Tell me something, I don’t already know. Yes, I’m unstable. I’m freaking the fuck out. How did my Psychologist appointment go? Well… Borderline, Bipolar, & Anxiety showed up to the party. He annoyed the fuck out of me. I didn’t like him and he purposely triggered borderline. She came out to play. She was like, “Fuck you.” When I go to my therapy appointments, anxiety normally shows herself.

He triggered me. My answers were short. I rolled my eyes. I wanted to scream. I was majorly pissed off. Borderline came and he knew what he was doing. He poked me with a stick and she showed up. Sarcastic answers, eye rolling, and a “fuck you” attitude. I became a totally different person. Anytime I feel like someone is being sarcastic or being an asshole to me, borderline shows up. She puts you in your place, real quick. “Hey, you’re going to respect me or fuck off.”

He wanted to put me in a hospital and anxiety wasn’t having that. I have books to write, kids to take care of, and the irrational fear that my husband will leave me, if I am admitted to a hospital. I don’t want to be hospitalized. I don’t want to sit in a room full of strangers. I want to be home, where I know I’m safe. Three days away from my family, is the worst thing for me. I have to be around my kids. I have to know they are okay. I’m afraid someone will break in and hurt my family. I have to be home.

“You are not well. You need intense therapy.” Yes, I know I’m not well. But I don’t want to be around other people, I don’t know. Are you going to electrocute me? I’m not down with the electroshock therapy. Pissing and shitting down my pants, just doesn’t appeal to me. Losing chunks of my memory, I don’t want that to happen either. I don’t want anyone invading my space. I don’t want to be stuck in a room with other people. I don’t care who it is. So, we opted for intense out-patient therapy. I have to attend five intense therapy sessions a week for three weeks.


Borderline & Bipolar spoke up again. “I don’t think I need medication. I do meditation and eat healthy. I listen to music and write.” It was a smartass answer. So, my psychologist has prescribed a very low dose of Seroquel. I start taking my medication tonight. I’ll let you know if it gives me an out-of-body experience. Let’s just hope, I don’t wind up in the emergency room.

I see my psychologist, again, this Saturday. Don’t poke the borderline. That bitch doesn’t play.

New Psychologist

The ones that can prescribe medication. My PCP looked at me strange when I said she had to prescribe me medications because of my therapist. She didn’t like that therapist. So, she advised me to move on. She didn’t like the way things were run at another psychologist. Talking helps but I’m a special case. The cool thing about my PCP is that she cares. She’s like a nagging mother. I adore her. Before I didn’t. But that’s because she’s normally right. Me and my stubborn pride.

If you don’t know, I’m currently unmedicated. That isn’t a good thing. My PCP caught onto my Bipolar in an instant. She’s like “I can tell you’re manic.” My mind was racing and it isn’t a good thing. You have that “grandiose” thinking. Mix that with BPD and it’s entertaining.

Bipolar: We’re the greatest writer in the world!

BPD: No, you’re not. You fucking suck! They’re going to hate you again. Ha ha ha!

Anxiety: STFU, both of you! I think I need to throw up again! Did we lock the door?

Bipolar: BPD, you STFU. Not everyone is on the rag, like you are. You hateful fucker. It’s time to shine, bitches! Star, star, star.

Anxiety: Do we have to go outside? There are people there! Can we stay home? A good cup of hot cocoa and pajamas.

BPD: Anxiety, you’re such a pussy.

Bipolar: BPD, you should talk! You’re a bitch. Step out of the black clothing. You looking a tad bit ugly. Might want to dye your hair, while you’re at it.

BPD: Fuck you! Your pastels are blinding us! STFU, Bipolar!

Me: All of you STFU! I’ll make the psychologist prescribe something to shut all of you up.

BPD: Good luck with that. I’m immune. You’ll just become another mindless zombie.

Bipolar: No! You need us! We’re entertaining! We won’t get in your way. Admit it… you love us! A thousand thoughts and we can fix your plots. SUPERSTAR!

BPD: At least gag Bipolar. That bitch drives me crazy! Did she read the statistics? New writers fail miserably. Oh and your lip is bleeding.

Anxiety: I can’t stop biting my lips! I must chew my lips off!

BPD: They will think you got some disease or something. You need to quit. At least use a damn knife. We can conceal that shit, better than the damn lip. Way to go, Anxiety. How is she going to conceal that shit?

Anxiety: Oops! I’m sorry! I didn’t realize she was biting her lip until it bled.

BPD: You know, that’s a method of self-harm, right? You’re helping me out.

Bipolar: Let me get some concealer for that. I’ll make her beautiful again! Watch me, bitches! SUPERSTAR!

BPD: More like superbitch! Do they know how much of a bitch she can be? I’ll remind her. You all supersuck!

Anxiety: Does this mean we’re going back to the ER, when you try the new meds? We don’t do well with new meds. Remember the last time, when you thought you were having a heart attack? THAT turned out so… bad! Can we stay home? Make sure you double-check all the doors and the windows. No… check it again. Not good enough… check it again!

Me: Let me live! I can’t hide my books or myself forever! It isn’t normal! Let me live!

BPD: We’ll let you live. We just don’t think you need help. He’s probably some creepy perv. with a degree. He’ll give you a fucking rock and you’ll throw that stupid rock in the pond again. How is a rock going to make you feel better? Mark yourself with a fucking marker. What a joke! That does nothing for us! Ha ha! You’re wasting your time with another judgmental prick. You’ll be a zombie with drool hanging from your mouth. He’s going to get rich off your ass.

Bipolar: Smile! The cameras are on us! Superstar!

Anxiety: Medicines? BPD said medicines! We don’t do well on medication! That outta body experience sucked!

BPD & Bipolar: You’re telling us! We couldn’t get a damn orgasm for a month! We thrive off of sex! At least the hubby would be happy.

Me: Shut up! SHUT UP! I’m about to mute you three!

BPD: I’d like to see you try! I’m the oldest one and I’ll still be here. You think you’ve tamed me, but nah… I’m still here. I’ll feed you those seeds of doubt. I’ll remind you of what a pathetic loser you are. You’re no J.K. Rowling. You supersuck!

Me: I don’t want to be like J.K. Rowling. We are nothing alike! Let me write and let me live! I never said I was a great writer.

Bipolar: I did! You’re the best!

Anxiety & BPD: She really isn’t that good. They’ll come after her.


