I Prefer the Term Pet Enthusiast.

I haven’t written in awhile. My job doesn’t really leave me as much down time as the old one, plus I’ve been a combination of lazy and dispassionate about a lot of things. Sorry about that. 

In fact, the only reason I’m writing today is because I have been annoyed by a very specific thing which has affected my life and i wish to rant about it. I’m here today to talk about pets.

I’m a huge animal person, and by huge I mean that I currently have residing in my home four cats and three dogs. My cats range in amount of fur from bald to I-dust-your-floor-by-walking. My dogs range in size from furry bowling ball to legitimately requires it’s own couch to sleep on. I love my pets. I never come home to an empty house. I never watch TV alone or sleep without someone to cuddle. They each have their own personalities that come with positives and negatives just like little human beings who just REALLY wished they had thumbs so they could open that damn bag of food. 

Lately, I’ve noticed something about myself and it’s quite alarming. Whenever someone asks me about pets, how many do i have, or if i need to speak about them….I start my sentence with “I have too many animals, but” 

And then I quickly spit out the number feeling this weird level of shame and embarrassment despite that fact that, wait for it…

I…..I….don’t actually think I have too many animals. If I did then I would’ve stopped getting them. I wouldn’t have gone out and adopted that third dog I mentioned, today. She’s a boxer by the way. I’ve also only told one person I’ve adopted her for the exact same reason I avoid telling people how many animals I have. 

And here’s the thing…not only do I not feel I have too many, because I am not overwhelmed by them, but my house is clean. There isn’t animal feces or urine everywhere, or anywhere really. The litter boxes even have their own specific room away from our living spaces, and the fur gets vacuumed up every other day. I mop and dust and tidy up every week. My house is probably tidier than most houses with human children living inside. The animals themselves are happy and well taken care of. They have shots and flee treatments and toys and….in all honesty, probably a wee bit too much food ( furry bowling ball).

I almost wrote this post in a way that would explain the intricate reasoning behind my pets, but then I realized that fuck all of the everyone who makes me feel like I need to do that. As a close friend said, (A close friend who, despite this phrase, thinks she has a right to comment on my animals)

I am a grown ass woman.

I pay my bills.

I clean my house.

I take care of those motherfuckingly adorable animals that seem to irk you so badly despite the fact that you don’t pay for them, feed them, clean up after them, or deal with them in your daily life. 

Do I have more animals than is the accepted norm? YUP. I’m also bipolar, bisexual, and sleep WELL past noon unless I have a legitimate unavoidable reason for getting out of bed. 

My bed, by the way, (Because I KNOW you need to know) is covered in fur because those critters sleep with me damn near every night. When I wake up thrashing and screaming, I have multiple globular little eyeballs staring at me in genuine concern. My guest room? Yeah, there’s a brown sweat stain from my sphynx Yoda. He sleeps in there because he gets cold at night, but makes too much noise to sleep in my room. Mishka sleeps on top of my corner book shelf, Ruby sleeps INSIDE that guest bed’s box springs, and Nibbler sleeps where ever the fuck he feels like it because that’s just how he rolls. 

There’s also a sweat stain on the tile, which  I clean up each week, in front of the air vent in our bathroom throughout all of the winter months and paw prints on my kitchen ceiling where he keeps chasing the squirrels he can hear running up there. 

There’s fur on my couches and chairs and in the little corners where vacuums don’t reach. 

Our hall closet is the litter box room. 

Our third bedroom is the dog room. 

And our livingroom coffee table is constantly covered in trash, ashes, and moldy dishes because….oh wait. A human does that one so that’s probably more acceptable to society. 

Here, let me get this out of the way, just cut to the chase for when you inevitably realize there’s another living creature inside my home, which you think you get to judge me on because it wasn’t birthed from my body.

“Did you really need another one?” 

Nope, I sure didn’t. In fact, I didn’t really need any of them. There was a time when I didn’t have them. I view that time as exhaustively lonely and boring as shit. You view it as the time when I wasn’t dangerously close to hoarder status. To each their own. 

“Why?”

Because…I ….felt like it? Why’d you get that new tattoo? Drink every night this week? Quit your job, cut your hair?

Why did you have a kid when you can barely afford it? Hell, why’d you have ANOTHER kid? Oh wait…I’m not allowed to ask that. It’s rude

“Don’t you think you have enough?”

