Oh No! Merry is a Jesus Freak!


Hey there, you guys. It’s just me again.

The silence on my last post was deafening. (Do you see what I did there?)

Not only that, but my last post also had the lowest views, in like, a long ass time.

I’ve been blogging almost 7 years (next month is my anniversary) and in that amount of time, many of you have gotten to know me quite well. You know about my life, my trials and problems, my failures and my triumphs.

I can only imagine what some of you guys might be thinking now.

Merry is a Jesus freak.

I got that from my daughter, by the way. Wow mom, you sure do talk about Jesus a lot lately.

Truthfully, it’s been a long time coming.

Here’s the thing that has weighed heavily on my mind recently…what does that mean when it comes to my personality?

Will I stop swearing?

Will I totally lose my twisted sense of humor?

Will I stop thinking that farts are hilarious?

Will I become all self-righteous and start preaching to everyone?

I highly fucking doubt it.

I really wanted to share my entire journey thus far and it took me a few hours (and tons of editing) to get it just right. I didn’t expect it to be one of my most popular posts, but I’m still proud that I had the nerve to hit that publish button. Some topics are just not all that well received.

There was not even one curse word. Go take a look, I’ll read my bible while you’re gone.

See? A true miracle.

I’m not about to start judging people and shit. We’re all in this together.

Like John Lennon said, whatever gets you through the night.

It’s all right.


Back To Where I Started From

I invite you to come with me for a ride back to 1986…

I was still just a little girl, excitedly awaiting my 12th birthday. We celebrated that day by going to the mall, seeing a movie together as a family and then out to eat for some Mexican food, a favorite of mine even back then.

It was a hot summer here in Cleveland and my dad was on his yearly vacation from his job, a smoldering, dirty warehouse that distributed car parts. My loving, stable and very Catholic family (my young brother and I attended a Catholic school and went to church every Sunday) were headed to a local amusement park the day after to carry on the celebration.


My now vintage dog tag necklace even mentions (for some reason) that I was a Catholic.

My father started to have chest pains while we were at the amusement park. My mom called me back from the giant water attraction called The Wave and told me that my dad was being taken by ambulance to the nearest medical clinic.

After a couple of hours of observation, the clinic allowed my father to leave so that we could go home, shortening our previously fun-filled day. I wasn’t mad, I was only worried about my dad and prayed that he would be alright.

It wasn’t the first time that he’d been sick; he’d had a bad heart from a young age.

About 2 miles away from the clinic, my father started convulsing in the passenger seat of the car that my mother was thankfully driving instead of him. After she frantically pulled over into a parking lot, I ran from the car and into the busy street, flagging down someone to help us.

It’s a miracle that I hadn’t been hit by a car, but thankfully that didn’t happen. A kind woman and her young son decided to stop.

As my mother drove us back to the clinic as fast as she could, the good Samaritan did CPR on my dad, who was having the final heart attack that would end up killing him.

My younger brother, my now deceased mother and I had witnessed my father dying.

Right in front of us. The memory is permanently etched inside my mind.

I never doubted that God existed when I was a kid. From an early age, I learned about how much He loved me. I read my Bible stories and said the Our Father every morning with my class, before we even saluted the flag.


This is a photo of me wearing my Catholic school uniform around the 2nd grade. I know…pretty snazzy.

I was a child of God and he was good! I said my prayers daily, I did my best to love and obey my parents, I tried not to terrorize my kid brother too much.

I was a sweet, kind and gentle little girl, who had made her First Communion and went to Confession on a weekly basis, repenting all of my petty childhood sins, like smacking my brother and talking back to my mom.

But after watching my dad die, that all changed.

How could God let my beloved daddy die in such a traumatic, horrifying way?


If He was so good, why would He do such an awful thing to us?

It didn’t make sense. When I went back to school two weeks later to start the 7th grade, not only did my classmates treat me like I was suddenly made of broken glass, I also found myself angry and disinterested at church every day.

If I had had the understanding of what sarcasm was back then, I would have rolled my eyes and said whatever when our priest came to class every Friday to start readying us to make our Confirmation, our promise to continue to be devout young adults.

I believe that my mother was also angry at God for taking her husband away from her, leaving her alone to raise two young children. My dad was 50 when he died and that’s what I remember hearing the most from people, what a shame that Michael had to die so young.

Slowly, we stopped attending Mass and other church functions. Once I graduated from St. Rose and it was clear that I would be going to a public high school, my mom withdrew my brother and sent him to the public middle school as well.

Our affiliation with the church and God ultimately ended.

My teen years were rough. My mom wasn’t around much, she was enrolled in community college studying for her nursing degree. Before my dad passed, she had been a stay-at-home mother.

My mom had loved to drink her beer back before she had met my father and so she started to party again, probably to numb her pain.

