Thursday, December 29, 2011

How I Got So Far in Life is Beyond Me I learned that I have been using tampons incorrectly for the past ten years.

Incorrectly, you say? How does one use them "incorrectly?"


An important thing to note before I get into this hilariously improbable story is that I was raised in a school district with abstinence-only education. You know, the kind that tells you that women are 90% emotional, 10% sexual, and men are 90% sexual, 10% emotional, and that married couples (who have the best sex, fyi) complete each other 100% (because 100% plus 100% equals...100%?), and that women who have sex before marriage are like used lollipops (or toothbrushes, depending on which teacher you had), and EW, who would want to use something that's already been all mucked up by someone else's germs!

But, I digress.

For the past three weeks, I have been taking antibiotics for a sinus infection. The first week, I was on regular amoxicillin, but when that failed to take away sinus pressure, my doctor put me on fancypants amoxicillin, which seemed, for the most part, to take the headaches away. At least the worst of them. Unbeknownst to me, antibiotics can kill not only the bacteria or whatever in your face, but in your vagina as well--good bacteria that keeps the yeast at bay. Or something. Long story short, I woke up one day with vag fire. Don't think that's a thing? Try being on antibiotics for three weeks and then ignoring the initial symptoms of a yeast infection because you weren't really aware that was a thing and then realize that your hoo-ha is on FUCKING DEATH FIRE. It is unpleasant as shit.

After using the necessary and awkward medication suppository-thingmajig, I felt pretty icky, and also the vag fire wasn't completely put out, so I had to call off work. I told my boss that I had a negative reaction to a medication (which is totes true) and that I was pretty sure I'd need to go to the ER (which I THOUGHT was true because I was convinced that I was going to die). Luckily, I realized that I would rather die than pay $100 to sit in an ER for three hours, so I opted to drug the shit out of myself and sleep on the couch all day. Yaaaaaay Valium.

That morning, I asked my mother, a nurse, when it would be okay for me to pee. To which she was all, o.O face? And then proceeded to tell me that I knew that your pee hole and vag hole are two separate things, right?

To which I was all, O_O ?!?!?!

And then she was like lollollollollolsrsly? wtf are they teaching you in school?

And then I was like...lollipop, grumble, going back to bed. But not before I pee out of a hole I was previously unaware that existed.

So I sleep all day, as previously stated, and then texted my friend Sarah about the magical pee hole discovery. I'm not sure how we got on the topic, but I mentioned that with this anti fungal stuff, you can't use a tampon, which I thought was kinda weird since the medicine gets put all the way UP there.

And that's when I started to wonder: why, if you could use pads to make sure the medicine doesn't fuck up your cute and expensive underwear, why couldn't you use a tampon? It's not like a tampon goes UP, it just kinda hangs out in between your lips, so to speak.

God. Damn. It.

So I asked Sarah: have I been using tampons wrong for the past like, ten years?

Sarah: *Confused on how you would use something like tampons incorrectly*

Me: They don't go, like, ALL THE WAY up, do they?

Sarah: *facepalm*

Sarah was like, WTF, dude, they come with directions! And I was like, no stupid, I just checked my box and they do NOT.

Then I checked a different box. One that I apparently had NOT thrown the directions away.

Turns out, she was right. They DO go all the way up. And you CAN pee with tampons in.

I'd always kind of wondered why some women I knew bitched about cardboard applicators. Now I know.

Saturday, December 10, 2011


some bad news:

I am pretty sure I have a brain tumor, and probably also face cancer.

Don't think that's a thing?

Look it up.


Okay so anyway, furreal, I have had a chronic eyebrow headache for about a month. Sinus headache, you say?


That is not a thing.

...shut up.


I have never been particularly good at accurately gauging time lapses, but I'm fairly certain that these headaches coincide with the death of my grandmother. My gram and I were very close--she and my grandfather helped to raise me in my formative years, and I made a habit of calling her at least once every other week to see how she was doing. As of late (and by late, I mean like ten years--see, timesense is not a thing I possess), she's not been doing well--had not been doing well, rather--and pretty much everyone was like, okay, she's probs gonna die soonish, guess we'll make the most of our time and whatnot. But since my life was a giant sadface for the past three months or so (and by three months I mean chronic depression-y since fetushood), I had avoided contact for the most part because I didn't want her to know how sad I was.

