The right kind of gay for this.


At some point in the past two years, between Kidlet, Mickey and I, mostly around fashion. “ I’m the wrong kind of gay for that” started getting thrown around.

Mickey and I were shopping for makeup for her niece… “I am the wrong kind of gay for this shit”

I would ask Kidlet for fashion advice (seriously… when you are dressing to impress other people, you have no fucking clue what looks okay). “Mom… wrong kinda gay for this”

I’ve started settling in on my style. It started with pink everything and then I found more and more of what fit me exactly.. the kind of shirts and skirts I liked, etc. Now I’ve found a style of makeup that suits me….

It turns out I’m exactly the right kind of gay for this…

Except I prefer the term Queer, it fits better because it’s less restrictive.

Not what you think . . .

There’s a post I’ve shared a lot of times on Facebook, titled “I’m suicidal, and no, it’s not what you think.”  It’s about one of the grey areas of suicide, with constant suicidal ideations that never go away, even when there is no real plan.

I lived in that area for years.

Sometimes things would build up and it got so bad and so loud that I was afraid of myself and afraid to be alone. There had been attempts and there had been self injury. There were hospitalizations. Parker and Kidlet spent so many years walking on eggshells because I was sick.

And then she died and I very publicly pulled my ass out of the depths of hell and got better.

Except, I forgot the part where you don’t get better from this shit. You get stronger, you learn better coping methods, but you may never fully get better. This will always be part of who I am. I may always backslide, and there is always a chance that I may end up back in the hospital. It may even happen sooner rather than later.

Safe is better than dead, I guess.

I’m back in that space where every little thing knocks me back. It’s a constant roller coaster right now. And some days are very deep and very dark. I want them to change meds and FIX ME.

But it’s not a medication thing. It’s not an exercise it out thing. It’s a brain chemicals fucking suck thing and right now I just need to ride it out and try to keep moving forward at the same time.

I scream so loud on here about how much we need to remove the stigma and scream our stories out loud, but one of the hardest things in the world for me today was spending the entire day in bed, dishes piled up, my house in this crazy disorganized state where I left it mid project from this weekend . . . while Wonder Woman came in and out doing what she needed to do. I couldn’t stand that she was seeing me that depressed, that dark, that done. I wanted to tell her to get out and not come back till I was my normal level of crazy. She wasn’t supposed to see me this way. I wasn’t supposed to be this way any more.

I am petrified of this space I’m in. I’m petrified of backsliding to that person I was . . . I’ve said so many times “I want Parker back in this world, but I do not want the person I was back.” and right now, I feel like that person I was.

But at the same time, it’s also that whole “I’m suicidal and it’s not what you think.” Because I do still want a tomorrow. I don’t want to keep doing this, and I hate who I am when I’m like this, and I hate how I feel when I’m like this, but I don’t want to act on it either.

I still want a tomorrow, even if it means that there will be more tomorrows that feel like this.

Hopefully I can keep remembering that even in the middle of the fog that closes in during the worst of it.

But for now, the dishes are done again, and I ate for the first time today, and tomorrow will hopefully feel a little better.

Most Horrible Time of the Year

This time of year is just generally hard for me.

Today sucks.

But just now, looking at my FB memories, today sucked lots of years past too. However, I remember this particular day.


I woke up in a creepy dark suicidal fog. Like, really weird morbid suicidal and homicidal thoughts together which wasn’t my normal. But, as was typical, by the time Parker got me to the Crisis unit and they talked to me, the fog was gone and they sent me over to Meridian.

We threw a fit at the front window to get me seen. One of the many times my controlled yet chaotic explosion of mental blarg was helpful.

I had been off meds due to lack of insurance. I had zero control.

Today sucks. But I’m so much stronger than I was years ago.

It’s still hard as fuck when I feel like I should be able to control this roller coaster and I can’t.


Quite often I post about the bad side of feeling everything so deeply. The dark side of mental illness, the grieving side of widowhood.

What I don’t post about as often, is the positive ways I see the world because of it.

One reason that things go from great, to dangerous so quickly with me, is that I feel everything big. I don’t see in grey, or in multiple shades of a color. I see the brightest shade there is, or I see a vast nothingness.

