I never realized how many things I could possibly kill myself with until l spent time in a mental hospital.

When you’re living in a room that is designed to keep you safe, you realize the danger/opportunity that lies in objects you never knew had that power.

For as long as I can remember I have always gone to the bathroom, several times a day in fact, and even at my lowest, most depressed, suicidal times, I never looked at the toilet paper dispenser as a possible weapon. My husband will attest to the fact that I am more likely completely unaware that you are supposed to put a new toilet paper roll on any sort of dispenser at all as I tend to avoid this labor intensive task at all costs.

A few nights in the bed and breakfast for the mentally unstable though, would cause months of me wondering what other everyday objects could I use to end my life and how the heck would you actually commit suicide with a toilet paper holder. When things were at there worst, suicidal thoughts were constant and everyday situations and objects became viewed as possibly dangerous. It was like having a baby who has just started walking and all of the sudden your seemingly safe house looks like a toddler death trap.

Life no longer feels this way and for that I couldn’t be more thankful.

I am thankful for a healthy brain and the support and modern science that made this possible.

I am thankful for friends, family, and an art form that all encourage me to express myself.

I am thankful for tacos, classic sitcom reruns, and the wonder that is Costco.

Happy Thankful Day.

However I actually look right now, I really look ten times better.

How is this possible?

Each morning I wake up and get ready and give a glance in the mirror. Then as the day goes on the picture in my head makes me more and more attractive. My clothes fit better. My hair looks nicer. I don’t have a drop of acne. This sounds all well and good till I go to the bathroom and see my real self as I am washing my hands or see what must be someone else’s much larger shadow on the pavement or see a picture of me that was just taken on someone’s phone . Every time I am shocked and a bit bummed out that the girl in my head is not what I actually look like.

I am currently trying to get myself in better shape. I don’t have in mind the exact amount of pounds I want to lose. My goal is just to be able to look at the majority of pictures people take of me and not say “Ugh, delete that.”

Remember when we used to have to develop photos and we would actually get hard copies that we paid for of ourselves looking unattractive? I am pretty sure I would already be in better shape if we still did that.

There are clothing items I have convinced myself I need to purchase and I will look good in. Never fancy or expensive things. I am not someone who likes dresses. Once when I was in junior high I wore a dress and a guy friend told me “You know, you look even more like a boy when you’re in a dress.” He has since come out and works in fashion so I believe he was probably right.

One of the items I have convinced myself I look good in is baseball shirts. The three quarter sleeved ones that are two-tone. For some reason I have always loved these. In my head when I wear them I look like a slender tomboy actress who is trying to not look like she is trying.I do not look like this.

In the summer of 2011 I took a class at Second City in Chicago. The training center there sold one of these baseball shirts. It was grey with black 3/4 sleeves and I loved it. In stock they had a medium and an extra extra large. The medium would be too small so I convinced my self I could wear the double x. I bought it. I looked at it and loved it. I put it on when I got back to Cleveland after an amazing Chicago experience. I could not wait to wear it out of the house. It fit me like an oversized unattractive nightshirt. I promptly and conveniently forgot this fact every time I walked away from a mirror.

I was wearing the shirt one day and a woman said “Second City, huh?” I smiled and told her I studied there. 

The fact that I have any relationship with Second City is something I am very proud of. Second City made me an improviser and being an improviser changed me for the better. Many times over. I started at Second City Cleveland ten years ago and felt like I came full circle studying in Chicago last summer.

So I told the woman I studied there and she looked at me and smiled and said “Oh, how wonderful.” in a very happy, yet somewhat exaggerated tone. I was crestfallen

You see what I should probably tell you is this conversation took place between me and a nurse. A nurse at a psychiatric hospital. A psychiatric hospital where I was a patient. 

So I told her about studying there and she responded and in that moment it felt like the very real fact that I am an improviser was taken from me. For all I know the nurse did believe me and it was my own insecurities about being a temporary resident in a place that felt I couldn’t be trusted with a regular toilet paper holder that were making me not totally believe her words. 

