As if people really needed another reason to not like the holiday season, I bring this evidence to the table:

I have known three (3) dogs in my life that had to be put to sleep in December.

Exhibit A is my first dog, Gus.

Gus was part German Shepherd, part Saint Bernard, and one big, fuzzy mass of black fur. He looked intimidating as hell because ohmygod there’s a black wolf coming at me! But one of my earliest and fondest memories was being about 3 or 4 years old and opening the gate to Gus’s outdoor cage and crawling inside his dog house with him to lay on the hay that was inside. This visually ferocious beast was nothing but a tender mass of love (much like myself, I might add). I had a friend (!!) in grade school whose elderly grandparents lived next door to us and this girl would scream bloody murder every time Gus tried to follow me over there as she was deathly afraid of this monster, when in reality, he was anything but.

It was December 11, 1991 or 1992, I don’t quite remember. My brother still lived at home, so it wasn’t 1993. Anyway, the year is moot, it’s the time of year that matters. The few days prior to December 11, it had been rainy and cold and sleeting. Gus would usually trudge his massive body through the backyard to take shelter in his dog house when it got too wet/cold outside for him to lounge around outside in the sun. His favorite spot was in front of our front door. Nothing like trying to shove 100 pounds of dog away from the front door when trying to get outside. At the first nudge of the metal screen door on his butt, he’d look over his shoulder at you with cold, brown eyes as if to say, “really? You couldn’t have gone out the back door instead?” But begrudgingly, he’d heave himself up, walk two steps to the left, and hunker down again with a great, heaving sigh of exasperation.

That day, though…Gus didn’t move. He was caked with icicles that matted his glorious black coat down. By that year, Gus was a crotchety old man of fifteen years old, so half of his face was silver and sparkling as the ice that formed around it. I knew Dad was going to take Gus to the vet to see what was wrong with him, aside from old age. I couldn’t wait to get off the school bus that afternoon to find out how our dog was.

I need to stop here and say this: this is one of those defining moments in a kid’s childhood where they can without a question pinpoint a moment that irreparably fucked them up. This is my moment, and also when I learned to recognize when my father was about to share some not good news with people.

I had a school band concert that night, so my mom and I were busy getting ourselves ready. We had been gone for a bit after school to get things we needed and when we got home, all the lights in the house were out, save the twinkling Christmas tree. Dad had a thing for Manheim Steamroller and his music was all that played during Christmas. Not this night. This night was some very somber, mellow, New Age radio station he listened to on occasion from the NPR station in Salina, Kansas. Something told me to look at the Christmas tree, so I did. Displayed prominently in the middle, carefully tucked between pine branches was my dad’s favorite picture of Gus and a blue handkerchief.

I was only 10 or 11, but I immediately knew what that mean and remember running to my room and crying. Points to Dad for some quality use of props to tug at the heartstrings more. Kudos, old man.

Losing a dog at motherfucking Christmas is a torture unlike no other.

Exhibit 2 isn’t actually my dog, but I lived with Steve and Larcy for over 2 years, so in a way, their little cow dog Rhane became my own, as well.

She was short, fat, and looked like a cow. When I met her, she was already a cranky old bitch, but then again, anyone would be a cranky old bitch if you had to deal with Daxhole the Asshole Husky for a canine brother.  (Author’s note: I still fucking hate that goddamn husky.)

Rhane ended up with poor eyesight, and even worse bladder control, as it was a morning ritual to come out to the kitchen barefoot (or socked, if the winter was among us), sleepily staggering around to multitask letting the dogs outside and make a pot a coffee, and oh…step in a fresh–or not so fresh–pile of Rhane pee. Every. God. Damn. Morning. Sometimes two or three piles off pee, depending on if Rhane was feeling extra saucy that day or not.

It didn’t matter if you had taken her outside two minutes before and she whined at the door to be let back in, giving you the false assurance that yes, she had done her business, only to be betrayed by getting your cotton Fruit of the Looms crew socks saturated in urine. You couldn’t get too mad at her, the poor little sausage. She was old and riddled with arthritis and tiny little stumper legs. But really, Rhane? Every goddamn time. Everygoddamntime.