Those are my thoughts. They race around my head like an endless traffic jam. It would be nice to wake up and not have the traffic jam or the thoughts that race around my brain 24/7. I’m willing to be medicated. I have to stop the traffic jam before it drives me insane. I say that I have a handle over them, but there are some days, I feel like screaming. I wish I did have a normal brain. I wish I could do the things, a normal brain does. My biggest fear is losing my creativity. But in fact, it may help with my creativity. It would be nice to have a one-way street instead of a thousand interstates, going through my head. My books will one day be back on the market. I have to prepare myself for negative and positive feedback. I’m not going to make everyone happy and so, I won’t bother trying. But, I’m afraid I’ll throw up again, non-stop. That’s how bad my anxiety can be. It’s happened before and it does feel like a lit burner. I’ve been burned before and that doesn’t feel too good. I told her that the therapist recommended Effexor. My PCP says it does work well for anxiety, but it can make my Bipolar worse. It could even make BPD worse. She felt the need to prescribe a better psychologist. One, who I can see more regularly until I’m stabilized. I cried. Anxiety made me breakdown and cry. My PCP was like a shining angel. “We know you’re struggling. Let me help you. You’re not stable. I can see it in your eyes.”

I just want to live. They say you can survive without medications but I can’t. I tried and it doesn’t work for me. My biggest fear is receiving a negative review, and I’ll do something stupid, while unstable. I can’t do that. I don’t want to be like my former author friends. The ones who didn’t survive. That’s another fear. So, I try so hard not to be like them. I have alienated myself away from everyone and the world. That isn’t me. I want to fix the major chemical imbalances in my brain.To me, this isn’t normal. I should be able to handle negative criticisms. That’s hard for someone with Borderline. We’re so used to hearing negative criticisms that we are able to shut those people down. The only time, the guard dog hasn’t come out, was when my son criticized me. BPD does have triggers and it did hurt. I was able to hide it. If it were someone else, I would have been on a full meltdown. That isn’t how adults handle things. I did something that surprised me. I controlled my BPD meltdown. Now to control it against the world. That’s the nasty trick. Of course, there are assholes in all walks of life. Nobody is exempt from being an asshole. It’s how I handle those negative criticisms with grace and maturity. That’s my goal. To not take everything as a personal attack. And not be bothered by those personal attacks. I normally take those personal attacks and fall into deep depression. So severe that I’ll stay in bed for days. I’ll cry and have frequent meltdowns. Instead of feeling like I have just one person against me, I feel like I have that person and the entire world against me. Based off that one person. When there are other people, who love my books and my series. I don’t give those people enough credit. With BPD, I’m always searching for the negative things in life. I can never see the positive things. The never-ending pessimist. I’d like to shut her down and shut her up. I’m better than this. I can heal from this. I will heal from these mental health issues. I have hope. As long as that hopeful star shines bright, I can do this. I got this.


Stop It!

“We can do this,” I say. “You won’t throw up,” I try to convince myself. “They will hate it,” complains the other side of me. “Don’t do it,” that seed of doubt yells. What’s my problem? Releasing my books. I feel like a hideous beast, guarding my books and I’m holding them in a corner of a room. I’m snarly and my fangs are out. My eyes widen to the size of large saucers and they are dark. I’m hissing over my books.

That’s how I perceive myself. And even worse, I have Virginia Woolf’s book. Part of me wonders why she did what she did? Now I can see why. She went to point of no return. If she had better healthcare, would she have lived and produced more literary art? Part of me is scared to read her books. Two women from completely different generations. Both struggling with Bipolar. The bitch of a disease that torments me. It has its good sides and its downsides. She didn’t live and I’m still here.

When I see the words they work together with brilliant light as the correct words snap into place. Writing for me is like a puzzle that illuminates when I have a correct sentence. Adverbs? I don’t overdo it with the adverbs. Two adverbs in a row is just too much. Are there enough commas? Did I put in the correct verbs and nouns? Did I use pronouns? When I write a correct sentence, it flashes in my head like a game you see when you put the correct puzzle pieces together.

Some people adore my books. I still have that tiny little seed of doubt. I’m worried it will grow and control me like it did in the past. It grows and grows until it becomes this large black abyss. Sucking me in to its world. Devouring me until there is nothing left. That doubt keeps me up at night. It makes me throw up. I hate it when it controls me. It turns me into that hideous beast in the corner of a room. Guarding, snapping, and snarling beast. The skinny, sunken, nasty long hair, with daggers for fingers. Sharp fangs ready to snap. That is the darkness and she is a bitch. An evil deceptive bitch. She coils around me like a slithering snake. That is the demon, I’m fighting. She hates me and everything about me. She hates that I love and that I’m nice. She’s sitting there, mocking me and everything I do. If I could throw holy water on her and make her disappear, I would in a heartbeat.

There is another side to me. The innocent child still remains. She is full of hope and love. Her blond hair sparkles from the sun. She’s dancing around the demon full of wonder and cheer. So good that she doesn’t know that the world is full of hate, anger, and despair. She doesn’t care. Her eyes reflect chocolate hue with light in them. She is naive and oblivious to the world around her. She is skipping along and she’s happy. The joy of celebrating my books makes her happy. She tells me to believe in myself and I deserve happiness. Everything is going to be okay, you’re just having another bad day. We’ll start again tomorrow and the world won’t be as crazy as it is today. “Take a chance,” she says. “It will be okay,” she reminds me. “I am stronger than what I was and you are too,” she coos. Her little voice sounds like music from a jewelry box. It is priceless and reminds of chimes. She is unconditional love and moral support. “And this too, shall pass,” she reminds me.

Here I am, with two worlds tugging at me. I know I want to live. I don’t want to be like Woolf. Her outcome scares me. It’s that fear that drives me. I need to make it to the top of the large body of ocean. I don’t want those concrete blocks, dragging me back down again. It’s tied to my feet, trying to pull me under. Heavy blocks that don’t want me to survive. But I must survive. I will survive. Even in my unstable and unimaginable world, I must survive. I must breathe and try harder with everything I am. I am love, understanding, empathy, compassion, and sensitivity. I am stronger than this. I am the hope that flickers like the light from a lighthouse. We can do this. We will do this.

My Tics

There are things that drive me absolutely crazy. I don’t know why, that’s just how I’m wired. Here are the things that may seem compulsive and outlandish to some people.

