Not (now) drunk but hurting like hell.

There’s a word for it.

Down. Down down down, suicidally down.

There’s another word, more precise, than that. Heartbreak.

My heart was breaking last night. Thus the post preceding.

It still is. But today I’m not under the effect of alcohol. Plus am beginning to process the heart breaking.

The situation and person involved are oh so very personal. Exposure/writing online, not gonna happen.

Suffice it to say that it’s someone I’ve known a very long time, more than 30 years, more than half my life.

A breaking heart makes for a memorable Christmas / holiday season.

I don’t cry easily or much any more. I used to. Childhood into adolescence was swamped with storms, tears of rage and pain and anguish — copious amounts far above the norm. All connected to home, parents, stuff I’d never return to even if a time machine allowed.

Later I learned to stuff the tears. Wall them off. Self-preservation.

So at 59, I very rarely cry and usually only when alcohol loosens the stubborn tight grip on my heart’s emotions.

Last night copious tears flowed, quietly, privately, head down. I’m not a wailer or attention-getting crier. I just remember sitting at one of my hangout saloons, there because I know the Monday evening bartender, looking online at my phone — at what, I don’t remember — and occasionally wiping away massive tears. Like melted snowballs.

Then when I got “home” eating the large remainder of my Christmas cookies my son baked — drowning my emotions in food, as I’m wont to do — and watching Netflix and then switching out the light.

I barely remember all that.

I can’t distinguish how much was the alcohol (in quantity, hadn’t been much though) and how much the meltdown of a heartbreak in the happening.

It can feel a lot like being drunk.

It wasn’t on heartbreak alone that I wrote last night’s post. (How I managed to do it at all is pretty amazing given my distraught condition!) It’s other things.

All coalescing into getting slammed by a semi that suddenly came careening around the corner.

I’ve got to keep it together. I can’t afford more crises on top of the crises already on my plate.

Merry Christmas to me! Maybe not.

Happy New Year! We’ll see.

Life’s dealt me some hard blows of late. I just want and need OUT of where I’m living and INTO a better space so I can at least deal with this stuff better.

Still waiting on Santa to deliver on that one item on the Wish List.

Nuthin’ more to say except though I’m tempted, I’m not deleting the post prior (“one week …”).

It may be drunk blogging, partly. Mostly it’s heartbreak blogging. I’m gonna respect that and let it be.


a note to no one.

I feel as friendless as friendless can be.

Isolated. Lonely. Separate. Separated from most around me. Disengaged. Unengaged. Left behind and left alone when I needed not to be.

Utterly and completely alone -in the unhealthy and isolated sense. Alone I don’t have a problem with. I feel on the brink of something horrible that I don’t want to happen but eventually will happen. Rather is likely to happen.

Isolation is the most severe punishment that can be inflicted upon a human being. Yes, there are cases where humans do live in isolation. The proverbial monk on the mountain. Or the severely mentally deranged criminals, for example. But they’re the exceptions. The lower end of the bell curve of social creatures that we supposedly are. Supposedly we’re born to need our mothers. Or fathers. Or primary caretakers. Supposedly we’re born needing that connection, that bonding.

What happens to us deep inside when that isn’t there?

+ + +

What happens to us when we’re forced into isolation in early childhood, in infancy, by a caretaker’s intent or by negligence? The first is born of malice and the latter of lack of caring. Which is worse, really? Which does more damage to the psyche of the child?

I think they’re equal. I think that malice — intentionally ignoring your child through hatred or “I can’t be bothered” or “I don’t care” — is as harmful and damaging as the parent who simply ignores the baby’s cries for warmth, comfort, feedings and holding. Ignorance is no excuse — no excuse whatsoever — for bad parenting. The burden lies on the parent, not the child.

Sadly, it is the child who bears the brunt and burden of parental negligence. It’s never the other way around.

+ + +

I’m essentially friendless here not because I’m a bad person. I am not In my youth, I was spirited, lively, engaging and adventurous — to a fault!

Now I’m a 350-year-old person trapped in a 58-year-old body.

+ + +

My zest for life isn’t what it used to be. Not even close. Depression has become my roommate. My doppelgänger. My soul mate from the dark side. The albatross around my neck that I can’t shake off. The thorn in my heart that I can’t heal. The weight of the world upon my shoulders and back that exhausts and ultimately, I fear, destroys me.