She also decided it was too much fun being here with us silly humans, so last year in December, she got taken for a good walk, was given tons of kisses and hugs, and told what a good, good girl she was for one last time.

Fucking dogs, man. It’s hard to type and cry at the same time.

Exhibit 3. Depending on who you ask what his name is, my version is Blue Barry Hoffmeyer, aka Blueber, but you have to pronounce the “L” as a “W,” so it’s actually “Bwueber.”

If you asked my mom, his name is Blue Barry, or Blue Baby. Keith, my mom’s husband, would just yell “BLUEEE!!” in a surprisingly high falsetto for a man.

Here is Blue’s origin story, like he’s some unknown X-Men or something:

Keith got Blue as a puppy to give to his oldest granddaughter, who I believe was quickly approaching 2 years old or was already 2. A two year old girl’s favorite thing in the world aside from mommy and daddy and whatever the hell else babies like is Blue’s Clues. This is where our hero, very much an Australian Red Heeler, got to be named Blue.

Then, another baby came into the household, and our boy Blue apparently didn’t realize little girls are not cattle and shouldn’t be wrangled like the livestock he was bred to herd. His bad. Sorry. After that incident, Blue was given back to Keith where he remained for a few years.

Then…then there’s THIS bitch (hint: me) who comes along and is immediately infatuated with this ginger and white speckled dummy and I think I all but begged Keith and Mom to let me have Blue. They resisted at first, but eventually, the ol’ Hoffmeyer Charm corrodes away at your psyche like battery acid and I was rewarded him as my payoff for more torture.

I was a nervous first-time mom with Blue. He came to me wearing a metal collar. I had set up his food and water dish in the kitchen and nearly killed my then-husband from screaming so loud because at 3am, this dog decided it was the perfect time to a keg stand on his water dish and the sound of the chain hitting the bowl or, rather, just that sound at 3am in general was awfully disconcerting because I apparently had forgotten we now had a dog in the apartment. Needless to say, early the next morning, that collar was removed and a nice, quiet nylon one was purchased.

Blue was my companion for the next four years, as he always seemed to take to me more than Jason (good boy, Blue). I was the more cuddly/snuggly/lemme bury my face in your neck fur/sleep on Jason’s side of the bed because I like you more than him one. And Blue devoured it. He was so well-behaved, for the most part. He did have his “fuck you, dog” moments, but all dogs do.

Perhaps the most memorable was when over my old sister-in-law’s house—who just happened to have a greyhound. It was wildly entertaining to see this sleek, beautiful greyhound running literal circles around my stout, scrappy dog until! Until, my friends, millions of years of evolution kicked in and you could hear the synapse in Blue’s head fire that finally connected the “dude, you’re a cattle herding dog, not a chase a goddamn greyhound in circles dog” thing and one thing you knew, Blue was getting his ass kicked by a greyhound, then Blue stopped mid-run, eyeballed Mo the Greyhound, calculated his next move and shot out after him, cutting him off. It was the most science-y thing I’ve ever seen. I loved it.

Blue also earned the nickname “John Lithgow” from Chad and myself. Why is this, you ask? Was Blue in “Third Rock From the Sun”? Did Blue express an affinity for acting a wide range of characters?

No. Blue got himself this name because we discovered one evening while dancing to whatever the hell kind of music dorks like Chad and I listen to, Blue did not cotton to dancing and tried to bite our heels to keep us from dancing.

In other words, Blue was like John Lithgow from the wildly popular ‘80s movie “Footloose” where John Lithgow plays the small town preacher man who bans dancing because it is evil. Oh sure, sounds hilarious, but until you’ve had a few cubic meters of pressure from a goddamn cattle dog just aching to snap your Achilles tendon in twain, it really isn’t all that comical. It’s quite dangerous. I’m amazed we all survived.

It was me and Blue, Blue and me, and that’s the way it should always be.

