In which we discuss death, among other things

My son Twitch called me. Twitch, who has chronic depression. He called to tell me, among other things, that he hates tourists (he now lives in Charleston, SC, a popular tourist destination) but has told me previously that he loves living in Charleston. He told me he's sure he was born on the wrong planet. The universe made a mistake in placing him here. He hates his life. He wonders if there is a way to remove all the nose hairs from his nose without pain. Why? I ask him. Because they are bugging me, he says. Increase your pain tolerance. I recommend that he not use Nair™ in that sensitive mucous membrane. He wants to live in a place with a low cost of living and excellent public transportation and cultural opportunities. But not on this planet, evidently. It was a whine fest conversation. I said "I gave birth to you on this planet." I wanted to say more, something like STFU!, but all I could do was sigh. Then I hung up on him. I don't have the energy for that shit today.

Warning: I'm about to write about death and suicide. 
Before he called I read an article in The New Yorker by David Sedaris, written about his sister Tiffany's recent suicide. It's a very good article, but then we are talking about David Sedaris who is an excellent writer. Back to Twitch, who is dissatisfied with his life and has been for much of it. And David Sedaris' sister Tiffany who evidently was dissatisfied with her life. I have long feared that Twitch will take that exit ramp from life. Today my brain says to me "What if he does? How will that affect you?" Of course I would be ... what word describes an extreme form of upset? On the other hand, I'd know he was out of the misery of this life. Who was it said something like death is the greatest adventure? Some famous philosopher or something. I have often considered suicide myself, a few times seriously. It's something I think about, abstractly, often. Right now I have decided not to kill myself because I wonder what will happen in my life as I get older. What kind of old lady will I be? I have to live long enough to be an old lady to find out. How old is "old?" Well into my 70s, at least, and probably to my mid to late 80s. 90s? Maybe. Depends on how healthy I am.

While we're speaking of death, I'd like to discuss my father's death. I might have gone through this before in this venue, but I need to rehash it. He died on March 25th of this year. Too early, I thought. But now I think it was right on time. I believe that things happen for a reason most of the time. Also, there isn't anything I can do about it anyway. He's dead and nothing will change that. I miss him. I've been thinking of him more frequently of late. Daddy did not want to "linger" incapacitated and be a burden to his family. After he died I learned that he had begun to lose his mental faculties. He'd become increasingly forgetful in a senile dementia sort of way. His compromised heart and consequent decreased oxygen to the brain might have been a factor there. But it frustrated and frightened him, I know. No, he didn't tell me this, but I know him well enough. I just know. And now he's free of this world's limitations. I am happy for him, I guess. No one knows for sure what if anything comes after this life, but we like to think it's pleasant. If he's in a "better place" then good for him. As for the rest of us, we'll deal. What else is there to do?

I followed a link from a link in a link in an email to this site called Tunein. It's online radio, or something like it. I am currently listening to French programming. Programming in French, though I think not from France itself. If I remember correctly, it originates in Brussels, Belgium. It's talk radio, and I have no idea what they're talking about but it sounds really cool. I know a few French words, and catch some meaning here and there. In the last program the voices said "et cetera" a lot. A few programs ago some ladies were talking about Pre-zee-'dent O-ba-'ma. Right now they're playing some kind of new age-y music featuring lots of bells. Related quote: "New Agers might be whack, but they do make some nice music." - Superman. I'd like to learn French some day. Maybe when I am an old lady.

And speaking of whack, Diva. Let's entertain ourselves with another Diva story. Just today the child was telling us that we need to meet her boyfriend, get the embarrassment over with. Yeah, whatever. She was using Superman's phone to text the guy. Superman took his phone with him to run errands and the alleged boyfriend texted back. Superman asks who this is, and the guy got defensive saying something like wha' chu mean who am I? So Superman said it was his phone, his daughter had been texting. Yada yada, the point is that Diva was communicating with a much older guy (don't know how old) and had told him she was 20 years old (she'll be 16 in about six weeks) and in college, living by herself in her own house. Superman corrected the misinformation. The poor ersatz boyfriend was freaked out about being "played" like that, and assured Superman that he has absolutely no desire to be involved with anyone that young.

