Being Crazy Is Hard...

And yeah, I know. I'm not supposed to use the word "crazy." I'm "mentally ill," "emotionally damaged," "about to set out on my healing journey"...

Yeah, fuck that. I'm crazy. It's my illness, I will call it what I want. There are certain perks to being undiagnosed, unmedicated, and blissfully ignorant, you know.

Anyway, if you're here reading this, buckle up. It gets weird. I can't really say I'm glad you're here, not yet... There's a very good chance that this shit won't even be published and will sit in the draft folder all by itself until the next wave of wine-inspired creativity hits me, I open it up to read it, and then immediately slam my face into my desk repeatedly for being so fucking stupid as to think I should be writing words for people to read. Whatever. One of my exes (whom I've lovingly nicknamed Fucktard) always used to say I had multiple personalities, so at least I can rest assured that at least one of those other bitches will be the one to read this. I hope it's not the one with suicidal tendencies.

Wow. See what I mean? Crazy. And don't panic. I'm not going to kill myself.

Moving on... I've decided to start writing as an outlet of sorts. I've had blogs in the past, and I really do miss the feeling of writing something that isn't a fucking grocery list or a message for my boss. If no one reads it except for the handful of close friends and family that I will guilt into following me so that I can feel not so alone in the world, that's totally fine. At least the shit is getting out of my head. Plus, I've tried writing in a journal. Makes my hand cramp.

In any case, here I am. I'm a single mother of three with a lot of pets. I'm a distance runner; ran my first marathon last year, but we're not gonna get me started on that because anyone who knows me knows that I will NOT. SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. ABOUT. RUNNING.. If this ends up being a thing that I continue to do, you'll hear about it. This is just an intro, you know? Like, a little game of 'just the tip'... A little tease before I take this shit and pound your poor ass with it and leave you wondering why you ever took your mental drawers off. But yeah, back to it. I'm a single mother, cat lover, wine enthusiast, distance runner, weight lifter... and an occasional chain smoker with unpredictable mood swings. See? Crazy. I know it sounds fun, but really it's not.

I've spent the past month mentally looking over my shoulder because I knew the next 'bad one' was coming. If you've dealt with depression or whatever the fuck seems to be wrong with me, you'll know what I mean. Life could be fucking peachy... Maybe you're kicking ass at your job, you have wonderful kids and a few supportive family members/coworkers/friends, your gym game is strong (making gains and shit), and you have a special person that you love and that you like getting naked with. Good stuff. But here's the thing. The Crazy don't care. That imbalance of neurotransmitters, or disruptions in your aura, or whatever the fuck you wanna call it? It's still there. It never left. That fucking asshole. It's like a cancer. Sure, it will go into remission sometimes and you'll feel on top of the world. The truth is though, that motherfucker never left... and you knew it. You can always feel it at the edge of your consciousness, especially if you're hungover or PMS-ing. It sits over there all ominous and shit on your mental horizon, and even though you try to stay watchful and use all the fucking little "tools" from your last bout of therapy, sometimes that cocksucker just doesn't go away. Sometimes it goes from being a smudge on the horizon to a full blown fucking electric storm of the heart and mind in the blink of an eye.

Clearly, I've been reading too many novels. But what else are you gonna do at 3 am on a Tuesday?

This is where I am now. I was overtaken by this mental storm... Basically, I fucking lost it. I'm still losing it, although the chaotic part is over, and I have begun looking around and trying to salvage what I can. I lashed out at some important people in my life, blatantly ignored others, and made a lot of fucking mistakes. I can't eat, and I can't sleep. Now, don't start with the pity and shit, please. That's not what I'm looking for, I'm just trying to explain what it is I'm dealing with. I know that eventually, I will be able to pull my head out of my ass and pick up the pieces. And I know that even if some of the pieces that I pick up will cut me, and some of the pieces will never fit together the way they used to, I will be ok. Ok-ish. At least until the next "bad one."

I hope that I'm able to continue to motivate myself to write shit because it does help. And I hope that if I do, my ridiculous rantings make their way to any kindred spirits out there who understand what I mean by a "bad one," or whatever the fuck you choose to call that asshole living in your brain. You're not alone. I'm not trying to be inspirational here, I'm just saying... We're a fucked up species, and some of us just possess the gift of being extra fucked-up.

Like I said, being crazy is hard. But it will end eventually. And even if it doesn't, maybe we can just sit here amidst the wreckage, raise our glasses, say fuck it, and give thanks that no matter what fuckery this life throws at us, at least it's not boring.