I am Jack’s Broken Chemicals.
Notice how the majority of my Friday #gladitude!!! posts come after a week where the outer rings of Saturn are in a funk with the junk of Jupiter?
That’s because: This is #myreallife
Thing is? This week? Scary. Fucking. Shit.
Not literally, peeps, c’mon.
But, mental health issues, a chemical imbalance shit storm brought on and exacerbated by intense stress of The Everything, and I’m pretty spent. This ain’t your gramma’s “Two steps forward, one step back…” kind of shit. This is the “I tried to do the tango, caught my feet up in a space-time flux and was thrown into a Vortex of Stupid.”
So, I posted it. My journey. My real life.
It was the kind of post to highlight the seriousness of my thoughts, but that they are, most assuredly, just thoughts. Scary. Black. Demonized. It’s how depression and anxiety work. My social feeds are NOT just my highlight reel. They are my brand, and my brand is “Me.” The good, the bad, the batshit crazy, the fugly, the coffee, the cats and the #gladitude.
I’m actually kind of regretting posting. I often shut down when I should be able to talk. Get this: I’m afraid of having to micro-manage other people’s inability to own their own reactions to my reality. I’m penalized for the personification of really not wanting to live in this chaos that seems utterly stubborn at releasing a break or three my way within my made-for-tv-movie kind’o’life. I’ve never kept that a secret. That kind of rawness has brought a few followers my way, specifically because of my ability to talk about the Vortexes of Stupid.
Case in point: Wil Wheaton. Blogger/Tumblr-r of epic awesomeness. He had a post that ran through my feeds multiple times because, well, Wil-fucking-Wheaton.
To date, 107 bloggers “liked” the post. There are 157 comments.
But, I’m not famous. I’m penalized by people not wanting to see me or interact with me because my thoughts, though my own, can, at very rare times, be scary and very, very real.
I, and I bet dollars to donuts, you may as well, get the proverbial, “Take a pill, see a therapist.” (Pristiq, social worker) Or, my uber-fave: “I can’t deal with your shit.”
Phew! Thank gods. Because if *I* have problems dealing with my shit, I certainly wouldn’t want *you* to have problems dealing with my shit.
What happens then?
You hop over to The Bloggess and you read her battle with the Black Dog and her goings’ on and your look at how many shares and retweets and comments (Her “Booksgiving” post had 2, 025 comments) she receives for illustrating her own Vortex of Stupid.
But, I’m not famous.
My Lupus awareness would be fucking exemplary in nature, if I was. \m/
No, I’m not famous and don’t entirely receive the same reaction as Wil-fucking-Wheaton.
But here’s what I *do* “Do.”
I find #gladitude…those small things that I make the time to see that would otherwise go unnoticed.
The smell of fireplaces going.
Knowing that even after a fucktardedly ridiculous 51.2 cms of snow fell here in Ottawa in ONE DAY that there are people in the world who have no idea how to make a snowball. Or, a snowman.
Yes, I wanna build a snowman. Fa la la. (But, I would be Elsa and flash freeze fucktards who think mental health issues are inconvenient)
When I was finally able to get out and about…I got myself a goddamn Maple Dip donut and only a weesy little bit of the icing stuck to the wrapper, instead of the entire coverage, thus negating the glorious-ness that is a Maple Dip donut. #totalwin
When I dropped my blind cocker spaniel rescue off at the groomer’s this morning, she turned herself around in my arms to come nose to nose with me and lick my nose. Her trust and love for me is unconditional. It is, most assuredly, mutual.
Fuzzy socks. Duh.
My ginger cat covers his face with his paw when he sleeps.
I have Cinnabon creamer in my coffee.
I have a lot of coffee.
People post a lot of really cool shit on my Facebook wall. Daily.
Sure, this week was scary. I really have a lot to think about, a lot on my plate, and yes, when I post shit, I mean what I say. But I have to question if you trust me enough to know that I know when I need to find someone qualified to intervene on a more significant level.
Having had a meltdown of epic proportions in a goddamn Walmart while my incredibly supportive friend listened on the phone indicated to me that I needed someone qualified to intervene on a more significant level.
I owned my shit.
I’m not changing the way I think about the chaos of my reality because it makes the generalized “You.” uncomfortable.
That’s your cue to ask, talk and support. It’s what you do when I talk about Lupus. About skin cancer. About diabetes. About fibromyalgia.
This is where you help people train their Black Dog with suggestions and an open ear.
Mine just needs a galactic leash bedazzled with rhinestones to look like the stars I want to go home to.
Today is not that day.