Why does she tell lies like that, string innocent people along, legally endangering them? She's whack, obviously, but really. Superman had a talk with her when he got home from running his errands. Then I fussed at her for a while. Don't know if it will make any difference. I asked her if she understands how she could have ruined his life if she'd followed through with her story and gotten physically involved with him. He'd be labeled a sex offender FOR LIFE and wouldn't be able to get much of a job, get housing in very many places, etc. Ruin his life, basically. She stared at me like I was yammering to the wind. Whack, I tell you. (OK, so obviously my word for the day is "whack.") Oh, she also gave him our address. This isn't the first time she'd done shit like this. A couple of years ago I answered a phone call from another guy in his 30s, if I recall correctly, who she was stringing along with lies of this nature. She'd given him our address, too. She has no sense.

Another Diva story, this one not so ... whack. She wanted to have a combination birthday/Halloween party, celebrate her b'day early because it's too cold in early December to have a party outside. The kids had a day off school Friday (teacher workday, end of grading period) so we did the party thing in the pavillion at the local Parks and Rec center. I made a cake. It looked awesome, and tasted so-so. I used box mixes of her desired flavors. I took pictures. (Long side note: I have a new-ish camera because my old one that I knew how to use got dunked with me in the river when I was canoeing with my brothers after my dad's non-funeral party. The new camera has a big square battery reminiscent of a cell phone battery. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to recharge it or replace it. Probably it's rechargeable, but I don't know how to do that. I took a few pictures on Friday before the camera lost power.) Due to the otherwise dark theme of this post, I won't add the pictures now. Also, I haven't downloaded them from the camera yet.

Game 4 of the (small, only North America) World Series is about to start, so I'm outa here. Cards ahead 2 games to 1 over the Red Sox. Boo-yah!

Oh boy

It's bad again, peoples. Bad, bad, bad. I'm losing it.

Many of you will recognize the question "Are you in danger of hurting yourself or others?" I was thiiiiis close on Friday.

This is what I feel like:

(This is a sculpture by artist Bruno Walpoth. His works are shown here.)

Cracked. And not ready to appear in public.

Of course it's the kids. Both of them angered me on Friday. Sproing missed the bus because he's an idiot. As soon as I got back from taking him to school, the school called about Diva. Shit. Diva's pants were in violation of the dress code, and would I please bring some appropriate pants. Shit.

I looked in her room for some pants. O.M.G. What a stinking mess. After poking around for about 10 minutes in the stink (she'd wet the bed and not washed the sheets, and I found other wet sheets bunched up in a laundry basket) I discovered her pile of dirty clothes (but not pee-soaked) and retrieved a pair of jeans. Took them to the school, but had to wait. I was so tired. And angry. Hadn't gotten to sleep until 4 that morning with the help of pain-reliever-PM, so getting up at 7:55 to deal with Sproing ... was unpleasant. I wanted to be home, take a shower, and go back to sleep.

But no, Diva's grade principal wanted to see me first, but she was in a meeting. Shit. (The school has one head principal and a handful of vice principals, each VP in charge of discipline for one category of students.) Well, lots of things happened in the waiting process. I didn't want to see Diva, but was escorted to the counselor's office in which she was waiting. And scowling. She's good at scowling. And was wearing tight, tight leggings, black with gold lame leopard spots. Hideous.

When Diva left the office to change her pants, this counselor (not Diva's regular guy) informed me that Diva has anger issues, is racist, and hates the fact that I am white because she (Diva) is black. Yeah, duh, this I've been suffering for years. YEARS!!! Then Diva's assigned counselor showed up so we moved to his office. Nice guy. Diva feels comfortable talking to him.