Yep. I also don’t think I have too many. I’m not really getting these animals to fulfill or destroy some imaginary quota inside my head. I got Yoda because…dude..bald cat. I’ve always wanted one. Mishka and Nibbler were because I just wanted another cat, but me and my husband liked two different ones. Ruby got rescued and John refused to let me give her away. Lucy was given to me because her family couldn’t handle her. I kept her because it turns out she’s awesome. Buddy was because John wanted a manly dog and HOLY SHIT HE’S LIKE SUPER AWESOME TOO. This one was because something about her got my attention. She was sweet and scared, and a night doesn’t go by where my pets don’t make me laugh, cheer me up, or make me feel safe. And also everything about her reminds me of this silly dog named Buster that I grew up playing with. But you don’t know about that because you’re not inside my head and you haven’t lived my life. 

“You have too many animals”

You have too many opinions on things which are none of your business and which affect your life exactly not at all. 

Here’s the thing, the way i live isn’t for everyone. Pets are hard work and you will NEVER have a perfectly shiny clean home when you own them. It’s the reality of owning pets. And I know I have quite a few and if that’s not your thing  then that’s fine. It’s even fine that you have your own personal opinions on my pet count. You know what isn’t though? Pushing your opinions on me. Making me feel bad or weird because I don’t walk to the beat of your animal-hating drum (see, what I did there? I made a joke about how just cuz you don’t have 7 animals you must hate animals to kinda highlight how just because I DO have 7 animals doesn’t mean I’m a hoarder who needs your overly concerned questions which are just absolutely DRENCHED in patronizingly good intentions).

It is upsetting when I come home and one or more of them have eaten to the point of possible explosion and therefore puked on what is probably the ONE thing I really wanted to be puke free? Hell yeah. In fact, Lucy has this thing about puking directly on me. It’s disconcerting and makes me smell like uncomfortably warm dog food. She also will viciously attack your ankles if you shove, yell, or otherwise physically threaten me in any way. Nibbler the cat will attack your face. It’s kind of like the face-hugger from aliens only you’re asphyxiating on cat fur instead of  getting impregnanted through your throat hole. 

Would I have more money if I didn’t own them? Yeah…but I’d have even more money if I didn’t buy so many cute t-shirts, purchase alcohol, go out to eat, or buy one-too-many $1.99 songs on itunes. 

And my house would be cleaner…only not really because I’m married to a 20-something dude who just RADIATES dirty dishes. I swear, it’s like they leak out of his pores while he walks through the house. 

Lots of things would be different if I didn’t have them. But to ME, most of those differences would totally suck. So stop being assholes. I’d really like to feel less rage towards you since I kinda like you as a friend/family member and all that mushy stuff. 

Sincerely, your becoming less friendly, pet enthusiast friend. 

 

 

So…Birth Control Sucks

So I’ve discovered something. Something which could possibly be great, but also inconvenient.

Birth control fucking hates me.

Not taking any medication, as I’ve explained before, is a deeply personal choice I’ve made based off the fact that so far every drug I’ve tried has made me suicidal. Making this decision means that I must dedicate myself to finding other ways to stabilize myself when things get rough and the world feels disconnected. Different things work for different people, but a big thing that’s always recommended is tracking your moods in a journal.

I do this. And I’ve noticed something. The week I don’t have my birth control in me, when the hormones being pumped into my system are less….my mood stabilizes.

So I did a test.

I went off birth control for a couple months.

Inconvenient….yes. Since I don’t plan on pumping a baby out any time soon, going off birth control required condoms and spermicide. and by condoms I mean the non-latex, since I’m allergic, twice as fucking expensive kind. Not cool condom industry.

But it was so worth it. For two months, even my lows were like nothing, in comparison to what they usually are. I didn’t have a single, hyperventilate and cry in the car on the way home day. Not. One.

Unfortunately, there’s not many non-hormonal options for birth control other than the aforementioned expensive ass condoms. And it’s just too big a risk to take right now. I’m going back to school.

Yeah, i conquered that fear in my two months of non-depression. I got into Bellarmine, signed up to kick some Bachelor’s degree ass.

And my gyno…not so open minded.

So I’m back on it. Shocker, the insane mood swings have picked back up. So….armed with the knowledge that  it does make a huge impact on my life, I’m looking for a doctor who will fucking listen.

Something to think about for those struggling despite all the other measures you’ve taken.

Your Words

A child’s handwriting is one of the most distinguishable things in this world. It’s used in signs and advertisements, it adorns the halls of elementary schools and daycares. The tell-tale squiggles of a kid’s first foray into the written world convey so much about what it means to be a child.

