National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: CALL

1-800-273-8255

1-800-273-TALK

A handful of years ago I was in a critical place.

I was 39 years old, and safe to say things hadn't turned out the way quite the way I'd planned. I hadn't been able to have children. I'd lost my first and only house to foreclosure. My then-husband had been fired the year before for sexual harassment. On top of that, he'd been lying and cheating for at least a year, all piggybacked by a (his) porn addiction that blew up a good desktop. I'd become isolated from old friends and family. I was humiliated.

Mental and physical health problems had conspired until I was a hideous mill churning out weakness. I watched my friends from college buy beautiful houses, gather more degrees, get higher paying, increasingly impressive jobs and have more beautiful children.

I felt worthless.

My life circumstances had eroded my dignity so badly I barely existed anyhow. My career had gone kerplunk. I was in relentless physical and emotional pain.

I was a clown-car of insults, worries, pain, and problems.

The only image I can offer is this:

After so many years of hard work, I held nothing in my hands but a square of antique lace. No matter how I tried to keep it, no matter how I gripped it, it was disappearing thread by thread.

I watched it disintegrate until it disappeared. Everything felt weightless in my hands.


In terms of a moving-on strategy, I had none.  Money, car, credit, a place to live? Nah. Why breach to the surface after a ten year marriage with anything to show for it?

Oh, and there's that self-respect thing.  That was all gone too.


I was just a shred of the lace myself. I had no hope.


It was all so unfair, I thought. I had spent a lifetime kicking through endless problems like a bunch of dried-out leaves; I felt I had clearing paths that just got cluttered again.


Before I knew it, I was in an unfamiliar state, surrounded by unfamiliar people. I was more alone than ever.

I had no one to listen to me.

I was actively suicidal. No one knew how severely fucked up I was. I tried to keep a good face on, but I knew I couldn't.

I called these guys.  They were awesome.

You will not be judged. Your particular story will be valued.



These are people who will hear you, not just listen.

They also referred me to a great counselor in my area.

Please call.

Please.

The world needs you. You are here for a reason. Please just hand on long enough to start finding what that is.


Get help --- YOU CAN FEEL BETTER!


If you need more info, email me at hinsleyspsyched@gmail.com.






24/7 Suicide Prevention Hotline: Make the Call



"No matter what problems you are dealing with, we want to help you find a reason to keep living. By calling 1-800-273-TALK (8255) you’ll be connected to a skilled, trained counselor at a crisis center in your area, anytime 24/7."


Answers to Your Questions About the Lifeline

Leave that Asswipe: a Poem

Bending in the heat,
you've picked me like fruit,
tossed me into a wicker basket
and sold me at a roadside stand.

If I were as fortunate
to have hawk eyes like yours,
legs like yours to run, and
hands to grasp and
pull from the root
with a mind to sell for profit,
I would set up an awning of green
park a chair on the seam of a country road
and wait for the first taker.

Exchanging you for cash, I'd zip
my wallet, hearing the song of the
cash drawer turning the day into dusk.
Shielding my eyes, I'd watch
the wheels of that poor sucker's car spin,
kicking all that red dust into the sky.

Kim Kardashian's 2016 Resolutions, I Mean Small Goals

Last summer, I started Skrapping Kim. I'm new to the scrapbook world, but went to Michael's and found the most plastic, blank book I could find and a whole lot of Rub Ons.

And, what great timing: the announcement of her 2nd pregnancy came along like a blast of shit from a cow's behind.

No one thought a second child would happen.  Months before Kim had shared, "The doctors said he thinks I'm having sex too much. He said one time is more powerful…so we've tried everything."

And, Lord she struggled.

She complained, "I'm really not complaining, I'm just being honest about [it]. I hate it...I'm not going to sit here and lie and act like it's the most blissful experience. It's awful..."It [Pregnancy] is the worst experience of my life."

It blows because these comments must sting a lot of people. Kim, a woman who has had to mount Kanye West 15 times a day, looking at his misery face while matching her rhythm to the slap of his chest medallions, should understand the agony of women who would do anything to have a child --  women who pee on sticks until dehydration in hope of pregnancy.

Due to exhaustion, she is setting small goals, though she concedes that "Long-term goals (like saving money or learning a new language) are important, too."

Most of her followers can't find the time to learn Igbo, though I call BS anyway. Can you see Kim ordering Rosetta Stone off late night TV?

And we poor slobs saving money? Ha. My sister can't even patch the hole in the roof so her kids stop tripping over buckets.


Here are Kim's officially released "small goals":

1. Dumping the weight that Saint "caused" (and Saint on the ugliest, fattest nanny she could find) is the "number one thing [she] wants to accomplish!"

2.  At some point it will be time for Kim to take on her 20 million dollar mansion.  Designers will bust ass to make it homey and less like a factory full of tuning forks.

3.  "I'd like to do some really cool photo shoots for my Web site."  I just can't.

4. She wants "a few more fun weekend trips" with her followers. Shit. Now I have to decide between fun weekend trips with Kim and fixing my kid's cleft palate.

5.  "I also want to plan a West family vacation—it’s a project in itself to find the time!"

*That ass mounting a jet ski? I have a fat ass, but as least I would't submerge my craft under a blast of silicone.

6. Lastly, she wants to learn "how to do the splits!"  My brain's clogged with comments, so I'm just gonna wrap up this post.


She's an overachiever and I now feel like a loser.