The thing is, it is hard to hold on to your identity when you feel like a prisoner. A prisoner of the chemical imbalances in your brain and a prisoner, who even though it was voluntary, is locked up without the basic freedoms (a smartphone) her friends and family have. 

And with all that said, I am so lucky. A year later I am now healthy. Thank you medicine and thank you electro convulsive therapy. I am lucky because unlike so many others, I was and am able to get the help I need from professionals and from the people who care about me. 

A year later, I am here and I am grateful.

I was standing in the shower this morning staring at my pregnant belly.

I am not pregnant, but I have a sweet ass a pregnant belly.

Part of me wishes I was pregnant, that might help to explain my current lethargy. I am exhausted and I really shouldn’t be. I am young and, frankly, I do very little. I have a kid but he really is not exhaustion inducing. But if I were pregnant I could justify this tiredness.

Better yet, if I had a newborn, oh, how that would be the perfect excuse. Newborns bring huge amounts of tiredness and poop. I would take the poop frankly if it meant I would have a justifiable excuse for this wanting to lie in bedness.

But deceptive belly aside, I am not pregnant. And, besides the lack of desire for doing anything, being this worn out should not be a big deal. Tiredness can be a tricky son of a bitch though. It can be depression disguised and that would just suck un-neutered dog testicles.This is the longest I have gone between ECT treatments so it might be that or my meds might need adjusting, and hopefully none of it will be a big deal.

And then there is the distinct possibility I could just be getting my period. Oh hormones, you tricky little minx,you

A poem written about right now

I feel good.

The everyday baseline good that my body forgot was part of it’s makeup, it’s here now.

Will it last? I’m trying to stop asking that question.

My dog just farted.

He feels good

-The end-

I will never really get the humor of a Mother-in-Law joke. I have friends who get them and other friends who would say their Mother-in-Law is so bad that the jokes don’t even come close.

That must truly suck. I think it must be so hard to want to love your spouse’s mother and you’re like “Um, yeah, it’s just never gonna happen.”

My Mother-in-Law would have been seventy today. She passed away nearly eight years ago. She was all things good.

My mother-in-law would have loved Facebook. She would be on it all the time, keeping in contact with her cousins, and nieces, and children, and grandchildren. I would probably behave better on Facebook if my mother-in-law was on it.

She would have loved the Kindle too. The Kindle was invented for my mother-in-law. In fact they should rename it the Phyllis. Feel free to write Amazon and suggest that. Phyllis was never without a book and whenever her sons moved to a new city her advice was “Find the library and everything will feel better.”

More than Facebook or the Kindle though, man would she have loved her grandson. He has her tenderness and curiousity and without a doubt, he would have loved spending time with her and loved who she was.

I mean, after reading this, you already love her too, right?

Happy 70th Mom.

Turning the clock back happens tonight, tomorrow morning if you are into being exact (If that’s your thing you are probably a douche, but whatever.)

Post-college, turning back the clock, the extra hour of sleep was so awesome. College really didn’t matter because what the fuck did Sunday morning matter in College? Right? right. Oh man, when I used to teach Sunday school post-college though, turning back the clock was the best. 9am felt like 10am. You are given an extra hour. Life is giving you an extra hour. Thank you life, I will take this gift.

Oh but springing ahead, yuck. Complain, complain, complain. Losing an hour? Well, screw you life. I have already forgotten about your fall gift. 

And then, and then life, the whole thing changes and it all goes to crap because you have a frickin’ kid. Kids are great, God’s gift, all that stuff. But they are their own clock, they don’t subscribe to the whole one the world created. So they get up at 7 everyday, if you are lucky. But boom, turning back the clock happens and they are still getting up at 7 but now it is six. All of the sudden turning back the clock means losing an hour of sleep.

But it’s okay, you think, that means in spring I will gain an hour. And then your child says “Ha, nice try.”

So you know, set your clocks back and don’t forget to change your batteries and that shit.

Oh, and go on Facebook and write what you’re thankful for all month because it appears to be a requirement. 

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