Can you sue your own body? Because I have a good fucking case.

So.  I’ve been a bit MIA because after my emergency room crisis I was a limp rag and unable to do much more than just breathe this week.  Even sitting up to draw was too taxing (WTF, BODY?) so I spent the last few days reading, sleeping and crying to Victor about how sad my life is in spite of the fact that he’s working his ass off  while I’m complaining about my “napping struggles” and I’m like, “But I’m too tired to even watch TV.  PITY ME.”  And then I did literally cry and he did literally pity me because I’m not the crying type and so he realized it was serious.  But today I feel a bit better and I have more doctor’s appointments this week and next week, and I was able to stop taking the pain pills yesterday and maybe it’ll all just fade away like the pneumonia did?  I mean, with my luck it’ll just fade into something else, like radiation poisoning or unexpected leglessness, but still…a change is as good as a rest.  Probably.

Today though Victor insisted that I leave the house and we went to Luby’s Cafeteria and we were the only people under 70 there, except for the guy behind us who was about 40 and was a tough-looking biker who was very distracting because he kept taking obvious pictures of his food and I told Victor that he was probably a famous instagram star and he couldn’t find the right filter for his carrot-n-raisin salad,but Victor thought that he was taking a picture of his food to add it to his weight-watchers journal and I shook my head and we continued to argue about why the biker was taking pictures of his food, including:

  • Texting pictures of his fresh fruit to taunt his estranged brother who lives in a submarine and maybe has scurvy.
  • Beets remind him of a simpler time and he wanted to remember the moment so he could commemorate it with a short story or haiku  later.
  • He saw Jesus in his mashed potatoes.
  • He secretly wants to open an off-brand Hooter’s combined with a Luby’s and name it “Boobie’s” and so every day he comes and takes pictures of his food so that he can recreate it, stealing the menu one photo at a time.

Then I laughed and things felt brighter.  And now I’m actually blogging.  Sort of.  Mostly just to say why I’m not blogging, but I think it still counts.  Long story short, I’m less dead today than I was yesterday and I would totally eat at “Boobie’s”.

Also, books have been my life raft lately and there are a bunch of brand new ones out this week you should be reading. Priestdaddy: A Memoir (achingly amazing prose),  Confessions of a Domestic Failure, One Day We’ll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter and We Are Never Meeting in Real Life.  The last one doesn’t come out for a few weeks but you should preorder it because it is painfully funny.  And since I’m still spending most of my days under blankets with a book, please share any new reading suggestions you have in the comments.

PS. Last week I challenged my friend (and fellow collector of creepy dolls) Bonnie to see who could rework this doll into the creepiest thing possible.  Mine arrived and I’ve been too tired to start deconstructing her yet, but she’s already slightly creepy to begin with and I haven’t even added the spider legs.  (SPOILERS.)

More soon…

I’m too high to write this but I’m going to anyway.

So yesterday I thought it would be fun to leave free books around town and then post pictures of them so people could find them, and I finished one drop…

…and then 40 minutes later I was here:

My God, I’m photogenic. So corpselike.

Long story short, an alien was chewing its way out of my stomach and I started fainting and I couldn’t feel my hands or legs, and then I died.  Except not the last part.  But it felt like it.  Plus the pain lead to a major panic attack so basically it was a great day.  Victor was out of the State (BECAUSE OF COURSE HE WAS) but luckily, my friend Maile was there to drive me to the hospital and hold me against my wheelchair when I passed out and she stayed with me during many tests and morphine shots and she wrote down all the weird stuff I said while I was high and messaged it to me in real time because she’s awesome like that.  Also, she took that picture of me at my request so I could prove to Victor that I was in the hospital because the morphine made me worried that I was dreaming this and apparently I thought Victor would be mad when all these bills came in from my dream.

Also, the nurse left this giant thing in my bed in case I needed to vomit and when I noticed it I was like, “This is the most unrealistic condom ever”…

…and then I started talking about cosmetic vagina surgery and about how I didn’t even know what it was supposed to look like best case scenario.  Like, am I supposed to want a giant labia, or no labia at all?  What are people asking these doctors for?  Butterfly vaginas?  Tiny moths?  Vagina dentata?  I asked the nurse and she was like, “Hell if I know.  That shit’s crazy.”  She was awesome.