Apparently that's a thing I've been doing since I was little. My childhood psychologist told me that I had told him I didn't want to talk about my dad with my mother because I didn't want to hurt her. The FUCK a six-year-old thinks that kind of shit.

**EDIT: The problem with taking a brief hiatus to eat a popsicle and snuggle your cat is that you COMPLETELY lose your trail of thought. Orrrr it kinda makes you realize you didn't really have one in the first place and maybe you should just GTFOff the computer and watch Arnold Schwarzenegger be pregnant in a movie (seriously, I don't understand why Junior was never Oscar-nominated). But I digress...

So I guess what I was trying to say back there is that for the past weekish or so, I have been having dizzy spells, headaches, nausea, the shakes (is there a real-life word for that? I'd use trembling but that sounds kinda...inappropriate-y), forgetfulness and weird limb sensations which means I am PROBABLY dying. Except that I'm probably NOT dying, I'm just sad and overdramatic and fifty-milligrams of Adderall paranoid when I haven't even been TAKING my Adderall BECAUSE it makes me so goddamn paranoid.

Grumble grumble.

I feel very stuck, and I'm not quite sure how to get unstuck. Empirically, I know I am intellectually gifted, creative, amusing and hard-working, but I have so much of the anxieties that usually I just sit on the couch being sad for extended periods of time.

Mas electroshock, por favor.

Friday, September 30, 2011

It's Not Your Lungs This Time, It's Your Heart That Holds Your Fate

Sometimes I stop and wonder how I get to these low, low points in my life and then realize they happen like they've always happened: gradually, then suddenly.

It's not that I don't realize I have so much to live for.

My life is filled with laughter, love, family, friends, fluffy kittens and My Drunk Kitchen. At the same time, though, it's filled with psychological turmoil, lonliness, anxiety, helplessness, lack of affordable healthcare and grapefruit.

I have a four year degree from a prestigious college, and after two months of unemployment, I now stand and scrub parts in a shop for eight hours a day. (Though on the bright side, I did just get a kind-of promotion, so I get to sit down and draw faces in epoxy glue all day--woo!)

It's not that I don't mind paying my dues--having a college degree isn't the same as it was twenty years ago, and most people don't land their dream jobs straightaway. Especially in this economy, and especially in Erie, where the unemployment rate is thirty percent.

I knew I wanted to take a year off before school because I wanted to be more psychologically well for graduate school, and I wasn't ready to be away from home so permanently yet. But being here feels like I'm drowning, like my brain slowly atrophies with every passing smiley or frowny face I draw in epoxy. I've told people that the reason I'm not taking a job with some non-profit in D.C. was because of healthcare reasons (read: lose healthcare benefits and DIE), but the truth is, I am just so overwhelmingly terrified of change that I can't ever see myself being successful in life.

And part (even most) of that is because of the PTSD.

But you know what? The real world doesn't give a fuck if I had a traumatic upbringing. My private loan companies don't give two shits that my anxiety gets so out of control sometimes that I down twenty milligrams of Valium just to make it through the day. When all is said and done, my past doesn't make any difference to anyone else but me--just my current actions matter.

Growing up is fucking hard and also stupid, but I've finally, FINALLY contacted a therapist that was recommended to me by my childhood psychologist, and I'm looking into treatment facilities for PTSD and hoping against all the hopes that my insurance will cover something like that.

I've come to realize that I can't hide behind the past, that I have to move on and become the person I'm going to be, because I think she's going to be pretty great. I just need some help to get by, and I need to learn how to ask for it when I need it.

I need to start being me again. Or finally.

Friday, September 2, 2011

She is Perfect in That Fucked-Up Way

That title's been derived from Everclear's "Amphetamine," a song I listen to roughly seven times a day.

It's about a girl. (Which, incidentally, is the title of my Women's Studies comp!)
She tried to escape her former life; she "came out West to break away clean from her family and her friends and her little girl's dreams."

