Sad Bitch

Today was a sad day for me. I woke up, someone who is 31 years old, uncertain of what to do with their life, with a wonderful dog (who maybe has 5 years left of his life), a renter, a cheque to cheque kinda woman, with no family close by.

Sad.

Before I was always working towards something, now I am working with  no sense of direction and just all around saddness.

My friends, I am so sad today. All day just silent tears drifting down my face as I go through my mundane routine.

***

I love my boy Barrie. I love him so much, that if it wasn’t for him I certainly wouldn’t be here right now. He makes me so happy, that when I cuddle him in the back of my mind is saddness, because I know he won’t always be here for me. At some point he will go, and I’ll be here, with his smell all through my clothes and furniture. And I’ll be sad. A truely heartbreaking kind of sadness.

***

I haven’t been home in almost 5 years. Quite a few reasons why I have chosen not to go back, but ultimately the main one being financial. It’s quite expensive to see the family, and yet for whatever reason my subconsious seems intent on spending the possible funds for a trip home on alcohol and materialist things that won’t last.

Sad.

***

I’m not where I wanted to be. In truth, I wasn’t always a spinster, I used to think by 30 I would be married or in some sort of relationship that resembled it. I thought maybe a kid would be happening or a home or something concrete. But sitting here now at 31, nothing.

Sad really.

***

I’m sad again. And not sad again in the terms of just being sad, but I believe my depression has greeted me yet again, which makes me even sadder. I don’t like this feeling. Its a terrible feeling, and one I fear most.

I’m just a sad bitch, and to be honest, the only thing that is keeping me here, is my boy Barrie. If I didn’t have him, I wouldn’t be sad because I would’nt be here. It worries me, when he does go though.

Friends, I am just a sad bitch. Hoping———–praying that this too will pass because this feeling isn’t worth any type of feeling.

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Family Affair

I have such terrible luck when it comes to finding someone decent in my life to bang exclusively. Perhaps part of that bad luck comes from my wandering eye and lack of respect for myself, and the other part is just shitty cards dealt.

After the ex and I went splitsville in 2015–ish, the down hill spiral of indecencies reached an all time fuckery. Jumping back on the saddle so-to-speak was not as easy as I had hoped. I went from bloke to bloke, hopelessy looking for something a little special.

Feeling down and too clean for myself, I mosied into a divey bar, looking for lonely hearts. Now, I do have standards (somewhat) so I didn’t just hop on back with the first daddy that sauntered my way. I was in the bar for all of two hours, couple scotches in, and a margarita just for kicks, when one mysterious silverfox stepped right on up beside me. He smiled, I smiled (awkward part he wasn’t smiling at me at all, but instead at the bartender passing him his beer…) I also smiled at the bartender, asked for two shots for myself and then I put my head down and died inside…..

ANYWAYS.

Eventually he did notice me and yada yada, small talk and all that useless chitchat, plus my charming personality (especially after sipping  on cheeky bevies),  we ended up back at my place and I think you could imagine what activities we got up to, if you have no imagination I’ll give you a hint….’sexual activities!’

Thinking this was just a one night stand with someone who reminded me of my psych professor in college, when he texted me a few days later I was thrilled. Not only was he a silverfox with daddy written all over him, he was well off, semi-aloof and that was semi-good enough for me.

We would see each other every few days, always ending up at my place. It was nice, consistent, but something was off.

One day he stopped texting. I would text him and nothing. I would send nudes, and beg and do anything a naive little twat would do if she lost her daddy and nothing.

It didn’t last long but I really did like him, and for the eleven or so weeks of us it was semi-something special. Looking to get over this sad, sad episode of my life, I ventured back to the same divey bar, moped around with the same lonely hearts and drank the same cheeky beverages and then some.

At some point, a man approaches the bar. Probably around my age or younger, but looking oddly familiar. I cycled through countless celebs in my head and I simply couldn’t pin point who the fuck he reminds me of. So the bartender hands him his beers and off he goes from whence he sat. Every so often I would glance back at him. Eventually these glances turned into pyscho starring, he then called me over.

FUCK. MY. LIFE.

I mosied on over, like a miner niner school girl, being asked to sit at the cool kids table. Before I could say a word he  slided a beer my way and asked me to join him. We talked and laughed and the whole time I was still trying to figure out who this strapping young swan was.