Then the vice principal came in. By then I had learned that the principal wanted me to take Diva home because of her behavior. Seems that when Diva was offered a change of pants from the school's clothes closet, she went ballistic. I can picture it. I've seen her do it thousands of times. Scream and yell and cuss at the adults trying to help her. Bitch. Oh, get this: the lady who offered her the clothes, a Mrs. R, has told Diva that she's a brat. My kids have dealt with Mrs. R before. Or rather, Mrs. R has dealt with my kids. Diva told us about the "brat" comment yesterday evening when Superman had his computer opened. (My computer hasn't been on since the day I wrote the previous post.) He looked up the definition of "brat" and lo and behold, it describes Diva (and Sproing) to a T. So I told Diva it's the truth. Diva has also been called a bitch (not by the adults, not in front of her anyway) and that's true, too.

I implored the administrators to keep her at school. By then I was a blubbering mess, eyes and nose leaking all over the place. Counselors kept shoving boxes of tissue at me. I said that she'd already been suspended for three days and it's so early in the school year. She was at school for one day, Thursday, before they wanted me to take her home. So they said if she could behave herself the rest of the day she could stay. Thank the gods in heaven and hell that she did. Stay at school, that is. Because by then I was a hot mess. I was shaking, crying, not able to think clearly about much of anything. I was honestly afraid of what might happen if I took her home. Really. I had a very strong urge to hurt her very badly. Either hurt her or harm myself. It could have gone either way.

This is actually a kind of progress, maybe. See, in the past I've always turned my anger and grief inward, always aimed to hurt myself. That I want to do serious bodily harm to this brat/bitch is, I think, a good sign. In context, anyway.

So Diva stayed at school and I went home, crying all the way. Took an Ativan (1 mg) as soon as I got home, then showered. After half an hour I still was wound up tighter than a watch spring, so I took another Ativan. By then my dear boy C was home, and he sat on the bed beside me and talked me down, so to speak. I had my bedside clock on my chest, waiting for 15 more minutes to see if I needed another pill. I didn't, thanks in part to C.

I was at the school for over an hour. The whole shebang, starting with Sproing, lasted a little over two hours. I finally went to sleep sometime after 11:00 and slept until Superman got home around 5:00. I had to cry on him for a while. He fed me some supper and I took another Ativan. I needed it. I sort of watched the Phillies beat the Braves (and anne marie cheers!) in a drugged stupor (me, not the Braves) before falling into a deep sleep once again. Sleep is best. It's the closest I can get to dead without actually dying. Not that I'd mind dying, but other people would be very upset. So I just sleep.

All day yesterday (Saturday) I felt pretty fragile. The brats were bratty, but I stayed in my room and Superman dealt with them. I tried not to take another Ativan because they are very addictive. Some of the stress and shakiness I felt when I woke up yesterday was an after effect of the drug. So I waited. By the end of the day I needed another one, but I didn't take it. Had some pain-reliever-PM instead and slept pretty well last night. Had a weird dream about an arsonist in New York City and a deaf girl, but that's beside the point. Probably. (Freud and Jung might have a different opinion, but I don't care.)

Superman took both the brats to the skating rink last night to get them THE HELL out of my house for a while. I was asleep when they returned. (Oh, I tried to watch the Braves vs. Phillies game last night, but was too anxious to watch baseball. Baseball, y'all. The second most boring (maybe third if you count curling) sport on television! (Golf being the most boring.))

Curling in funny pants. Like golf: boring and the players wear funny pants.

To continue: When Superman got the kids home, he had a talk with each of them individually. He told me about it this morning. He told them it was their fault that I was going nutty, and that he did not want to put his wife into a psychiatric hospital due to them being such horrid children. And that if he heard either of them saying anything disrespectful to me, he would hurt them. Pain, he said. They were suitably intimidated. But that was last night. Who knows what they'll be like today. 

Diva got up and went to church with a friend, and Sproing spent the night with a neighborhood friend, so he's not home now either. Superman pretty much kicked Sproing out last night, knowing he'd go to his friend's house. Good enough for me. It will be interesting to see how long it takes the boy to come home today. It's just past noon now. 

