Daily Archives: January 2, 2016


****This post may/will offend some and while I hate to lose followers…Truth is the truth and I will stand by it even if all alone and being tarred and feathered by the villagers with their torches***

Have you ever pondered what all is in your “trash” or “garbage”? Unless a celebrity, probably not, as they have to make sure they don’t indiscreetly toss their “miniature pony porn” dvds less the trash collector sell it to the Enquirer…

I occasionally ponder my trash. Expecting the trash guys to leave a note about how my cats poop too much or how many Mangoritas can one woman drink…This implies that I find myself important enough for anyone to give a damn, which would be narcissistic, yet I lack the self esteem to be narcissistic…Self centered, maybe, but definitely not a narcissist.

And it hit me the other day, at the gas station, exactly why I am so paranoid and it’s got nothing to do with being self centered. Because while being waited on, the manager/cashier kept yapping to a customer off to the side about how her niece had moved to a different state, yet called her and inquired about how her issue with her hurt knee was going. Cos one of her (the relocated niece’s) former coworkers saw fit to mention it, never mind patient confidentiality.


That is the problem with small towns. I knew it all along (kinda like when I was 17 and went on birth control and someone at the health department saw fit to mention it to someone who knew my mother). I am NOT paranoid. I am not making myself overly important. Just some “trash” is noteworthy more than other things you pitch. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” No way is anyone gonna find my emptied cat boxes treasure but…Occasionally we do throw out something another might find…useful. Even if we find it inane and icky. Point being…

People. Suck.

So this post is based on the brain trash I have to contend with. All the misconceptions, the misinterpretations, the interpretations that are factual yet I’ve been socially  conditioned to give everyone BUT myself the benefit of the doubt. All the drama, intentional or not, the way you can’t be honest about how low you feel because people are only forgiving on physical illness…

Last night I skipped incoming calls even though I knew they were probably from Mrs. R, not the swine king himself. But my mood had crashed, my panxiety skyrocketed, and all I wanted was to be warm and feel safe. Socializing does neither for me. I WISH with everything I am that I had the nards to be honest. At the same time, I WISH with everything I am I could be honest without it resulting in pessimistic judgment.

Few would ever fault you for having the flu, a cold, being on life support.

But with mental illness…Even the kindest people can be…well, assholes.

It has taught me to deny and lie, which doesn’t make me feel good about myself, but then, nor does the truth.

It is such an utterly miserable catch 22 that I cringe when the phone rings. I don’t want to be rude, I don’t want to come off as anti social or disinterested…At the same time…If only I could feel safe saying, “Oh, man, I wish I could, but my mood is like the flu and I am afraid it’s contagious.” R sent this text about how they couldn’t get a hold of me “as usual” so I replied that I’d missed one call in two weeks…And he put it all on me as liking to troll others but not ballsy enough to be trolled. Well, if you inserted an emoti (fuck the term emoji, it’s gay in the bad way) so I’d know it’s meant humorously/sarcastically, I’d know. WTF. Shit totally ruined my evening, cos ya know, it’s what R does.Mrs R was understanding. He was…well, him.

Sooooo much brain trash today.

I intended to be this housekeeping whirlwind today (even venturing into the dish for cleaning supplies) and yet…I’ve done fuck all. I even tried to reward myself but that ain’t working, either. The truth is…I don’t want to be judged as a filthy pig and yet…No One has ever tried to help me even though I am screaming UNCLE!!!!!. So if your depression still enables you to be a good housekeeper who can sit on their pedestal and judge people like me who have sabretooth dustbunnies on every surface and the house smells like a dirty litter box no matter how clean you keep it…

Congratulations. You’re better than me, you are a saint, yet you do not earn the right to claim “clinical depression” because clinical depression doesn’t give a fuck if the home has hit a biohazard level most CDC workers wouldn’t touch fully suited and protected.  It is so fucking easy to judge (and reading blog posts tells me even my brethren do this) yet if you TRULY comprehend depression…You’d never ever in a gazillion years judge anyone so harshly if YOU were on the other side of the fence. And hey, I have been on the other side of the fence, judging people who lived in the boondocks without electricity or heat or warm water yet children lived there…And even DCF had been there and said the kids’ basic needs were being met, even if in a non traditional way…

So let us all not being judgey twonks, for the love of pegacorn kind. There IS a huge difference between “lazy” and “too depressed to even wear a bra in public.”