  1. Evens. I don’t know why. Everything has to be even. I couldn’t end at one kid or three kids, I had to have four kids. Six people max. To me, odds just make a person unbalanced. My books have to be even. My page numbers have to end on an even number. My chapters have to have an even amount. It drives me up a wall, if anything is odd. I also have to have an even amount of characters.
  2. Toilet paper. It has to be on the inside. I can’t stand it on the outside. And it has to be rolled up. I can’t stand toilet paper that touches the floor. It bugs me.
  3. I organize my email. Oh yes! I keep my receipts for everything and place it in categories.
  4. I organize my bookshelves. Classics go on the top shelf. Series has to stay together and in the correct order. You can’t put Anne Rice novels with Dracula. Dracula goes on the top shelf. Harry Potter has to stay together. It drives me nuts if anyone puts my books out-of-order.
  5. Sheets. I must have a bed with a sheet on it. I can’t stand touching the mattress. If the sheet pops off in the middle of the night, I’m putting that bad boy back on. I don’t like touching the mattress at all.
  6. Drawers: I don’t like them hanging out. It drives me nuts.
  7. Clutter: I can’t stand clutter. Shoving shit in a drawer, pisses me off. My mom used to do that and it drove me nuts as a kid. I will throw it out. I don’t care if it was important, I’ll trash it.
  8. Hair in the sink. That one really drives me crazy. My husband is bad for this. He’ll shave and leave hair in the sink. So, when you wash your hands, it just looks unsanitary.
  9. CD’s, Games, and DVD’s: I arrange mine in alphabetical order. Not by the actor but by the title. I will make a new row for series and keep it together by which order the movies are perceived as first. So, I’ll take LOTR and put Fellowship first, then the Two Towers, and finally Return of the King. The alphabet does drive me nuts, when it comes to series. CD’s all alphabetical by the last names.
  10. Organize the kids’ clothes: Their top drawer is their undergarments and pajamas. The second drawer is their short shirts, third drawer has their long shirts, fourth drawer has their shorts, fifth drawer has their pants. I frequently go through their clothes to kick out the stuff they outgrew.

Those are just some of my tics. I don’t know why I’m like this. It does drive me nuts. Maybe it’s a control thing. Maybe it’s just me being crazy thing. Psst… it’s called OCD. I know. I shouldn’t let these things bother me, but they do. I’m trying to change it but I still catch myself doing these things without thinking. Even my husband has grown used to my habits.

Not An Author… Just A Writer

Yesterday, I had a really bad day. My son really raked me over the coals yesterday. It was the worst feeling in the world. And he broke my heart. He said some pretty mean stuff to me that was uncalled for. It really fucking hurt. Yes, he’s 11. But it really did level me. More like he bulldozed over me and backed it over a few times.


I didn’t snap but I did cry. He was rather mean and I’ll leave it like that. It does make me want to bring him in for therapy. I keep a closer eye on my own kids because I know the symptoms. I know the signs. My Anxiety is telling me to call the pediatrician ASAP. My Borderline wants to self-injure me. My Bipolar wants to cry. He isn’t a bad kid. He gets straight A’s.

The logical step is to remove all of his favorite things today and probably another week from today. It hurts, though. It really does. My husband wants to be the protector and I won’t allow him to be. He won’t do anything. Just takes away his stuff for an even longer time period.

Anyway, due to the fact that not anyone is really reading my work, I’ve chosen to take my manuscript off of Swoon Reads and I won’t be self-publishing any of my books ever. They will remain on Wattpad, unedited. I was going to do that anyway. It’s just time to let some dreams go. Being a popular writer, just isn’t in the cards for me. That’s okay. I can live with that. Reading other books, just makes me even more depressed about my own books. I can’t shake the past shit off. I don’t believe I ever will. That one review will haunt me for the rest of my life.

The hard part? Battling Borderline. I can hold a grudge for a long time. It’s that built-in shield of automatic protect mode. We’ve been burned, so let’s not try that again. We didn’t like that feeling, not doing it again. And when they are on the shelf, I throw up for weeks at a time. It stresses me out too much. And then these “holier than thou” authors say, “Well, if you can’t handle it, you have no business being an author.” But it was my dream. And my dream was smashed into a million pieces.

I will never be as strong as E.L. James or J.K. Rowling. Those women have more guts and courage than me. They have people going at them left and right. They manage to handle it all with grace and they always have a good comeback. When someone attacks me, I get really upset. I take it personally. So, when someone comes in from behind to say good things, I dismiss them completely. I’m always looking out for the negative things. Because the negative things, tells me everything I want to hear or see. I’m lousy, a terrible writer, no good, piece of shit, worthless, and won’t amount too much. That’s all I heard as a small child. So that’s what I believe. I’ve never received a “that’s a good girl!” “We’re so proud of you.” “You are so intelligent.” No… I got this instead. “Why can’t you be like your sister?” “What’s wrong with you?” “You won’t amount to much.” “Why can’t you win awards like your siblings?” “You’re going to grow up and be nothing.” “You’ll marry a man with a name on his shirt.” “Who would marry you anyway?” “You’re stupid.” If that’s all you heard, you aren’t going to believe anything anyone says that’s positive.

With Borderline, you want to fight back. You want to scream back. But this is my kid. I don’t like screaming. I love my kids. Even when they’re being snotty. It might be pre-teen angst. I want my son back. I miss him. He’s turned into this young man-beast. He’s loving for the rest of the week but last night, he was terrible. He’s probably right and maybe I needed someone to stop blowing smoke up my ass. Deep down, I know what he told was the truth. I am a sucky writer.

Irrational Thoughts

This happens a ton! You feel like you’ve been on an acid trip for weeks. Your mind keeps racing and spinning circles. Sometimes those thoughts keep you up all night and day. And when you finally decide to shut down, it seems everyone is having a crisis of some sort. Ugh… I hate days like that! There are days that I’m going to be passed out cold. This is one of those weeks. After reading several books in a row, I became burnt out. So yesterday, I shut down. I didn’t hear anyone. And I wasn’t waking up for anyone. I stayed out for the entire day. When your brain has finally had enough, it just shuts down. My body was already out. I couldn’t wake up if I tried. That’s the problem with mania. You’re excited and bouncing off the damn walls. Your brain is on crack (not really).

So these are some of the thoughts that rotate in my sick brain. Over the years, I’ve learned to tune them out. Some thoughts are gut-wrenching. This is what it’s like to live inside my head. Do you really want to know what it’s like to suffer from mental health disorders? This is what my twisted mind thinks of on a regular basis. Sure, I could take medicine. The problem with Anxiety medicine is that it fuels Borderline and Bipolar I for me.