And it was, until life changed and Blue got sent back to live with Ma and Keith. I looked for that dog for an entire week after I gave him back. I was living in the basement of a friend’s house and had to keep Blue away because there was a kitty at the new place and if there’s one thing ol’ Blue hates more than dancin’, it’s them kitties.

It was rough, of course. But he was back where he belonged and that was good enough for me…even though my mom got him fat off ice cream and Keith liked to feed him M&M’s and I know…I know…

In retrospect, Blue led a pretty wonderful existence. Mom and Keith say I spoiled him by letting him crawl up on furniture and give out puppy kisses and his always constant need to be within a few feet of his people or he feels like he isn’t doing his job properly.
I say Ma and Keith spoiled him with the aforementioned snacks and also letting him up on the furniture but always blaming that bad habit on me.

And now for some truth, and this is going to make me sound absolutely batshit.

Blue’s death is really hitting me far, far harder than I ever expected it would. Dogs have a short lifespan. Years of overbreeding or trying to engineer the perfect dog has mutated these beasts to snorting, flat-nosed, weak hipped, arthritic sacks of fur and we’re sad when something we’ve genetically tinkered with dies? And at a supposed rate 7 times our own (still the best joke to make to your dog, though: “Wayland, you’re 3 years old now. You’re a man. It’s time to get yourself a goddamn job! Quit scratching yourself and get a girlfriend!” Anthropomorphizing animals is fun.

(Here’s the crazy) Blue here, well, he was really the only “man” I could trust and who loved me when I got angry at him or forgot to feed him or walk him. He would greet me the same way every night I got home from work. He would still run up to me, digging his claws into my hips, me grabbing his front paws, and we’d dance around for a few seconds—until he’d jump down and try to chomp my heels apart. Aside from that, his love was unconditional even when there were times I absolutely did not deserve to have him hold me in such high regard: when I yelled at him for getting into the outside garbage can, or for constantly barking at the squirrels in the tree he would no way ever catch, or for his whining.

With Blue dying, I’m finally getting to understand these people who think they’ve suffered some great cataclysmic loss in their lives and had their guts ripped out absolutely refuse to move on from it. “I’ll never love again,” would always make me roll my eyes and mutter, “oh, shut the fuck up, you fuckin’ goomba” under my breath, but no…I understand it now. Over a goddamn dog. Humans are so goddamn wrapped up in their own problems that they forget others around them can be suffering some sort of loss or loneliness but be too self-absorbed to know it or just don’t know how to do anything to help, or feel like they’re bothering you if you try to offer meager help. Anxiety gets in our way. The fear of…whatever gets in our way.

Animals can see your hurt and even though all they can do it stick out their tongue and lick your eyeball, or put their wet noses in your ear and snort, that’s sometimes more love and affection people show each other, so I fully understand wanting to build up that goddamn wall to ward all those who dare be stupid enough to enter. Dogs are fucking smart. People are not.

My advice? Be more like a dog.

Yes, even if that means licking your own butt.

Okay, maybe not, but do all that other crap about unconditional love and if you really have to be weird about it, lick an eyeball, but that’s it.

December 7, 2016

I need to preface this by saying I am an asshole. I am not being denigrating. I am being factual. Eighty percent of the time, I am sweet and friendly, but the other twenty percent of the time, I can be a real rotten bitch, and I have been stewing over something all day that has raised my aggression a few notches, and because I want to get this shit out of my head, I’m going to write about it. If you don’t feel like reading this, I totally get it and no hard feelings, I promise.

And away we go!

A casual stroll through my previous posts on this here blog will affirm that I suffer from depression. I’ve written about this countless times. Second most frequent posts are about quitting smoking (which I’m revving up for again. I discovered I have two boxes of nicotine patches in the bathroom closet and I was all “huh.” If I’m anything, I’m consistent in my attempts).