At some point the bar closed and we headed back to his place.

And again, I M A G I N A T I O N.

In the morning or noon or whatever fuck time it was, I was awoken to an older lady walking down the steps. She was surprised to see me, and I was just as surprised to see her (primarily because if this kid was fourteen I will s h i t myself). He wasn’t though, just a college kid, living at home in the basement of his parental units ( a fact I usually wouldn’t be so relieved to hear.)

Momsy was very nice, and invited us up for breakfast. Now, usually I would bolt before the sun came up, but I was hung to the tits and hungry as ever. I walked on up, in one of the chap’s shirts, eye liner barely on my eyes and instead outlined my crows feet, and hair still in its rachet, man handle position.

As soon as the plate hit the table I was nom nom noming like no tomorrow. Momsy hollars for daddikins to come join the breakfast party. Foot steps can be heard coming down the stairs and then nothing. I look up to catch a breather from my inhaltion of susbstinance, when …..Mr. Silvefox, who is oh so handsome and so daddy and reminds me of my pysch college professor is standing in the door way. He looks at me, I look at him. He looks at his son, I look at his wife, mom and son look at each other, I look at the scraps of food on my plate and die inside.

NO WONDER HE LOOKED FUCKING FAMILIAR!

FUCK MY LIFE.

FUCK THIS WORLD.

JUST MY LUCK AND FUCK IT.

All I can say is watch out momsy, I may just be tired of dudes for a little while.

Sickness

Out of all the mysterious things in this world, out of all the complications and misunderstandings, I do know one thing; Love is a mental illness.

We do not choose who we love, it just happens. Sometimes slowly over time, sometimes all at once. Love is it’s own being. I wouldn’t go so far to say love is a disease, but it is a sickness. It sets in, takes it course and for me at least, eventually works its way out.

I’ve been in love twice in my life. The first love, was the sweetest. I was nineteen years old, still a kid in my eyes. But in his eyes, I was a woman. Our love grew quickly. So quick in fact we said those three words before we were even official. There is some romance in that isn’t there?

One year, passed by, then two, then before we knew it eight. It was that year, we decided to  part ways. We still loved each other, but at some point our love went from being in love to just love. And although it was painful, and utterly sad, that was okay. Our love went from one form of being to being unconditional.

We still talk on the phone most days. We see each other often and as odd as it may seem, he is now more of a brother than anything. Absolutely no sexual desire between us whatsoever, just unconditional love. We didn’t choose for it to be this way, it just became so. As we age, I realize that him and I were meant to be this way.

My second love was the hardest. It was complete madness. It happened quickly, and ended just the same. This love, made me realize that no matter how fucking fantastic and amazing it is to be in love, it is the worst fucking feeling when it ends. It is this love, that makes me never want to fall in love again.

For us, our love was a sickness. Please, don’t misunderstand me. I am in no way degrading this experience nor am I regretful. In fact, I am thankful for it, for all of it. .

I won’t get into all the details of our love. But it ended with heart break and complete sadness. It was misery and nothingness. It was a blue meloncholy fog, suffocating my every being.

In truth, I never got over him. That isn’t to say I didn’t try.

I never chose to fall in love with him, but I did and madly so. The problem is I couldn’t get out. The love I had, made me sad, all the time. I was constantly crying, I was constantly anxious, and I was constantly disappointed in myself. I wanted to be with him so badly, but he had moved on and loved someone else. I suppose in some regard, that hurt even more, knowing that the love he once had for me has gone onto another.

I would rather be embraced by nothingness, than love, but the sickness chooses, I don’t get too.

Time does help. Eventually days and weeks and months passed, and my love for him was still very much there, but it was deeper in my body. A place were I often wouldn’t venture too, for fear of being suffocated by the sadness that came with it.

A year or so had passed now, and we started talking again. At first it was odd, but it was so familiar and I didn’t realize how much I truly missed it. Apologies were strung back and forth between our dialogue, intermittent with fond memories, and obscure political rants. And at the end, he said he still loved me, had always loved me, and never stopped. Of course, I felt the same, but I don’t think I can go there again, at least not now. As much as I would love to jump back the into lunacy of what we had, I was sick then. And all my symptoms have not been healed, even to this day.