"She is, according to Everclear's singer/songwriter, "the saddest girl that I have ever known."

She came out west to escape the pressures of her current life, to explore a different mode of being, to break away from all the horrible that caused her to turn to substances like amphetamine.

Results: unstable. Even moreso than before.

See, I've tried running away. I've tried removing myself from undesirable situations both literally and figuratively--I went three thousand miles across the ocean, for Chrissakes.


There's an annoying self-help book gatheing dust on a bookshelf upstairs entitled "Wherever You Go, There You Are."

Girl, you can go to California.
You can go to Bumfucknowhere, England.
You can go to Boston.
Any place not in the tri-state area.

Wherever you go, there you are. Sure, maybe you have less environmental, social or economic stressors (or perhaps even more, if you are hella unlucky). When it comes down to it, you are you.

See that?
It's important.


Whatever circumstances brought you to this moment, whatever violence or pain or misery or disaster brought you here, to this place you can escape from, are going to be carried within yourself so long as you keep them buried there.

I guess what I'm trying to say in my Ambien-induced nostalgia/wisdomfest is that the past will always be with you no matter where you go.

Should you choose to ignore it?
Accept it?
Embrace it?

I am caught in a liminal space between acceptance and embrace[ment?].

On the one hand, I feel my crazypants makes me an incredibly unique individual.
My sense of humor is off-beat and quirky, sometimes a bit macabre, but it helps me to deal on some level with painful memories that my brain has declared off-limits.

I want to run.
I want to go to DC and be successful.
I want to rabble-rouse and set shit on fire.
I want to be a thorn in the ass of patriarchy.

...if only I could convince myself that it's worth waking up in the morning.

I'm perfect, I've decided.
Perfect in that fucked-up way.
Maybe it isn't the healthiest thing in the world.
Maybe I should buckle down and get long-term PTSD treatment in a facility.
Maybe I could go under hypnosis and find out what REALLY happened to me.
But you know what?
Fucked up as I am, I LIKE me.
Of course, me being the way I am does not make it easy to attract a potential mate.
I need someone who is the opposite of me stability-wise so that we don't implode on ourselves when shit hits the fan.
This post ended up in a really different place than it started.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011


I'll be honest
I just drank a whole thing of wahn with a straw
A bottle
but my friend helped me a little
so I thave this new job
menial, to say the least
mostly I scrub shit all day
it's a parts shob
which is good
cuz it's 40 hours a week
with the possiblity of ovetime
spelled that wrong
do I care?
but carry on
fuuuuuuuuuuuuck I missed Kansas at Celebrate Erie
but anyway
I have this post I wanna do about domestic violence
and the language surroudning it
cuz I work with mostly non-native English speakers
Everyone is Russian as fuck
And they're like
and I'm like
Does not speak Russian...?
kay so
I will update
When I do not drinkt and entire bottle of wine with my friend
Who, to be fair, chugged quite a bit
he's talkin bout cars
I would talk about cats personally
I may regret this post
it is part of who I am
which is kinda proound if you thing about it
so DO IT


Wednesday, June 22, 2011


It seems I will never learn
Because no matter how many times I have insomniatic freak-outs
Or embark upon Ambien-induced hallucinatory adventures


So anyways
Graduated college about a month ago
And now everyone is like WHACHU DOIN WID YO LYF
And I'm all
D% face
My friends are getting real person jobs, moving into apartments, progenerating, getting married
And I sit at home all day
In bed
With Hot Pockets
Watching 90s X-Men cartoon reruns

And I want so badly to get a job
To move to a city sans "REPEAL OBAMACARE SICKLE&HAMMERFACE :D" on the highway
To strike out
Make my way
Go the distance
Etc etc
But I have this thing that makes me crazypants
As all living fuck
And on any given day
Doctors think I have:
And I'm all
You can't pick just one?
This isn't fucking Jelly Belly
Where you can pick and choose different flavors of shit
(sidenote: some things should not exist in bean form, POPCORN AND JELLY ARE NONMIXEY THINGS)
I am one person
There can only be SO MANY things wrong
You know, I got really distracted by the Jelly Belly thing
I'm not sure why I included that
It struck me as funny
Though in retrospect it's probably not going to be