I wasn’t always depressed. I lived a fair chunk of my life happy-go-lucky. I wasn’t a depressed teenager or anything like that. I remember the D word being uttered probably ten years ago when I went to have my yearly pap smear. The doctor was chatting with me and one thing led to another and next thing I knew, I had a prescription for Cymbalta in my little hands. I hated the stuff as it made me feel like nothing. Not joyful when I needed to be, not sad when I needed to be, just…flat. It’s such a bizarre feeling to know you should be expressing some sort of emotions but are physically incapable of doing so. That was my brief stint in psychopathy, I think. Needless to say, I quit that medication and honestly don’t recall if I ever took anything after that. I don’t think so. I think it was more of a “well, that didn’t work out, did it?” and I managed to go a few years drug-free. I can see now that I was getting depressed, but I guess just thought I could handle it.

The next time depression was seriously brought up was in 2010 and going through the hell that was the decline of my marriage. Lacking coping skills, I turned to getting drunk nightly and a bevy of other questionable activities. Nothing like drugs or that, but having an emotional affair with a guy, and honestly, I’m not sure if that’s any better.

I could tell I was heading down a bad path and sought help through the employee assistance program at work. These services are great for the most part, but I was only allowed 5 visits with the therapist and wasn’t too keen on having to find another one and start over from scratch with someone else, but I did eventually. I then had my little mental breakdown in July 2010 which landed me at Bryan West in the Effective Disorders unit and spent a fun-filled 3 days being doped to the gills and having to participate in group therapy and color mandalas. It was wild. I highly don’t recommend it.

On release, I was under the care of a wacky psychiatrist named Raphael Tatay. He was five feet tall and Spanish and had a rich Spanish accent that made it difficult to understand him at times. He pronounced my name “Air-leen” and would sing me weird little songs he made up, like “zee fay-moos Air-leen Zook-ooskee!” He saw me while in the hospital, started me on drugs to help me sleep, for anxiety, and depression. He diagnosed me with PTSD caused by my divorce, and would see me every three months for three minutes so I could get refills. I went through two therapists in that time. One gal was at his office and had some sort of eye disorder that she literally could not make eye contact with you when you spoke to her. Not to be an ass, but that was distracting as all hell. I found myself trying to position my head to look at her, but that didn’t work. Also, we didn’t have good rapport, which happens.

The next gal I saw had her office out of her home and I remember two things about this woman: she had a giant black dog who would wander around, and she always wore the same outfit whenever we met. For whatever reason, that was a deal breaker for me. Well, that and the expense of her visits got to be too much to handle, so I stopped going.

In 2012, I switched my care to a different psychiatrist and this is the guy who “diagnosed” me with bipolar 2. I feel good about placing the sarcastic quotes around “diagnosed” because his super thorough diagnostic tool was a single page with ten questions. He took one look, said, “yep. Bipolar 2,” and put me on different medications. Neat.

Oddly enough, I got put on Abilify and it was helpful. Abilify is for bipolar disorders. Abilify is also close to $1,000 a month, but ONLY $600 with insurance and a prescription assistance card! Hey now! Seeing as I couldn’t even begin to pay for that, I got switched to lamictal, the drug I am/was currently on/stopped taking. I didn’t last long on that because I ended up in Texas a few months later, losing my health insurance, so I couldn’t afford prescriptions.

Until early this year, I wasn’t taking anything, so I managed almost a solid three years, save the weird fiasco after my hysterectomy in 2014 where I got put on some medications which was a nightmare, but whatever.

The thing with antidepressants/antipsychotics is this: they are a straight up crapshoot. They aren’t like beta blockers or diuretics for high blood pressure and high cholesterol. Psych meds are notorious for being consistently inconsistent from person to person. Abilify may help some people, or it could totally fuck with your program. Here’s a comprehensive list of all the medications I’ve been on in ten years:

Trazodone, Remeron, Geodon, Ativan, Cymbalta, Abilify, Lamictal, Effextor, Wellbutrin, Lexapro, Wellbutrin again, Ativan again, Trintellix, and Lamictal again.

Impressive, no? And the shit of it is, there’s more I can try still! Lots more! Based on my recent assessment and getting a more definitive diagnosis of major depression and generalized anxiety, there’s a whole slew of antidepressants I could take! Zoloft! Paxil! Effexor again, but in a much higher dose! Buspar! So many others! Terrific!