Also, they said I had a very elevated level of lactate (?) and I was like, “That can’t be right.  I couldn’t even breast-feed and I’m lactose intolerant.”  But apparently this was something else related to infections or shock.  In the end they gave me a bunch of meds, including one for irritable bowel syndrome and that was the one that finally made my stomach stop trying to turn itself inside out so I guess I can add that to my list of “WHY MY BODY IS AN ASSHOLE”.

I’d explain this all better if I wasn’t still on drugs to keep the alien inside me quiet.  Sorry.

PS. My spellcheck tried to change “vagina dentata” to “vagina al dente”, which is taking weird to a whole new level.  Quit it, spellcheck.


And now…time for the weekly wrap-up!



Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):


This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by Story Worth, which is a pretty cool idea I think I’m going to try myself.  From them:”This year, give Mom a StoryWorth Book to preserve her stories. Each week, we’ll email her a question about her life – asking her to recount her favorite memory of her grandparents, or whether she’s ever pulled any great pranks. All she has to do is reply with a story, which is forwarded to you and any other family members you invite. At the end of the year, her stories are bound in a beautiful keepsake book your family will cherish!”  Check it out here.

Get thee to an independent bookstore.

Y’all, this Saturday is Independent Bookstore Day and to celebrate, participating indie bookstores have a bunch of cool stuff, and some are offering a thick, lovely poster of an exclusive drawing of mine.  It isn’t in YOU ARE HERE and the numbers are very limited so this is the only way to get one.   Click here to find a bookstore in your area.  I’m not sure if I get paid for them but if I do I’ll use the proceeds to buy copies of YOU ARE HERE for people here who haven’t been able to afford one yet.  EVERYONE WINS.

This is the drawing in progress:

And the final result:

“I have lost myself and found myself in books.”

And they all came to my house where I signed them and all my pets tried to fuck everything up but they failed miserably.

“We’re totally not looking at those posters like we want to eat them if you walk away.” ~ Lying motherfuckers

And speaking of
YOU ARE HERE, I have suddenly developed an appreciation of coloring for relaxation and now Victor is like “Where are all these watercolor pencils, oil pastel pencils, and gel pens coming from?” and I’m like, “THEY’RE MEDICINAL, VICTOR.”

I’m sharing the ones I’ve done here but honestly some of you are putting me to shame and you should click here to see the stuff I’ve liked on twitter because there’s a shitload of awesomeness out there and now I want to learn to quill and embroider and paint and NOW I’M GOING TO HAVE TO OPEN A CRAFT STORE, Y’ALL.

“Home is where my head is.”

“Alone” is not the same as “lonely.”

“We all lose our heads eventually. Might as well get lost on an adventure or two first.”

“It’s a magic lamp. It’s a sorcerer’s hat. It’s a time machine and a song bird and a treasure chest. It’s a weapon and a weight. And also you can type with it.”

“Sometimes safe can be suffocating.”

“There is so much more going on under the surface. In the world. In me. In you.”

What’s the word for one step past kintsukuroi?

In Japan there’s an art of repairing broken objects, called kintsukori.  My friend Emily McDowell explains it beautifully here:

So last night Hailey dropped one of the china plates from our wedding and there aren’t many left so I thought we could fix the plate kintsukori-style but I don’t have any extra melted gold so instead I used a glue stick and some gold puffy paint made for t-shirts and turns out it looks like shit.

But I was still really proud of it so I showed it to Victor and he was like, “It’s not even lined up correctly. And it’s still sticky” and I was like, “Yeah.  I’m not a professional ceramacist” and he pointed out that “ceramacist” isn’t a real word, but I wouldn’t know because I just said I’m not one, Victor.  Then he was like, “Why are there scraps of paper towel glued to the back of it?” and I was like, “So that I wouldn’t get puffy paint all over the bathroom.  YOU’RE WELCOME” and he was like, “WHY WERE YOU DOING CRAFTS IN THE BATHROOM?” but honestly I think he was just upset because he was bleeding.  Did I mention he was bleeding?  Because apparently I handed him “a broken plate full of sharp, jagged edges.”

And then I got mad because he didn’t appreciate my art and he was bleeding on it, and then he was like, “Maybe you should drop it again” and so I huffed out of his office and I accidentally stepped on Ferris Mewler and when he meowed angrily at me it scared me and I did drop the plate but it totally didn’t break BECAUSE I FIXED IT SO GOOD. And Victor was like, “What is happening out there?” and I yelled, “THE CAT IS UPSET BECAUSE HE THINKS WE’RE GETTING A DIVORCE, AND NOW THIS PLATE IS IMMORTAL” and then Victor decided to lock his office door for the rest of the day.

