Knowing Him Now For Who He Really Is

I think the realization of why asshat went totally berserk with the abuse and cheating hit me hardest the day that I received the divorce papers.

One of the last things that he said to me was a clear indication and I’ll never forget the look on his face when he said it, almost regretful. (Not quite, just almost.)

“I missed the way you used to be.”

Ah ha! Before I got knocked over by a feather.

He missed healthy Merry. The woman who had her shit together, a mostly upbeat, energetic, humorous person, who could bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. He wanted his old Merry back, the one who didn’t cry constantly or think about killing herself, the person who didn’t sleep during the day. The person who could walk long distances without needing someone to push her in a transport chair. The human who wasn’t always in pain, who didn’t stare into space with a brain full of fogginess and fear, who didn’t have constant panic attacks.

That was his excuse…and for someone as empty as him, that was all of the fuel that he required for doing so many despicable things, especially leaving me in the ER after my suicide attempt in the summer of 2015 so that he could go fuck his whore.

Imagine that, if you can. There you are, puking liquid charcoal into a garbage can all alone, wondering why your husband/wife decided that you weren’t worthy enough of their love and support during such a frightening and lonely time in your life.


No hand to hold, nobody to wipe your tears away…

As if I had asked to become sick, having no other choice but to quit working and apply for disability at the age of 37.

He always fucking knew that I had depression and fibromyalgia. I told him everything about me when we first met in 2002, only a few months after I left my first abuser, my now 22-year-old daughters father. It wasn’t like I had tried to hide it from him. He knew the risks of being with me. I had been an open book, candid along with my signature humor that I’ve always strived to use in order to lighten up unpleasant circumstances.

My 2nd anniversary of Discovery Day is coming up on July 31st. I’ve come a long way since that soul-crushing day and I have no plans on ever wishing him well on the rest of his journey here on earth. It wouldn’t be Christian of me to wish him pestilence, however I do hope that he never gets a full nights rest ever again.

Although knowing him now for who he really is, I bet he eats his hot wings, then falls right to sleep like a baby who had just been fed his bottle and gently burped.

How nice it must be to have no morals, conscience or self-realization. I’m not perfect by a longshot, but at least I have those three things going for me.

September is Suicide Prevention Month

As most of you guys are aware, I have a few mental health issues.

  • Major Depression Disorder
  • Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD)
  • Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)
  • Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD)
  • Suicidal Ideation

Who knows, there could be even more of them. These are just the ones that are well documented and totally official.

I was diagnosed with OCD and anxiety at around 8 years old, after my parents realized that something was amiss and I wasn’t your average, happy-go-lucky kid. I had a slew of irrational fears and freaked out constantly without much provocation.

Like I do nowadays. Sigh.

I’ve seen so many therapists over the years that I’ve lost count of them. I am well versed in mental health lingo and extremely educated when it comes to being a certified member of the funny farm.

They’ve even come to take me away. (I’m disappointed that I didn’t get to weave a basket.)

My God, that song is awful, isn’t it?

I’ve often wondered if ignorance would be bliss, but then I suppose I’d much rather be aware of what’s off kilter in my cranium than completely oblivious to why I am the way I am.

Like G.I. Joe said back in the day, knowledge is power.

I’ve suffered two mental breakdowns, the first in 2011 and the second one in 2015, when I tried my hardest to overdose on my pain medication. I am aware that if certain circumstances had been different that day, I wouldn’t be here at this moment pecking away at my beloved keyboard.

One more pill, no swampy woods…I really could have succeeded in ending my life.

I’ve had numerous people tell me that I’m strong and I will not argue with them. I mean, not to toot my own horn or anything, but life has not been all that kind to me, yet I continue to get out of bed (eventually) each day.

Honestly, although I’m not obsessing at the moment about wanting to end it all, I still occasionally look up to the sky and mutter silently to myself that I wish I were dead. The thought is like a knee jerk reflex after so many years, as natural as yawning when I am super tired.

September is suicide prevention month. I feel like it’s my right and obligation to share as candidly as possible about my experiences with this soul-crushing disease (which it is, don’t you dare say that it’s a character flaw or I’ll pee in your cereal).

So that’s the topic you’ll find this month on my blog.

You see, I am not ashamed. I did not ask to be born with these misfiring switches. If a genie came out of a bottle and granted me one wish, it would be a simple decision.

I’d want perfect mental health.


Genies don’t exist, but there is help available.

Either Side of the Icky

Now that I’ve been trying so ardently to remove what I’ve coined the “icky” people from my life, I’ve noticed that my own desire to be a nice human has gone into overdrive.

Not to say that I can’t also be “icky” myself, no, this isn’t an attempt to put myself up on a self-righteous pedestal. (I will totally call my own self out when I catch myself being a shitty human.)


Let’s say, if I’m reading a blog post and the person writes that they are suffering with depression symptoms, my first thought is to comfort them. I quickly do an inventory list of the things that I could do to help, from offering my email address to giving the usual cyber hug, which is always a kind gesture, but doesn’t do all that much, realistically speaking.

If the person is in physical pain, I’ll feel my hand reaching for my bottle of Ultram, although I know that I can’t just magically send them one of my pills (hurry the fuck up, technology!) and then I realize what a lucky soul I am to even have some relief at hand myself in this just suffer and suck it up world that we now live in.

My sense of guilt takes over and then I am sad.

If the person is homeless, the thought instantly crosses my mind to invite them into my modest little condo. They can sleep on my couch (as long as they don’t mind the robust odor of dog) and then I’ll cook something for them, like a grilled cheese with tomato slices.