This is what my Bipolar looks like on a daily basis… “We need to go, go, go! You have this many books waiting on you and this many books to write! Dammit, let’s go! Put on some rock and let’s get this party started! 4 books in one day! SURE! Let’s go! Come on, lazy ass! Let’s go! We got this! Write! WRITE! Where’s the party? I need a beer. Let’s get some alcohol! Money? Let’s blow it! We can smoke a blunt and drink like there’s no tomorrow! Party! Sex… are you feeling horny? I’m horny… we need sex! Loosen up! Let’s party! Write one book, let’s try for twenty books! Better put that erotic scene in! Order one book? No… we need to order 100 books! We can hide them, don’t worry! I got this, J… go relax! That bitch think she can out-read us! We’ll show her! Let’s go for 1000 books! That’ll shut that bitch up! Make sure you take notes. I can’t tell you what to write down, if I’m in control. Clothes? Let’s go with the sexy ones! Don’t worry… your husband can get over it! Pfft… 50,000 words? No… we can write 150,000 words and in three days! Let’s run a marathon today! Oh, and say hi to the voices!”

Bipolar isn’t as bad but she’s still a bitch. I’ve learned to tell the husband to keep all financial shit away from me. I’ll spend it without a second thought. I’ve learned to keep this bitch occupied. Sometimes it’s really bad. Two nights ago, I had auditory hallucinations. Nothing to fear but they’re back. I noticed the more tired I am, the more I hear shit and see shit that isn’t here. Most of the time, they call out my name. Sometimes it’s a male voice and other times, it’s a female voice. Always right by my ear. Sometimes it sounds like it’s on a loudspeaker. The funny thing is when my husband notices. I’ll stare at the ceiling. “Honey, what are you looking at?” And I’ll say this. “Did you hear that?” “Hear what?” “Nothing.” That’s how I know, I need sleep.

There are times, I would like to stick a big meat fork through my head. And when someone reads my book… BPD has something negative to say. And here’s what my Borderline thoughts constantly remind me…

“You know it sucks, right? They’re going to hate it and you. WTF are you even writing? You know it’s shit! You’re epic fantasy all right… more like a big epic fail! You’re not as talented as all those other writers. You SUCK! Look at all those other writers, you’ll never be as good as them! HA HA! You fucked up! You’re husband is going to leave you, once he realizes how truly pathetic you are. Everyone can be replaced. And your kids will grow up to hate you, too! Stupid loser! College dropout! Epic failure! I won’t be going away anytime soon! Take those pills, I’ll still remind you for the rest of your life, what a pathetic loser, you truly are. You’ll end up just like Virginia Woolf, except without her talent. Because you suck! You’ll never be good enough! Ta-Ta! You’re going to church… CHURCH? That cross will light on fire as soon as you sit down! Just like the day your daddy left. You weren’t good enough! You’re the brat that couldn’t shut up! No wonder why he left… I’d leave too! Loser!”

Thank you, Borderline! I fucking hate you. I fucking hate everything about you. You’re cruel and you’re a bitch. I don’t even need to worry about negative reviews, you do that to me anyway. I have a brain that cruelly torments me to the breaking point. Fuck you, Borderline! You’re a cunt, twunt, and twat waffle. I hate every little seed of doubt you put into my head. I hate the way you lie to me. I hate how you make sure that I’m worthless. You’re the manipulative bastard, I hope one day, there’s a cure for. You would be the first mental health disease, I would cure. To get rid of you, it would be a miracle. You’re the demon, I can’t stand.

These are my constant thoughts of Anxiety when it jumps in the mix…

“I feel like throwing up. Where’s the toilet? Let’s throw up. I’m going to be sick. Do they like it? Do they hate it? Are the kids okay? Is your husband okay? Better check the doors. Nope, check those doors again. Better check those windows. What if a fire starts and we can’t get out? Check those windows again. Check the kids again. Make sure they’re breathing. Are they breathing? Good, check the husband again. Is he breathing? Put your hand on their chests. Make sure they’re okay. Go throw up. Are you sure you want to do this? Are you really sure you want this? What if you’re having a heart attack? HEART PALPITATION! GREAT! We’re having a heart attack! Don’t eat that… HEART ATTACK. Let’s throw up again. Politics… he’s going to kill us all! We’re going to be nuked into oblivion! Stay away from the television! NO! Don’t you do it! You’ll become paranoid! Stop it! God, why won’t they legalize marijuana? Fucking red state! Write, mofo! WRITE! Get us out of here! Get us out before we start seeing “happy” songs that you know you’ll hate. Breathe… BREATHE! HEART ATTACK! What’s that smell? Fetal position! Get down! We don’t do heights… we will fall to our death! You know it isn’t stable! HEIGHTS! We can’t breathe! It’s hot in here! HEART ATTACK! Aaron died in his sleep. What if we don’t wake up? Are you sure we should sleep? Aaron died of sleep apnea and he was just a few days older than you. Maybe we should call the doctor. Public? What if they have strep? You’ll break out again! Stay home. We don’t do well with crowds. What if a shooting happens and we can’t get to the exit door in time? Look for the emergency exits. What if our kid does something stupid and we aren’t there to protect them? What if someone breaks in, when we’re not home? Better call the school and check on the kids. Email the teachers and make sure they’re okay. Oh God… we have an idiot for a president! No traveling now! It’s better to stay home. Safe and sound. People die from car wrecks. Stay home. You see, I knew there was something wrong with us! The doctor found pneumonia!”

I know these thoughts are irrational. That’s how my mind works 24/7. I’ve lived like this for many years. Sometimes, they win. Other times, I win. It’s a constant battle. Luckily, no self-harm or suicide ideation has done anything to me. Not since 2014. I’m three years in. Every time, I feel my chest getting tight, I know it’s Anxiety. Every time, I have crippling doubt, I know it’s Borderline. Every time I write to death or read to death, I know it’s Bipolar. My husband can see the signs and he will put his face near mine. He reminds me to breathe. Somehow, he’s able to snap me out of it. Almost like magic. He does it in sweet soothing tones. He never yells or screams at me. When I cry, he lets me cry. He will hold me until I come back. He also has the copies to all my manuscripts. He keeps me contained. The problem with Borderline is that you have nightmares of the person closest to you, leaving. It will make up nightmares that the other person is cheating on you, when they aren’t. In the beginning, I was always accusing.

How do I know he’s not cheating? He leaves his phone out for me to check. He leaves his email open. He talks to me during lunch and last night. Last night, I watched him fall asleep with all the kids around him. They were curled up sleeping around their daddy. Samara fell asleep in his lap, sucking her thumb. Jasper curled up next to him. Danny slept in front of him and Zach slept next to him. They all fell asleep watching television. Even though he’s left those things open for me to check, I stopped checking years ago, many years ago. It’s tempting but I don’t need that reassurance. With Borderline, it takes a while to trust people.