I don’t know if I want to take medication right now, and based on my list, I don’t think I could be blamed for that. That’s a lotta failed medications for one woman. I also know it’s still going to be a shot in the dark with finding a good one for me, too, obviously since I compiled quite the listy-list. It’s fucking frustrating and exhausting and sometimes sucks physically (looking at you, Trintellix and Lamictal).

There’s a big “but” coming here and why I declared myself an asshole earlier.

But. I know I lack some of the necessary components to functioning normally, a wildly subjective term, but just go with me here. My brain mishandles serotonin for whatever goofy reason…genetics, mostly. Thanks, Ma and Pa! I don’t have enough of the stuff, unfortunately. I am in therapy again and adore my Therapist as she’s teaching this old dog some new tricks, but again, that isn’t enough, I don’t think. I need to find the sweet spot between learning coping mechanisms, an effective medication, and to get regular exercise, as I know for a goddamn fact this power trio will get me to a good place.

As you can tell, it’s been an interesting ten years for Ol’ Grey Eyes here (my super cool nickname for myself).

And now for being an a-hole!

Obviously, I’ve been through some stuff personally during this time. Divorce, being in a verbally and emotionally abusive “relationship” with an alcoholic, unemployed for ten months, two major surgeries, dealing with my father’s cancer and recent death, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Yet, despite all this, I somehow have maintained a fairly decent outlook on life. The eternal optimist, I guess. I could absolutely give the world a double-barreled middle finger salute and choose to wallow in pity and despair because I think I’ve earned that chance to do so, but I don’t wanna. Yes, I’ve had some setbacks (Chantix-induced meltdown, anyone?), but I keep fighting to get back.

Depression gets to people in different ways. There is no right or wrong way to express your mental illness. Perhaps I’m more of a high functioning depressive than I realize, but for the most part, I do fairly okay-ish. For having a major depressive disorder, I’m still weirdly optimistic about life and what I can do with mine. That’s not to say I am 1000% happy and content in it because I most certainly am not. Mounting debt, not having a place to call my own, general discontent with my career status and wanting to further my education but lacking the funds to pursue it further, dealing with sometimes crippling grief…none of this is a goddamn picnic.

There are days when I let depression and anxiety run my life. There are days when I truly and honestly wish I wasn’t alive anymore so I didn’t have to deal with any of this. There are days when I eye my bottle of Ativan and think what a good idea it would be to take the entire bottle and hopefully go to sleep and hopefully never wake up. There are days where I am so goddamn angry at certain people in my life, I physically start shaking and it feels like every muscle in my body is being wound up into a hate ball until there will be too much tension and I’ll fucking snap. There are days were grief kicks me squarely in my face and it feels like I lost Dad a few hours ago instead of seven months ago.

But then, there are days when I wake up a different person. I feel good. I think I even look good. I smile at myself in the bathroom mirror and go, “you’re alright, Hoffmeyer.” I feel like I’m a good person. I feel like I am loved and treasured. I look back to days where I wish myself dead and think, “my god, woman! Really? Why would you ever have such wicked thoughts about yourself?”

I mentioned a paragraph ago that depression gets to people differently, and that’s true. It certainly does.

People also deal with their depression in different ways, too. I like to think I’m doing it right, and by that I mean I’m still kicking around despite how irritatingly difficult it’s been as of late. Again, I could very well throw in the towel and give up, letting depression win.

I’m going to be brutally honest and perhaps a hypocrite here, but that’s not new to me, so here goes: I cannot tolerate people who let their depression get the best of them in the way that they give up on themselves. I realize how stupid this is because that’s kind of the definition of having depression…but I hope some sense is made from what I’m trying (poorly) to say. And here’s the dickhead in me shining through:

You have your depressed folks that are fighting for their lives even when they have days when they don’t want to.

Then, you have your depressed folks that wallow in their own misery, throw pity parties for themselves constantly, and don’t make any effort to get better. They are perfectly content to being a victim to their illness.