I am truly sick of my poor housekeeping being lumped in with drunks and addicts who don’t give a damn. I do give a damn. But if my brain worked properly, I’d be giving up smoking and using that money to go to concerts and rock out to the music I love more than my next breath. Depression. Does. Not. Give. A. Fuck. And anxiety disorder? Ha ha ha fucking ha. It’s the pseudo ebola of mental illness, convincing you are going to bleed out from every orifice and yet, you keep living even though you are too “sick” to even actually live.

As for this being some “I have no self esteem, please validate me because I am a self centered selfish witch” post…

NOPE. I do not buy this, at all.

I was kindly given a gift card for X-mas and ya know what? I spent half of it on my kid so she could have the “Frozen” bedding she so wanted but I couldn’t afford. I don’t even have a comforter on my bed for my 26 year old one is pretty much toast…But I put my kid first even if she will hate Frozen in a couple of months…

It’s not all about me. I put my kid to the forefront. She’s a kid who didn’t ask for any of this whereas I am a grownup who made the choice to make a child with an absolute poor excuse for a human being….

Maybe in a way the lingering depression is self punishment because all I ever wanted was for my child to feel loved, safe, and happy, and yet my screwed up psyche found an utterly vapid irresponsible donor of genetic material…Again, MY fault yet…

I never entered into it with false intentions or self serving purposes. My child is my heart, my love, my dream…Perhaps at times she pushes the “no gratitude thing” but I would still give up my last breath for her. She has a chance of having a life whereas I am just running the hamster wheel to nowhere.

If you mistake this for self pity, you are a moron.

I still feel on the outside looking in even with my own brethren, FYI. wordpress has connected me to sooo many who understand my plight and yet…THEY are  mentally healthy and stable enough to do the phone/text thing. I stand off to the side, looking in yet feeling so excluded even if I am used by some as *the only honest one*.

FYI, I am honest to a fault, even to the extent calling someone a douchebag. I don’t spare my own family so the notion I give others a “pass:” is laughable.

I AM on the outside, looking in.

Mainly because drama gives me panic attacks yet my “uber blunt* method of communication is simply that- THIS is how I feel, PERIOD DOT COM.

I will not take sides.

I will not indulge drama even to my own advantage.

I love each and every follower who has deemed my words worthy of “following”. If you actually read my words…Kudos to you further.

I have no delusions about being anything other than what I am.

Insignificant, occasionally witty with a sarcastic retort, and…Just plain old me.

If that makes you angry or causes you to shun me…

It’s within your rights.

Just as being true to myself and not “bowing down” for the sake of popularity is within my rights.

Love me, hate me, be apathetic…

Truth is…Life goes on no matter what we choose or want.

On a whole…we all are just *that* mundane and insignificant.

It is only in our own minds, and the minds/hearts of those who care for us,  where we become something “special”.



I can’t choose how any0ne feels about me.

I just know that I am putting myself out there, emotionally bare, and if that doesn’t earn some respect…

Those are not the kind of people I want in my corner.

It takes balls to be who you are without regard to consequences.

Any member of the sheeple can assimilate and please the masses.


Sheeople or people?



My Parents Are Still Apart

  Overwhelmed with feelings of guilt. Trying to do the best I can. The assisted living memory care where my father has been staying cannot accommodate my mother’s difficulty swallowing liquids due to her stroke. 

My mother is back in skilled nursing after a psychiatric stay for major depression and behavioral changes due to a UTI (urinary tract infection which can result in confusion or delirium-like state, agitation, hallucinations, other behavioral changes, poor motor skills or dizziness, and falling).

For now, my father remains in memory care. When I first looked at senior care options, I did not even consider looking at board and care homes for my parents, for I imagined them to be crowded and depressing. I only had in mind what the worst homes are like. There are nice homes. Of course, they cost more. 

A beautiful brand new board and care home close to my home can take them both, but it does not yet have its license. Once there, my parents will live in a two-room suite with a private Jack and Jill bathroom and sliders from both rooms to the backyard. My mother loves flowers, so I plan to plant some with her. Now the yard is simply walkway and lawn. 

Kills me that it is taking so long to get the two of them back together. 

My dad keeps saying he wants to move back to the beach, but I cannot oversee their care from our home and my son is adamant about not wanting to move again. We’ve moved our son far too many times. He attended five elementary schools. That’s four too many. We promised him we would not move again once we returned to Mission Viejo from the Mojave Desert.

My parents’ home is not senior friendly. Three stories tall, it presents fall risks. Significant deferred maintenance needs to be addressed. As kitchen appliances have failed over the years, my mother bought toaster ovens to cook. My greatest fear is that if my parents returned to their home, they would go back to drinking, which means that my father would again fall down the stairs (he does so at least once each time we visit).