I cannot choose love. And although it is still very much there for him, I’m choosing to love myself first.

This Time.

It has been roughly 4 months or so since I have been off my happy pills. And by happy pills I mean the lil notso tic-tacs that numbed absolutely every ounce of feelings I may have never even had had.

I didn’t necessarily choose to go off them either. Essentially, I ran out and needed another script, and my excuse of being ‘too busy’ was something I was starting to believe in. Eventually when I did have time to go into see the quack I instead didn’t. Something was different in me. This time, I didnt feel the need to fulfill another three months of dullness. Before as soon as I was nearing two weeks worth of meds I would have anxiety attacks if I couldn’t see the quack. In fact, I would usually try to get my medication a month before it would finish, but the pharmers always denied my request.

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This time, well this time it’s different. I’m not on any medication, only breakfast Plan B as needed. I am, believe it or not, feeling not just better, but actually feeling. And unlike right before the demise of Cait and onto the cycle of  pharmaceuticals my emotins aren’t from one extreme to another. Before I wouldn’t just have a quick cute cry, instead I would sob for hours upon hours truly being a sad bitch. When I was angry I would be flipping mother fucking raging, and when I was happy I was absolutely delirious. Now, these extremes are further from me now, and to be honest I am enjoying the distance.

When I first went on the rollercoaster ride of pharmaceutical blues, and found the right match for my craziness, I was incredibly thankful. It came when I truly needed it. I didn’t have anymore anxiety, and my saddness had dimished. However, after a year and somet ime being on these meds, I didn’t feel much of anything. I didn’t care much. I didn’t do anything. I was very much an empty shell. The person I once was, was somewhere over the rainbow.

This emptiness caused me to find another source of fulfillment. Alcohol. I have always been a fan of the liquid diet, but it became more extreme. I would have a bottle of wine a night, if not a bottle a six pack of beer, if not that then hard bar.

I would often go to bars to hang out with other sad saps like myself. Now, how sad is that, a lonely heart joining all the other lonely hearts out there and we aren’t even socializing. Just sitting side by side, at the bar, being just a bunch of fucking lonely wallflowers. Lonliness is not a nice feeling, but at least I could feel just a little bit again on my own terms.

Now, the problem with alcohol is it often leads to other things. For me, drugs and sex.

Drugs were something I never did sober, (for the most part). Sure, I may do a bump or pop a perc pre-party, but on any other standard Cait night I wouldn’t. However, when drinking every night became a standard night for me, the drugs occurred more frequently and instead of the utter sadness that alcohol would bring, drugs would bring me fucking ecstasy! It was phenominal. I was more alert, I was social, I was fucking happy and felt on top of the fucking world! I didn’t feel pain or sadness. That is, until I was hungover and coming off the ride. Those times, I was the lowest I could possibly feel.

 

When drinking and on drugs, sex was the next thing I craved. The best part was that the feelings weren’t just emotional, it was physical. Absolutely euphoria! My whole body was being seduced in this world o

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f lust, while in reality I was just being fucked. Fucked. Fucked and fucked.

But, this time friends, it honestly is different. Like I said, I’m off the medication. I like having my old ‘Cait feelies’ back. My cravings aren’t that of alcohol, drugs of sex.

This time instead,  I crave pizza.

Substandard

I haven’t always made the wisest decisions. This certainly rings true in the last couple years or so. A lot of these naughty decisions were spur of the moments, selfish IOU’s to myself and reckless lack of ‘thinking’. BUT! Shit happens.

Some substandard choices I’ve made in my life time are:

*A year diet plan of breakfast Plan B.its-borted-18718439

*Sleeping with a college professor. I really wanted an A, but he gave me a…..wait for it….D! Kidding, I got an A. I will say I did deserve that A though.

*Drunk texting said Professor a few years later. What about? I vaguely recall, but I suspect it had to do with our college study sessions.

*Almost got escorted out of an Adam Carolla Comedy Show. BUT, I DIDN’T! Guess you could say, I was a couple bottles in on Mangria, and though my Canuck charm would lure him to join me for shots, but alas he shot me down and then some.

*Karaoke to Spice Girls. Just  no, no one should ever do it.