+ + +

When I envision my life when I”m 63 — in five years — I do not see a happy, carefree, fulfilling and rewarding life.

I see a bag lady. With her cart, extremely well organized. Meticulously so. No detail is overlooked. It’s exactly how I am in my life. Some things never change.

I see myself pushing this cart. Guarding it fiercely from the other homeless who would steal from me. Yes, it happens. The homeless do steal from one another and from one another’s carts! You’d think it’d be otherwise. You’d think that those with so little would be the most sensitive and thoughtful about not taking what is not theirs.

But it’s not true. What is true is that there are bad people EVERYWHERE. Even in the homeless population.

+ + +

I see myself pushing my cart, protecting it fiercely from the homeless with cold hearts who would and do steal from one another. People are rotten.

I see myself healthy — for a while And then I take ill. Slowly. I don’t know the cause of my illness. Perhaps it’s just disappointment in life and in people. I think it’s sadness. Grief. Grief for all the things that never came to pass in my life. The dreams weakened, crippled and then destroyed — as much by myself as by others. No. More by others. By human beings who never saw that I was a writer with potential. A writer with at least three novels in her.

But no one gave me a chance. No one listened.

The most deadly sound of all is silence.

I do not mean the silence that is sitting atop a mountaintop. Or inside a forest. Or inside of a swimming pool. Or in the middle of a desert.

Those are natural sounds of silence.

I mean the silence when no one is hearing you. Seeing you. When no one says you matter. When you grow up knowing that you don’t matter because that’s what your parents taught and told and showed you.

You’re invisible. We don’t see you. You don’t matter.

The sign-off signature on a death sentence.
+ + +

In this sunset chapter, I think much more about the things I wish I would’ve done differently … “if I’d known then what I know now …” “if I could turn back the hands of tie, I’d do this very differently …” “or not at all and I’d do that instead.”


But they’re not really regrets. That is, I feel regret for certain roads taken and others not taken. But for me, deeper is the sense of remorse. That is different from regret. Regret is for those things we didn’t do. I lived a full life, well, an adventurous life for sure.

It’s really remorse that I feel. Remorse is deeply of the heart.

And sadness.

Sadness for the child within me so battered and beaten up and hated so early in life by a mother and in ways later a father.

Remorse for my inability to heal myself from the damage done. I wanted to. I really did. I tried. I really did.

But in the end, the damage and darkness were greater than I. Somehow they took hold of my life force itself and sucked away. Life vampires sucking my life force.

+ + +
I have nothing more to say tonight and little to add except that I don’t fear death. I fear *coming back* — reincarnating by karmic necessity. But I really don’t fear death.

It’s life that hurts a fucking lot more.

Depression: The Autocratic Silencer


It’s not a case of the passing blues. It is indescribable. There are no words for it.

And the words that are used to describe it are inadequate. Words:

total blackness
pitch black

Independently or collectively, these words cannot express. It’s common knowledge that William Styron suffered horribly from depression. His 84-page memoir “Darkness Visible” both brought to light his intimate experience with it and gave word to an excruciating dis-ease that defies description, nee language. That work in its totality is available online at no cost at many sites, including this one:–_a_memoir_of_madness#page/n1/mode/2up

I haven’t much to add other than I struggle deeply very deeply with it and appreciate Styron’s remarkable efforts to describe his experience and share it with the world. It is more than I can do in the throes and depths of depression.

Depression, for me, silences everything save its own voice that feeds on self-destruction and an underlying urge for oblivion that’s rooted in my relationship with my mother who wanted more than anything to cast me into oblivion. She would have if she could have.

I’ve nothing more to say.

the write(r) stuff

I’m in an odds ‘n’ ends — emphasis on odd(s) 😉 — mood.

Not the Right / Write Stuff

Nothin’ like being invisible amongst your brethren.

There’s an informal writing group that gathers at a cafe Sunday mornings. I wish I liked the facilitator C. but I don’t. From the get-go, she’s been unfriendly, cold and cliquish. I’m completely invisible in her presence. She’d likely give me the time of day if I asked but no more. Meanwhile, she’s chatty and engaging with her buddies (including Chris, whom I also don’t like, find him off-putting, arrogant and uninterested in others).

It’s not a matter of familiarity breeds friendliness with her. She’s just a cold fish who warms up (as much as a cold fish can) to only those in her clique.