Filed under: Alcoholism, Dementia, Depression, Family Tagged: aging, caregiver, caretaking, elder care, guilt, psychiatric hospitalization, stroke, uti

Guest Star: Fluffin the 20 year old kitty!

My little Fluffin is the Guest Star on Katzenworld!


Hello everyone.

Today’s guest post has been sent in from Samina who would like to tell us abut her mature feline friend.

Here is our little Fluffin. She turned 20 years old on June 1st, 2015!!! She is healthy and happy, although she takes very long catnaps now. She likes to sleep in our front closet on lots of fluffy rugs and towels. In 1994, my brother who was in college at the time, had two kittens left on his doorsteps. He took one and named her Bruce (after his favorite Buffalo Bills player) and gave the other one away to a friend. In about a year, Bruce became pregnant and had four kittens. We inherited two, Fluffin and her sister Puffin. Puffin passed away at the age of 18 and a half! My son was only five years old in 1996 when we got the kitties and he named…

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The Carrot and the Stick

My life hangs by a frayed thread.

I am a donkey who lives by the carrot and the stick.

The carrot hangs in front of me, just out of reach.  This gives me a reason to keep reaching.  It is valuable, because it means that someone else’s life depends on mine.

I had two carrots; now I only have one.  That one is my dog, Atina.  She cannot live without me, for she is sick and depends on my care to stay alive.

Actually some other benefactor could care for her, but I love her, and she gives me the only joy I have now.  So she is my carrot.

Then there is the stick that follows me, threatening to whack me if I don’t keep trudging along under my load.

The stick is the fear that there might actually be an afterlife, reincarnation, some consequence for taking my death into my own hands.

My life has always hung by this thread, and I have clung to the thread as a mountain climber clings to the fixed ropes, the lifelines that prevent the fall into the unknown, or rather, the certainty of death.

Before the doctor rescued me by cutting me out of my mother’s hostile womb, my tiny organism was flooded by the amphetamines she took to keep from gaining weight while pregnant.

My organism did not tolerate her labor.  My heart began to fail from lack of oxygen.  No doubt my attachment to her womb, my lifeline, was marginal because of the drug that caused constriction of the blood vessels.

I was “small for dates,” four pounds, and struggling to breath, so they took me away and stuck me in an incubator with plenty of oxygen.

My lungs were bad, I suffered withdrawal from the amphetamines, I was unstable, and in those days no one was allowed to touch a fragile newborn except for feeding and changing, so I sucked my thumb and watched the white forms padding on silent feet through the dim space that surrounded my plastic bubble.  This I remember clearly.

Childhood was searing pain, alien to everything, clothes tearing at my skin, terror of my mother, clinging to my father who always had somewhere to go or something to do, only my animals for companionship and love.

Teenage hopelessness, violent rape, runaway, street life, rape, rape, rape, pregnancy, abortion, alone, alone, alone.

Finally mentors, self esteem, push push push degree degree degree, marriage, baby, fell off the balance beam, paralyzing depression, no support, head of my class, medical honor society, residency, depression, mania, no support, ruptured discs, surgery, body jacket, divorce.

Son’s father refused to see him “because it was too emotionally hard” on father.  Really?  Your son cries for you every night and day.  How can you sleep at night?  How can you look at yourself in the mirror and say, “My emotional pain is more important than my five year old son’s”?

We went on, my son and I.  Life was rough, life was rocky.  He was angry, I was numb, except for the pain always there.  Work, the drug.  Work hard, work long, work better.  A nanny in place of a father.  Angry boy, angry boy.  Can you blame him?

Angrier angrier angrier.  Treatment treatment treatment.  Drugs, legal and not.  Go and live with father finally, maybe that will help.  Bribe father to take the boy.  Father likes money, I have plenty.  Used to.

Disaster.  Thrown away, street life, homeless shelter.

Mother now disabled by mental illness, bankrupt.

Son needs help, NOW!

Therapeutic boarding school, but how to pay?  Father and his family refuse to help.  I borrow money from my parents.  They get it by mortgaging their home, to save their grandson.

I leave my career behind, to help my son, no turning back after too much time away.  I am disabled, that’s who I am, new identity.  But I helped my son to save himself, so that’s who I am now, what, a sacrifice?  No, just a disabled person.  It would have happened anyway, in my downward spiral.

Now he is a big shot, finishing his Ph.D., and his father and his father’s family have taken him back, so proud.

His first scientific paper published in the world’s premiere scientific journal.  I am so proud.


We “do” Thanksgiving together, he and I, and every year has been a blast.

This year, something different.

He invites me to his apartment.  Just the two of us.  Why?