I hate that shit so much. I hate when people throw their own flags in the ring. I hate when people choose to throw their fights.

I’m not entirely sure depression is their underlying cause for this attitude, though. Again, despite my depression, I am weirdly optimistic in general. I like to shine the silver linings to my clouds. I think the frames of my rose-colored glasses compliment my cheekbones well.

I think if you’re a negative person, you might have a tougher time dealing with your depression. They get the “what’s the fucking point?” mentality that isn’t depression-related, but being a miserable person in general related.

And there are two things in this world I despise. 1) Arrogance. 2) Negative fucking people. 3) People who can’t count and make lame jokes about counting things. Get out of my goddamn face, the both of yas.

I have an aunt who is the latter. She’s a miserable fucking human being. I do not get along well with this woman because of this. I bet if you were to pit the two of us together and we were to compare our mental illnesses, we’d be fairly on par diagnosis wise. But if you were to ask her, she would genuinely think she’s the only person in the entire history of the universe who has had it as bad as she has. Her struggle is the epitome of struggle. She should be martyred.

There are no words biting, cutting, or that express the amount of utter disgust and contempt I have for people like this.

Fuck me, now I’m all pissed off again. I had worked myself into a terrific tizzy earlier today thinking about something similar and man alive, was I ever angry! And how!

But do you get what I mean? I’m not saying I am free from being a detestable cow, but I snap the fuck out of it! I go, “okay, Erin. That’s quite enough of this.” And I stop!

Goddamn, seriously.

I’m all flustered and lost my steam and I’m hungry, so perhaps this is a good stopping point.

To reiterate, I don’t always love my life or what I’ve done/haven’t done with it, but I don’t let that get me down much. I don’t cotton to “everything happens for a reason,” either. Sometimes, it just isn’t the right time for things to fall into place, you know? I know.

Alright, 2,400 words is enough for one evening. I’m glad I was able to write tonight because this is the shit I had trouble remembering yesterday, so perhaps my brain isn’t totally fucked after all! Yay!

Before I go for realsies, know this: depression is an asshole. Do not let it tear you down to its level. Do whatever it takes to make you feel like your life matters and that you matter to people, because you fucking do. I don’t mince words like that, especially when it comes to this topic. You fucking fight, and you fucking fight like hell. I promise you it’s worth it.

As always, thank you for reading.



December 6, 2016

Every Tuesday night, time negotiable, my best friend/sister/heterosexual lifemate Jamie and I partake in something we have dubbed “Writing Babies,” or #WritingBabies, for those who see this annoying hashtag and photos of our laptops in various locations on social media. It started back when I lived in Austin and the both of us fancying ourselves wordsmiths, would take our computers to either a coffee shop or a local bar and we’d write. That’s it. Just write. It grew to be a favorite thing we did and there’s something about sitting quietly with someone you love, enjoying each others company, and doing something we both like to do. I adore it when I can make similar connections with people, my other favorite is listening to music, and I’m fortunate to have someone to do that with, as well.

Anyway, Jamie’s still in Texas and I am not, and after a three year hiatus, she suggested we start this up again and I wholeheartedly agreed, so here we are. Even though we’re 15 hours and 900 miles away, for an hour every week, it feels like we’re together and if that isn’t the sweetest goddamn thing, I don’t know what is.

I’ve been thinking about what I wanted to write about all day, and wouldntcha know it, when it comes down to the time to open up the Dell and peck away at the keyboard, my mind goes blank. Twenty-three hours a goddamn day, my mind is a flurry of activity when I desperately want it to chill out for a few hours and give me peace, but my brain decides the optimal time to freeze up is when I needed it to be sharp. Sonuvabitch. It doesn’t help that I’m also watching Westworld because I wanted to see what all the fuss was about, and so far I have this to say: robots? In the Old West? And Sir Anthony Hopkins? I don’t hate it yet, but my judgement of movies/shows isn’t to be trusted.

So, I guess I’ll just prattle on about random shit then. I’m good at that.

