Of Mice and Mental Illness (Punny!)

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Has it been a long while? I know I said in my last post that I would have a new URL, but that’s not the truth. The truth is I have no plans of writing things, of being a social medium, or of doing the twitters or the instagrams or the facebooks. I can use “the” in front of proper nouns now because I have transformed, chrysalis-like, from a caterpillar to a magnificent butterfly.

Maybe butterfly is too strong. But I’m not that bad.

I feel pretty good these days. On a scale of one to Ebola, I’m about a rheumatic fever. Or maybe one of those cutesy poxes. I don’t want you worrying about me and my mental illnesses. I have the mental illnesses, and some days are good, and some days are better, and some days are chicken pox and whooping cough. Some days are polio. Some days are just a runny nose. I haven’t gotten to the days where everything is “good,” or “fine,” or something else that could honestly be mumbled truthfully in passing by a teenager with hunched shoulders and hair in his face.

Listen, I could give you lots more metaphors and aphorisms, or I could just get down to business and write things in list form, as is the way of the kids these days.

1. I no longer have chickens. I killed them. With an axe and my hands. Okay, my husband helped. He held the axe. I held the chickens and closed my eyes, and the chickens closed theirs. I cried a whole bunch. It was awful.

And yes, I’m still a vegetarian.

2. Actually, I’m mostly a vegan. I gave up dairy, and since we no longer have egg-producing animals in the yard, I gave up eggs unless we can get them from a local farm, which isn’t that often.

3. Yes, I gave up cheese. I didn’t tell any of you about it because I thought maybe it would be like that time that Dooce divorced Jon. Who was Dooce without Jon? Who am I without cheese?

I did just compare a man to cheese. Every man should only be so lucky.

I’m doing pretty well without cheese. It turns out (ha ha ha) I’m allergic to dairy. That was what was causing my terrible stomachaches for twenty years! (Insert something about Dooce’s marriage. Wait, don’t. I feel bad about making that comparison at all, because marriage is tough shit, even when you’re married to Gregg the Bearded.)

I still miss queso. I don’t really read Dooce, but I respect her a lot, and I don’t give a shit if you don’t. I think she’s a strong lady, and I hope she finds some new queso one day.

4. I don’t really read blogs any longer. I don’t have twitter or instagram. I go on Facebook sometimes, but mostly I don’t. I am much happier without that.

5. I am no longer okay with people treating me like shit. When I first started this blog, I wanted to hear out every person’s criticisms and critiques of my ideas and my writing, because it would make me a better person. Or so I thought. What was really going on is that I had zero self-respect and I allowed strangers to trample me over and over and over again. (See #4.) Now if you leave a comment here and you’re an asshole, you’re getting deleted. That’s like pissing on my front porch. I guess you can do it, but you really are terrible if you do.

6. I have these glasses. And bangs.

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(I still have a shitty camera and am still a shitty photographer, because a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, and also idiots who can’t take a good photo despite having all the megapixels in the world. Megaterapixels! MeganFoxpixels! Wait, is she still around? I’m about five to ten years behind pop culture. And hey, I started watching this show called Lost and I’m sure it’s going to be worth the payoff of watching and being confused!) (Wow, that parenthetical got out of hand.)

But maybe I’m growing out the bangs. I don’t know. I would ask, “What do you think?” except I am no longer soliciting opinions about that stuff. Unless it is books. If you want to recommend a book to me, please do, forever and ever, amen.

7. I do not know what I am going to do about writing in my life, or in this space, or in general. I’m not soul-searching or gnashing my teeth or anything, I just don’t know yet. Maybe one day I’ll know, but maybe I still won’t.

8. I miss many of you. That’s why I’m here. I actually woke up this morning cursing out a lot of people in my head who kept me away from you nice and funny and sweet folks. I’m feeling better enough that if no one tries to go pissing on my front porch, I might try this more often. Maybe. We’ll see. See #7. I don’t know. But I want to talk to you (about books! so many books!).

9. I have figured out some things about my mental illness. Well, me and my health care providers. It’s not something I’m willing to talk about here right now, but I feel a lot better.

10. I’m working (and thus you shall not see my real name here any longer), and the kids are good, and Gregg is good, and my health is better than it has been in a long while. I’m in transition, I suppose. I’m a stronger and better human being, but I also feel like a completely different human being. I think I was a doormat before, or maybe a dog that was kicked too often, seeking approval. Now I’m…a werewolf. A shirtless werewolf in jorts. Watch your back, or I might imprint on your newborn babies and you will be…totally okay with that (I’m still fucked up about this six years later).

See you later, alligators. Maybe.