Superman called my therapist last night. She talked to me for a while, I told her what all happened and how I feel. Asked her about psych units around here. The hospital in town closed its psych ward a few years ago, though there's talk of opening it up again. My therapist likes the one in Greenville, she said. Not that it's time for me to go there yet. Probably. She also said she is going to talk to a lawyer friend of hers on Monday about getting these kids deemed incorrigible, and perhaps they will be removed from the home on that count. I have my doubts. It's very difficult to get rid of one's nasty children. We've been trying for years. I don't have the strength to look for an alternative placement for them right now. Too traumatized. 

Today's post has been brought to you by the word Traumatized. 

Back to something like my life

I have been away. I am now back. If I change one little letter in the previous sentence it says "I am not back" which is how my fingers typed it the first time. My fingers Freudian slipped.

I was away for 11 days visiting Light, then Indigo, then driving through the Blue Ridge Mountains. While away I was alive. The day I came back (Tuesday evening) and the following morning I was alive and angry. Angry at how we live here in this house, angry at the complacency everyone shows about the many nouns that are out of place. Concrete and abstract nouns. For example: the disambiguated door leaning against the wall by the kitchen. It has no purpose besides stubbing toes. The pervasive stench of sour urine throughout the house caused by Diva's bed wetting and her failure to wash her bedclothes when she wakes up wet. The antagonism my children have for each other, for us as their parents, and for the world in general. Yes, I was angry. But everything is fine now. The enormity of it all has overwhelmed me once again until I am numb on the surface. HELP! I'm suffocating in this stultifying* miasma** that is my life. I hardly recognize the woman who just two days ago was driving through the Appalachian Mountains, full of life, determination, and confidence. I almost can't remember the feeling of that indignant anger. I certainly don't feel it anymore. All I feel is sadness. No, more like despondency.*** 


Perhaps I don't drink enough. I have a drawer full of beer in my refrigerator. To numb the pain of this numbness I could become a drunk. Not just an occasional drinker, but a drunk. I know that's a bad idea in the long run. The argument I tell myself against such foolishness is almost the same as the argument I use for not killing myself. Does anyone else see a red flag there?

What can be done? Nothing. Refer to the definitions of stultify, miasma, and despondent.

Please take me away from here!


*stultify - to render absurdly or wholly futile or ineffectual, especially by degrading or frustrating means.
** miasma - a dangerous, foreboding, or deathlike influence or atmosphere.
***despondent - feeling or showing profound hopelessness, dejection, discouragement, or gloom.
-from Dictionary.com

Gloom, despair, and agony on me

I'm working on the other one, the story of how I broke through John's wall of "duh" in order for him to notice me. But right now I can't concentrate on that.

Because I'm depressed. It doesn't matter how much I know, or how well I can intellectualize this mess, my heart has it's own message. The heart doesn't necessarily agree with my head. 

Last evening I talked to a woman from a group home for children about getting Diva and Sproing placed there. It was a lovely chat, and she was most kind. Today I started the legwork. I arranged for the kids' school and the psychiatrist's office to send info, reports, etc. about the kids to this home for wayward youths. I thought I was doing OK with it all, but this morning, as I actually put forth the effort to begin the process of temporarily removing the kids from my home I had a harder time than I thought I would. My heart is now overriding the voice of reason in my head. 

I can't take care of my own children. I have, at least on some level, failed them. I am shirking my responsibilities as their mother by sending them away. I'm reneging on the promise I made at their adoption hearings to love and care for them. I really don't want to do that. I am committed to being a good parent to these two younguns. But I can't do it. I have failed. 

I know all the right answers. I'm smart. My head knows these things. "I am being a good parent by getting them the help they need."  "I have done my level best, but we just need more help." "It's only temporary." "I am not giving up on them." "I'm doing this to help the whole family." 

