Right Now…

A lot people who talk or write about their own mental illness or those who treat us, tend to speak in pasts and futures. We talk about what we felt “on that day” or what we have to look forward to in the next months or years. Our doctors tell us what we should try to do to make things better for us over the next month while they change our meds or give us some silly mind calming exercises. We tell the doctors what happened to us in our past or what we want to be like when we find that right medication combo or are able to deal with those demons. Nobody ever really talks about right now.

Right now is the most important point in time to talk to someone who suffers from mental illness. This is how we have to live; in the moment. Our emotions and thoughts can change in an instant so Right now is where you need to focus your energy sometimes too. Yes the future and the past are important but so is Right now. Sounds like some self-help gimmick thingy you’d hear on the radio. Trust me, this isn’t that.

Right now, I feel like a worthless piece of shit. I didn’t feel like this last night or last week but Right now, I do.

Right now, I think that my kids and my husband would be better off without having to worry about me all the time. Whether I’m going to lose my shit for no reason or if I can even lift a gallon of milk because I had another fucking surgery. Everyone tiptoes around me, trying not to “wake the sleeping giant”, or they act like I am an invalid who shouldn’t even be required to rinse their own dishes after dinner.  I know that they have good intentions but Right now, I feel like a huge burden on them.

Right now, I have no urge to leave the house or do anything in the house worth talking about. I don’t want to go anywhere, anytime, for any reason. I will beg, borrow, and steal just to get someone else to do the shopping and I have skipped more than a few doctor’s appointments in the last couple of weeks just so I didn’t have to go anywhere. Why? I have no clue. Is it depression? Am I just a lazy piece of shit? Who knows?! Doesn’t matter how much or how little I do in the house…clean the whole thing from top to bottom or barely do anything at all…I still feel the same way. My daughter has to ask her brothers or her dad to take her/pick her up from places because she knows I don’t/won’t leave the house. I actually took her to a something today because she didn’t have a ride. Right now, I am the one who causes the rest of my family to have to plan things that don’t involve me driving or leaving. I am the one causing them to make plans without me.

Right now, I am sick to my stomach when I see myself in the mirror. I have gained so much weight since my thyroid surgery and I knew it would happen (because they told me it would) but I didn’t prepare for this. I blew up like a giant Thanksgiving balloon in NYC. I want to lose the weight and learn how to eat without the raging hormones but I can’t exercise enough to really lose anything because of my back and leg problems. But, the back and leg problems could be helped a little if I could lose some weight. And round and round we go. I can eat healthy, yes. I can choose to push myself as hard as my body will allow, yes. My mind doesn’t see past the pain and the possibility of hurting myself even worse if I do the wrong thing or push too hard. We can’t afford to buy healthy shit just for me. And so, Right now, I eat whatever the fuck I want and sit on my ass doing nothing because I’m too chicken shit to deal with more pain or eat a fucking salad while they eat pizza.

Right now, I know that I am the reason for some of our financial strain. I went through a sneaky bastard of a manic episode that came in the form of “home improvement” and left with “I have nothing to wear because I gained so much weight” and took every cent it got its hands on. Now, every time something negative happens with our finances, I get hit in the gut with the old 1-2-punch…new clothes, new chair, new hair…all of this is my fault. Right now, I hate myself for having no self-awareness or control.

Right now, there are a hundred other things that have swirled around up there but they all boil down to one thing: kill yourself.

That’s right. I said it. It’s not a cuss word. It’s not a declaration. It’s just what my thoughts and emotions keep telling me, Right now.

So, Right now, I chose to get on here and write about it to you instead of listening to the little voices whispering for me to just do it like I planned last time or do it like you planned that time. Right now, I want to fight off this feeling so I word vomited to all 3 people who will read this just so I could stop it.

Right now, I want to be better. Right now, I want my pain to stop. Right now, I want to have more to life than this Groundhog Day I’m in. Right now, I want to stay positive. Right now, I want to live.

Right now, I will. Right now…


Uncle Mikey

My mom has two brothers and three sisters. They are/were all very close when I was growing up and even now they live together and take care of each other. Most of the time, when I was little, at least two or three of them lived with my grandmother, Mamaw. Mamaw was pretty tolerant of the drugs and trouble-making the kids got in to most of the time. She would yell at them for stealing her Valium or her cigarettes but she never kicked anyone out or tried to fix the problem.

