DSM-IV

My Beautiful Shoulders

I know you didn’t ask…but this is how I feel:

I feel beat down.  I feel like every time I think I have gotten ahead, life grabs me by the neck and yanks me back behind everyone else.  I feel like I am always utterly truthful with everyone I know and the sentiment is rarely returned, especially when it’s wanted and needed the most.  I feel like I know I love you but I don’t know how to proceed at this point because anything going forward from here will be an act of will on my part to be the bigger person.  I feel tired of being the bigger person.  I feel tired of being the smaller person.  I feel tired of being a person.

I feel tired of being thrown under the bus.  I feel tired of always being “do or die” when it seems to me I’m always left for dead. I’m tired of feeling betrayed, hurt, lied to, abused, taken advantage of, and called out of my name.

I am sick to death of being slandered and jumped and having the cops called on me.

I am sick to death of always having to look over my shoulder.  I have good shoulders….I shouldn’t have to always fucking look over them….maybe that’s how I know how beautiful they are.

I feel like saying “FUCK YOU” to the Golden Rule, thermodynamics, Karma, the Law of Sewing and Reaping OR WHATEVER ANYONE WANTS TO CALL IT.

I feel like telling a small list of people that this is exactly how “going postal” happens.

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chickenegg

Am I staying up all night getting in fights going to jail losing my job because I am off of my meds or am I off of my meds so I can stay up all night getting in fights going to jail losing my job?

Cause You Are

I keep losing at 8-ball pool but i keep playing anyway I’m listening to Tool cause this sunny day was a rainy day I gotta lotta thoughts i wanna say but my demons and angels keep getting in the way  that sounded like shit and i just want to quit bullshitting around at this night’s last sip no it’s really not the last sip of the ship that is going down flaming while i do a backflip i just lied again because I can’t do a gymnastic i took lessons one time and i loved that shit but dad thought it not so fantastic he told me i would end my life by breaking my neck a mop he gave me told me to sweep up his deck….i love being punny because i think that  its funny and i love to laugh in my belly when things are smelly and putrid and rotting and the whole thing that i call my world is twisting and turning and i know im a girl or a woman i suppose i love to cover my face in panty hose and pretend im a rob ya and rape ya and say that i got ya cause you suck balls and i don’t like you but i want you to love me and think that I’m awesome as gold wait til you see how my life will unfold, so far it’s been bad with some sprinkles of good when Im doing the things they say that i should but when the words in their mouth don’t match the words in their motions it causes my heart to feel some emotion and the emotion is anger cause that’s the one i’m best at I can cuss you up one side then this side and that and sound like my old favorite doctor who is doctor suess many times in my life dr suess has been my muse especially right now tool still playing in my ear and all that I hear is vicarious  so near but I’m not queer cause you are.

I love Kanye West and I am racist now

It is my overwhelming desire always…the one that sits at the bottom of my gut…to write.  Writing intimidates me, though and I won’t do it.  I am not easily intimidated, either, I must say.

Last night my 19-year old daughter and I were jumped by several black women and a couple black dudes at my home. The attacks came from the neighbors across the street.

I live in a predominantly black neighborhood.  I mean, it’s slightly mixed with some white, but mostly the whites are old folks who (I ASSume) lived here before the black folks moved into the neighborhood.

I really have never been racist.  Not even when the racist cards were stacked against me.

I was raised in South Louisiana.   I went all the way through school living in one of the most notoriously racist parishes.  I do believe Livingston Parish is, at least, one of the homes of the KKK.

Where I’m from, it’s completely normal when white folks are around other white folks to hear, more than occasionally, the word nigger in everyday conversation.  Maybe not as much with people like teachers, and such, but I shit you not, a few years ago I walked into the refreshment room at one of the biggest churches in my hometown and one guy was at the coffee pot telling another guy a nigger joke and not even telling him in a hushed voice.  I immediately turned around and walked out of that room, sans refreshment.  It really bummed me out. I quit going entirely to that church not too long after that, not so much for the racist joke I heard, but for their Armenian theology and infiltration of hypocrites.  Blah.  That’s so boring.

