Yup. That about sums it up. If I hear one more person in the mental health field say: “You have a mental Illness”, I will act like the mentally Ill are portrayed on tv. Which is bad, erroneous, false, not reliable and sooooo not valid. But, anyways.
So, yeah. I’m having a, “Mental Health Day”, respite with a full heaping, helping of Acceptance. Acceptance of what gypsyzu? For you are so balanced and wise, you may query…
Of my faults. Of my deficits. Of where I fall terribly short. Where others fall terribly short, and then so I don’t feel icky-avoid those feelings at all costs- I make up for it by rescuing, saving and generally people pleasing myself into a deep, depressive hole. I dreamt of Spetses last night. That’s Spetses, Greece, folks. That’s where, at the tender age of 19, I ran past the imaginary line of substance abuse into full-blown alcoholism. I dreamt of the love of my life. His betrayal. The betrayal of his lovers, my “Friends”. God. Being naive and hopeful can be such a fucking slut. I also dreamt my professor died and I beat a Tiger Shark to death. Yeah. The night before, discovered I had an allergic reaction to sulfate antibiotics. Like, throat swelling shut, reaction. Miracle kiddo here, pulled through another brush with the Dark Lord. I’m done. I got no more lives left. Pray to God I don’t need anymore. Was supposed to go to a bar tonight for a final show from a band of like, four lives ago. I have no business going to a bar. I have no business trying to be all things to most people who truly could give a shit. Newsflash: 80% shit, and 20% awesome. Most people today and in this world, do NOT give one flying fuck about you and yours, not because they are cruel Douche Lords, but because they got their own shit. That’s the shitty part of being a grown up.
The good part? Not today. I used up all my responses, answers, phone a friends and lifelines by ten a.m. I’m fucking dun. I can’t do no more. I got like, my system bugging me and I’m like, holy shit, they’re taking up all my time, I got no balance. No good. So, mental health day. And acceptance. Oh yeah, and my fibro is acting up. Solution, Zu, solution. Come on, it can’t shit storm any harder, can it?!
And when you say things like that, that question the existence of all things holy and far bigger than you, that yes, indeed. It can shit storm harder.
So, on that note, my shingle is being removed from beside the building and the next one, well, the next one is on me. Literally. I’m learning how to love myself and prove Joseph Campbell right for the umpteenth time, that yes, you too can be the hero of your own story.
Just last night, I told my therapist, I said, “If the blog reaches one person, somebody I don’t know, I’ve accomplished my goal.” Now, this morning? Whaddya Know? Somebody I have no idea, no clue, never seen before in my life, liked my last blog. Somebody never heard or seen before. Now, I can die happy and content. But first, I have to learn to love myself and be my own rescuer.
Wish me luck,