Because everyone was so close, Mom spent a lot of time at Mamaw’s house too. We lived in our own house with my step-dad, Rick, but Mom didn’t work much so we visited Mamaw a lot. Sometimes Mom would leave Rick for a few days or even a few weeks so we’d live with Mamaw then too.

It wasn’t a good place to be. When Mom did have a job during her splits with Rick, it was usually as a cocktail waitress or something like that. She dressed up in her skimpy  little bunny outfit that was basically a one piece bathing suit with a small tail on the back. She even wore a little rabbit ear headband.

I hated when she left me there. I cried and screamed until I couldn’t produce one more tear or take one more stuttered breath. I would eventually fall asleep on the couch or wherever they told me to go to bed and wait for her to come back.

They never lived in one house for too long. There was the little wooden house on the corner where I remember Mom wearing the bunny outfit, the tiny house on the corner of the block that Uncle Stevie used to run around, drunk, laughing and acting a fool, and the little cinder block house that was too small for the family.

mikey 2

Looks like a real winner doesn’t he?

In each of those houses, the dirt and roaches were all the same. Nothing changed in any of them. Except that one of those houses is the first time I remember Uncle Mikey’s true colors showing.

The little cinder block house that didn’t have enough rooms for everyone forced Uncle Mikey, Uncle Stevie, and my cousin Larry – five years older than me – to share a room. There was one bed and then a set of bunk beds. The top bunk was Uncle Mikey’s and it’s where he first touched me. I couldn’t have been older than eight or nine years old.

I don’t know the why’s or how’s of my sleepover at Mamaw’s house but I remember Uncle Mikey volunteering to share his bed with me and making the top bunk seem cool and fun. We all went to bed for the night and he was laying behind me. Just as I was falling asleep I started to feel something between my legs. I don’t know if it was his finger or his penis but I know he moved it back and forth between my legs and penetrated me at one point.

I didn’t know what to do. As a kid, I was scared to say anything and I knew it was wrong but my body reacted to his advances against my will. I didn’t orgasm or scream out in ecstasy. I’m saying the chemical response in my body was activated by a grown man when I wasn’t even old enough to start my period. I didn’t even wear a bra or have big girl panties yet.

I felt sick to my stomach after that day every time I thought about it. Why did my body betray my mind? Why would Uncle Mikey do something so gross? Was this something you were supposed to do with Uncles? Nobody had ever talked to me about people touching you in bad places or the birds and the bees. I didn’t know shit about sex until that man exposed me to it.

This continued for a couple of years. Each time we visited Mamaw’s house, Uncle Mikey wanted to visit with his favorite niece. He would ask me to pop his knuckles or something innocuous that wouldn’t raise suspicions with other family members that might wonder why I’m always in his room. He was bold enough to do these things with my aunts, Mom, and Mamaw in the other room. He didn’t care.

One night, in that little house on the corner lot that Uncle Stevie liked to do his drunk run-by’s at, I was left alone with Uncle Mikey. Alone, alone.

At some point in the night, Uncle Mikey told me I needed to take a bath. Then he told me he was going to take one with me. I told him no and that I didn’t want to take a bath with him. He told me I had to take a bath and that it was okay if he took one at the same time. There was nothing wrong with it, he said. He told me to get undressed but I wasn’t comfortable being naked in front of him so he let me keep my bathing suit top on while he got completely naked.

I stood there in the bathtub, eyes squeezed shut as tight as I could make them, listening to him get in the tub. The purpose of the bath, of course, was not to get me cleaned up for bed. He wanted me to see and touch him. He wanted me to put my hand on him. That was his end goal. If I would do that then he would let me get out of the tub. He told me to open my eyes and touch it. I did what he asked and then I got out and got dressed.

Each time he would touch me, I would get more and more guilty and started developing an understanding of the wrongness of what he was doing. So, one day, a couple of years after it started, he came up to me at the dining table at my house and whispered something in my ear and I looked at him and told him NO. I don’t want you to touch me anymore Uncle Mikey. I don’t like it. I want you to stop.

mikey 3

Mikey with my little cousin in his arms.

He had a look of fear, anger, and confusion. I know he was thinking he was going to be caught because I was going to tell someone. He was angry because he was losing the thing that made him feel good. He was confused because I hadn’t given him a clue that I was going to make him stop.

The threat of some stupid consequence came out of his mouth if I told anyone. I told him I wouldn’t say a word and then he never touched me again.