At the risk of being called by some of my hometown people, a nigger lover, I will re-iterate that for some reason that existed in me before I was me, there was born a color-blindness in me that defied all logic, given my upbringing.  I will give credit where it’s due and say that my step-mother completely forbade the use of the word “nigger” by either myself or my little sister.  She did not say it, herself, nor did her parents.  My dad said  “nigger” in at least half of every sentence I ever heard that man utter, until I quit talking to both he and step-mom in 2011.  I’m sure he still says it, though.

He hates black folks.

I remember in about 1983, I went for an outing to the mall with my step-mom.  She must have either been feeling particularly loving toward me, or was trying to get me into trouble, but she bought me a tan-colored t-shirt with Michael Jackson silk-screened on it.  It was that picture where MJ is laying on his side with his jerry curl and white sports jacket.  I was so excited about that shirt!!!  We got home and I put it on to show my dad.  I was 7 and oblivious, really, and was really confused when my dad became super-angry at me and started screaming at me in his scary mean dad way.  He made me take the shirt off and I was told he burned it.  That’s all I remember about that.

The second time I was raped, it was by a black guy.  I never told anyone, though.  I talk about it now but not telling it like it’s a big deal, but more like just saying it because it’s part of my story.  I never told anyone about the first time I was raped and how a white guy did it, either.  I don’t really see how color is an issue, except if I wanna garner sympathy from whites saying that a black dude raped me, but since I didn’t tell anyone I wasn’t getting sympathy and sympathy is the fucking last thing I want, anyway.

(Praise, Accolades and Book Deals Are Fine)

I thought the sentence I just wrote was funny because the first sentence of this train wreck was that I was unable to write.

Maybe I was using reverse psychology on myself.  I can’t stand to be unable to do a thing as long as the thing I am doing is within reason.

After last night, I feel like I’m a racist now  and it feels weird.  It’s an idea that is completely bipolar to me now.  Pardon the pun that’s not really a pun because I’m not really bipolar.  I guess I’m getting jaded.  It really does get hard, especially when I feel pretty strong racism from many members of the black community with whom paths cross with mine, here lately.

I love Kanye West.

ONOMATOPEIA

i don’t know why I always feel

when the truth comes out and I must reveal

my innermost feelings I keep concealed

I must make them rhyme to seal the deal

Maybe it is that it’s easiest to say

the hardest words in a poetic way

Onomatopeia turns black and white to grey

and maybe it’ll make you stay around to play

and if you did, I’d push you away

My subconscience mind is who I obey.

Optimist

I have so much I could write about but no laptop to type, and I am sticking to that excuse.

My mood is far beyond depressed,  which always means I need to get it out of me in some sort of prose.

Everything is coming apart again.

The ground never remains level beneath my feet.  However,  I really do try (at least in my head before I go to bed) to be the ” forever optimist”.  And the more unstable things become,  the more epiphanies of God I am granted witness.

So that’s pretty cool.

It’s unfortunate that I forget most of them.

SHIT PIT LIPSTICK

I know you both been shot by cupid

and that devil made you both so stupid

it happened to me during the divorce

I was starved for love and so i was forced

to fall in love with a douche of guy

now I SMH and ask myself why?

why in the world did I do this to me?

my life was already a bucket of pee

but I added some fecal

not worth a nickel

to my fresh bucket of urine

and I was really loving him during

the time that we spent for almost two years

he quelled my doubts and destroyed all my fears

until he started fucking all of my friends

both girls and the guys

no care of which end

his penis would fit and never would split

I’m gonna rip you a new one

while you both dig your pit

and I’m GOING TO FUCKING LAUGH

so hard THAT I SHIT

Hard to Shock

I don’t care who you are, we all have our own shit

Guess what?  Everyone has different ways of dealing with it.

Maybe you overeat or maybe you shoot some smack

maybe you’re a narcissist who smokes a lot of crack.

You might be a person with a fetish for the feet

or maybe you’re a hooker who tricks on the street

maybe you’re a pedophile who fucks with little kids

the same way your dad fucked with you when you came out the crib

maybe you’re an Alex Grey who is into domination

you like to tie your bitches up, your dick feels the sensation.

Maybe you’re the opposite; you’re into humiliation

you pay a bitch twenty bucks to hear her degradation.