*The first thing I ever stole, when I was in college, was a piece of cardboard that said Fart Card. Fucking, dumbest thing you could ever buy, let alone steal.

So there are more to this list (obvi) like sleeping with a married man times a few, but we all know these harlot stories of mine. So lets fucking move on already.

As mentioned, I’ve made some naughty choices. But, all of these decisions I have made, have inspired me. They gave me stories to write to about, memories to share, and experiences to learn from. They have made me, me. Shaped who I have not become, but am currently becoming, and for me it’s exciting. (It’s like puberty all over again, except this time, when my panties make me look like I’ve been on a ketchup diet it’s a mother fucking blessing.)

Now, being off medication and reflecting on what was instead of what could have been, I’m discovering new attributes about myself and so far, it’s rather encouraging. I’m reading more, eating three meals a day (which was never a staple for me), and back to the old pen and paper (which then turns into this bloggidy blogg blog.)

I’m reaching out a little more as well. Not in sense of help me I’m poor….., BCoUDIjCUAARzCq.jpg-largebut in the sense that I am no more the anti-social, social butterfly I used to be. You see, before I was out. Always out. My home was a place of bed for me, that was it. Sure, it was beautiful, expensive furniture, nice photographs, but it was just a roof over my head. I was always working, and when not working, socializing, being out where I truly thought the lights were much brighter. I had lots of friends, different circles, always having a party, but it was ultimately an excuse not to go home to my sad, sad, life. This time I go out and I still very much enjoy it, but I am home too, even if at times those sad moments still creep up. I spend time with my dog, I have more conversations with my neighbors and get this…I even planted a flower. Now, this is coming from a girl whose father bought her a cactus and that even perished in my care. Granted, I forgot about it as soon as I planted it and it died, I’m also pretty sure Barrie pissed on it, but I planted it. Not a substandard choice, my friend, just a very substandard job of keeping the flowering little fucker alive. (RIP- flower).

Being able to look back on some of my many terrible decisions has allowed me to grow, (more so than the flower I planted). I don’t plan on making more awful choices, at least not intentionally. But decisions will be made, for better or for worse, and the better ones will be for the better, and the substandard ones for the better too.

Delicate

The last year or so has not been the most gracious for me. I don’t intend to dwell on the past or bore you with a recap of the casualty of myself. I instead would like to share with you, how far I have come, even if only it’s a fraction of the steps that are still waiting for my feet to touch,

A year has past since worn-out shoes and a wonderful love faded.

Two years since the prime of a wonderful love and a summer of snow.

Three or four since my grandmother and best friend stepped into the other room.

And five, well whats five anyways.

I’ve never been someone to dwell, never someone to cry, mourning was and in some instances still is foreign to me. It’s unkind, cruel and yet still full of love.

They come in threes, ‘they’ say. For me not just threes, but fours and fives and into the hundreds. When it rains, it pours and pours, and I hate the weight of rain, so I brush it off, and wait for a sunny day, forgetting that like wood, rain soaks into the the depths were not even the sunniest of days can try it out completely. Slowly it rots, seeps further, breaks away and suddenly…

Your broken. I was. I suppose, in some sense I had been for awhile, but finally somehow last year, I completely fell to pieces. I felt rotten inside, I felt used outside. I felt alone, and sad and oh the fucking sadness. Just speaking of it now, scares me. the feeling of utter sadness is something I would never wish on my worst enemy (and trust me I’ve unfortunately created some).

To avoid this feeling, I avoided all. I was prescribe many a prescription, many a time, and relived the routine for just over two years. Phantom feelings I had for that period. They were only distant memories. Happiness I knew was spoken with a smile, stress with physical sickness, sadness with sighs, and madness with only a raised voiced to announce my anger. But truly, I felt nothing. In fact, the only time I could feel was drinking and fucking. And even after the fact, sadness would creep back into my heavily medicated heart, where drugs saved me.

Now, I am ‘off-script’ as they say. Against doctors orders, but I was tired of people telling me what to do. I was tired of people giving me advice. I was tired of people trying to help me, and have pity on me and manufacturing me into this broken down harlot who is lost in this big wide world.