I recoil from cliques, which are inherently female in nature. Perhaps you’ve noticed that men don’t form cliques. Cliques are hurtful and mean and by their innate exclusivity judgmental and isolating. My loner nature is not perturbed by being on the outside of anything. I simply don’t relate to female cliques. Never have. Even as a small child, I stood on the outside looking in. And then I looked the other way going “whatever.” 😀 That’s that.

Anyhow, point is that I’d love to find a writers’ group in Prescott that is sisterly / brotherly, not cliquey. Odds are I’ll need to start one myself. A writing group — the RIGHT writing group — would do me a lot of good. Give me a place to express that I don’t have, to network and be amongst my brethren because the group with C. ain’t it. (p.s. the cliquishness extends to other group members, not only her.)

d … o … w … n

I’ve been under the giant thumb of that deadly beast named Depression recently. A complex topic to be sure that I’d dare not even attempt to explore in a blog post! Loneliness, isolation, boredom, sadness, grief, anger, pain … they all play a part. I wish I had a way to release the few key players once and for all. Wish I knew what that way is.

Self-expression is so hard for me when pressed and oppressed and suppressed under the Depression’s beastly weight. Though I’m not gifted or particularly skilled at artistic renderings in images (i.e., drawing), I’m very visual.

The beast of Depression appears in my visual eye / imagination as in parts dragon and amphibious monster thick gray and watery … a bloated and swollen lifeless monster who hangs languishing in the deepest darkest unseen and frigid sea floor … never ever seen by human eye, never and it is for that reason that the sea monster was born …

bloated gray sea monster = unseen

and the dragon thin wiry angry pissed off REALLY pissed off at many things the world the parents people fucking people circumstances outside her choice and/or control being born not being seen by anyone from infancy raging raging raging at the UNFAIRNESS of life at bad people winning and good people losing at the stupidity of people at having to be back here on earth at all hating hating hating that karma brings her back forces her back hating all the morons who populate the planet and not being able to do a DAMN thing about it being powerless and inept at fixing stupidity and everything else that ails the planet.


feeling wholly all suffering

and from that pain: anger and rage.

the wiry thin intelligent smart aware dragon: the pain of the world borne by the dragon.

gray amphibian in the deepest darkest under waters: unseen
wiry thin smart fiery dragon: the world’s suffering

… and that is how the beast of Depression appears. got no more to say for now.

So Angry, I’m Ready to Rip Someone’s Hair Out!

Not my own.

In the job market (“market”), nothing makes me feel more like a worthless POS than getting no response to applications for dishwasher jobs.

This is NOT a commentary on dishwashing work. Every job has value in my view, from the groddiest of the groddy to the cream of the crop. And I fulfill every job, from the lowest of the low to the highest of the high with impeccable work ethics, identical commitment to the highest standard of quality and achievement.

I am capable of so so so so much more than dishwashing. I know that. I lived, for example, some 10 years in Japan, working in INCREDIBLY challenging corporate, business, and media settings, among others.

Nothing but nothing challenged and proved my mettle as my career did. And I mean career. I had a career in my FIELD (writing, editing, publishing, journalism) there that I’ve not come close to mirroring in the United States, due largely to lack of opportunity and now a crashed Obama-led economy.

The pain I’m feeling is very real, the frustration is pushing me over the edge into a deepening depression that’s pulling me fast into its undertow. The pain and frustration of not finding work after 1-1/2 months — actually many more, when I include my job search from a pre-Prescott distance.

The despair and disappointments of not being worth even a dishwashing job are killing me.

Have I done dishwashing? YES!!! Since I was like 6 years old. It was just one of many chores in the slave-labor camp that was my childhood, which I didn’t really have. I had a workhood and a slavehood.

I’ve also done it “professionally” — meaning work for which I was paid. It was dirty work, hard work, work that sometimes exhausted me and made me feel really bad about myself and my life and had FAR I had fallen from my life purpose and path.

However, I did not let those feelings of self-loathing and -hatred and darkness in any way shape or form impair my performance. My impeccable work ethics demand that I put EVERYTHING connected to me, my purpose and happiness and everything else, aside and DO. THE. JOB.

