Worn Out Shoes

And so some time has passed. For those of you that dwell in the same town as I, you probably have all heard the story. Rumors fly around this town like rapid anal air attacks. I usually do my darnedest to cover my face and get the fuck out before it all hits me at once.

You see friends, recently (and I use recently rather loosely), a coworker of mine had passed away while we were working. I won’t go into details, for I am constantly going through the details in my head every morning when I wake up and every night before bed. Besides this story isn’t about the incident itself, instead it is about the aftermath.

I never used to work Wednesday. It wasn’t until the Ice Queen decided to reconvene her reign at our pub and she took all the shifts she desired. The bitch took my Monday shift so I was condemned to Wednesday, for all my eternity at the pub I shall now be serving shitty lunch specials, forced smiles and tall glasses of suckmydick. But whatever, I’m easy, I’ll suck it up and reconfigured my life for the Ice Queen.  My lady, I bid you to eastmyass.

Anyways, so I’ve been finally getting the groove of this Hump Day shift, and I am finally accepting the change that came with it. I got to work with another chef who I hardly ever see and I got to work with one of my girlfriends. All good, same shit, different day essentially, whatever!

Unfortunately, one Wednesday, shortly after our lunch rush, and me serving a table of 30 geriatrics from the local retirement home, I heard someone screaming. My instincts took over and I immediately ran to the front patio, to see if the bag lady Shannon was arguing with the pigeons again, but alas I was wrong. (My instincts suck). A couple of customers beckoned me over, and as I was headed towards them I saw it. I saw my coworker, I saw my friend, I saw death for the first time face to face.

Like I said this story isn’t about someone going to work to flip burgers and leaving in a bag. It was a freak accident, no doubt. No, this story is about…family.

***

We closed up early that day. Two hours later I got the call, that my friend did not make it. I was still in my work clothes, my feet covered in blood, my make up smudged all over my face, I was exhausted. I called my mama, I cried. I called Mr. Wonderful, I cried. I called more coworkers to let them know, we cried. I got off the phone and sat on my front porch, still unclean and cried. I cried, I cried, I cried and cried.

WHAT. THE. FUCK. How does this happen? How does someone go to work to flip fucking burgers and they die? His wife. His poor wife. She has no idea, she expected to see him that day, it’s not like he is a War Vet or Firefighter where you know they may never come home. He’s a chef. To me that’s not okay.

I was there. I was fucking there. Deep in it. Why was I fucking there? Oh I forgot, it’s because the fucking ICE QUEEN condemned me to Wednesdays. I never work Wednesdays. I never work Wednesdays, why did I have to work this Wednesday? If I had my old shift back, I wouldn’t have had to have been there. I wouldn’t have had to see what I saw, to hear what I heard, I wouldn’t have had to see my friend’s life drift away from his eyes. I want my Mondays back. I want my friend back.

The next couple days the pub closed. But all of us coworkers/friends/family we all came together to talk. Counselors were at our feet, police officers at our beckon and mother fucking ego-maniacal reporters where lingering in our shadows until the perfect moment.

I was constantly asked by everyone how I was doing. I hated this question. Yes, I was a wreck, yes I was sad, but I was more sad because I could only imagine how is wife feels. To lose the love of your life, let alone shortly after giving birth to your second baby. That’s not fair. I feel like shit and all you guys are concerned about me, what about her? What about his babies?

Looking back now, it was out of love. My coworkers genuinely cared for me, they were worried about my well-being along with the few others that witnessed this tragedy. But at the time, I couldn’t handle it. I thought shitty question after a shitty circumstance.

Days passed, sleep was inexistent, narcotics came back into fruition, anxiety exhilarated, and all I could think about was my shoes. I had an interesting moment. I had worn my shoes home that day, I never do that. Maybe in some sense I thought the rain would wash away the life that drifted on them, or maybe it was all I had of him. I remember sitting in my bedroom, a few hours before the funeral, staring at my shoes. All the moments of that Wednesday came rushing back, all my senses in overload, stroking out. Now, I could throw these shoes out, bury them, burn them, do whatever to get them out of my way, or I could keep them. Maybe I would put them in my closet or a box, and whenever I wanted to feel again, I could find the shoes.

Now I know this sounds like a rather perturbed thought, but I am a girl who can’t feel. I am so hooked up on pharmaceutical cocktails that to really make me feel, to really make me care, to really make me feel like a person, well, perhaps these shoes would help.

Mylittleshroomy (not her actual name, just a term of endearment for one of my dearest friends) and I headed to the pub to meet up with the rest of our coworkers. There we talked, we checked up on one another, we dispersed in to few cars and headed to say farewell to our friend. My car was one of the rides we took, but I didn’t drive. I couldn’t.

We arrived at the funeral. I was doing okay. I was supposed to be doing okay. I had already cried prior that morning, I am good. So good. I am going to be okay.