It wasn’t easy. In fact, it happened on accident. The first day I ran out of my medication. I was worried. I don’t want sadness again. But I went through the day. The second day I open my bed side drawer knowing that I had nothing, but maybe I could find something to help me through the day, but only empty bottles. The third day I grew a little anxious, the fourth I was exhausted. A week went by and my body began to ache,  and sleeping was rough. I thought about heading to the pharmacy, but was truly only a thought. By two weeks my appetite increased and I spent more time reading. A month and my body still ached from time to time, but sleeping was becoming more bearable and my anxiety was quite minimal. But I did worry about the sadness coming back.

All this time, drinking seemed non-existent. I rarely drank and when I did it wasn’t because I felt the need to, it was because it was purely habit. It was normal for me to come home and finished a bottle of wine before bed. It was normal for me to forget to buy dog food, and instead buy beer. Fortunately, my dog’s food was full this time and there were less Asian ladies waddling their way to my blue bin for cans and bottles.

Me telling you all this doesn’t mean I no longer drink or I’m not drinking now. In fact, I’m double fisting with a tea and glass of wine, but I don’t feel the need to douse daily routines with spritzers and adult apple juices.

I recently have had two tests. NO! Not the kind of test where I’m tinkling on sticks or I have to make some uncomfortable phone calls to past lovers. THANKYOU!!!

The first test was someone who I used to think was so wonderful waltzED back into my life with his two left feet and endearing charm which I love and loathe simultaneously. Anxiety came, but left with him and her (Stay tuned for future blog). The second, an old friend invited me to a ‘program’ of some sort. I know, it was meant with trying to reach out, but no thank you. I am not where I was then, when they chose to take the exit out of my life. Trying to re-enter with the same notion they left with, is not acceptable. (I could go on about this but, alas, another blog, another time.)

A delicate situation. Truly, is what this all is. A fragile process with constant triggers. It’s just delicate. But I’ve been broken, broken and broken, so many times, that putting me back together won’t be easy, holding myself together will be even tougher. But alas, I present you….me. A little delicate right now, but it’s me.

These are small steps, I know, teeny tiny, but nonetheless, they are mine.

The Art Of Self Loathing

Sometime of Past ‘circa 2017

Well, folks I’ve always been a jack of all trades, but it seems I’ve finally become a master of one. SELF FUCKING LOATHING! Ugh, so not ideal, in any way whatsoever and yada yada ya da.

You guys know, I got issues. Dr. Phil couldn’t even fix the shit I be shitting on. My main issue, I feel is I constantly self sabotage myself. I say something stupid, I do something reckless, I knock a bitch out (KIDDING! I’m a lover not a fighter). Anything good I have, or semi decent or positive or whateverthefuck, I always seem to mess up.

Then it starts, I hate myself. I self loath my days a way. It’s selfish I know, but I get into this funk and I can’t seem to get out.

Some kind of Present

Mjz8gmgPGe-10Wow was I ever fucking dramatic or what. I suppose in those of yesteryear my life was drama-filled, whether I wanted to or not those were the days of my life. Full of sex, drugs, Sunday Night Specials. The soap story of the century.

Now, I’m still the same person. Still a sad sap, but I spend less time in my bathroom taking depression baths, I spend more time in the sun, less self-anylsing and finally moving the fuck on!

A lot has happened, not only in the 30 years I have plagued this world, but even in the last couple years. (Also just a side note:Fuck you 2017, worst year of my life, eat a dick).

I spent a lot of the last couple years as a hollowed out individual, nothing but a shell of a woman running on empty. Tears, cocaine and two-finger dieting. Definitely traits I decided not to share on Tinder. Anyways, I wasn’t much of a person.

By the beginning of Summer of last year, I lost friends, motivation, a love, and any one thing that could keep a person going. Medication increased, self worth decreased, I was constantly fighting with everyone of my selves, until I give up, they won and kept fighting and I grew more tired.

But alas, that time has past. Here I am, a little more than a year later and this is probably the first time I am actually not crying while writing my blog. I’m not even sad, not even a little. Just wondering WHO WANTS TO BE A MASTER OF SELF-LOATHING! Not this not-so-spring chicken.

Anywho, what sparked this blog was me sorting through my drafts of blog not posted. This was one. For me it’s nice to see how things have developed.

Thoughts?