I feel pain as if that is all that exists in this world but that means I feel love and joy the same way. Normally that love and joy is almost overwhelming in its intensity, it’s as bright as the clothes I normally wear.

But, sometimes I find peace in a moment, and it connects things in a way that is just right. My thoughts slow down, and I know I’m in the right place. It happens during quiet moments or in the middle of a crowd. It can happen when I’m still or moving. It happens in both happy moments and grieving ones.

I feel those peaceful moments in a way that is just as big, and grand.

I’ve heard it said before that we wouldn’t wish widowhood on anyone, but we’d wish the lessons we’ve learned on everyone.

Similarly, I wish that everyone could see the world the way I see it now without suffering that sort of loss. I think that’s also true of someone who has lived with any chronic mental health condition. When the fog clears for any period of time, we have a different perspective.

I really am enjoying my life right now, even though I am dealing with some really big emotions, and some really big processing.

Life is good.

Board of Education

Almost two years later and the board of ed sends Parker another debt notice.

Yep… she’s still not coming back to pay her student loans, I promise you. Hell, we probably couldn’t pay them if she was alive.

Yep. I’ll send yet another copy of the death certificate.

People wonder why we don’t get over our ghost spouse?

Why we move forward but we never get over being a widow?

Cause we have to remember their SSN and find the death certificate to call and punch in those numbers and read out thier names and then make jokes to try and feel better about the whole fucking situation while remembering that those last two loans were for the classes she was barely in for a week before she died.

I’m so happy with my life now but grief is a damn bitch and she’s still not coming back to pay those fucking loans.

At least I didn’t cuss out this poor employee over it. I guess I’ve healed quite a bit since the last time.

I Stayed

Trigger warning: suicidal thoughts and plan.

Really real, really long. Mental health post.

This morning I woke up with a cloud hanging over me.

The kind of morning where I lay in bed wondering if it’s even safe to let my feet hit the ground. My feet on the ground mean I can walk to any of a thousand deadly things.

And then the same tapes start replaying. It’s not even that I want to die, I’m just tired of fighting this same fight. Im not becoming self sufficient fast enough and today is a ‘work day’ and as much as I love my job, waking up with this cloud means I not only have to make it through work, I have to fight the busses to get to work, which means I have to make the mile walk to the bus stop, which means I have to be ready to leave my house in plenty of time …. and this morning that means I have to fight through this cloud to make any of that happen. Ad really, it would be much more peaceful to just stop fighting this fight.

Can I even put my feet on the floor and make it through the next hour alive. Or do I just call out and give up and hope the thoughts are gone when I wake back up.

I get up I feed the dog and take her out. I don’t even bother trying to eat, but I take my morning meds.

The whole time I’m fighting the thoughts about where every bottle of pills in my house is. I know which ones will do what. There are safety plans and…. the fact is I can’t suicide proof the world and those spaces in my brain are dark as fuck.

I end up in the bathroom and my brain is still spinning. I can’t see a single reason to keep fighting but I’m trying to keep holding on. I’m trying to stay. I know I can’t give up.

The thing is, I also know that if there’s just the smallest break in the fog I’ll be okay again. I know that the hospital is pointless because this isn’t a medication problem or something that needs fixing or a 72 hour hold. It’s just my brain being a dumb brain and sometimes it gets really fucking dark.

But in that moment, I also couldn’t see my way out. The same pills and meds that keep me functioning become dangerous. It doesn’t help that the same pills that kept my late wife alive were her weapon against herself. It just makes it easier for me to see that as a solution to this pain. Even if it isn’t something I’d want to choose.

And then my phone dings. “This shirt made me think of you”

Seriously tell people when you are thinking of them. You never know when you are the spot of light they need.

It took me a bunch of texting back and forth on the crisis line, while crying on the bus, to make it to work. (By the way, they are fantastic text HOME to 741-741). I’m thankful that I could email my boss and tell her that it was a grief/mental health/dumb brain day and that she got it, didn’t push, made sure I had work to stay busy and checked on me.

But I made it. I’m going to need more support than other people. And it’s going to take me longer than I think it should to be at a paid job working at the level that I feel I should be capable.

But this morning I didn’t think I could get out of bed, and I still made it to work, without having to get anyone to drive me, or calling out, or giving up.
I also didn’t panic.