I am just not sure where I'm going
Or who I am sometimes
Cuz I was lookin' through old posts
And I was all
Which I guess is a common thing for twenty-somethings
Though most probably don't think in meme form
But it seems a hell of a lot of the twenty-somethings I know have moderately got their shit together
Living at home, probably, but more out of economic necessity than constant need to be around their nanimals
I am actually pretty sure I will never succeed in life because it would require me to be away from my cats for more than a week at a time
And if you're thinking to yourself
Well, maybe bring your cats with you?
I say

I keep getting really sidetracked
I was going to write something meaningful
And instead I talked about Jelly Belly and cats

I just wish I could get a job
Where the most important skill
Would be the ability to be socially awkward
Because let me tell you friends
I would
And I would talk about nothing but cats, sandwiches, and loathing Nickelback ALL THE LIVELONG DAY
And probably Rick Astley too
Because WHY NOT

But until then
I will continue to write nonsensical posts
Because that seems to be the one thing I am good at in my life
Other than pantsless Hot Pocket eating
And badminton
So until then

Wednesday, May 11, 2011


The good news is I'm probably graduating.
Bad news is I don't have a future for the next year.
Am goin home for to regain the sanity before I keep on keepin with school.
But like.
I am ALL the not sanity pants.
Have been lookin at long-term treatment facilies for PTSD, and insurance and parental unit willing, am gonna try and go to one.
How to 'splain that to everyone who's going to be like, wtf, why did you up and leave home for like a month and disappear of the face of the Facebook earth, y u no post all the cat pictures and women's rights stuffs?
And I have ALL the loans.
And ALL the illness.
And NONE of the financial resources.
Is a not good thing to be in the socioeconomic pits and ill.
Sometimes I worry that I will be homeless, which is the main reason I want to has treatment center NAU instead of living in a shopping cart with a tin foil hat LATER.
So I think as long as I can has treatment, den I can has wellness later on in life.
And I think that might just be a little naive, but right now, it's the thing that is getting me through most of my days.
When I go back to school, I set fire to all the structural violence.
For now, I just try and take care of me.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011


I have not done any of the things
I have to read and review a 200 page book for eight pages
on the other hand
things could be worse

my car could have a) exploded or b) broken down in fartherawaythanBuffalo;
my laptop could have crashed during my comp, and I at least have a shitty backup;
I could have had a comp advisor that was like MENTALILLNESSDOESNOTEXISTPANTS;
I could have no insurance;
I could have not had the support system I has now.

I don't actually think dere is a point to this brog
Mostly I just don't wanna read anymore
And I don't want the first blog on my account to be like BTDUBBS SUICIDE :D
So I guess now it's just tangental and nonsensical
Which is fine cuz I feel like that's part of my personality

EDIT I took all the adderall and didn't sleep and I don't know where I am right now only I mean that figuratively, ya dig?

Monday, April 11, 2011

Same Old Song and Dance

Six years ago today, I tried to kill myself.

I was desperate, afraid, and angry that no one was taking me seriously.

And today, I feel it's not that different.

As this semester has gone by, I've gotten progressively worse. Where I once was able to skim by, I am now unable. Incapable. I literally can't do anything except stare at a poster of kittens for hours on end. To stop the racing thoughts, I've resorted to watching ten plus hours of television a day, just so I feel like I can survive.

I haven't read in months. Well, years really--but I'm talking more specifically in terms of classwork. I failed, literaly failed my Black Studies midterm, which I'm ashamed to say is not my first failing, but possibly the most painful. I just can't think anymore, can't concentrate, can't do much of anything.

I'm 21 years old, and I'm burned out on life already.

I somehow managed to finish my comp, piece of shit as it is, but I got my first academic standards note from the Learning Commons for Contra. Fucking CONTRA. I think it's because I turned a paper in two hours late. Thing is, though, that the night before I had been driving home from a conference in Boston when my transmission fluid started leaking and the hood of my car was smoking. I had to drive three people in my car afraid that my transmission was going to explode, and when I finally got home safely, my first instinct was not "gotta turn already mostly written contra paper in!," it was "holy fuck, I can't deal with all this shit, solution=bed."