{I can feel the sting of the master’s whip on my back, in this lifetime that was my father …}

Dishwashing is dirty grunt work. I excelled at it but that’s because I excell at most everything involving work and tasks. It does NOT mean that “I’m destined to be a dishwasher, neither that it’s my life calling and purpose.”

But damn!! I can fucking do the job. Do you hear me, universe?!? Employers!!??? I CAN FUCKING DO THE JOB. I HAVE DONE IT. I HAVE DONE SO MUCH MORE THAN IT TOO>

And yet …

All the applications put in for dishwashing… one callback and interview … and wasn’t called back for a second.

It kills me, it is killing me to be SOOOO employable … and so WILLING TO DO ANYTHING ANYTHING ANYTHING … and remain unemployed.

This is harder on me than most people because I’m such a worker! My life mission IS work! I want to work. I don’t want no fucking Obama socialist Marxist regime “taking care of me.”

I’m past my wit’s end. I am losing it. I’m sinking fast into depression, the force of the spiral downward stronger than my hope, my optimism.

What is there to be optimistic about? I’m not deemed worthy enough of even a grunt-work dishwashing job.

Goddamn fucking crap economy.

DAMN the Obama-led Socialist Regime that is INTENTIONALLY destroying America and capitalism!

Fuck you to all Americans who voted this Dark Force in — not once but twice!! My dad used to say: “People get the government they deserve.” That’s true, with this important caveat: EXCEPT THE PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY THINK AND USE THEIR BRAINS in the political arena. They NEVER get what they deserve. They get the shit chosen by the majority, the ignorant, the stupid, the morons. All the same.

Can’t get even a lowly dishwashing job. What does that say about me?

migraines, depression and the wonder of Bigfoot

Which came first, the chicken or the egg, these migraines or the depression?

Something happens in my brain that switches off everything but the autonomic system during my migraines and severe headaches, which after a decent period of absence have recently returned — with a vengence.

There’s no discernable trigger or cause. These severe headaches and migraines just descend, sometimes with warning, i.e., auras in the case of migraines.

Other times, I can feel fine and dandy one day and then the next day, WHAAAAAM! As if 200 vises were strapped around my head during the night.

Then there’s the depression.

The process is similar, not identical. My brain activity comes to a sudden halt. As if it has emptied itself but it hasn’t. That would be too Zen and peaceful.

It’s as if you’re driving along a country road on a sunny afternoon. Then suddenly out of nowhere, you hit a dead end and the sky turns pitch black. Your car loses its headlights and all electrical power.

You cannot see and even if you hazard to turn the wheel this way and that to find the way out, everything’s turned wonky.

Turning the wheel to the right may lead you to the left … or turning it to the left leads you to the left … or the right … straight ahead or even backward. There’s no rhyme or reason or way out. You’re trapped, perpetually and irrevocably trapped at the dead end in total darkness.

And oh the pain and the pressure inside your skull … like a million rubber bands tightly binding every inch … like the heat of a burning forest … like every door and window of your house slammed shut, blocking out all life and all light and confining you inside an intense pressure cooker …

And by the way, there’s no cell phone reception at that aforementioned dark dead end — as if that needed to be said. (And it did for our cell phones-addicted culture.)

= = =

I don’t know what brings on the depression that shuts everything, in particular language, verbal and written aptitudes and healthy reasoning processes, out and down and entraps me in that inescapable dead end. Neither do I know what brings on these horrible headaches and migraines.

Whether it be a chemical transformation, altered functions of synapses or unconscious deep-seated stresses, worries and fears that render me a soulless and joyless fairly brain-dead shell (that’s how it feels anyhow), there may be a thread linking two separate phenomenon. If that’s the case, hell if I know what it is.

Not much more to add save that these headaches and migraines hurt like hell.

And when the depression hits, it flatlines me. Depression slams me so very very hard to the ground holds me in such a suffocatingly tight lock of mind & body that it’s all I can do to keep breathing. Just keep breathing, even when it’s painful.

Just breathe.
No air inside this water.
Just breathe.
No air holes through this dirt.
Just breathe.
Until the raptor of depression eases and releases my head from its nail-sharp talons.

as for the migraines, the headaches … i just don’t know why they come or what makes them go away and thus their healing solution remains the elusive wonder of the monstrous Bigfoot. While he may or may not exist, I assure these headaches do and for their elusive explanation and devastation are more frightening than that Big Beast.