When we do trust, we become faithful and loyal to that person. We’re not looking for the nearest exit sign out of a relationship. But it takes years. It can’t be done overnight. We’ve been burned and broken. And God help anyone that fucks with them. My husband laughs and calls me his junkyard dog. “Do you want me to kick their asses?” “No, it’s okay.” I’m extremely overprotective of my husband and my kids. Yes, they can handle themselves. But I don’t want anyone to hurt them.

Those are some of my thoughts that seem downright scary. Let me remind you that I’ve been battling Borderline for seventeen years. Possibly even longer. Anxiety has been there but not professionally since 2014. I recognize symptoms I had for many years. It was the newest diagnosis but the oldest one. Bipolar, diagnosed in 2004. But I’ve had nasty bouts with it since 96. So over 21 years. It’s always going to be a nasty battle. I wish I could wake up one day and not worry or have those thoughts. It would be nice to wake up with a “normal” brain. But, mine isn’t made that way. I have to recognize my emotions for the day and check myself. That old adage… “Check yourself before you wreck yourself.” What else do I do? “And this too, shall pass.” “Go to sleep, because tomorrow will be a better day.”  “You’re just having a bad day. It will be better tomorrow.” “Breathe in for three seconds and breathe out the negativity.” Those thoughts are what keeps me going. “If they don’t like your book, it will be okay. Just study harder and the next book will be better.” “It won’t be the end of the world. So what if they don’t like it! At least you tried!” Those thoughts are what keeps me going. The “I love you’s,” is what keeps me going. I will not allow these mental health illnesses drag me to the bottom of the ocean. I’m alive and I’m fighting this endless war inside my own head. Hope, love, and believing is what keeps me going. To battle suicidal thoughts, I set goals for the next day. I try to stay positive as much as I can. It doesn’t seem like it but I try to stay in that mindset. And besides, my husband wants to take me to a rock concert. Nerves… He tricked me with my favorite bands. I love Def Leppard and Poison. I can’t allow anxiety to rule my life. I haven’t been to a concert in many years. Yeah, they’re old guys… but I still will crank up a Def tune or a Poison tune. The 80’s were cool! I’ll score another concert t-shirt. Maybe 3 of them. Life is about taking chances. And I need to start taking some.


Sympathy For The Devil

Do you like that song? It’s by Rolling Stones, in case you haven’t heard it by now. Some to the right might think of it a little rough. I remember all the times, I felt as though, I self-destructed. When you’re in mania or suffering from Borderline, it feels like you’re out of control. I remember all the rage that was built inside of me. All the anger and the surging rage. Rage as though, you’ve never seen. When bad shit happens to you, you get scared and angry. And then you explode like a dynamite. Borderline probably more-so than Bipolar.

The Bipolar side is fun but when you mesh it together with Anxiety and Borderline anger… it’s a mess. You want to destroy everything and anything in your path. People are ducking and hiding. It seems funny, but it isn’t. Those moments in my youth, I wish I could take back. I was a holy terror from 16 to early 20’s. I allowed the darker side of me to take over. I witnessed a dramatic change. I wasn’t the same person anymore. I was this hideous and monstrous beast that did a ton of stupid things. That’s when I was hospitalized twice. I did participate in multiple different methods of self-harm. I cringe when I think of those times. I was a horrible person. Can we get a do-over? If I could take a magic wand and erase those times from ages 16-24, I would love that. All I can do now is hold myself accountable for my actions. Yes, I’m sorry. I’m sorry to those, I hurt and made small.

Now I’m 36. I could laugh at some of the shit I did do. There’s a part of Rosalie’s existence that actually was a true story. All the immature things she did in the book, that actually did happen. And I didn’t realize I wrote it until after I wrote those books. I split myself up into three fictional characters. Rosalie is probably the character that is the closest to me. I didn’t realize all the anger until I re-read my books. Whoa… heavy shit! Ember will represent my depression more. Yeah, Rosalie’s story almost mirrors mine. Take out the dancing (I can’t dance to save my soul) and the other dramatic elements, she’s the closest character to my heart. Replace the foster parents with my parents. It amazes me that I wrote about it in a fictional setting. I put all my dreams into one book. And I found that I split my husband up in between a few characters. But you see him the most in my fictional character, Ian. The things that Ian says, were the things that my husband has said to me over the years. “Spike” and Rosalie’s story was actually how my husband and I were with each other. We hated each other at first. I thought he was an arrogant asshole. And my husband changed from an arrogant asshole into the most loving and compassionate person, I’ve ever known. He settles all my fears and demons. I didn’t realize that I put that much into “Spike.” Whoops! And yes, he defends my honor even today. He’s seen the real me and he knows my heart.

My husband often chuckles, when he reads my books. “I said that to you.” “Hmm… that sounds familiar.” “Oh… I did say that.” I didn’t realize I plugged a ton of him in there. As a writer, you just think “hey, I’m going to create these awesome characters!” So, yes, writers take advantage of their surroundings, people, politics, nightmares, dreams, and fantasies. It really is bearing your entire soul to the entire world. That to me is downright scary. But, my husband did save me from myself. If that makes any sense. I was on that path and he stopped me. He got me into therapy and turned me around. Sometimes, we do need people who still believe in us. I had nobody in my corner. I was fighting with all my family members. He is and was the first person, I gave my full trust to. It’s so hard for me to give up my trust and control. It’s nice! Not like control, like you can’t do this or that. More like, he controls the rage. He’s able to tame the monster and forces her to sit back in her corner, so I can live. He looks for certain facial expressions and he knows. He knows me better than I know myself. When I do have to go out, he will hold my hand and whisper to me. He will soothe me like a balm. It keeps my head level and straight. That type of control. He’ll snap me out of it. And he does it all in soothing, loving, and caring ways. He shuts that horrible monster down. If that makes any sense.

As for the reason why, I titled the post the way I did. My dad did apologize to me for everything he did to me, to us. I still get angry but not as angry as I used to be. It’s a subtle anger. Instead of a roar, it’s a purr. With Borderline, we tend to unleash the rage at anyone and everyone. But, when talking to him… I gave him forgiveness and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. There is a line in a Madonna’s song, “Oh, Father.” It goes like this, “somebody’s hurt you too.” And that line still sits in my mind. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. The little girl inside of me stopped ducking and shaking in fear. She peeped out and smiled her little toothy grin. I missed her for so long. The memory of him carrying me from the garden to the house took over. He was an okay father for the first seven years of my life. Something inside of him snapped. He was a Vietnam Vet. Maybe Agent Orange did something to him. Instead of dealing with his emotional scars and the physical abuse he suffered as a small child, he dealt with it as a much older adult. It was like sometimes he would be Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It became worse after I turned 7. Hyde revealed himself more. And the little girl went into permanent hiding for many years. She had her arms covered over her head and she hid in a corner. Sometimes a toothy child with blonde curls or the teenager with dark hair. The pissed off teenager. The rebellious teenager with a middle finger at everyone and authority figures.