There are far worse things happening to far better people, so why can't I just buckle down and do what needs done? Why does this always, always, always happen to me?

Friday, April 1, 2011

Deb Dickey Thinks I'm Fiesty

Seriously, my life is complete.


the fact that everything is sucking right now.

I am still crazypants.
My comp is only 27 pages.
My contra professor is making hella assumptions and failing to understand just how crazy and fibromyalgiapants I am.

I am spontaneously sad sometimes, but then ten minutes later, I am completely fine.

I haven't read for class in a good three months.

I don't make sense most of the time.

I tried being medicated but that failed on an Homeric scale.
Is there such a thing as a Homeric scale?
Probably not.

But I am trying also to get a fifth year internship so I can fix all the things at Allegheny since they ADDITIONALLY fail on an Homeric scale.
Like most things, though, I am doing this last minute and offending most of the people I am trying to work with.


I have been watching the Kitty Cat Dance video for approximately five days straight.

As soon as I am all, okay brain, there is a sufficent amount of Mountain Dew in you, work tiemz nau, brain goes

and then I go

mostly because my brain only thinks on the levels of lolcats and Hyperbole and a Half.

...but yeah seriously I'm actually concerned that a one credit dance course is going to interfere with my ability to graduate.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

I Know I Posted Once Already Today...

but can we just talk about the term "liberal elitism?" Where in the FUCK did that come from?

Helloooo, Republicans, when you look at the top 2% of America's wealth, are you seeing a lot of Democrats or other social-justice inclined folk at the top?


You see a lot of cracker-ass white menfolk who get off on controlling most of America's wealth and treading all over women, especially those of color and of lower-income.


Pennyroyal Tea

Goddamnit, dude.

I've gone through fifteen-odd years of therapy, and not once, once, during that time did anyone stop and think, gee, maybe this girl's got a case of the PTSDs.


I'll grant that it's a relatively new diagnosis (not disorder, cause I'm sure it's been around for a very long time), but STILL. And I'm even mad at myself a little, for not recognizing that my symptoms so closely align with it.

I think that's why I never ended up doing psychology as a second major...apparently, professors of Abnormal Psych make a point of saying that students should not diagnose themselves because they probably don't have said disorders.

Well, I do.

I finally, FINALLY seen a psychiatrist to get on mood stabilizers, but the whole experience was jarring--it was at a different office than the website online told me, and the office would not PICK UP THEIR GODDAMN PHONE, and the lady at the place I went to that was the wrong place was rude, condescending, and all-around unfeeling. Betch.

So I sat in my car babbling and crying to myself, desperately trying to get a hold of SOMEONE, but everyone in the world wouldn't answer their phone. And honestly, this kind of thing could happen to anyone, but my mental and emotional states are so precarious that the littlest thing is generally the worst thing that has ever happened EVER. And it's frustrating, because I know I come off as melodramatic, but the way I feel and experience things is so goddamn visceral, and that thing in your brain that tells you not to overreact to things is virtually nonexistent in mine.

The psychiatrist man, who I really loved because he seemed like he was definitely a part of 60s counterculture, prescribed me an anti-psychotic. Which made my brain go O.o because I have never considered myself to be psychotic, just excessively unwell. But then he was all, no, it's cool, it's a dumb name, it just means that it will slow your thinking (in a good way) and help stabilize your moods and sleep.

To which I was all, okay.

Problem is that these types of medications take up to two months to kick in. So I says, "Bro, I can't wait that long."

And he says, "Cool, we'll give you this thing that's effective super fast, and then taper you off to the thing that isn't fast but more effective." And then I was irritated that he didn't give me ritalin.

So right now I am spacey as hell, tired for no reason, grumpy, headachey and nauseated, but I'm hoping that all this will magically go away within a week. Getting chemically balanced is something that I've always aspired to, which is an odd thing to say, let alone aspire to, but when you've got the family history I do, just barely scraping by the normal scale is ballin' as shit.

