I’m Done

I’m done.  Totally over it.  I’m done with politics, St. Francis, Facebook, all social media…I’m sick and tired of bullshit.  And it’s me I’m sick and tired of.

You take PTSD, DID, and bipolar type I, put em together and what do you get?  Someone whose behavior mimics Borderline Personality Disorder.  But my Axis II is always deferred.  When your one abusers middle name is Chester- and my last name is an alcohol?  God shore has a great sense of humour.

I’ve also come to the conclusion that people hate living in reality.  They like fantasy.  They don’t want to live in the cold and ugly and mean truth.  Brutal honesty is for cromags, tact is in…

My God, I have been through so fucking much. I swear, people keep telling me to do more, be more.  I’m lucky I’m not fucking nonverbal okay, assholes?  I’ll probably never get married and I’m totally okay with that.  I don’t know why, but I’m okay with that.  They can come and go as they and I please.  I just know Dave made me a woman, he taught me  better way of life.  He’s teaching me how to live and how to, as someone I adore greatly said, “Find what makes me happy.”  Another person I admire greatly had a meme up, with Buddha’s picture and a caption that read:  Suffering comes from giving too many fucks. Attachment is the root of all suffering. Yupo.

I’m frustrated.  I see people who were pretty fucked up a few years ago, healing and ,moving on, and I’m like, WTF, over?  And my mom doesn’t want to come over to my place because I am a cluster/clutter fuck.  Well, I got a fucking bachelor’s and half a MSW.  I’d say for someone who was fucking put through hell and splintered into 79-82 or however many little pieces of a whole, that’s pretty fucking good.  Sorry you don’t understand me, just like I don’t understand you, but I’m a loyal fucking person.  I don’t turn on a dime, unless shit happens.

I’m over all of it.  Just am.  Sick of it all.  Great band, by the way.  At least their name is great.  I’m uber frustrated.  I’m in a great deal of pain.  My knee is all fuct up.  I have-my fucking cartilage in my right knee is flaking off.  And floating around my knee.  No matter what, I’m gonna have to have surgery.

I also started asanas in yoga.  Held plank for not a consecutive, but total five minutes. Oh Dear Ganesh, am I sore!!!  I wail like a yenta, but with Hinduism.  No wonder people don’t get me, I’m a blend.   Herbie said, “31 flavors of fucked up.”  I like to think, 31 flavors of collaborated bullshit.  But, Let’s try being nicer to me, shall we?  How about, 31 flavors of awesome sauce?  I like that.  31 levels of awesomenessoisty.  I make the fuck up out of word, so let’s go.

Yesterday my bed was vibrating and shaking and my alarm clock was on iPod and making AM radio noises.  I smudged, white candles, gave it back, all that shit.  Banish x53, so mote it be.  I hereby banish hate, fear and loathing from myself, a process which has already begun, let it continue on, until the burning of the sun.  So mote it be.  ABOVE ALL-KEN-HARM NONE!!!!

Oh dear Lord.  There’s that 31 flavors of blended awesome sauce.  Jesus H.  OoP!  There’s another flavor!

Okay.  I need to clean.  And banish.  I have Feng Shui smudge I’m going to get busy with. Usually about this time, I’m fading, but now, I am coming alive.  I swear, I got 13 fucking hours of sleep last night.  Slept right through an obligation.  Damn.  But, I feel better,  With Grief it is either feast or famine.  Fall makes me happy.  Going up north to see the colors change, would be awesome.  Maybe I’ll scoot out after the 8th, and go to some places I have never been before.  That would be wicked cool.  Sleep in cheap motels, yeah…  I’m digging it.  I likey.

I’m over it all.  Just over it all.  Not going drink, not going to do drugs, not gonna any of that shit.  Just need to free my soul.  Re-new, re-member, re-knew again.

And…scene.

My Brain is in a Wheelchair.

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,

Zu