Don’t you want to invite some friends who don’t have somewhere to go?  You remember, when you were a kid, we always had students over who couldn’t go home, or were Chinese, or for some reason would be alone.

No, he said.  Everyone already has a place.

I wondered.

The night before Thanksgiving I was invited, with great pomp and circumstance, to go out with he and his friends to a bar.  I was thrilled to be included.

But when I arrived, a five hour drive from where I stay, I had a migraine and felt sick, and just wanted to smoke some flower and curl up in my van with Atina, my dog.  I would feel better tomorrow.

So I said, you guys go ahead, I’m going to sleep off this migraine.

OK, he says, eager and relieved.  And ran out the door.  I’ll leave it unlocked he says, in case you need anything.

Morning late, I feel better, he’s hung over.  Coffee, cartoons on the big screen, I’m content.  He starts cooking.  Always happy when he’s cooking!

Dinner: a roast duck, fried rice, greens, cranberry sauce.

Not much to say, and it’s getting weird.  I feel a void, ghosts at the table, who are they and why don’t they come out and play?

So the pipe goes back and forth, and he is drinking more beer and more beer.  I go to bed early, he goes out with friends.  I wonder ?

Friday morning, coffee, and I am served a spoonful of leftover rice.  He gives himself a plate, not a lot, but a plate. ?

He goes to lab to feed his cells, I shower and try to get this migraine to go away.  I’m hungry.  I take a bit more duck, rice, a bit of everything.  Thanksgiving leftovers are the best.  I wish son was here to share, but I’m hungry and my head is pounding, so I eat.

He returns from lab.  I tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t wait for him, I had to eat.  He looks angry.  I feel the old ominous storm clouds.  Why?

I guess I’d better go now.

But I feel like crap, I don’t want to drive.

He’s already holding the door open for me to go out.

Um, listen, I don’t feel so well, do you think I could hang out for a while longer?

Um, sorry Mom, I need my space, he says, with irony face.

Oh, OK, I understand.

Beggar at the door, no place for you here.

What did I do?  Did I eat too much?  Am I too burned out?

I’m not successful like his father, the famous scientist, or his father’s father, the famous whatever.

I’m just a mentally ill disabled person, a failure at life, an embarrassment.

I’m skinny, I look ill, my hair is grey and frizzy, my clothes hang loose, my dog is nervous…

Can I at least use your internet to find a place to camp?

Oh sure, Mom.  Come in.  But please leave Atina in the van.

I thought he liked dogs.  Maybe now that he’s got new clothes and new furniture, he’s afraid she will…

I find a place, guess this is it, he’s holding the door….

Love you, honey….

Love you too, Mom…mechanical doll voice.  Grim.

I drive off, numb.  Can’t feel yet, I have to get there, too much traffic.

Get there, hook up, walk dog, collapse, convulsed with grief.

There goes my carrot.

Now I know that my leaving won’t make much of a dent in his life.

I stay here for him, thinking my exit would destroy him, but not so.

He has his father now, and his father’s father, and he is their prestigious prodigal son.

In some way, relief, that cord is cut, that fixed line down.

The plan has been in place for some time, yet I have held my hand because of Carrot #1.  Now Carrot #1 has shown me the door, out of his life and into ?

Carrot #2 snuggles against me as I write.  Precious baby.  But she is sick.

She may last months, or a year or a few.

When she goes, I go too.

Will I be punished?  Will I have to come back and do it over till I get suffering “right”?  Or, to quote Lewis Carroll, do we just go “poof” like a candle, when we go?

Already I am losing the use of my body.  My shoulders are too full of arthritis to throw a ball.  My left hand no longer works well enough to play my music, which has carried me through so much suffering all my life.

Something has happened to my blood vessels.  They break and bleed under my skin so that I go around with blue lumps simply from the trauma of living.

My skin comes off in sheets if I brush up against anything harder than a pillow.  The wounds take months to heal and leave hideous scars.

The cancer that I had in the 90’s once again inhabits my innards.  I hope it grows faster this time.  No, I’m not going to treat it.  That would hasten my death, and I don’t want to leave my dog.

But some days I can’t move, my bloated belly pushes down like a rock.  Other days, not so bad.  Some days only liquids, others, soup and rice.

I had this one carrot that kept the juice of life running through my broken veins.  Now that carrot is gone, eaten up by some other entity, and the sick carrot and the stick remain.

The stick doesn’t frighten me.  I can’t do anything about the stick.

My sweet Atina will drag me along until her own candle gutters and goes out, and I will follow after, poof, and at least this life will be done with.

I can only hope that the cancer takes me before I have to take myself.

That way I don’t have to worry about the stick.