Maybe you’re a guy who likes to dress up like a girl

put a fancy dress on, and make it spin and twirl

or maybe you’re a girl who wants to be a guy

binded titties, hair cut short, no make-up is applied.

Maybe you’re a furry, dressing up like a bear

dancing in a costume, you love for them to stare

at your weirdness and your strangeness

and sometimes straight profaneness…….

Look, I ain’t judging n’er one of you people

the only ones I judge are the ones under the steeple

those are the kind who are so fucking blind

they really, really, really blow my fucking mind

….and that’s hard to do…

I’m hard to shock.

Awkward Hugs

Some friends acquaintances, we have throughout our lives think a hug is always an appropriate response to “their friend” who is sad.

Uh….yeah, no.
No.
No.
NO.

I honestly don’t really want to hug you, unless:
A) you are family and it’s expected (and I do it, but not because I want to)
B) you are someone I REALLY LOVE, like my small child, however, small child, once you get almost as tall as me or taller, all grown-up with your own opinions, and stuff….it makes the hug a bit harder….not impossible, but definitely  harder to initiate.
C) It’s an online hug and we aren’t really touching, physically.
D) We are in a sexual relationship which is not only honest, but reciprocal in most every way.
E) An immediate family member or pet just passed away.

When I met my biological mom at the age of six, one of the first things she said to me was, “******** you don’t know how to hug!!!!!!”

I know, mommy.

I am the “awkward hugger”, a term I learned from my sister, Doody.  I’m the one you go to hug and it turns into a dance….I’m always going in the wrong direction.

Guess My Diagnosis!

There are four text messages sitting on my phone, unread.

They have been there since yesterday.

I don’t want to read them, and this is not unusual for me.  This is an ongoing issue.

Ahh…fuck..another text just came through and I literally feel nervous butterflies bumping together inside of me.  They flutter in my belly and rise up through my chest and hover at the bottom of my throat….trying to choke me.

I need to just pick up the goddamn phone and look at the text messages.

Another one came.

The text messages are making me feel angry.  I don’t even know who the sender is, but I am mad at that person.

STOP.

I know this is completely irrational and up until last night, I have not been able to discover a rational reason for my irrational fear.

Last night I got my answer and the weirdest part is how in holy hell did I miss this diagnosis?

I gave up on doctors and their diagnoses.  I have been to several doctors and none of them have gotten it right.  I never told them they were wrong, I just let them run with it.  Anyway, it’s not like you can tell a person who has letters behind their name that they are wrong, especially if you don’t have letters behind your name.  You ESPECIALLY can’t tell a person who has letters behind their name that they are wrong if you are their patient.

I suppose all of the misdiagnoses given by the plethora of physicians who were officiating “my care” is partly my fault, because I do tend to leave out key information when informing them of my history.  But, in my defense, it’s part of my illness, and they are the ones with the goddamn letters behind their names charging me $80 – $150 an hour, yet only sparing ten or twenty minutes, monthly or bi-monthly, depending on the state of my mind, and charging me the full hourly rate.

THEY NEED TO FIGURE THAT SHIT OUT….IT’S THEIR FUCKING JOB.

The last time I saw a psychiatrist was late 2011.  I ended our five-year “relationship” when he refused to refill my xanax and adderall, because I was honest with him about smoking pot.  I had been prescribed the maximum daily dosage for each of the medicines for years and for him to refuse me my meds because I smoked weed was absolutely ridiculous.  I’m not even going to go into the possible side-effects which could have occurred by the cold-turkey elimination of the xanax, alone.

MY GOD….WHAT AN ASSHOLE.

It wasn’t just that he took my medicine away from me, it was also that he was so….cold…about it. He didn’t care if I didn’t come back to see him, anymore.  He had plenty of other patients to fill my empty spot.

I felt betrayed.  It took me so long to trust him enough to even let him get a glimpse of the real me, and I found out he never gave a fuck about me.

But, that’s the jist of how all of my relationships end, and all of them really do end.

All of them, just like that.

I am relieved to know I am not bipolar.  I never believed I was bipolar, it never felt right.

Now, can anyone guess my diagnosis?