Do you know the funniest thing? A news channel interviewed me many years ago about the whole Bill Clinton scandal in the 90’s. I was in full-blown mania and I hope they scratched that interview. It was bad! I don’t remember what I said! I hope they didn’t air it! I’m scared to see it. And what’s worse? The tied-dyed outfit I wore that day. Oh… yes! I went through my hippy thing too! With a big tied-dyed marijuana leaf on the front of it. That was back in 98. OMG! I think I cracked a bad joke at the time. Surely, they never aired it! I had on a pot necklace and a pot ring. You could tell, I was out of my fucking mind. I hope I gave them a fake name. I probably did. It was the 90’s. I did a lot of crazy shit back then.

Anyway, sometimes you have to forgive the devil. The scary beast that gave you nightmares for years. I hate abusers more than anything. But a tiny fraction of me, feels sympathy for them. For they didn’t get the help they needed. Someone caused them to be that evil. Something broke them. Hopefully for them, they realize it and receive intense therapy. “I’m verbally abusive.” Stop it then! Get help! If therapy can turn this monster into a kitten, I’m sure it could help you. Your tears only get you so far. After you hit them so many times, they get up and fight back. I tend to read a lot of books with strong women. I know why I’m drawn to them. They have the ability to say no and fight back. I often dreamed of being like Xena or She-Ra. I thought it was cool how Xena wielded that sword. So, when I’m scared, I think of the most powerful woman in the entire fictional world. That keeps me strong. I try to shift my night terrors into Xena or She-Ra. Those night terrors make some pretty awesome battle scenes for my novels. No matter what pain I’m going through (physical/mental), I think of them. And I try to morph my fictional woman lead characters into them. Make them seem fragile, but inside… they’re always one step ahead of everyone.

So, yes… sympathy for the devil. Still a cool song after all these years.



Abuse Isn’t Just Physical…

In therapy, we went over the different types of abuse. Sometimes, you don’t even realize it is abuse. You see it on a daily basis, day in and day out. So, growing up, you believe it is natural. In return, you seek relationships that are often similar to your childhood, because it is all that you know. In case you don’t realize it, here are the other ways that someone can be abuse and not even know it.

  1. Verbal abuse: Calling either partner names. That’s considered verbal abuse. I grew up in a household like this as a small child. You hear all the f-bombs, mofo, dumbass, and other names, one calls their partner. Notice I typed “partner” because it goes both ways. Women dish out verbal abuse just as much as men do.
  2. Emotional abuse: Making someone feel bad for their feelings. Making them feel inferior to them. That goes hand in hand with verbal abuse. Constant crying and things never being perfect enough. No matter how hard my mom tried, my dad would always find something wrong. He never lifted her up. Not. One. Time. He always insulted her family for being “uppity” and shit like that. So in turn, you turn to food or shopping. The house was never clean enough. Never mind that she spent hours with five kids to keep the house spotless. Like, you could eat off the floor, that’s how clean she was. To see my dad’s house now, it pisses me the fuck off. His house today is fucking nasty. Clutter everywhere, shit stuck in the carpets, nasty kitchen, nasty bathroom. He did this to my mom! And now… he lives in complete filth. This becomes more than “If you loved me, you would do this and that for me.”
  3. Religious abuse: This is a heavily contested subject. It’s a hot topic and I understand why. But when your kid is shaking from fear, there’s a problem. When your kid is telling you that they’re having nightmares about Hell, there’s a problem. Using God or a form of God as abuse. “You’re going to go to hell if you do this and do that.” Don’t do that to your kids. “God is going to hate everything that you do.” It wasn’t (in my case), something to feel love. I still hate going to church to this very day. I literally have panic attacks, if I step inside a church. My nightmares, make Stephen King books look like baby kittens. Real and sheer terror. I tried it for a month and I couldn’t stick it out. My PTSD told me to run. I often trembled, felt clammy, sick to my stomach, and it brought back flashes of my childhood. I had to leave. For my own sanity, I had to leave. This automatically doesn’t make me an Atheist. I do believe in a God, I just don’t think its a judgmental prick. Notice, I said its. My dad often made me pray and if I didn’t pray every day, I was told that I would wind up in Hell. He mentioned other things that still trigger PTSD. “Well join another faith!” I’ve tried that. It doesn’t matter which faith. I have issues with churches/temples in general. I have issues with religion. My dad used it as a way to torment me.
  4. Intellectual abuse: Probably could classify as emotional and verbal, but this is true. Making someone feel stupid for not completing college/high school and other things of that nature. We see this often times on Facebook posts. “You’re stupid and I can tell by your degree…” You are an intellectual abuser. Anytime you make someone feel worthless or small, it’s abuse. The same if they’re not speaking English and it is broken English. When you dominate a person and feel superior to another by expressing how much more intelligent you are than they are, it’s abuse.

Some of these sound silly. Some of these may sound absurd. I get that. “Are you an SJW?” No. I am not. I am just a person, trying to survive this life. Even though, I’m often tempted to fall into one of those traps, I remember what happened to me as a child. Would I want to make someone feel inferior to me? What would I get out of hurting another human being? That isn’t me. I don’t want to fall into that trap. Of hurting someone, just so I could feel better about myself. It makes absolutely no sense.

That’s probably why, I’m staying away from politics. Both sides are bombing each other with terrible names for each other. We were divided a long time ago, the moment we had political parties. The moment we checked our sex into boxes. The moment we chose what nationality we were, color of skin, religion/lack of religion. We checked those boxes as little kids. The media, taught us to hate each other for our differences. School systems have taught us to hate each other for our differences. They claim they are going to help us with anti-bullying policies, but they don’t. USA was never united. If one’s own opinion is different from another’s opinion, we are not united. Would you want to be united? Would you want everyone to think the same? That would be one boring country full of zombies and robots.