When you first begin writing, each letter, painstaking crafted, sprawls across the page loud and undeniable. Each letter, massive in its own right. And why shouldn’t it be? You worked hard to put that image there. You were proud of that letter. Slanted and unsturdy, a child’s writing jumps off the page at you, screaming for you to acknowledge its importance. And it is important. Every child knows their words mean something.

When you first begin writing, sentences scroll along the length of a paragraph. Your words flow right off the edges pages force into your world, defiant of being crammed in such tight quarters. And that’s ok.

But then something strange begins to happen. Year after year, your writing begins to shrink. Those bold, proud, letters beaten down to size, pushed together and subdued by formatting. Crushed into something small and neat, something acceptable to the world around you.

Something professional.

And each year those letters shrink, so does your sense of how important they once were.

Your letters.

It all starts with those letters.

People all start out filled with the knowledge that they’re worth something. That their words are important and their thoughts, no matter how simple, vital to this world. We start out demanding our parents, our teachers, respect our job choices.

I WILL be a fucking princess, damnit!

Or a ninja.

They’re cool too.

But then those letters start to shrink, and the idea of proclaiming yourself to be destined for great and amazing things begins to feel shameful. Embarrassing. And the next time someone asks you what you want to be when you grow up, you know better. You say something real. Something sensible.

I want to be a lawyer.

or a teacher.

Those fantastical desires become something you laugh at, years down the line. Just like those scribbles, flowing right off the page. How silly of you, being proud of such chicken scratch.

And for the unlucky ones, the world squeezes in even tighter.

A lawyer? But, your grades aren’t that good. You’ll never be able to pay for school.

How could you possibly teach when you have so much to learn?

And those sensible desires, once fantastic, shrink down even further. Become something attainable.

I want to make a living wage.

I want to survive.

And before you know it, your words, your sense of worth, your feeling of invincibility…

All shrunk down, neat and tidy. Something easy to look at and understand. Something everyone can read without any difficulty.

Your writing can open doors or have you dismissed at one glance. Just like your face, your body, your clothes. Everything you choose to turn whats outside into a reflection of what’s inside is skewed based on what other’s might think. What others might expect. You can’t dress too loud, too provocative. It’s unprofessional. No one will take you seriously.

And you need people to take you seriously. Because if they don’t? What’s attainable becomes what’s impossible. What you need becomes what you don’t have.

And what you wanted? Well, what you wanted never mattered anyways.

Damnit!

I will not pick. I will not pick. I will not pick.

*looks down and realizes I’m scratching at my collar bone*

FUCK.

So I Suck

I haven’t blogged in a very long time. Nearly a year. Let’s just say some new aspects of having an obsessive compulsive brain have arrived in my life, and it’s taken every ounce of my everything to beat them back down.

Well mostly down.

Sort of.

One day a feeeeew lots of months ago, it suddenly clicked in my brain that I was going to die.

I know. So shocking right? A living organism bound by natural law will eventually parish.

And even though I’ve always technically known this, and even though I think I believe in some form of afterlife, holy shit did this just fuck my brain from one end to the other. Which, my brain only being a few inches from left to right, doesn’t seem so bad, but I assure you it was.

All the sudden everything seemed fucking pointless, but also absolutely unavoidably important at the same time. I started having panic attacks again that made my chest feel like it was going to explode. I started waking up in the middle of the night sobbing. I started questioning EVERYTHING.

And fuck did it take a long time to get some semblance of control over this.

I woke up every day, and multiple times a day, literally, sat and told myself (inside my head because yeah, I don’t need to make myself seem crazier than I already seem)
“Yeah you’re going to die. Get over it. No! No, stop obsessing. Stop. Stop. Stop. Fucking stop! Think about something else. Like kittens. Stop it. Stop it. Seriously fucking stop it. Stooooop!”

And I did this every day until eventually…

“Yeah you’re going to die. Get over it. No! No, stop obsessing. Stop. Stop. Stop. Fucking stop! Think about something else. Like kittens. Stop! Kittens… Kittens are nice but… STOP!!!”

And then…

“Yeah you’re going to die. Get over it. No! No, stop obsessing. Stop. Stop. Stop. Fucking stop! Think about something else. Like kittens. Yeah kittens are pretty fucking awesome. Let’s YouTube cute kitten videos”

So on and so forth until I don’t have to do it every day or at least not more than once or twice. But you want to know what’s extra fucking awesome?

