greatest attribute is my sense of humor. I know that it’s still there because sometimes I’ll make my boyfriend laugh so hard that he insists that I should go to an open mic night downtown at a comedy club. I try to explain that my humor is mostly spontaneous and I don’t have an act or anything.

Not to mention that I’m naturally introverted and shit.

If you put my daughter and me together and if we’re both in relatively decent moods (you know, not both on our periods) we’re a comedic force to be reckoned with. Our banter back and forth is pretty hilarious. I’m proud to have passed down this trait to her.

I mean, she did end up with all of my mental health problems, but at least she’s fucking funny.

At least there’s that, folks.

A few months after starting this blog back in 2012 (how the time does fly) I decided to tap into this natural ability of mine, something along the lines of healing with humor. I tried my best to deal with every shit sandwich that was thrown my way with at least a touch of laughter.

But the shit sandwiches started to pile up so high that I began to lose sight of that brilliant idea and massive turds began to muck up my finely honed humor gears. The funny just stopped percolating and started to choke like my generic one cup coffee maker does the last few minutes of brewing my morning wakey juice.

“Ehh, uhh, uhh, uhh….aahhh.”

My daughter does a much better impression of it.


I’ve obviously been writing these past few months about my grief. Losing your mommy isn’t something that you just “get over.” I mean, that was my mom and even with our many issues, I love that woman and she’ll always be my fucking hero.

I’ll never get over it. Never. My best hope is to be able to move forward with my sorrow and forever until we meet again broken heart.

I can already tell that people are getting tired of it like that means a damn thing to me. I live my life for myself, not for other’s comfort level. That shit ends now.


I decided last night while I was out shopping with Steven to take my comedic chops on the road and see if I could still get cashiers and some of the people in line to laugh. Think of it as a homage to my mother, because she absolutely loved to joke around with strangers back in her prime, much to my youthful embarrassment.

I get it now, mom.

I first pick up on their vibes to see if they are open to such an exchange. (Another innate talent o’ mine.)

If I sense that they aren’t grumpy assholes, I proceed.

It makes me feel better when I can cheer someone up and make them giggle, guffaw, chuckle and whathaveyou.

I only wish that I could feel up to it more often. But at least it’s still in there, just waiting for me to use it when I’m able to.

Because if it wasn’t still there, then I’d be royally screwed.

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.