Liberals and Conservatives are both terrible for calling each other names. Neither side wants to sit down, shut up, and listen to the other. There is no rational conversation here. Everyone is flying verbal bombs at each other. None of us can agree to disagree. As long as we keep checking those boxes, we’ll never be united. The anger is displaced. The anger rages on without any real reason. We waste too much time and energy, hurting one another. What have you done with your own family? What have you done to help others? I believe there is darkness in everyone, but there is also goodness in everyone. You can’t have a positive charge without a negative charge. A simple science class, moved me to think that way throughout my life. When you’re wishing harm upon another person, it doesn’t make it right. To believe that one sex hurt you, so that all of them must be horrible! No, several men did hurt me. My own father hurt me. That didn’t kill it for an entire gender. Because, I do have an amazing husband and three amazing sons. I see the goodness and love in them. Unconditional love. That’s stupid to hate an entire gender for what a few of their representatives did to me. The same goes for churches. I’ve never been wronged by any church. I just have a mental issue that I need to work on, so I can sit in a church. Sometimes, it isn’t the church that’s evil. Sometimes it’s the people who sit in those pews, are evil. Those are the masks, Stephen King mentioned a dozen times. “Who needs real monsters, when you can look around and see real monsters.”

Anytime someone makes it like you’ve done wrong, evil, bad, and not good enough… realize it is because of them. They are the ones, who are sick. They are the ones, who need therapy. Should I hate my father? No. I forgive him and I moved on. I also feel empathy for him. He was a sick man, who had no business raising kids. You have the power to continue their traditions or change them. Do I want to be like him or my mother? No. I can’t stand yelling. Yelling alone, upsets me. Screaming upsets me. Calling a child worthless, is upsetting to me. I chose not to continue the cycle of abuse. I cuddle with my kids and we laugh about their day. You have to let go of the past at some point. That’s the hardest lesson to learn. That and we’re only on this planet for a very short time. Maybe we crumble into worm bait. Maybe there is an afterlife of some sort. Maybe we’re reincarnated into slugs. Who knows? The dead can’t tell us. They’re dead. None of us truly knows what happens to us after we leave this planet.

But, I want to spend my time on things that matter to me. To be a good human being. Not a good woman, or moderate, or whatever else these labels we use. I want to spend every minute and second with my family. These are the people who truly matter. Whether we lived in a mansion or a cardboard box. They are the reason, why I stopped watching all forms of news, listening to news, talk radio, or participating in politics of any kind. Keep your garbage away from me. I don’t need to listen to all the hate, anger, fear-mongering, and disappointment.

But if you are being abused… GET OUT! I don’t care if you have to walk. I don’t care if you have kids. I don’t care if you’re broke. GET OUT! You have to take that step and walk out that fucking door. You deserve love and happiness. Every human being deserves to be loved and to give love. It doesn’t always have to be physical. It can be all the examples that I listed above and more. Don’t blame yourselves for someone else’s problems. They are the ones with the issues. Don’t be their doormat. Walk out. It’s hard to take that first step. Ask the police, if you need out. I did that one before. I was scared but I called the police and they brought me to safety. Because of them, I’m still here. I won’t bash an entire group because of a few bad seeds. There are good people and bad people all around us. The good people are the true angels.

*Please, note that this will be the first and last time, I mention politics or religion*


Anxiety Strikes Again!

The problem is that I allow my husband to speak for me. If it was an interview, I failed miserably. I wouldn’t hire me. So, what Anxiety does is it gives you a thousand irrational thoughts. Thoughts that you believe you can control. But those thoughts have a mind of their own. It becomes irrational and comes up with the worst scenario. I was asked to step in and become an editor for an e-magazine. This is an e-magazine for model trains. It’s non-profit, so I don’t earn any money for it. But it is nice to list on your bio, when you choose to query for a literary agent. It looks good for them. The problem is battling an irrational mind and irrational thoughts. Here are some of the thoughts that shot from my head.

  1. I hate table of contents. I loathe fucking with it. I hate it when I create a TOC for a book and hyperlink for e-readers. I just HATE messing with the TOC. I remember spending 7 hours, figuring out how to hyperlink everything and how to level my TOC. I remember having a full meltdown. I had tears streaming down my face and my husband came home from work, during my nasty meltdown. It was an ugly sight.
  2. I have tremendous self-doubt when it comes to publishing anything or sending an article anywhere. I can feel my stomach churn and not in a good way. The first thing I thought of, “I need Phenergan because I’m going to throw up.” That’s another reason for why, I took my books down. The anxiety is so bad that it causes me to throw up. Yes, I have a script for that. That’s how bad my anxiety gets. “Why haven’t you published your next book?” That would be the real reason why. I won’t eat anything, sleep, and stress out. “People are gong to hate it!” To gain confidence, I posted my books on Wattpad. Even posting there, makes me sick to my stomach. It’s like leaving your soul exposed. You’re standing on a stage; waiting for the tomatoes to be thrown at you.
  3. I’m going to be an embarrassment to my husband and the train community because my article will suck. So, the disappointment from my peers. “Look at what you’ve done to me! You made me the laughing-stock of the train community!” That thought popped into my head.
  4. No college degree. When they’re listing this degree and that degree… I have 0 degrees. I took one creative writing class and that’s it. I only attended one college and it was a disaster. Anxiety can be a bitch.
  5. Not perfect! I’m a huge perfectionist. Probably not as much on my blogs as I am with Microsoft Word. It has to be perfect in my eyes. Any wave of doubt, I tend to hiss and guard my work with my claws hanging out. “Mine… stay away! Stay back!” Hiss…
  6. Not being good enough. I feel that there are better writers and I don’t feel remotely confident in being an editor.
  7. I’m screaming in my head. “Let me be with my books! I don’t know how to do anything else!”


Those are my irrational thoughts. The house is going up in flames! The mind is going up in flames. She’s a bitch and lies to me. This one thought plays over and over like a broken record. “You’ll never be good enough. You’re going to fail! You suck!” That’s what plays in my head over and over again. It doesn’t stop and it normally leads into a full meltdown. To combat this… my rational mind thinks these thoughts.

  1. You wrote three novels for an average of 4.3 to 4.5 stars. Not many writers get those results.
  2. You’re too hard on yourself. Not everything needs to be perfect.
  3. So, you don’t have a creative writing degree. Consider yourself lucky that you don’t have to go in financial debt over a useless degree. Mark Twain was a successful author and he didn’t have a degree. Degrees don’t mean shit, as long as you have an imagination.
  4. You are good enough. You are loved. You are appreciated. Your kids love you. Your husband loves you. Even with all of your imperfections, they unconditionally love you.
  5. So what, if you fail! At least you tried. Not many people write anything. Consider yourself blessed that you at least tried.
  6. Be your authentic self. People expect people to be open and honest. They respect you more for being truthful.
  7. Write your own book. So what, if you earn all one-stars. You did something that not a lot of people have the balls to do.
  8. You know the ins and outs of Microsoft Word. You know how to do hidden scene breaks. You know how to edit in MW. You know how to format. You know how to do two different types of TOC. You know how to make titles and subtitles, look pretty. This is a walk-in-the-park for you. And you need to expand your writing capabilities. Stop ducking in a hole and waiting for the worst to happen. The worst has already happened. You can do this. You know you can do this. Let your rational side take over for once. Stop doubting yourself. You are stronger than what you think you are. You’re living through five autoimmune diseases, mental health issues, and cancer scares. You’re one bad motherfucker! You lived through heartache and pain. You got this! Do you and be you. If there are haters, so be it. Shake it off and try again.