This might look classier if my wedding china wasn’t the brightest color in the world but in my defense it was the 90’s and it was on sale at Service Merchandise.

This is a dangerous post to write.

Updated 4-24-17:  Holy crap, y’all.  I love you.  Not only did you listen but you gave me honest advice and reminded me how incredibly difficult but also how worthwhile it is to keep looking for the unique treatment that works for each person.  You also reminded me that I’m not alone in continuing to search for tools that will make my mental illness more manageable, and sometimes it’s enough to know that so many of us are fighting this battle together, even if it seems we’re doing it alone.  Here is my plan as of today:  I saw my doctor and this afternoon I had many vials of blood taken to rule out hormonal issues, deficiencies, etc.  If nothing physical turns up then I’ll try to get my insurance to cover TMS and see if it works.  From what I can see the overall verdict is that it depends on the person and that it’s either incredibly helpful when it works, or it doesn’t work at all, or sometimes it works for a while but not forever, which is sort of the exact same verdict I’ve had with every other medication and therapy I’ve ever tried, so I suppose I should be used to it at this point.  Nevertheless, thank you.  I will always feel broken but you continue to remind me that I am so not alone.  I’ll keep you posted.

Original post:

This is a dangerous post to write, mostly because I’m opening myself up to something that every person who deals with mental illness dreads…well-meaning advice from others.  But this is specific and I’d really like to hear from you.  Not about how I should “just cheer up” or “stop eating anything but air” or similar.  What I want to know is this…have you ever had Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS) and if so, did it work for you?  My doctor has been recommending that I do it for years but I’ve always been worried about the side-effects.  It’s supposed to be a good option for people like me with major depressive disorder who have tried multiple antidepressants but still have long periods of depression.

I’m lucky because, as a writer, I can often work around the schedule my depression sets for me…sometimes working long days and nights full of inspiration and sometimes just surviving weeks where my mind is a fog and I can’t get out of bed.  I have a support system of family and of strangers-who-are-like-family around the world.  I could probably continue to live like this for the rest of my life, and I’m prepared to.  Although depression can be hell and I know that it lies and I could continue to live through the bad weeks waiting for the good to inevitably come back.

But what if TMS works?  It’s not as invasive as electroconvulsive therapy.  Some people my shrink has treated with it have been able to get completely off their meds, which is something I can’t even imagine. I’ve been on so many different medications, regimens, vitamins, compounds, injections, therapies, etc. and some were helpful and some weren’t and some were until they weren’t.  Some saved my life and others made it miserable.  That’s the thing about treating chronic illness…different things work for different people and the exhausting process of finding a cure for your symptoms usually never completely goes away.  So after this latest bout of depression I’ve been thinking more about trying TMS.  Victor is not a fan but he respects that it’s my decision ultimately.  I still need to research more and to make sure my insurance will cover at least some of it but I thought maybe one of my first steps should be to ask here.  Have you had it?  Did it work?  Was it worth it?

And if you haven’t and you just want to share something that actually did work in treating your mental illness feel free to.  I know that just medication and therapy aren’t enough.  Music, meditation, exercise, sun, vitamins, sleep…they all can make a difference.  If something in particular makes a difference for you, share.  (But if you tell me to stop taking meds and take up jogging I will find you and punch you in the junk with a cactus.  Just saying.)

PS. Turnabout is fair play, so here’s a small tool that I use when I’m feeling anxious.  It’s just a gif.  But whatever works, right?


Sometimes you can go home again.

This weekend Victor had to work so Hailey and I drove to my parent’s house where my sister and her kids were visiting from California.  And it was lovely and funny and weird and exhausting and fabulous – all the things you want when you go home again.

My parents house was busting with eight people sleeping under one roof, but in a good sort of way where everywhere you turn you see people cooking or helping or playing or laughing, and every spare minute was filled with games and exploring caves or camping.  My sister Lisa and I had gently laughed at Hailey exclaiming how much better the air was in the country (as we reminded her that we were within smelling distance of a pig farm, a taxidermy studio, and a rendering plant) but at night we’d go out and look at the stars in a sky that is never as big or bright as it is outside the home we grew up in, and we breathed in and reluctantly agreed that there was a sweetness to the air that didn’t exist anywhere else.