New Year, Same Blankie Fort

If you’re looking for “new year’s resolutions”, a “better” attitude, or some sunshine spewage…RUN.

My kid spent New Year’s Eve with my mom, which left me home alone. Unless you count Mangoritas and a vigorous face bath given to me by Chaos. I didn’t mind much. “me” time that does not include the soundtrack of “mommy  mommy mommy mommy” is at a premium. Love being a mom, not big on the extroverted overly chatty noisy part of my kid’s personality. As one super sensitive to bright light, sunshine, phones, background noise, etc…It makes absolute sense that I’d find that aspect of her…trying.

I made it til 12:30 a.m. before I decided it was cold and I wanted warm blankies more than I wanted to “celebrate”. Hell, it was after midnight before it even occurred to me it was indeed New Year’s. Blah. BFD, same shit, different year.

As proven by today. I forgot to turn all my alarms off so I was wakened at 6:30 a.m, 7 a.m., 8 a.m. Sleeping in is at a premium, as well, so it’s super annoying to be wakened when I don’t have to be up early. GRR @myself. It took forever to actually drag myself out of bed. Drained, bankrupt, overdrawn. Tis the price for running around the dish yesterday. (Shrink appointment was meh, he is actually in favor of Lithium, so I am gonna start it Monday and then I will have to do the blood work thing Friday but…Something different needs to be done cos this hamster wheel of depression is not cool.)

The hellidays have mucked up my concept of days. Today felt like a Saturday, so I kept thinking tomorrow is Sunday. Disconcerting.

Then my dad called to inform me they were taking my kid for the entire weekend. Nice, no one informing me. That took my mood down significantly cos much as I like the occasional break…I miss her so much when she isn’t here. And I think it’s rude to “tell” me they are taking her rather than asking if we had plans or whatever. I think my family’s picture must be next to the word “rude” in the dictionary. Assclowns. Once I finally made peace with being alone some more and all the rest I can get and such…It was three hours of her saying don ‘t make me go, they’ll make me eat gross food…Followed by as long as they don’t make me eat gross food, I want to go. *Facepalm*.  Guess that’s how McMuggles perceive bipolar mood shifts. Like little annoying bratulas who can’t make up their mind.

Since she left I’ve spent hours trying to get warm. It’s not even that cold out today but I stood outside for ten minutes when they picked her up and it just settled into my bones. So I am wearing footed jammies with a long sleeve shirt but the blankie fort is nearby. Unfortunately it is less one blanket because earlier when I got back with Spook, Mr. Feet decided I was his territory thus peeing on me and the blanket. Fucker. No day is complete until you have literally been peed on, ya know.

I am just low today. Thus grumpy. Thus…This post. Tomorrow I will kick ass on the housework. Or so I tell myself. I am so damned defeated and overwhelmed, though, I know I will probably fail again. Maybe “epic fail” should be my next tattoo, which I will be able to afford in about 20 years.

It pisses me off how depression lies and leaves you with no self confidence yet trying to express your feelings makes you look like a whiner seeking pity. I don’t want pity. I want out of this grave in which I’ve been buried alive by depression.

And btw, sunshine spewers…I am on season eight of binge watching Scrubs cos I was willing to give the “stop watching all that dark crime stuff and try comedy, it will cheer you up” thing. FAIL. And the fact that Zach Braff has started looking almost doable wit the facial scruff (hate facial scruff) means I’ve about hit my quota. Bring back the dark stuff.

On a final note of being further disillusioned…I  explained to the doctor how I need to get my moods solidified cos of the court date being set for my shark week and all the spontaneous tear eruptions would not go well…And, kid you not, he said, “Well, you know, you could make the tears thing work for you in court.”

And honestly, I was just flabbergasted. I mean, his point is valid and yet…It’s not who I am. Besides, the donor would just use it as some excuse for “see what I had to live with” in his endless quest to avoid responsibility for his child…GAHHH. Am I alone in not wanting to amp up endless drama?

Oddly, the doctors turn against you in a heartbeat if they learn you’ve dramatized any of your symptoms. Yet they can encourage you to use waterworks from depression and hormones….

Baffled. Me. Just…Bucket of what the fuck.

I think I am done with Scrubs for the night. I don’t know what I am gonna do with myself. Apparently not lay down in my blankie fort as three cats have commandeered it and one of them is nursing on my new blanket my sister got me like it’s a momma cat.

Here’s to 2016 sucking slightly less than 2015.

If I say “sucking slightly less” I am giving room for improvement but not setting myself up for soul shattering disappointment.

Cautious optimism, as the counselor taught me.

Still keeping my spork sharpened and my shovel handy.