When I’m stressed, bored, or worried I pick. At scabs. At scars. At my head. At my fingers. At my general skinny skin bits. And you know what’s really bad for a compulsive picker? Constantly worrying about inevitably dying.

At first I didn’t notice I was picking more. It starts off with just a couple spots. Mostly they look like this…

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That is, thankfully, one of the few I have left. And thankfully it’s on my leg and not a more noticeable part of my body…. Like where the rest were.

I play with my necklace all the time…. As it turns out, I also alternate between that, and scratching at my chest, like under my collar bone and above my breasts. For the last two months, I’ve looked like this…

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And then they all got infected. Yeah.
And no matter how much I told myself to stop scratching, id look down and realize that not only was a scratching, I was actively bleeding from it.

So, now that I’m not slowly scraping my own flesh away while pondering my impending doom. I’ll try to do better readers.

Sorry.

Hell Skittles

Ok, seriously.

This needs to be asked. This needs to be answered.

What the hell is wrong with the Skittles ad team???

Guys, girls, deliriously twisted peeps whose mommies obviously didn’t hold them enough, WHAT THE FUCKING DUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU???

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The above is deeply upsetting to my brain cells.

Are you receiving treatment? Do you need drugs? Because if it’s a financial issue I will start a fucking fundraiser to buy you people psych meds.

Since your brains are either completely malnourished or currently being controlled by the twitching fingers of satan itself, let me fill you in…

There are things that make people want candy. Most things make people want candy. I should know. I’m a people. There are very few things that don’t make people want candy.

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Gee that’s odd looking…

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Dear all that is holy no!

Watching people eat someone’s skittle sweat, pull skittle pox out of someone’s face and pop them right into their mouths, or FRENCH A DUDE IN ORDER TO PULL OUT AND EAT HIS SKITTLE TEETH does not make people want candy.

The only kind of “people” (and I’m using that term loosely because I am in no way convinced you aren’t hell spawn come to kill my childlike joy) that would think these images are appetizing, are those with an unhealthy obsession regarding ingesting parts of human flesh.

I believe y’all are insane. And not the quirky kind of insane that this generation finds so appealing. You, Skittle Ad Spawn, are the kind of insane that involves recreating their sicko fantasies under the guise of selling candy.

None of the above makes me want to go out and taste the motherfucking rainbow. It makes me want to cleanse my eyeballs with bleach while huddling in a corner twitching.

I’m slightly concerned that your company is secretly trying to brainwash the masses to accept small scale cannibalism.

This is serious shit, people. Laugh now, but one day, we are going to wake up to small children straddling us, holding pliers, and laughing maniacally as they ask if we have a “sweet” tooth.

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Suddenly puns are terrifying.

I Am Trying

This post may be long, and not because i’m full of unexpressed creative genius. I am not full of the creativity lately. Mostly because I’m full of the random but overwhelming urge to do a multitude of self damaging and increasingly insane things.

So let’s dig in.

I cut. It happened. I did everything I could to avoid it. I really did.

One night, a few weeks ago, I had a panic attack all the way home from work.

By the time I got home, I had practically bathed in my tears, and my fingers were tingling from the over oxygenation of my blood, which occurs when your brain tells you to gasp for air with all your lung’s might because, despite the knowledge that you really are getting air (because you’d be dead by now, if not) you feel like the world has shoved a giant downy pillow in your face holes.

I’m talking the kind of tear bath where, hours later, you can run your fingers over your skin and actually feel the salt leftover once the water has gone. Crusty, gross feeling, eyeball salt.

I managed not to throw myself out of my speeding car, or crash said car into any immovable objects. I pulled into my driveway, stumbled my way into the house knowing full well I was riding the crazy bus, and grabbed the closest knife.

Then I dropped it on the counter and went upstairs where I laid in bed, and did not move, for 5 hours, except to pet the severely confused cats who came to visit me. The severely confused cats who were, in actuality, wondering why the fuck they hadn’t been fed, and may have been subconsciously waiting for me to die so they could feast upon my tear seasoned flesh.

Anyways…

I laid there until another human being was in the house. Until someone was there to kick my ass if I tried anything stupid. Because, trust me, I know it’s stupid.

And when John got home I was still leaking crazy fluids. I continued to spontaneously leak crazy fluids all night, but I didn’t cut.

Then the next day I didn’t leave the knife on the counter.

Fuck!