I didn’t tell anyone and Uncle Mikey stopped touching me but unfortunately for me, I was an easy target for the men in my life.

Thanks to Uncle Mikey, I have hatred, guilt, shame, and anger. I can’t let go of those things. My doctor tells me to forgive him and then I can begin to heal but I don’t understand how you can forgive someone for something so horrible. How can you forgive someone who isn’t asking for forgiveness?

I know that I will probably go to my grave with these bitter feelings that feed on me from the inside. They chip away at my sanity and my will to keep living.

Thank you, Uncle Mikey, for taking my childhood away from me. Thank you for turning those years into some twisted hell that should have been the years I was playing in the yard with my friends or riding bikes around the block. Thank you for making me a hardhearted person who doesn’t trust anyone completely.

Thank you Uncle Mikey for being a sick fuck who got away with molesting me and many other little girls and, to this day, you have the nerve to yell “Hello! I love you!” to me when I’m on the phone with Mom.

And even though everyone knows the type of person you are now, you still get to live freely… until you molest the wrong girl. Then, that little girl’s mom or dad will handle you. I hope they don’t just call the police. I hope you get what’s coming to you first and then you can get it in prison too. Don’t forget to squeeze your eyes shut real tight. No peeking. It’ll be over soon.

You sick motherfucker.

Let me conclude this story with the fact that I read it to my mother and her response was that she’s sorry I didn’t tell her. Not that he did it. Not that she didn’t believe me when my dad went to child services to tell them what I told him. She, and the rest of my aunts and uncles, denied it happened and called me a habitual liar. She acknowledges that it happened now and has seen and heard about him doing it from others.  Too late Mother dear. And I’m not sorry I didn’t tell you because if you can tell police and child services that I’m a liar then why would you have believed me or done anything to stop it?




Explanation One

I explained that I would give some context into why someone like me would have so much anxiety, PTSD, OCD, Bipolar, anger, etc, etc, etc. I know, it sounds like I just picked every mental disorder a person could have and threw them together for this post.

The fact is that some or all of those conditions are a side effect or worsened by one or more of the others. For instance, the PTSD (PTSI) causes OCD and anger along with paranoia and anxiety in certain situations. So my social anxiety is worsened by my PTSD. My OCD wasn’t even a thing until I “developed” OCD and so the OCD causes even more anxiety about other things. The anger is part of the PTSD and the OCD also causes anger if I can’t get things JUST RIGHT. My social anxiety is mostly as a result of the PTSD but its also because of the Bipolar and OCD because I have no tolerance for other people doing dumb shit even when it’s something tiny like, walking too slowly down an aisle. Rage is part of PTSD and Bipolar Disorder so that’s another side effect of another condition that causes a condition.

You hear about people with PTSD and most of the time you think….soldier. Not everyone was shot at during the Iraq war or hit an IED in Afghanistan. Some people experience PTSD from things like sexual assault, animal attacks, car accidents, the death of a loved one, seeing someone get injured, seeing something scary, and the list goes on. Not everyone is built to be able to handle those things the same way. Some people are badasses and just don’t give a fuck what they see or hear. They move on with life and tell stories about it later and give the person hearing the story PTSD just because it’s so gross or scary. Sarcasm. The rest of us have something in our chemistry that has caused us to relive that event and its emotions, memories, physical and mental feelings, images, sounds, and even the surroundings.

For me, I can visualize every single inch of the area, the people, the images of the injured, the only exit out, the fires, the aftermath, the fear, the screaming, the panic, and so on. Its been 15 years and I still jump and scream at the sound of a loud noise. I still have an over exaggerated startle reflex. I still look for the table in the back of the restaurant. I still don’t like large crowds. I still even avoid running over trash in the road.

The symptoms don’t just go away in six months or a year. They stay with you forever, sometimes. You dream about death or that event. You lose sleep and don’t know why.

Don’t assume that soldiers are just pussies that can’t handle what they signed up for in the first place. Just because someone didn’t lose a leg or become disfigured, doesn’t mean they don’t have invisible wounds that haven’t been treated.

Take that stigma, that stereotype you have of people with different forms of anxiety and mental or emotional issues and understand that its not always many different conditions but possibly one or two conditions that cause the side effects that mimic other illnesses.

Also, if you are using the word anxiety, bipolar, depressed, OCD, or any other name for a legitimate mental/emotional condition to describe how you’re feeling in the moment, just stop.