Coming back to the home I grew up in is a luxury most people don’t get.  My parents are still alive.  The land and house has changed over the years but the people in it are still the same.  And at night when I stand on their porch and look up at the stars I feel a deep, physical healing.  I suspect it’s like other people feel when they go to a spa or take a vacation, but the raw feeling of being there is like having my heart wrapped up in new, tight bandages…pulling back together the parts that have started to fall away.

My family knows that my mental and physical issues cause chronic exhaustion so often I’d have to go to bed just when the night got exciting, but that’s just a part of being me and I’ve come to accept that if I push myself too hard I might end up in a pit too deep to come out of.  And it was fine.  Disappointing, of course, but fine.  Until Easter Sunday when I woke up and realized that I had no spoons left.  Hailey and I got dressed in our new Easter dresses and I helped my nieces get ready but already I could tell that I could either go to my uncle’s for Easter and visit with a giant house full of dozens of people I love, or I could safely stay awake for the hours I would be driving back home that day.  But not both.  So as I helped my family load up into their cars I told them I had to leave.  And they understood instantly and supported my decision as only people who truly love you can do.  And I felt so lucky.  And so unlucky.  And sad for Hailey whose Easter dress would go to waste and who was so sad but so instantly understanding when I explained that I just didn’t have it in me to do something that normal people could do without thinking.

My family drove to my uncle’s and Hailey and I drove the opposite way, starting our long drive home.  We stopped along the way so I could stay alert and awake.  We stopped at family graves. We picked flowers at a rest stop.  We ate Easter dinner at the Dairy Queen drive thru.  And we stopped at an ancient farm house I’ve seen a million times.  We always pass it on the way home and it’s been abandoned since before I was born.  I’ve always wondered of its history, imagining the ghosts that cling to it and wondering if I’d lived there in a former life because it was the only way I could ever explain my intense fascination with it.  It’s begun a steady decline in the past few years and now part of the roof has collapsed and the old windmill is teetering dangerously.

I realized that this might be the last time I see it so Hailey and I pulled over and stood silently in the shadow of the beautiful decay.

I was pleased to see that Hailey was just as drawn to the place, and although we couldn’t get too close (because it wasn’t stable enough to safely explore) we talked about how strange it was that a broken, ruined thing could be so beautiful.  That sometimes ruin beckons you more than magnificence, telling a story more interesting and important and provocative than you could imagine.  That sometimes broken can be lovely, and that the collapsed roof could be seen as ugly, but it also let the light in in such a fragile and brilliant way, allowing doves to build nests in the unexpected skylight.

I took a few pictures to capture it in case it’s gone the next time I pass it and I whispered a thanks to whoever had built it and to whoever still watches over it.  It’s still important and breathtaking, even if it’s come undone.  It’s just a shell, but with the right eyes it’s so much more.

I think we’re all that way sometimes.

We got back in the car and drove on, and I felt the familiar crack I always get in my chest when I’m driving away from my childhood town.  It always hurts.  It’s always the same.  But the pain – while almost unbearable for a second – is less than the healing I get from returning.  I wish I could do it backward…have the pain first and the healing after…but that’s not how life works, and I remind myself that I still leave with more than I came with.

I am broken.  I am healed.  I am ruined.  I am beautiful.  I am abandoned.  I am beloved.  I am a house that is no longer a house.  I am better and worse all at the same time.  I breathe deeply and smile at my daughter, who smiles back at me.  She tells me that this is a very strange Easter, but she likes it.

A dove flies out of the collapsed roof and catches the sunlight, unaware that its home is anything other than perfect.

She really is a good dog.

First off, thank you.  I’m finally feeling almost not sick at all and my depression is fading.  I never know from day to day how it will go but today is good and I’m so relieved and also so thankful for all of your support and funny cat videos and words that kept me safer.  Thank you!

I was supposed to go visit family last weekend but I was too sick so instead I’m going this weekend, which means that I’m sharing my Easter pictures early.  Because they are magic:

Victor, on the other hand, disagreed with the magic and said something about how we agreed not to spend money on frivolous things and I was like, “Yeah.  ‘frivolous’ things like shoes that glow in the dark, or organic fruit.  I’m not sure what’s so frivolous about this” and Victor was like:

…but that’s his normal sort of look and then Dorothy Barker gave him this look…

…and he laughed in spite of himself.  AND IT WAS AN EASTER MIRACLE.

PS. If you’re following me on twitter you know that Dottie has been a bit out-of-sorts but her blood work came back and she’s fine and probably just has allergies so we’re treating her for that. Yay!