We all sat together, hand in hand. And waited patiently for the service to begin. I couldn’t help but think a week ago he was fine, he was alive, he was happy and smiling and asking me how my day was. A week ago, I finally was getting used to my new work schedule. A week ago he had told me they had finally picked out a name for his baby girl. A week ago, the saddest thing I still hadn’t gotten over was Glen (Walking Dead spoiler alert). A week ago everything was okay. I was okay. He was okay. He was alive and well and I am not okay anymore. He isn’t alive. He is not okay. I am not okay. I am not okay. I AM NOT OKAY.

I couldn’t breathe, I stood up and ran out of the room. My heart bursting out of my chest, my breathe struggling to make way and my tears flooded my eyes so much so I couldn’t see clearly. Mylittleshroomy and Mama Bear (Head Server) followed me out. They took me outside. They hugged me. They let me cry. They let me feel. They held my hand. They gave me my time. My heart hurt so much, why did this have to happen? This wasn’t supposed to happen? We did so much to help him survive, how did he not make it? What did we do wrong? Was I not quick enough? Did the ambulance take too long? Where did we go wrong? Why couldn’t we save him? I could’ve have saved him!

I guess they call this survivors guilt. In all honesty, I look at my life and think I really have nothing going for me, but he, he had so much. He was young, he was starting a family, he was a devoted husband and father, the only thing I’ve been devoted to was popping pills and getting my rock off. In a heart beat, I would’ve have taken his place. Mama Bear consoled me in a way I never expected. She told me it was okay to feel. It’s okay to be sad, but it wasn’t okay to feel undervalued and unloved. She told me it wasn’t okay that I was sad because I wished it was me instead of him. She told me that we all care and love each other, and we all have these thoughts inside our heads, but together we can help one another. We see each other every day, we celebrate all our birthdays together, we fight with each other, we fuck with each other, we help each other, and in the end we are all family here. We lost a family member. Why lose two?

At some point we three walked backed in, hand in hand. The service began.

***

I was anxious. I haven’t walked into the kitchen since the incident. I didn’t know if I could do it. I thought I could not walk in and I could leave, and find a way to move on without moving through the process of grief, or I could walk in and see what happens. I took a breath, and I walked in the kitchen. The evidence was gone, but the story was still there, in the walls, in the floors, in me. But I walked through the kitchen. It wasn’t until that moment I realized what I needed to do.

This was a little more than a month ago now. I still have bouts of not being able to sleep. I’ve slipped into old bad habits. My medication has doubled. And I have good days and bad days. Someone once told me every day gets better. I’m still waiting for that day, but I am hopeful.

And.

In the end.

I threw out my shoes.

 

 

 

 

Red Raped

I am back folks, at it again cracking wise like no tomorrow. I know it’s been awhile, but you guys should know by now, I go through phases, my most recent phases, alcohol, bloody shoes and COCAINE!

K I D D I N G

(not kidding)

Nah, I’ve had lots of poetics stuck inside my head the last little while and now I am finally ready to unleash these rhymes.

Now this in all essence friends, this jib jabber of yada yada yada is just a prologue to many more yada yadas. Some a little more touchy feely, some a little darker, some a little more honest and some easy breezy. Because it’s been awhile I shall start with something more easy breezy.

***

Alas, folks. I have become some harlot who is ashamed of certain aspects of herself. (surprisingly not ashamed of the fact I am a harlot). I try not to live a life of regrets, no matter the circumstance. I mean, I’m talking about myself of course, someone who had a one night stand with Chuckles The Clown, I tell you I have never been more disappointed in myself waking up to the smell of sticky toffee and white face paint on my nipples and nether regions. I have never felt defiled in my life, but if there was a moment this would probably be it. And still, no regrets.

No, no regrets whatsoever. I’ve decided to fuck regrets, like I fuck everything, and lean on being ashamed of myself. I would say disappointed, but my parents already to that job for me.

So I’ve decided to compile a list of things that are clearly, my bad habits, that I am more or less ashamed of. And what better way to lift this weight off my shoulders, by drinking a Somersby and telling all you fine people.