You are not “bipolar today”. You are not OCD today. That video of the paint being smeared together doesn’t give you anxiety. You don’t have social anxiety because you’re shy. Those are words that have become so overused that the people who actually suffer from those conditions seem like they’re trying to fit into the fad of being mentally ill. Why is this a fad anyway? Why the fuck would anyone want to be bipolar?

When I see or hear someone, including my own children, use those words when I know for a fact that they are just describing a feeling for that moment in time, I correct them on the spot. Its a little insensitive and offensive to those of us who wish we could just be nervous to speak to a new person instead of sweating, heart racing, mind racing, body shaking, and the urgency to run away or actively avoid the situation. Nervous would be nice.

That is all.


Listen to this song!

If you ready anything I write, ever, you know that this song talks about the kinds of feelings I, and others with depression or feel like giving up.

I don’t listen to it to make myself feel bad but to think that even famous people feel this way. Maybe life can be normal if even they deal with it and make songs about it.

Please listen!

And if you’re too busy to sit and watch a video or just can’t do it for some other reason….here are the lyrics.

Katelyn Tarver

“You Don’t Know”

I know you’ve got the best intentions
Just trying to find the right words to say
I promise I already learned my lesson
But right now, I want to be not okay

I’m so tired, sitting here waiting
If I hear one more just be patient
It’s always gonna stay the same

So, let me just give up
So, let me just let go
If this isn’t good for me, well I don’t wanna know
Let me just stop trying
Let me just stop fighting
I don’t want your good advice or reasons why I’m alright
You don’t know what it’s like
You don’t know what it’s like

Can’t stop these feet from sinking
And it’s starting to show on me
You’re staring while I’m blinking
But just don’t tell me what you see
I’m so over all this bad luck
Hearing one more keep your head up
Is it ever gonna change

So, let me just give up
So, let me just let go
If this isn’t good for me, well I don’t wanna know
Let me just stop trying
Let me just stop fighting
I don’t want your good advice, or reasons why I’m alright
You don’t know what it’s like
You don’t know what it’s like

Don’t look at me like that
Just like you understand
Don’t try to pull me back

Let me just give up
Let me just let go
If this isn’t good for me I don’t wanna know
Let me just stop trying
Let me just stop fighting
I don’t want your good advice or reasons why I’m alright
You don’t know what it’s like
You don’t know what it’s like
You don’t know
You don’t know
You don’t know
You don’t know what it’s like
You don’t know what it’s like
You don’t know
You don’t know
You don’t know what it’s like
You don’t know what it’s like


Do I Have Depression, or Do I Just Need to Grow Up? — Ophelia’s

Everyone has a different brand of depression. A recent interaction with my dental hygienist got me wondering – am I depressed or just lazy?

via Do I Have Depression, or Do I Just Need to Grow Up? — Ophelia’s

A little insight

I write a lot about my feelings of depression and suicidal thoughts. It gets a little old sometimes when all I can talk about is how fucking depressed I am. I complain about everyone and everything but I haven’t really given any context as to why I feel the way I do.

I’ve told y’all before about my uncle but then I deleted it because it just didn’t tell the story the right way. As a matter of fact, I deleted all of my posts because I want to try to express how someone like me gets to this point.

There are thousands of people, even millions, that have gone through what I’ve been through, military and childhood traumas, and each of us has our own symptoms and deal with them in our own ways. Some of us see therapists. Some of us lose our shit on our family and cause problems in the household. Some of us try to pretend to be normal and hide our stress and anxiety. Some of us seek medications, prescription or other substances like alcohol or drugs.

The point of this is to let you know that mine and others’ depression and anxieties are not something we are just too weak to deal with but instead are strong enough to survive even though we feel like we are dying inside, most of the time.

Listen carefully when someone tells you that they are hurting or feeling depressed. There may be something you can do for them but never ever just tell them that everything will be okay. That’s the worst thing you can tell someone who feels that way. Listen. Listen. Listen.


Looking Like A New Page?

I, in my OCD, Bipolar, PTSD state, decided the last page sucked and so did all of the posts. I restructured and designed this basic ass page with categories that actually mean something. My posts will go to the category that fits best and I will try not to ramble on too much but you will see me tell you honest tales of my shitty ass life. I’m not exaggerating about anything. I’ve been through hell and back and hell and back.

Welcome to the new page. Hope you like it but if you don’t, go fuck yourself. I mean that with the utmost respect and fun-loving-ness that I can muster.