Bullshit. I'm dumping them on someone else's plate. Let the group home deal with the bad attitudes and misbehavior because I'm tired and don't want to do it anymore. 

This conversation has been going on in my head since last night. It's getting louder. You see, when these voices start this kind of shit it rolls downhill, gaining speed and debris. I am generally worthless now. Worthless and undeserving.

Oh, and to make matters worse, I saw my physician this morning. I needed a refill of my acid reflux medicine and he wanted to recheck my iron levels, since I had some iron deficient anemia a few months ago. He checked my blood, and I have some. Iron level is good, but the blood sugar level is pushing the upper limits of normal. He's very concerned about my blood sugar, as I am quite overweight and am at risk for adult-onset diabetes. I think he is surprised I don't have it yet. I have gained 14 pounds since the last time I saw him (about 3 months ago, I think). He is not happy about that. He wants me to get regular exercise, and to cut down on fats and carbohydrates in my diet. He assures me that regular exercise will improve my mood, as well. I have heard of that, but have never experienced it myself. The only thing exercise has ever done for me is make me sore, hot, and sweaty. I don't like that. 

I don't like myself very much. I'm fat, lazy, worthless, an incompetent mother, and a slob. I look around me, at my home, my life, my body, and there is a lot of evidence to support these claims. 

I heard once upon a time that eating disorders are a form of very slow suicide. That makes a lot of sense to me. I overeat. I'm a stress eater, not that that is any excuse, but it is a reason. I've been under a lot of stress recently, and I have been eating a lot of high fat, high sugar foods. It's no surprise that I have gained more weight. 

Being in this state of mind prevents me from being as coherent as I want to be. This post seems to wander, ramble, and I think it just got stuck in a brier patch. I'm going to shut up now before I get myself stuck any worse than I already am. Besides which, it's time for me to get ready for my appointment with my therapist. Boy, is she ever gonna get an earful today.

It is probably organic

Today is not going well for me. The problem is most likely organic in nature. Sure, I have a lot of stress right now, but my lack of ability to cope feels more like a chemical/hormonal imbalance than merely an emotional reaction to the stress. I feel like I am on the brink of insanity. On days like today I realize just how thin my veneer of mental health is. 

And yes, I took my medicine today and have been consistently taking my medication for a long time.  

Difficulty organizing my thoughts

Anger; inappropriately high levels of anger, especially toward the children

Inability to form complete sentences when speaking to those children

Inability to form coherent sentences at all

Hyper-critical of my own thoughts and actions

Desire to withdraw from almost all social interaction 

Desire to inflict bodily harm; self-flagellation (I'm too wimpy to actually do it, but I think it would be appropriate under the circumstances.)

Suicidal ideation*

Sometimes I wish I'd never had any children at all, ever. Even though I love my children, and don't mean to insult or in any way harm them, there are times when I think my life would have been less traumatic if I'd just left well enough alone. If I were childless, though, I'd probably have regrets. Right now I see no way to escape deep feelings of despondency, helplessness, hopelessness. regret, sadness.

I am unwell.

*No, I'm not going to kill myself. There are too many people dependent on me. Sometimes I wish I could, though.

A "work-in"

I've been having a difficult time maintaining a semblance of sanity. It's been bad. I called my therapist's office to see if she could see me today. I had an appointment for tomorrow afternoon, but wasn't sure if I could hold it together that long. Lo and behold she had a cancellation and her 5:00 spot was free. So I went in and we talked for 2 hours. It was good. She helped me with perspective.

It's official. I am having a nervous breakdown. But that's OK, she says, because I've earned it.

Gawd I love that woman!

We briefly discussed hospitalization. I brought it up. She can do that if we need to, but she thinks I should first try insulating myself within the confines of my air conditioned nest. So right now that's the plan. The rest of "them" are supposed to leave me alone. We'll see how that goes.

I have another appointment Wednesday morning. She wants to lay eyes on me again, just to make sure things haven't ... um... gotten terminal?

