Two weeks ago my doctor changed my depression medicine. Today I broke down and begged God to kill me.

Logically I know that it is just the reaction from the meds that is making me feel like this, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

I feel so much emotional pain that I just want to die. I had a panic attack and hyperventilated. I sobbed for at least and hour and haven’t been able to stop crying since. I want to die, and I also want to hurt myself. I just want this pain to end. I haven’t felt like this in a long time and I dont know how to make it stop.

Why does medicine that is supposed to help depression have to take you to such a dark, horrible place first? And how am I going to get through this?


I hate thinking the same thoughts but not being able to move past them or come to a resolution.

Regarding my mother, I keep thinking 3 things: I’m not strong enough to have her in my life, I’m never going to move past this without facing her, and if she dies I will have regrets forever. Those three thoughts have been swirling in my subconscious like a hurricane crossing the gulf. Twisting, seething, and brewing. Not close to land yet, but the possibility still exists.

This may be the most important decision of my adult life, letting her back in or closing her out forever.

Catching up

My mother has been reaching out. She sent me that letter awhile ago, and I emailed her back and pretty much laid it all down – my feelings and frustrations. My anger, and bad feelings about myself because of her, etc.
Since then she has emailed me a few times (like my birthday). I emailed her for her birthday. She replied and said it was the best present she could receive (me telling her happy birthday).
At one point I told her if she really wants to try to have a relationship, we should do it with a therapist present. I also told her I’m not paying for it. She can. Maybe that’s petty, but I’ve incurred enough trouble to my daily life on account of her. She said she thought it was a great idea, but her finances were tight and it would have to wait a bit.
I guess my hangup is how much damage she did to me as a child, and taking that risk of getting crushed by her again. I’m also terrified of her, so the thought of seeing her in person is crazy. When she emails me and the name pops up on my phone I have a mini panic moment.
If I don’t try this, when she eventually dies, I know I’ll have regrets and what ifs. Do I want to risk that? Death is final, so no taking it back.
I also have had this hole in my heart my whole life, knowing I missed out on a loving parent. I’ve crammed lots of other stuff into that hole, but it doesn’t work. So I could maybe heal that if this goes well.
I also feel like I can’t heal without forgiving her, and I feel like I can’t forgive her without facing her.

Is that all worth the risk of getting completely annihilated by her? Because I remember all of the pain she’s caused. I know she still has the power to completely take me back to how I felt as a child, and I just don’t know if I’m strong enough for that.

I forgot, she also confirmed via email that all of the abuse was her. For some reason I believed that it was fueled by my step dad. Maybe it’s easier to think that. Here’s what she had to say when I asked, “Jennifer,
I remember trying to talk to you and I could not understand why you would not listen to me. Brett and I talked about you and we both felt you needed some discipline. At first we had you stand in the corner and it seemed to work. As you got older this did not work. I felt I tried everything. At one point Brett told me I was going over board with the punishments, and I would regret it someday but I continued to do it anyways, after that he stopped being involved. So no, he was not the reason for all the punishments.

As I write this I realize how messed up my thinking was at that time. I was 28 years old when I found out I was depressed, and had extreme mood swings. My mood swings were the cause for the punishments. I felt like I was going out of my mind with anger, and I took it out on you. For this, I could tell you I am sorry for 100 years and I know it would not make things any better for you. I am very sorry for the pain that I have caused you. I do regret it – very much so. I have missed so much of your life.

As I mentioned in my previous letter the molestation tore me apart and still does sometimes. I can not imagine what I have done to you.

I hope I have answered your questions.”

When I read that, I feel empathetic. I know that I’ve hurt people because of my damage. Not children, obviously. But exes, and even Liz has felt the result of that pain and anger from my childhood. So I get it. I understand that she was ill, and hurt from what my grandfather did to her. But I still feel entitled to be angry, and that makes me not want to forgive.

She confirmed that she cannot afford to pay for therapy for us. I kind of went off on her. I told her about how hard it was having to leave foster care at 18 without anything to my name. How for many years I scraped and pinched to try to pay bills and eat. How hard it was to put myself through college. I told her that I wasn’t sure I could keep talking to her.


As you know, I’ve been tasked with coming up with 3 things each day that I’m grateful for. So here goes…

I’m grateful that I live in the US. I know what you’re thinking… Yes, this country is quickly going to shit under this president. Yes, we’re the laughing stock of the world. Honestly though, things could be way, way worse. I have basic human rights, a job, freedom of speech, and the list goes on and on. There are many places around the world where those freedoms are not common. So, today, even in light of  all of the BS in the news, I’m still thankful for being a US citizen.