My brother and I became accustomed to that lifestyle. We adapted. To say that our lives had taken a 180º would be an understatement. Without my father to keep us on track, the O’Leary household did a major flip-flop.

My brother and I began our journey away from what we had been raised to believe.

I’m not talking ill of the dead. I forgave my mother for those unstable years and she knew that before she died. Trust me, my mother was the sweetest, kindest and most sincere person that you could ever hope to meet. She spent the rest of her life trying to make it up to me and my brother. She was an absolutely wonderful mother, but also human.

She did the best that she could with what she had at the time and the circumstances that she found herself in. If I had been in her position, I’d probably had done the same thing.

There’s no way of knowing, but if my dad hadn’t died, I do believe that I wouldn’t have started down the dark path that I would soon find myself traveling on.

By the time that I graduated from high school in 1992, God was mostly a distant memory.

My brother and I partied ourselves now, while my mother worked the night shift at a nursing home as a newly graduated RN. We drank, smoked weed and acted like little hellions. All of our friends knew that there was no adult supervision at our house, so they took advantage of it.

Thinking back on it now, it was mostly a harmless era in my life. Nobody died or got hurt. We just did our own thing and all I wanted to do was have a good time.


Both still awesome in moderation.

I wanted the boys to like me and after a few dates, I realized that unless I was willing to have sex with them, their interest in me flat-lined quickly.

So I began sleeping with almost (not all) any boy who showed even the slightest interest in me. I had little respect for myself. Occasionally, I’d have a speck of Catholic guilt come from out of nowhere, but then I’d drink it down with a Screwdriver or stifle it with a cigarette.

In fact, I’ve done so many wicked things over the course of my adult life that I’m going to keep the details to myself.

I have already asked forgiveness from God for my many sins.

I got pregnant when I was 22 years old after dating a guy 3 years older than me for less than 2 months.

My instincts told me that he wasn’t such a great guy. Ironically, I was just getting ready to break up with him. I decided to stay and try to have a little family of my own.

He wouldn’t let me get my daughter baptized when my mom asked him about it.

My mom was a wonderful, hands-on grandmother before I even gave birth. Our newly formed bond never faltered and this was when she started thinking about God again, I think for the first time in many years. She wanted to get B baptized behind his back, but I was too afraid of him to allow it.

It was around my mid-20’s when I also started thinking more about God. But I was still angry. When anyone would ask me what my religious beliefs were, I’d either say that I was a non-practicing Catholic or agnostic.

In my mind, He had failed me so many times, how could I ever believe in Him again?

I stayed for 6 years with my daughter’s biological father, until I was finally done with his physical, emotional, mental and sexual abuse. After many atempts to escape him, I was finally able to leave and stay gone for good.

My mom, aunt and best friend Fran helped and believed in me. I was so scared, yet proud and thankful to have a new life! I was still young, in my mid 20’s and I planned on steering clear of abusive men.


And that’s when I met my ex-husband, which you all know as asshat.

There’s no doubt in my mind that I was married to an evil, Godless man.

I got so ensnared into his web of darkness. At first I wanted to save him from his demons, but my plan backfired. Instead of redeeming him and teaching him how to love, I allowed him to taint what little light and grace that I had left inside of myself.


I laughed at his inappropriate jokes and his heretical behavior. I brushed aside the feeling deep down that there was something very sexually deviant about him, the overtly sexual way that he talked about woman.

He broke my heart multiple times and was rarely remorseful. I defended him to family and friends for his anti-social behavior, always hoping that one day he’d be the man that I hoped he was, if only I could love him enough.

I felt that I had to be loyal to him, that somehow I’d be able to get through to him and free the good man that I just knew was caught somewhere inside his tormented soul.

He was/is a guitarist for a black death metal band. The lyrics he wrote were always disturbing and in hindsight, extremely evil.

In the beginning of our relationship, after I’d told him that I really didn’t care for that type of music, he assured me that it was just a fake persona. I believed him, but now I really wonder if that’s the truth.

When I became sick in 2011, I started to really ponder the entire God thing again. I began visiting different churches in the area (I was so afraid to enter a Catholic church due to the fear that I’d burst into flames) and when I’d tell him where I was going, he’d heckle me.

“Tell God I said hi!”

“Have fun with God!”

It took my father dying to turn me away from God.

It took my mother dying to bring me back to Him.

My boyfriend Steven reminds me of my youth, when life was full of hope, love and possibilities. I knew that the next man in my life had to be a Christian just like I am.

He is a good, honest and decent man. My mom loved him and I’m sure that my father would approve as well.

It’s been a long, weary, tiresome journey, but I don’t regret a minute of it.

Because it’s brought me back to where I started from.

And this time, I’m not turning away from God. I’m embracing Him.

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.


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.


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.”


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