Something comforting.

Then reality sets in. I can’t do that. I mean, sure, I could. But that would just be crazy, right?

I cannot save everyone, but fucking hell, my default reaction cares not about the details nor my sanity level.

Woman holding wrapped gift in studio, (B&W), portrait

Can you believe this pretty gift is just a box of tampons?

My ultra sensitive (empath) nature (turn off that news report about those two dogs left to starve in that house, please) is now in full swing mode. I feel sometimes that my emotions will take over my brain and completely conquer my entire being as its own. Just stick a white flag inside my grey matter and start building tiny houses, a church and maybe even a library.

I’ve had to remove some people from my life in recent months. They no longer cared about me as a fellow human and that was, of course, their right to do so. They stopped offering me a shoulder to cry on, a pain pill to ease my ouchies, a couch to rest my weary head upon or even a plain cheese sandwich.

That doesn’t mean that they wouldn’t do all of those things for a different person, just not me.

And I no longer have the desire to do any of that for them anymore, either.

I find it interesting how we humans can pick and choose, seemingly at random, who we no longer give a rats ass about anymore. If we use asshat as an example (oh, I hear you saying, but must we, Mer? Yes, it’s free therapy!) I believe that his last fuck for me (which were few to begin with) was the day of my suicide attempt.

If he had truly ever given a damn about me in the past, then that fateful day was the last straw for him. Like he’d informed my mom, he had not signed up for this bullshit and then he skipped away, horny and guiltless, to go diddle his mentally stable, yet morally bankrupt, tramp.

Well, guess what, buddy? I hadn’t signed up for YOUR bullshit, so fuh you.

Once I’m able to forgive myself for staying in a dead relationship, my hatred will hopefully dissipate  somewhat (a great opinion from my daughter, the future shrink) and I’ll be left with good, old-fashioned pity for asshat and whoever the poor woman is that he’s suckered into being with him.


Baby, your breath smells like beef jerky and infidelity.

My love for him had turned cold long before my suicide attempt in 2015, if I’m to be honest here. I mean, after being mistreated for so many years and ignored emotionally, mentally, plus physically, it was impossible to really love him with any authenticity.

It was a counterfeit union from the start, built on lies, illusions and plenty of selfishness on his end. He provided me with endless stress and fully contributed to my health problems, of this fact I have no doubt.

During his absence these last few months, I’ve discovered that I don’t miss him at all. Most of my lingering issues have to do with not seeing the truth sooner and wasting my precious time with someone so vomitous. It was one of the occasions where my need to be a good human kicked me in my own ass.

Why did my old best friend from high school not contact me while she was in town for at least a month, so that we could grab some lunch together and reminisce about the past?

That’s an easy answer. She simply stopped wanting to be a part of my life, but didn’t want to admit to it. Her reasons are a mystery to me, but I will no longer tolerate her tepid, on again, off again “friendship.” Things hadn’t been good between us for at least a decade or more and even before that, there was a whole lot of judging going on.


Why yes, I DO already have a new boyfriend.

Honestly, it’s not all that much of a loss. It’s kind of like holding on to a string that no longer has a kite attached to it.

I see no point anymore in clinging to people who don’t add anything worthwhile to my existence on this confusing fucking planet.

And vice versa.

Obviously, I stopped adding anything meaningful to her life, hence her failing to acknowledge me on her visit home. I wish her well, I truly do, but our time together here has officially ended.

I need to put our tumultuous 28 year alliance to beddy-bye, this time around, for good.

I’m cordial to my neighbor now, but only because he lives next door to me and I feel like that’s the best course of action to take with this guy. We’re no longer close like we were, once I realized back in April that just being around him made me sick, like he was a gigantic piece of toxic mold.

I also wish him the best, but I really don’t want to be a part of his narcissistic drama drenched life. It’s always something with that kid and although I don’t want anything bad to happen to him, I also need to keep myself blissfully aloof.

I’ve had enough of that sort of nastiness to last me the rest of my life.

And then there was the friend who had absolutely no boundaries to speak of. I gave so much of myself to this person, my time and loyalty, only in the end to be slapped so hard by her that I saw teary eyed stars.

I was stunned and shocked, not knowing how to react to her insensitivity and insincere apology for a few days, until I took a hard look at the relationship (a blog friend, by the way) and then slammed the door on it.

I’ve had to use the INFJ Door Slam a few times in my life in order to protect my well-being. It’s not a kind thing to do, in fact, it’s downright nasty, but for a person like me, it’s sometimes a necessary evil.


Continued communication with someone who has blistered my heart and soul in such a nonchalant way is disagreeable to my mental health.

After all of this talk of instinctively wanting to help people and then the admittance of my recent discovery that not everyone is meant to stay in my life permanently, I’d like to point out that there’s not one of us who hasn’t been another’s “icky” peep.

Yes, this includes me. You. That lady who cut in front of you on the highway. The man who gave you the evil eye because you accidentally bumped into his shopping cart while you were checking out the rump roasts.

We’ve all been somebody’s icky.

Now, if you’re feeling depressed, my inbox is always open and I have cyber hugs too.

If you’re in pain, I’m sorry. I understand, sadly, how that feels. Please don’t give up.

If you’re homeless, I hope you find a safe place to sleep. If you live in Cleveland, I may just let you sleep on my couch, because fuck it. I hope you like your bread with the crusts intact.

And if you find yourself on either side of the icky, I wish you peace, love and hopefully, eventually…forgiveness.