Please force me to be less terrible.

Are you guys as goddam crazy as I am right now?  Because I’m fucking losing it.  I think it’s a combo of full moon and mercury in retrograde and depression and running out of pudding and crazy drama bullshit and it sort of seems like everyone is nuts right now.  This is what it looks like in my head:

And then Hailey came downstairs crying because her lizard (Lizard Borden – aka Lil’ Pumpkin) was dead and so I checked on her she wasn’t breathing and I was like, “Honey, lizards don’t live forever” but then when I reached in Lizard Borden took a sudden breath and looked at me like, “WHAT THE FUCK, LADY?  I WAS SLEEPING.”  And then she ate and ran around and was fine so I went on a lizard chat group and I was like, “What does it mean when your lizard stops breathing?” and they were like, “It means your lizard is dead” but then I explained further and they were like, “Oh yeah, sometimes that kind of lizard goes into a deep, non-breathing sleep.  If it stops breathing for a couple of days though then your lizard is dead.”

Long story short: I’m totally feeling that lizard.  Not physically.  Just…the idea of being so tired that people accidentally think you’re dead and then people start poking you and all you want to do is just eat some crickets and watch Doctor Who.  Also, I just realized that maybe the lizard is now a zombie.  So good news, bad news, I guess.

Sorry.  I got distracted.

Anyway, my head is a pile of broken right now and so I need something happy to fix me so can you share something happy with me?  Maybe it’s happy news or a funny video or a suggestion for a book or show that makes you laugh.

Here’s one for you:

Also awesome?  The first comment on this video which is “These cats are stupid.”

Your turn.

Happy #NationalSiblingsDay, y’all.

Twitter informs me that today is National Siblings Day so I thought I’d share the message my little sister (Lisa) sent me today.  If I ever die she can just take over this blog and no one would ever know the difference.

Happy siblings day, y’all.

Let’s just hope spiders don’t read the newspaper.

So…yeah.  In incredibly repetitive news, I’ve been sick.  And I’m getting better but so. fucking. slowly.  The pneumonia is now just bronchitis and exhaustion but being sick for over a week kicked in my natural inclination for depression because my body is an asshole.  Today I made myself eat lunch and told Victor that when things get this bad for so long I start to think that I should have died a long time ago and that my body wasn’t meant to last this long.  Or that maybe I died a long time ago and I’m just too stubborn to realize it and that’s why my immune system is basically missing.  Then he was like, “Well, that’s bleak” and I said, “I am a hungry ghost who has forgotten she died” and he looked at me and said with the same intonation, “I am a horny goat who has something in his eye.”  And it was so ludicrous and ridiculous coming after my overly-dramatic statement that I started laughing in spite of myself.  And then I said that probably ghosts don’t laugh and Victor went back to his soup and was like, “Probably” and I felt better.

This doesn’t lend itself to a blog post very well but I still wanted to share in case right now you’re feeling the same.  You are not a hungry ghost.  Or a horny goat.  You are going to be okay.  And so am I.

PS. The news is scary right now and it’s easy to feel overwhelmed by it but just remember that a new study in the Washington Post shows that the current spider population could devour every human on earth in one year and still be hungry.  And that probably there’s a spider looking at you right now.  That doesn’t sound like it’s a good thing but it’s important for two reasons.  1) When I read this my first thought was that I needed to stock up on flamethrowers to stop the spider horde and that’s a good thing because it reminded me that I want to live.  Thank you, spiders.  I weirdly needed to be reminded that I don’t want you to eat me.  And 2) because it proves that just because spiders COULD eat us, it doesn’t mean that they will.  We’re still alive today in spite of spiders.  The glass is half full.  Of spiders.  But of spiders who won’t eat you.  Probably because they don’t realize that they’d have to join forces to kill us and they don’t know their own collective strength because they don’t read the Washington Post, but still.  The point is that we’re still alive, and spiders live on strings that come out of their buttholes.  We win.  It’s not a great win, but you know what?  I’ll take it.

PPS. I don’t know how to end this post.

PPPS. Tomorrow I’m going to BookPeople to sign some books people have ordered so if you want one personalized just go to their website or call them.  They ship all over the world.  I’m going to tuck a bunch of YOU ARE HERE tattoos into each them as well for as long as they last so be sure to check your book when it arrives.

PPPPS. This post needs a picture.  This is the face stuck in mine whenever I open my eyes.  Dorothy Barker, furry nursemaid, eater of spiders.