And I held on and I stayed.


Another really real, but really long, mental health post.

Kind of a word vomit thing happening here, but I need to get it out so it will maybe stop echoing around and spilling out my eye holes.

I went to an appointment to renew my transportation the other day. While I’ve gotten much better at riding buses, and I am doing much better in general, it’s still a lot for me to take buses on bad days or to something like work, or a stressful appointment, and then make it back home alone. This appointment meant proving to them that I am still disabled enough to need services. What I didn’t know was that they changed the system. I walked in with services, and with rides scheduled for ‘work’ the next day and found out that I was losing services effective the next day, for at least a month while they make a determination. This is while in the middle of my looking for a job and volunteering, still having multiple appointments each week, etc. That ride service is a large part of my independence. Yes, I know people will help, but I’m already getting financial help from people, now I’m in a position where in order to work or volunteer, or do things outside of my immediate area I’ll either need to accept more financial help so I can take cabs, or get help in the form of rides . . . losing independence when I’ve fought so hard to be “self saving warrior princess” is a huge HUGE deal. Especially when I did everything I was supposed to do. I jumped through the hoops, and I still lost, even though it may be temporary. There’s also the fact that it will take an entire month to find out if it’s temporary or permanent and that will effect what jobs I can get/handle and their location.

I’m in meltdown mode over this, while at the same time holding it together much better than I would have in the past. It’s this weird place where I’m able to melt down over something like transportation, instead of over something like, my electric being off, or being homeless. I know this isn’t that big of a deal. I have the help I need to cover this, it’s not an emergency really, but it fucking sucks because I’m moving forward and everything keeps knocking me back and it always FEELS like it did back when it was as big of a deal as the light switch doing nothing because power was turned off and my bank account was overdrawn and I had nowhere to turn.

I also recognize that I have the resources to keep this from being an emergency. I can still get food in my house, and medications and appointments, and part of my frustration is how PISSED I am that others that have it way worse are suddenly in the same position with no notice. This wasn’t how the system was 6 months ago when I was in the office last time with Kidlet.

What if I never move past this level of functionality. What if I can never make the 2 hour bus ride to a job, work more than 4 hours, then make the 2 hour ride home, because right now . . . I can’t do that, and on the days I try, I come home in tears. Even on the days I use mobility and work 4 hours I come home in tears and how am I going to work a paying job if they take mobility.

And then there’s why I keep fighting . . .

Yesterday I went to my ‘job’ and one of the calls I answered was a woman desperate for a tax appointment and we had none. I heard myself from 2 years ago on the other end of the line. She needed this appointment for financial and logistical reasons and there was nothing I could do. At one point she even said, “if you can’t help me, get mental health on the line because I’m going to lose everything.”

Holy Fuck . . . I’m setting tax appointments I should NOT be getting this call.

Except yes, I should be because I actually give a shit. She calmed down, I told her I understood, I listened . . .I told her I heard her, and I LISTENED. And I got it, she did what she was supposed to do with her back taxes, she called back weekly and she was still fucked for an appointment and she was out of time. When I got off the phone I talked to my supervisor both because I felt horrible for the woman on the phone and because I needed emotional support (I love my supervisor). I felt bad for younger me, for the days when my life really was that way, when every phone call ended with me feeling that desperate. I also felt bad for every call center employee who was on the other end of the line, I can’t imagine how they felt, and at the time I had no capacity to understand that no matter how many times I told them “I know this isn’t your fault, I just don’t know what to do” it didn’t make things any easier for them (if they felt things the way I do).

And even more important, my supervisor was able to help me find something, and I was able to call her back and give her an appointment, which is why I got that call, because I ended up able to help her, and that felt really damn good.

But I’m still here today, randomly crying because even the “feel good” post today about boundaries and self care and making sure you maintain sense of self, fucking hurts and reminds me that I’m yet again needing to ask for more help. Trying to figure out how to do that without becoming dependent on that help is a fine line that is hard for me . . . codependency was so much of my life . . . so much of my marriage . . .so much of my illness.

I refuse to repeat that. Balance is so fucking hard, and sitting with this and waiting while I figure out how to handle it feels impossible to me.

I need a plan and a way out, I need to know what’s next and this middle area . . .

Gah . . fuck that.