I’m also thankful for the experiences I’ve experienced. I haven’t had a life full of rainbows and sunshine, but it has shaped me into the person I am today. All of the heartache and pain I’ve experienced has made me appreciate things I think others take for granted.

I’m also thankful for my wife. I know I said this yesterday, but she truly is an amazing person worth being thankful for each and every day. It’s hard to remember sometimes, if we have disagreements or whatnot, but I really am blessed that each day she chooses me.

More tomorrow! I hope everyone who read this takes a moment to ponder what they’re thankful for. Be kind to yourself and others. 

Gratitude and other thoughts 

Hi everyone! It’s been a long time! So many things have happened, and I dare say most of them are great!

I got a new job, which is awesome because I no longer am surrounded by negativity. Wooh hoo! 

I got married… Which is a big deal for me, but I’m really pleased about it. I’m married to the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. She really just gets me like no one ever has. I can’t say our relationship is perfect, but that’s not a realistic thing to strive for. We’re happy, which is all I can ask. 

We bought a house, which is fantastic! I’m so happy to have my own space, and to be able to do the things I enjoy. 

I’ve taken up a new hobby- woodworking! I’m an amateur for sure, but I look forward to getting better at it. So far I’ve built a large living area for my rabbits and guinea pigs, and my wife and I built a bed frame. 

I also have a new friend, who told me I should write down 3 things I’m thankful for every day. See everything I’ve  written above. More than 3 things, but I guess I’m am over achiever!

Until later, my friends. Thanks for reading! 

Catharsis: Mine and Yours

Courtesy of QP:

This weekend I held a side event at Debauchery called Catharsis.

The premise was based on the strangest advice I ever got from a therapist. She told me to go buy dishes from a thrift store, find a nice isolated corner of the world, and break them.

Honestly, I rolled my eyes. This sounded like another exercise in symbol worship, the kind of thing that I was already so frustrated with in therapy circles. But I figured I would give it a shot so I could honestly say it was unhelpful and we could move on.

I broke the first plate. Whatever. Shrug. I picked up the second, and threw that. Hmmm. I looked at the shards of broken plate on the ground. There was something satisfying in the visual debris of the breakage, the undeniability of it. I broke a third. SMASH! I noticed the sound of the breaking, the jarring crash. It made me wonder how the world would be different if people made a sound like that when we hurt, when we break.

Now I was really going. Shards are flying. Smashes are filling the air. I’m breaking a sweat. And still more! BANG, that one is for you, asshole in the gas station today! BANGSMASHBANG ex partner who broke my heart! This is yours! SMASHSMASHSHRIEKSMASH Mother and abuser and pain and shame! I was now yelling things, randoms things, words and names, all the things in that deep dark hole, the one I took so much time and energy to cover over, to deny, to control. Now it was thrown open! The anger was bubbling over and crashing all around me. The shards of my hopes and innocence flying through the air like tiny deadly birds.

It was satisfying to allow myself to feel this thing, to not suppress, to revel in the wrongness of it all.

By the time I ran out of plates I was a sobbing mess.

This was my catharisis. It wasn’t writing a letter to my inner child, making a symbol of my abuser out of clay, or attaching my hopes to balloons and setting them free, it was this moment. Sweaty. Crying. Snotty.


This is what I was hoping (on a very small scale) to bring to Debauchees, and you folks didn’t let me down.

Seeing how many people chose to label their item, watching their bodies tense as they focused on that label, then swivel, then snap, then SMASH! It was almost as it I could see a tiny bit of tension rise off them like steam.

The experience was amazing for me, and I want to thank each and every one of you, from the angry hippie “This is what sustainability looks like!!” to the lady with the “it’s deep in there” gentle drop, each one of you gave me something irreplaceable.

I hope that you were able to walk away with a faint echo of me yelling “FUCK THAT SHIT”, and that maybe next time life deals you a shit hand you’ll remember that and smile.

Small Enough

Written by QP

The boxes fell apart years ago. I upgraded to plastic totes. They last longer. One more time. Pack, move, unpack. One more time. Then another.

Most of my things are long since gone. The furniture was sold. Things were lost moving. Some things were given away. Some, just broken.

My life has been a practice in editing. Things, feelings, relationships. I tried them on then left them on the floor, like a careless shopper in the changing room.

I cut and trim, a little here, a box there, I bend and twist to take up less space.

Somehow I never seem to get small enough to find the right fit.