That is what I’m battling. Anxiety is a bitch. We don’t talk much, when we suffer from severe social anxiety. That will always be a struggle for me. When you assume the world hates you, it’s a bitch to battle anxiety. We stumble for the words. We double-think our word selections. We double-think everything we do. Even if the world loved us, we tend to listen to our haters more than the people, who love us unconditionally. It is a nasty battle that wages on. Will I ever conquer this mental health issue? I don’t know but I’d like to try.


Today, I feel great. Actually, I felt great the entire month. It’s a new start and a new year. I’ve made it to 2017 in one piece. I don’t know how I’ve come this far but I’m here. I’m still alive and breathing. Now for the hard shit.

A lot of my memories have been blocked out. Like, I can’t remember everything that’s happened to me as a child. Well, now I’m worried about my brother. He also suffers from Bipolar. Except his is Bipolar II. I have Bipolar I. The “bad” one everyone seems to say. I’ve kept my mind preoccupied with reading books and writing books. Books give me an escape from reality. It isn’t a secret that I didn’t have a great childhood or teenage life. Some people have it bad. There are some things I remember and a ton of memories that remain suppressed. I can’t remember things. Maybe that’s from being traumatized. I don’t know if it’s the brain’s way of coping with trauma.

Anyway, my brother (who will remain nameless to protect his identity) isn’t stable. I’m better than he is and that’s hard to admit. Books, my kids, and my husband are my life lines, if that makes sense. My brother on the other hand, the one I looked up to as a child, isn’t doing well. He left his wife to marry another woman. Well, that marriage didn’t work. So he married the second wife and left her for the first wife. Still with me? Now for Christmas, he’s left the first wife to go back to the second wife. If that isn’t Borderline mixed in with Bipolar, I don’t know what else is. Anyway, we had to console the first wife. We still love the first wife. They have two kids together, who are now adults. I still see them as little kids. I guess that’s part of being an aunt. I adore them and love them. My heart breaks for them. She talked to someone else and my brother lost his shit. He left her for the second wife. It’s a real Jerry Springer episode and I wish I could make this shit up.

My brother is spiraling out of control. His mind is lying to him and he refuses to listen to any of us. He needs help like ASAP. He’s wanting to quit his job and do things that aren’t him. He’s bought two cars and untold amount of credit debt. He’s lost his house and it’s a mess. He wanted to throw grandma’s pictures away. That isn’t like him. My brother and I fought over those pictures. Now, they’re mine. Stuff he isn’t concerned with that he used to enjoy and love, he’s giving it away. He’s cut off all conversation with us and I’m upset.

My brother also dropped a bombshell on us. He announced that he was sexually molested as a child. My mother, of course, denies it. Something familiar stirred in my brain. Something inside me confirms is allegations of sexual molestation. Neither of us can remember anything. To tell you the truth, I don’t want to know. She immediately goes on defense saying that she was always there with us! That allegation is untrue! She wouldn’t let any one near us! Well, that’s a lie. I can remember her leaving us with various people to work. Or worse, leave us with our father. Every time I go to remember it, something blocks my memory. It’s frustrating. Even my older sister has said something about sexual molestation. How could three of us be lying? Something happened to us and neither of us can remember anything. It’s like instant amnesia. Do I want to know? It makes a ton of sense of the things I’ve done. Why I’ve done the things I’ve done. It explains a lot. I don’t know if I want to uncover anything. I’m scared to uncover anything. I want to sweep it under the rug and move on. But, I still have this habit to check in on my kids at all times. I lock the doors and make sure the doors stay locked. I’m double checking even triple checking to make sure the doors are locked. I can’t stand elevators or small rooms without lights. I can’t stand headlights. With therapy, it can be unlocked. I don’t think I’m ready for that. To hear him say something like this… something in my soul screams out that it’s true! What he’s saying is true!

All I can say is that it only takes less than five minutes for something bad to happen to a child. I don’t understand how a mother cannot and won’t seriously consider child molestation. I call it child rape. That’s what it is. Ever since my brother dropped the bomb on us, my mind has had these awful night terrors. I wake up screaming for my husband. The images are distorted. I’m waking up in tears. I have to force myself to go to sleep. My nightmares make Stephen King novels seem like child’s play. A walk in the park. They are terrible nightmares. They are vivid and in color. I’ve only had two black & white dreams. 99% of my dreams are in full color. Some take me back to old places, I used to live. My husband comforts me and tells me everything is going to be fine. I can’t help but want him here. As my warm blanket of protection. I feel safer when he’s home. I trust my husband with my life. It’s hard for someone with Borderline to give up that trust. We don’t trust many if any people. That’s just the way our minds work. It’s hard to trust and love people.

As for my brother, his second wife (divorced but getting back together), has got him a therapy appointment. He needs to be hospitalized. I have begged other family members to tell him to get him into a hospital. He’s out of control. This is that crucial time, suicide can happen. He’s thought about it often. I know that for a fact. I wish I could ease his pain. I wish I could convince him to let go of the past. But, he has to do that on his own. I can’t help him anymore. I can’t look up to him like that anymore. I love him but he has to arrive at the spot I’m at on his own. It took me many years to feel this comfortable in my own skin. Even my husband has noticed the changes in me. I’m not angry anymore. I’m just chillaxing.

I found ways to control the rage. The endless rage and for the most part, my anxiety is down. I’m worried about my brother but he’s got to take care of himself. I can’t get him there. I love him and will always love him. But I don’t need him to drag me down with him. I need to move forward. I’m almost there. To peace and serenity. I need peace in my life. I deserve it and I am good enough for love and happiness. I found my love and passion for books. I’ve stayed away from Fox News, CNN, Headline News, and whatever craptastic media there is. I don’t need my world to be filled with negativity or violence. As for my childhood, I need to keep peeling the onion and releasing those shackles off my feet. No more. I don’t care. I want to move on. It’s over and done. What’s done is done. I don’t want to keep my mind stuck in the past. It isn’t good for me, my husband, or my children. I want to drive down a road on a sunny day with the wind blowing through my hair and the sun kissing my face. That is eternal peace for me. The worst is over. The nightmare is over. It’s time to live.