Not really, though. While I do have goals, my mental and physical issues keep me living one day at a time. I find when I make goals, or promise family or friends that I'll attend a party or meet them at the gross Olive Garden, I take the chance of letting them down. Then, I feel really guilty. If it's a holiday celebration, and for whatever reason I just don't feel that I can handle the day, I'm leaving myself open to a day alone - especially while knowing others are together, laughing, being "normal," and having fun -- and that may make me feel worse.

Then, I feel emptier, more alone, and like I will never fit. I consider what they think of me, and why I rarely attend events. Maybe they think I'm Rudolph and have a bulbous red nose, so logically, they think I'm at an AA meeting. "Wow," they raise their glasses, "she's really making healthy choices!"


By the way, I don't drink..but, I do like Captain Crunch with Berries and I'm 44 years old.



H.




*we all know that twat was repaired before she even saw the kid

If You're Fighting a Brain Disorder Like Depression, Bipolar Disorder, Acute Anxiety - Remember this:

Your life is not a sob story; it's a SURVIVAL story.

How on Earth do You Pull it Off?' 

Do you know how strong you are to battle depression, or any mental illness? If not, let me tell you. 

You're braver than you realize. Your walk is tougher than anyone without mental illness can imagine. You hang in there because of your loved ones, but also because inside you're solid as a rock. 

I salute you! I recognize your strength. I'm in awe of how hard you fight to put one foot in front of the other. Don't let anyone ever tell you that you're "complaining" about nothing. 

Bullfreakingshit.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

Brave on, fierce warrior!

                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Self Sabotage and Dumpster Diving

Finally, here I am!
While I'm aware that this proclamation means nothing to any human, plant or animal besides me and my  78 year-old mother (who spends her days bored silly so that's not that great), its personal significance is pretty darn astounding.
Why? I am a self-saboteur of divine proportions. 

Specifically, success and failure terrify me equally, and I've only recently admitted the reason for the fear. I probably knew the "why" all along, but speaking it aloud would have pushed me do something about it, and that's also scary. 
Case in point: say my teenage novel or even a non-fiction number based on this blog's concepts ( though no one, including me, know what they are) make it so big that I'm up for a major award.
Laden with fear, I hastily buy an OK gown for the red carpet, then proceed to puke all over it from anxiety on the day of the event.  
OK, so scratch that. There are always options. 
In one, I see my tree-trunk legs stretching skyward as I rummage through the leaky dumpster behind Dress Barn. Sometimes clothing is tossed out by crappy stores if garments are torn or crusty from sweat or other bodily fluids. I find myself in the dumpster because Kmart had sold out of the generously Kut Kardashian number I had been eyeing for three seasons -- a full length, red and topless (strapless is so old, pukey and lahamme) gown strewn with masterfully placed images of Saint dancing in a fur onesie. 
Aside from the typical trash, the dumpster offers up nothing helpful but a coffee (I hope so - shudder) covered slipper and a few unraveled shower poofs. The clock is ticking and I'm due at the ceremony in an hour. I find a slice of bologna that was nibbled by rats into the shape of Jesus, so that's a serious bonus.  I return to my apartment with spaghetti in my hair. I sob until my eyes are swollen, blow my nose into a cereal box or whatever snot vessel is closest, and decide to skip it all.  I swathe myself in flannel jammies for the next week or until I smell too much like vinegar. (Anyone else think that sweat smells like vinegar, especially in the underboob area?).
I could have worn something else from the Kardashian Kollection, so all of this - the dumpster diving, the coffee grounds that I still can't get out from between my teeth - was just me being the terrified version of me. I chose to keep myself stuck instead of throwing caution to the wind and wearing the mauve kowelneck number in klearance.
I opened this blog partly to keep me writing. I think I'm ready...ish... to pursue the dreams that I've carried since early childhood: publishing all genres of books, ones that are funny, wanted and needed, and of great consequence. My love for books started with Bread and Jam for Francis by Russell Hoban, and then the writing bug set in around 6 years old.
 I know it's what I am "called" to do and I must never stop dreaming big. 

With the proceeds of my work I would like to purchase a 100 square foot, marshside lean-to that I will share with my cat, Mikey Likes It, the amazing novel Written on the Body by Jeannette Winterson, and my sand-clogged nebulizer that I use for my Status Asthmaticus, a condition of severe asthma attacks that often lead to asphyxiation, such as the one I had on December 8, 2014 and somehow survived. (Ha! I should set up a Go Fund Me for a new nebulizer - everyone else appeals for assistance and you know some of it goes to 75 inch plasmas.)


Wellll....
my butt hurts, so it's time to wrap this up.
Success and failure bring some form of change, and to me change is a massive green monster with acid-soaked fangs that I avoid as much as possible. How weird is it that many people protect the stagnant nature of their lives? Even after getting an education worth a couple hundred thousand dollars back in the 80s and 90s, I protect being poor. I protect mediocrity. and disappointment I protect the status quo even though THE STATUS QUO SUCKS BALLS. 
I can rely on the routine of my less than satisfactory days. I can rely on selling myself short because I have been doing it for so long. I can rely on not filling my dreams because I haven't allowed myself to do so for a very long time. I like to help others succeed, and toss my talents by the wayside.
You know, I hadn't planned to blog today.  I thought I'd take some time to get my head together before New Years, so I hadn't bothered to throw myself into blogging. 
Guess what that was? A stall tactic. Fear. Once I realized it, I pushed myself to write a post, and I don't think it's all that bad. 
::Golf clap::