I read back through this and I think it mostly doesn't make sense. And I used the weirdest phrases. -_-

Saturday, February 5, 2011

CapitalismSMASH v. Kitten Poster Staring Contest

It's a frustrated thing, this disease, this disorder, because at any given moment I'm at one of two extremes. I can do either ALL the things, or nothing at all. There are days when I can singlehandedly dismantle capitalism, de-institutionalize religion, outlaw patriarchy, read Foucault's "History of Madness" as a backdrop for my comp and run a triathalon; there are also days where my mind and body are so crippled from exhaustion that anything beyond lying in bed and staring at a kitten poster is physically impossible.

Yet there are times of in-between too, times when I am neither crippled nor extraodinary, just average, run-of-the-mill, normal--by my standards, at least. These are the moments I cherish the most, the mundane and everyday. They are also the most hurtful, I think. Hurtful? Painful, I guess, is a better way to describe it. Because I know it will go away and I will be extreme again, I will do everything or nothing, and I will not be a normal girl anymore.

I will be me again.

I will be mad.

And the madness will take its proverbial toll.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Wiggidy Wack

I am expected to care about all the things that I don't have the capacity to care about anymore.


Thursday, January 20, 2011

Just the Flax

Recently, I disclosed to a friend that I was diagnosed with Bipolar...which, as it turns out, she is diagnosed with too. In between bouts of Sororityland goings-on, I asked what sort of prescriptions she's taking, because I usually don't comprehend what is and is not a socially appropriate question. And she was all, "St. John's Wort and flax seed."

And I was all, derwhat?

At any given moment in the US, there are approximately eighty bagillion ads brandishing all sorts of new miracle drugs with the quick-fix that's just right for YOU. We're all about the quick fixes, us Americans, because our society is so face-paced...we've got drive-thru food, banks, coffee and hell, even car washes.

I soaked all that shit up for the past twenty-one years.

Part of it is maybe the illness, but I honest to god have not been able to quiet my mind for more than the thirty or so seconds it takes to begin a meditative breathing. It's so frustrating, because I really believe that if I could just sit and concentrate on my breath like I was doing early on in the year, I could begin to deal with everything that's going on.

I could be like this: -_-

When I feel like this: :DDDDD !!!@@##$ DDDD:

So what's really been my lifeline the past few weeks is knowing that I have a psychiatrist appointment with a doctor who will prescribe the crazy away. And yes, I have concerns that are typical with bipolar patients--I worry that part of what makes me me is going to be scraped away, that I'll turn into a corporate zombie (a conspiracy theory paranoia of mine), that the side effects of the drug will outweight its benefits, that I'll become dependent and increase the dosage until it's too toxic for my body--but in my current state, I would do just about anything to live in between. So when my friend started talking about warts and wheat (which is what my brain interpreted the herbal remedies she suggested to me into), I was really left-fielded.

Considering it's still about a month until I see the psychiatrist, and I'm desperate, I decided to take my friend's advice. I BOGO'd* the wheat and warts, and I'm taking it for a test run. Obviously, everyone's chemical makeup is different; some people, for instance, do not gulp down half-bottles of Nyquil (and no, it was not of the non-drowsy variety), nor do they have to take more than one Ambien to quiet the manic agitation at three in the morning. So I'm not investing all my hope that this will work, but I'm really trying to not view the 'take three day' directions as a company conspiracy to force you to buy twenty dollar boxes of fucking warts.


*Buy One Get One

Thursday, January 6, 2011

She's Not Broken, She's Just a Baby

Things I learned today:

1) Just because chocolate flavored Ex Lax tastes delicious does not mean you should eat twice the recommended dose;

2) There is a scientific approach to how best eat an ice cream sandwich;

3) It's more than me that struggles with bipolar and fibromyalgia;

4) Of the three people I never expected to tell about my disorders, every single one of them has gone out of their way to offer their support;

5) My neuroses, strange paranoias and wild gesticulations are part of my charm;

6) I might just be the luckiest unlucky girl alive.