I stopped taking my mood stabilizer because a) I didn’t see the need for it anymore given my recent mental assessment suggesting I am not bipolar or its type 2 cousin, b) I’m forgetful with pills after a while and after my third day of forgetting, I just decided to eff it and see what happened. For the most part, it wasn’t that helpful of a medication to me anyway and I wasn’t noticing a huge improvement in regards to my mood.


I’ve been off lamictal for almost two weeks and the last two days have been kinda shitty in the mood department. Yesterday was, in a word, shitty. The ol’ familiar sting of irritability and anger ebbed and flowed all day. It was great. I loved it. Today was better mood-wise a little bit, but I’ve discovered I’m stupid? That was rude of me to say about myself. Let me rephrase that: my brain is not cooperating with me, as I mentioned a few paragraphs ago. Quite a few times during the day, I’d be thinking of something and then poof, gone. I can’t remember what I was going to write about. There are other examples, but I…can’t…remember…them… Either this medication/depression/anxiety in general fuck with your memory, or I have early onset dementia, which really, at this point in the game, I wouldn’t be surprised by anything.

It’s upsetting, if I may be honest. It seems to be getting worse, too, which is great fun. I’ve always been a little bit of a ditz, but the frequency of me doing something and then forgetting what I was going to do next is increasing. I’ve brought this up to the several healthcare providers who have seen me over the last few months and all seem to think it is my mental illness being a dick, not anything overly concerning, so I guess I’ll relax. It’s still annoying, though. It’s hard to concentrate when you lose the reason why you’re concentrating.

I don’t know what I’m going to do about continuing medications. Given my poor history with consistency and forgetting to take pills, plus the whole “hey, ingest something into your body that fucks up your brain chemistry” thing is a bit off-putting at times. We’ll see, I guess. Therapist has been trying to work with me in regards to “mindful thinking,” since I do think so goddamn much, might as well make sense of what I spend so much time pondering.

It’s pretty simple, really. My biggest hurdle is never allowing myself to feel an emotion, namely anger or sadness. Lately, whenever I’ve been faced with these particular feelers, I am to stop and acknowledge the emotion (Cool. I’m pissed off). Next step is to identify why I’m having this emotion (Cool. I’m pissed off because of xyz). Then, I’m to allow myself to experience this emotion, no questions asked or trying to talk myself out of feeling the way I do (Cool. I’m pissed off because of xyz, and having this reaction is perfectly fine and normal and just roll with it, baby).

Surprisingly, it’s been useful so far. I know right? Weird!

I like therapy. I like Therapist. I hope I can keep building on things to reach the ultimate goal of being more expressive of myself. Can you even believe that’s my goal? To speak? My god!

That’s all I have for now since I can’t seem to focus any more.

Thank you all kindly for reading.





A Suggestion

Good evening.

Let me cut through the b.s. and get right to it. This will also be short and sweet today. It’s a Christmas miracle and not 1,800 words of me prattling on.

I decided this morning over my coffee that I think I’m going to stop apologizing for writing my feelings as compared to speaking them. Now, before anyone assembles an angry mod with pitchforks, let me reassure you this doesn’t mean I’ve given up and will continue working on being more vocal, because I will keep trying to speak more openly. It means that for now, I am embracing the fact I have an outlet for my emotions, which is jotting them down, and at least I do that in favor of never expressing them at all.

I know some people may disagree with this method, but may I offer a suggestion, please? And I don’t mean to sound defensive here…even though it sounds a little bit that way, but in regards to helping me speak more, perhaps you can bring up what I’ve written about (if you’ve read it, that is) and try to make a conversation with me about it. Not only does that prove you care enough about me to want to get more information, but it will also help with getting me to feel comfortable with verbalizing.

As a compromise, I can write the titles to these posts as click-bait articles: Today Is Monday and You Won’t Believe What Happened To Erin! It Will Amaze You!

Or not.

Mull it over. Let me know what you think. Ooh, or make a PowerPoint demonstrating your opinions as to why this is/is not a good idea. Cite your sources, please.

Thank you.