An Adult Orphan


My Aunt Merrie passed away in the mid-60’s of a brain aneurysm at the age of 36. She was painting her kitchen when it happened. I was named after her and my grandma Mary, who also died in the 60’s, I’m not certain of the year.

I never got to meet either of them, since I was born in 1974.

I’ll be inheriting photos of them and my grandpa eventually, already framed and ready to hang in my living room, so I’m downsizing my collection of Beatles artwork. Cherished pictures of my deceased loved ones are more important, not to mention that since asshat left, I don’t really listen to them much these days. They bring back memories that make my heart itch (because it’s healing?) and I can’t get myself to really dig them like I had before.

Everything changes and I’ve known this factoid for years.

But today, I feel like an adult orphan. My dad has been gone going on 33 years and tomorrow marks 4 weeks since my mom passed away. I have no father figures to celebrate with and my poor daughter sadly has nobody to fill that roll either.

It’s just another Sunday, I told myself this morning.

But, it isn’t.

Today, I feel the heaviness of being parent-less for the first time on a holiday, even if it’s a made up one to generate money.


Fibromyalgia & Suicide


Add 10% higher risk of suicide.

I read a post on The Mighty¬†yesterday that really disturbed me. The topic was about how fibromyalgia and mental illness coincide, which I’ve already been aware of due to my own personal experiences.

But the part of the article that bothered me the most was the statement that “Fibro sufferers commit suicide at a rate of 10 times that of the general population, according to a report in Psychology Today.”

Just fucking wonderful.

It upset me so much, I got the shivers after I read it and then shared the link on Facebook, which only a handful of people reacted to, since it’s a taboo topic that is mostly avoided.

I told my boyfriend (he’s fully aware of my mental health history) and I asked him to read the post himself. As usual, the scary “S” word makes people uncomfortable. It happens every single time.

Even my beautiful mother, who always fought for and fully supported me while she was still alive, hated to say the word itself.

It’s not a pleasant topic, is it? No, it most certainty is not. Yet every 40 seconds, someone on this planet decides to end their pain and leave this brutal, yet wonderful world behind. It’s the truth and it’s happening. There’s an excellent chance that each one of us will be touched by it in one way or another.

Steven hadn’t really said much after he read it, so on the way to our Thursday evening couples bowling league, I asked him what his thoughts were.

“I don’t really know what to say,” he replied quietly.

Ah yes, ding ding.

“Yeah well, most people don’t,” I said knowingly, with a twist of snark in my comeback martini, on the defense.

Then I sighed, feeling quite defeated.

“It scares the fucking shit out of me,” I revealed, trying to honestly explain my feelings further. “It’s scary. Actually, it’s fucking terrifying. And I’m so afraid that it’ll happen again. I’ll live with that fear for the rest of my life.”

I noticed him squeezing the steering wheel a bit more tightly than normal.

“I might not understand it, but I’ll never run away with my tale between my legs.”

I made the noise I make when someone mentions asshat, a sort of disgusted snort.

“It didn’t help that you had someone constantly putting you down and abusing you, treating you like a worthless cripple and saying that maybe you should’ve just done it, after all! The fucking dirt bag.”

Another snort from me.

“I won’t let anything like that happen to you, not on my watch. I’ll do everything in my power, honey.”

I smiled and patted his leg, then left it there. He took his hand and started stroking my hair. We didn’t talk for a few minutes. I just closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation of his strong fingers comforting me and listened to the windshield wipers whisking away the chilly rain.

“I want you to be able to talk to me about it, to tell me when you start feeling like that,” he said. “That way, we can get you some help.”

I nodded and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for rubbing my head, that felt nice.”

“Anytime, my love.”

As most of you already know, my soon to be ex-husband (hooray!) decided to stick his dick in the mashed potatoes instead of coming to the ER to be with me on that shitty July day in 2015 when I tried to overdose on my pain pills.

My mother was the only one there and she was already beginning to show symptoms of her “mystery” illness. Now we know what it was that took her from us, an extremely rare medical condition. (A little too late, but that’s for another post.)

My boyfriend hates to discuss asshat and I don’t blame him, but I felt from the beginning that he needed to know my prior background in order to help him understand me better. We’ve been together for over a year now and the last thing I want is for him to someday exclaim “I didn’t sign up for this bullshit!”

And now that my precious mother has passed on, I hope that if I ever lose my battle with my suicidal thoughts again, I’ll have Steven to love and support me.

If I really have a 10% higher risk of suicide because I have fibromyalgia, then I better start praying hard and hope that I have a few compassionate people in my life, beginning with the man who plays with my hair.

Training Wheels


The wound is the place where the light enters you. – Rumi

We honor the dead more by choosing to live well. – Dr. Laura

Grief needs to be heard. РRandom Sources 

I’m finding it difficult to cry. The tears start to form and I personally get a slight tickling sensation in my nose, but then nothing but wet eyelashes.

I have no more tears left, I guess. For now, anyway.

I’ve dreaded her death for an extremely long time, but strangely enough, I’m holding up better than I thought I would.

For now, anyway.

I was dealing with something called anticipatory grief. For the past 4 or 5 years, I witnessed her slowly becoming more ill. She’d been isolating herself and began pulling away from the people who loved her.

She had felt useless and nothing that anyone ever said to the contrary changed her mind on that subject. It breaks my heart knowing how much she suffered emotionally, as well as physically. She wasn’t able to see how we all loved her, just as she was.

I know she’d been angry and depressed. Although she had some hope right up until the end, it was dimmed much of the time. She started to lose interest in what was happening to other people and started to distance herself due to her continuous, intense stomach pain.

I started to look for other ways to soothe myself when I became distraught and in need of her care, instead of calling her to complain, seeking comfort from my mommy like I had always done in the past.

It was akin to taking the training wheels off of my childhood bike.

Was it an unintentional blessing?

My grief and sense of loss is tremendous, yet the relief that came 3 weeks ago when she passed away still remains.

She endured so much suffering. Watching her struggling so bravely to be well again, to never succeed in that goal and the sheer misery of her day to day life makes me grateful that she’s no longer here to be plagued by a body that could no longer contain her shimmering light.


I will try so hard to allow the light to enter through my wound of losing you.

I will attempt to honor you by living as well as I can.

I will try to not stay too quiet about my immense grief.

With all of my love,