Living in the maelstrom

Not doing well today. I think I'm feeling better then WHAM out of nowhere I'm not able to speak clearly, my hands are twitching, I feel the need to bang on something. (repetitive light pounding on some surface, or clapping my hands, or beating my head. Not to hurt, but to ... I don't even know. Maybe this is what Twitch feels like all the time. Poor guy!)

I'm getting teary for no apparent reason. Reading the words of encouragement in the comments on the previous blog ... gives me warm fuzzy feelings and makes me cry, but not really a good kind of cry. My sick "other brain" is giving me those "You are unworthy" messages agian. I recognize them for what they are. It's the illness talking. I'm not supposed to listen.

Let's try this: I know I am a worthy person. (But I don't know why, and truly, I don't believe that.) I have many fine qualities. (But I suck at so many things.) I can be very helpful and encouraging to other people. (I can't accept it for myself.) (No, overall I'm a failure. As C is trying to get me to say, I am "ineffective." That's the word I'm supposed to use instead of "failure.") (My life, it seems to be about 80% ineffective.)

I am sad. OK, more than sad. But for those of you who wonder about these things, No, I am not making plans. I'm not "there" right now at all. Don't worry about that. Yet. I'll mention it to someone if I start to go there. I know better.

Sorry to dump like this. Part of the reason this blog exists is to be honest and open about these feelings. As I try to heal. It might help. It doesn't feel very helpful right now. Having a bad day, nothing feels particularly helpful.

Superman and I are going out for a little walk. We're going to Lowes to look at bathroom sinks and tile. Our bathroom sink/faucet/pipes has/have sprung a leak somewhere. The whole assembly is old and nasty, so we're (he's) going to re-do it. I want this to happen. But today I don't know if I can make ANY decisions. I'm afraid the store might overwhelm me. Hell, sitting here on the bed still in my pj's is slightly overwhelming.

But I think I need to get out, to get dressed and move around a bit. We're going to try that. We are also going to try to drink some more water and eat a peanut butter sandwich. Maybe that will give the ol' body and brain a boost in blood sugar. I did have a good breakfast, good for me and especially good for Superman for fixing me eggs and bacon and toast. He's a super man. And he loves me all the time in spite of how I feel. I might be dead if not for him.

OK, here we go, on with the plan. I'll try to check in later. I'll also try to finish book six. It has been hanging over my head all week, and I REALLY want to get it posted!!! I just haven't had the time and/or energy to work on it. Very frustrating, I promise.

Late afternoon update:
Feeling a bit better now. I went all by myself to Wal-Mart. Had my MP3 stuck in my ears with Mountain Dulcimer music playing. That's how I was able to survive. Kept my blinders on, sort of. Got what I needed, except my prescription. Line was too long, couldn't do it.

Then I went to the fabric store to get a canvas bag. One of my students is celebrating her 18th birthday today, and I'm going to draw some little red ants on the bag and give that to her. She is silly, and often teases me with incorrect information. I tell her she is full of little red ants. So I'm giving her a canvas tote with little red ants on it. I need to draw the ants, because we leave for her party in about an hour.

Bad weather here today. I can hear the tornado warning siren wailing now. Overcast but still and dry just now, but an hour ago we had dark dark dark clouds, hail, strong wind, heavy rain. No swirly cloud, though, that we could see. I can hear thunder now.

I'm off to draw little red ants. Might update later, after the birthday party. I might even take pictures!

Late evening update:
I managed to survive the day. Superman and I went to the birthday party. It was loud, warm, crowded with people I mostly didn't know. I got a few pictures, though. I'll post them in a separate entry. We didn't stay at the party very long.

When we left the party Superman suggested going out someplace for desert and coffee, because neither of us wanted to go home. We got a few phone calls from the kids at home and ended up having to stop by the house to take care of some of that mess. It was a nasty bit of sibling rivalry, all of them being very ugly to each other, and it makes me sad to think about it so I'm not going to say anything more. Much, anyway.