And for the next few days I was fine. Totally fucking fine. Except when the doctor asked if my cat had scratched me. And when I had to rummage for pants because all my dresses showed my leg.
And when my husband sighed and held me a little tighter than normal because he was scared.
And when I thought about how long I’d managed to not do that. And how I had laid in bed, unmoving, needing to pee like hell, just to not do that.

Basically, my brain was at war with my emotional state.

Brain: “Stop laughing! knock it off! you have no reason to feel good today. Feel like shit you crazy, unmedicated, self mutilating fuck up!”

Emotions: “Nah man, it’s ok. Really! See, everything’s fine.”

Brain: “Everything is not fucking fine. You carved your leg up. Look at it! Look what you did!”

Emotions: ” Dude, stop being such a prick. It’s no big deal. It’s not like I offed myself. I could’ve offed myself you know.”

Brain: “That is self defeating bullshit and you know it!”

Emotions: “Fuck you. I have Cheetos. Everything’s awesome.”

Brain: “Aren’t you on a diet?”

Emotions: “Damnit!”

And that’s how it do. Lately my brain and my emotions are never simpatico. Never. They just don’t line up. i feel like the world is crashing when everything is fine, and i have unexplained giggling fits when i should be broken. And the whole time my brain’s floating around up there going…

Dude, you are seriously fucked up.

Yeah, brain. I know. I totally and for real, completely know. There just isn’t jack shit to do about it. This body is stuck in bipolar gear right now and it ain’t moving till the engine blows.

I have stalled on any and all decision making. I can’t decide if this is good or not, because I’m not sure if I can trust my thoughts.

Am I putting decisions on hold because I know I’m unstable right now, and it’s not wise to make decisions while unstable….

Or is that actually irrational fear talking, and this is your crazy’s way of putting your life on hold?

Everything from the desire to get my hair cut, to wanting kids, to thinking maybe Pomeranians aren’t so obnoxious (side note: yes, yes they are) comes into question. There’s the possibility of a fucked up subconscious motive for everything when you’re that depressed.

Example: I want to cut my hair. Except, why would I want to do that when I’ve been trying to grow it out? Oh yeah, maybe because you feel hideous and disgusting and just want to see something different, anything different, when you look in the mirror.

Then when you give in and cut it, you beat the shit outta yourself for sabotaging your own goals.

Depression= sabotaging yourself. Get it?

Getting a haircut is a rather shallow and simplistic example, but if that sort of decision can get so magically fucked up, just imagine what happens with big ones.

Anyways, this is where I am. And if I don’t do something soon, this is where I’ll stay.

So I dug up something from my past that always made the world seem a little bit softer.

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It’s a pillow pallet. A pillow pallet made of every pillow in my house, that takes up about 90% of my living room.

When I was young, before the crazy set in, before my sister and I learned the wonders of hallucinations, and just how shitty human beings really are, we built pillow pallets.

I remember.

I remember we played video games and watched movies together for hours. The floor would be covered in snack remains, and we’d have deep circles under our eyes from lack of sleep, or from squinting too hard while our characters battled on the screen.

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Before video games we’d play Barbies and Polly Pockets on our pillow pallets. And my sister would construct fabulous flea homes out of shoe boxes, and I’d narrate entire melodramas for my characters, using words most kids my age had never heard of.

We’d hang sheets and prop up walls made of quilts around our pillows and we played house, and our babies (usually played by a stuffed animal, or an extremely patient pet cat stuffed in doll clothes) would lounge on the pillows with us.

Sometimes our Barbies would live in nudist colonies because my stubby fingers couldn’t get the tiny clothes on.
Sometimes our babies would hiss and run for their lives because we were wielding nail polish and lipstick.

Sometimes my sister was faking her happiness, for me, because my sister is 8 years older than me… And the darkness was already coming for her.

But she played with me.

And we laughed.

And we were safe in our pillow fortress. We were safe even though I was already having the death nightmares. We were safe even though I didn’t have friends at school. Because my best friend’s father found out I wasn’t baptized, and she wasn’t allowed to play with me anymore. We were safe, for years.

Even when the darkness came for me too, and I’d wake up to the world sounding different, and my body feeling numb. Before I learned the words to describe what was happening to me.

I remember feeling like the world was ok. I haven’t felt that way in a very long time, but I remember it. It was like magic

And I’m hoping that maybe, just a little of that magic can come back. I just have to remember how to call for it. How to let it back into my life.

I have to at least try.

I amtrying.

And i need to remember… When my brain is screaming and my emotions are beating me into dirt….

I am trying.
I am trying.
I am trying.

And that’s all I can do.

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