It is absolutely ridiculous I feel it necessary to validate my writing. If you believe I am not over the men (men ppppffffffffffftttttttttt) in my past relationships you are in the wrong place, darlin’.
I started this blog because there are no groups to attend in my area, unless I want to pull a Marla & Jack and attend a Narcs, AA, cancer, or sex anon meeting.
I am T’s oxygen deprived cells.
I write to share my experiences. Most of my traumatic events do involve men. My vast depression tends to turn to self-harm and escalates when I am with a man. Chill, I’m not blaming men for my issues. I am taking responsibility for my actions; trying to make sure I do not loop back through the brier and tread high-traffic broken paths.
I hope my writing helps at least one person, to let them know they are not alone in their self-perceived crazy, to let them know they do not have to drown alone in that dark quagmire. I struggle every day with depression because I have a disease. No, I don’t walk around every minute of the day with a cartoon storm cloud drenching me from overhead. I enjoy life now. It is a disease I am finally managing. As a disease, modifications for effective treatment are an ongoing process (she says while cradling the latest volume of DSM and sliding her glasses back into place). Medication takes the worst of it away…most days. Writing helps tremendously.
I’m not going to give you a daily report of how merging into one lane is driving 101 you maroon, or what I did at work, what I ate, or even how Cash irritates the hell out of me when he won’t go into the yard to potty. Seriously, dude, the grass will not hurt you I promise! I won’t even bother you with tales of the mouse – his name is NOT Mad Dog – who I can’t seem to remove from my house (using a humane trap of course). I’m not sure what he eats as I rarely have food in the house, and lately he just saunters through the kitchen, strutting a gangsta lean, nonchalant attitude like, What?
…Anyway, I’m not dwelling on my past. When a memory comes up I write about it utilizing my warped view of living. If I’m not writing it out I want to cut. So I create skeletons on bright white Word Doc and the font of the moment, flesh them out with sentences and keystrokes, allow them to materialize in my life one more time, then banish the resurrected carcasses by hitting PUBLISH. They are no longer a voice to breathe dank abusive thoughts to addle my brain further; they are buried in internet abyss. Slaying those asshats men of my past with words reminds me to stop making the same mistakes. You may deal with all the shit in your brain through drinking, drugs, lies, denial, violence, cutting, whatever your poison it lets you runaway to pretend it (sadness, horror, tragedy, humiliation, abandonment, lost) didn’t happen to you.
I’m flattered you like to read me, whatever your reason. I wouldn’t be able to voice these thoughts even if an appropriate physical group existed in my area. This is the cheapest therapy so far.
Besides being amazing with the written word I can also sing a variety of SWV songs; I welcome your requests.
But I’d stick with my written words.
Issues? Thoughts? Love? Hate? Share your crazy. -xo 3T