Twitch is 17, Diva and Sproing are both 10. It seems to me, maybe I'm just naive, that the three of them could manage themselves without major trauma for 2 or 3 hours. Not today, anyway. It is such a drain on my personal emotional resources, this fighting, that it isn't worth the grief to go out for an evening alone with my husband. I don't need this crap.

Superman and I left home again after the kids were in bed, went to a local restaurant for dessert. It was nice enough. I was still disgusted about the kids. The dessert he ordered, a hot peach cobbler thing, was still frozen in the middle and was therefore kinda nasty. I had a good piece of cheesecake. We talked to the manager about the frozen hot cobbler, and ended up getting the whole tab erased. We tipped the waitress, 'cause she was a sweetheart, but aside from the tip, we had our dessert and coffee for no munny. The company was nice. He and I worked on a design I have in mind to make a tent in the back of the pick-up. That was the most fun part of the evening.

I'm home now, have had a shower and shampoo. (I bought some new shampoo today. It smells like tangerine. Why? I don't know. Do I like my hair to smell like tangerine? Well, that's a better smell than others I can contemplate.) I'm on the blogs, which is one of my happy places. So the evening is settling in nicely. I'm breathing, thinking sort of clearly, and not crying. Not a bad ending for a bad day. :-)

Re: the post

Because there has been some concern among the masses, let me just say this about that.

I don't tell those closest to me (Light, Superman, Twitch, etc.) how often death is on my mind. I don't want you to panic. But just because I'm thinking about it doesn't mean I'm considering it. On those days that you see me and I am cheerful and semi-productive, I'm often thinking about death. My thoughts are along the lines of "Don't' wanna die today." You know how when gays come out and people freak because OMG they've changed? No, they haven't changed. They've always been gay. They're the same wonderful people you have loved for years. You just didn't know until now that they're gay.

Well, it's like that with me. I'm still me! I'm the same crazy wacked out gal I've always been. What you haven't realized is that thoughts of death have always been a part of my thought process. There are times when the suicide monster stalks closer. That's a red flag for me to talk to someone, to get help. And I've done that. I'm better at seeking help now than I used to be, thanks in very large part to C. I don't think you have anything to worry about.

Update: Gad, y'all, don't panic! Yes, I have a tag labeled suicide. I've had suicidal tendencies for 30 years. Thirty years! That's 2/3rds of my life. 66%. I live with it. (Cue laughter) If you want to worry, go back 3-5 years and worry about me then. I'm much better now. And I am (rather heavily) medicated, I am under the care of a psychiatrist (MD, licensed) and am in therapy with a wonderful counselor with whom I relate very well. I've learned to get help early, when the thoughts of contemplation first enter my mind. I've got a good support network, and am trying to improve it. I think I have. Gosh, read the comments. Thank you, all of you, who have responded with such concern and kindness. That's why I keep coming back here!

humor-less

Every day I beat my own previous record for number of consecutive days I've stayed alive.

My darling Mama sent me one of those funny emails everyone gets occasionally. It was a list of humorous and pithy sayings, many of which I'd seen before. You probably have too. But this was a new one on me. I read it to Superman and he got a good little chuckle.

But to me it wasn't funny. It stood out from the other two dozen quotes because it smacks me in the head in a very personal way. Superman didn't see it that way because his brain doesn't go down the morbid paths mine follows.

To me, this quote is a rallying cry for life. It is a handle to grasp on bad days. It has everything to do with resisting suicidal thoughts. Those thoughts that creep unbidden into my head way too often. My desire to die is an almost constant companion. On good days it goes like this: "I think maybe I'll live today. I'm not ready to die today." On bad days I try to remember that if I do myself in it'll fuck up the people I love for the rest of their lives. I don't stay alive for me. I stay alive for the people who depend on me.

I think this is not healthy.

But here's a good saying to help me hang onto life at those times when I'd rather drop it:

Every day I beat my own previous record for number of consecutive days I've
stayed alive.