  1. Drunk Texting, STRAIGHT FML SUPER ASHAMED. Every time I wake up the next morning hung to the tits, I am left with a terrible, undecipherable novella of attempted booty calls, blurry photos and vowels. No consonants, just straight fucking vowels. AAA, EEE. AEOYU. To add to this drunk texting horror story, I’ll add in the kicker. PHONE CALLS. You aren’t one of my friends, unless I have left countless unintelligible voice mails and at least 67 phone calls in the span of one night.
  2.  Male Clothing. Now, before you get any ideas, it’s not what you think. No, I am not some hussy strutting around in male clothing, using my bass vocalizers telling my pets to call me Chaz. No, no mother fucking no. It’s rather not as exciting. You see friends, my harlot ways have lead to countless bedroom romps, where the bloody blokes leave some sort of memorabilia for yours truly. Anything from ties, to boxers, to shirts and socks. And I would be lying if I said I sometimes even hide an article of their clothing pre coitus, to add to my collection. Plus, side of my cat like theif ways, when I do have company come over I have an endless supplies of male clothing which they are welcome to borrow. (FYI- They never borrow).
  3. Pee that Smells Like: Coffee! I can’t help it. I certainly have a caffeine addiction. Nothing is better then my black on black grande pike, extra hot. But I don’t just drink it for the instant gratification of fresh mud in the morning. I drink it because I absolutely love it when my piss smells like a good cuppa joe. I know I am fucked, among other things, but I can’t help myself. In fact I think I am more ashamed for telling you guys about this beautiful bad habit, than the habit itself.
  4. Britney Spears: This bitch just gets me. I don’t know what it is, but even during Mickey Mouse days, I’ve always been a BS Groupie. Yeah her songs are shit, but there is just something about this chick that gets me going. I will admit during her public melt down where she went all Sinead O’Connor on our asses, made me fall for her. I love crazy bitches. Slightly ashamed of my devotion for the pop princess, and potentially embarrassed, but she drives me crazy.
  5. No Means Yes. Okay, now, you guys all know I am a promiscuous lil’ lassie, ared-rapend that’s something I would never deny. One of the many sexual fantasies I have, are that of being raped. Not sure if it has to do with losing my virginity at the age of my girl guide era, but there is just something of about no always meaning yes. I love being abused when it comes to fucking. So much so that if I don’t have any evidence of a few scratches here and there, or bite marks and bruises, I feel unloved and undesirable. Gentlemen, don’t ever make me feel like that.
  6. Married Men. I don’t like getting hurt. Unless, as mention prior it is for the gain of sexual gratification. I do have a heart believe it or not and I keep it very guarded. I recently made a mistake and let my guard up and fell for the bait. I am still in love with this bloke and madly so, and our relationship is complicated, lovely, but for the most part painful. I’ve decided recently, I never want this to happen again. I never want to fall in love and feel these moments of dejection. I’ve decided to pursue the unattainable. That being men that are married, or engaged or taken or whatever the fuck. Now, I am not trying to be a homewrecker, in fact I just leave all my liaisons with the kept men purely sexual. I don’t get attached. I don’t fall again.
  7. Silver Foxes. Meow!!! I’ve always been what I would call a ‘connoisseur of older men’. I luv them, they drive me wild. Maybe it stems from non-existent daddy issues, or just me fetching for someone who more than likely will have a thicker wallet. But folks, I just can’t help myself. Salt n’ Pepa hair, old man musk and experience….mmm mmm mmm.

Well, there you have it folks, an uneven number of things of just shit about me. Shit I am both ashamed and proud of.

I will admit, this isn’t my greatest writing. It’s just a little something for you all. I have more stories, and confessions coming your way. But in the mean time….

Waterproof Make Up is Overrated

Folks, waterproof make up is overrated. This past week has put it to the test, and it failed miserably. Alright, now I’ll fess up with how I know this.

Last year was very up and down for me, I had my good days, I had my bad days and towards the end of the year most of my days were good days. So good they were wonderful. I was branching out with different career opportunities, I wasn’t partying nearly as much, Barrie and I were meeting lots of canine friends, and my ‘not’ relationship was finding itself again.

But I don’t know what happened. It was like 2017 smacked the side of my head and said hey there little lady….new year, same you, you sad sack of shit…. (Insert sad/annoyed emoji). Since January, I’ve been nothing but overthinking, and feeling. And ya’ll know I strongly dislike the idea of feeling, having feelings, caring for things etc. And overthinking brings on anxiety, and anxiety brings on thoughts that may or may not be true, which brings on more anxiety because I don’t know whether they are or not, which brings on sadness and utter defeat. I lose.

I’m not keeping track but I’ve probably cried at least 3 to 4 times a day, everyday since the new year. In the morning I cry, on my way to work I cry (sometimes at work I cry), my drive from work I cry and in bed I cry. I cry, I cry, I cry, like a big baby. I can’t control it. I’ve cried so much I am surprised my tear ducts haven’t dried up. Part of me thinks all this waterworks stuff has to do with me not crying or even having actual feelings for years and years. I was ‘dead’ inside then, now I am alive and it is so not worth it. Not even in the least bit.

I don’t want to be awake. Mostly I don’t want to be awake when I am alone. It’s a sad place to be. Don’t be alarmed, this is not to say I don’t want to exist, but I would rather be sleeping, just get lost in some sort of Slumberland, where I am not a depressed individual. Instead, I am Cait The Lovely! Who rides a unicorn and has a cotton candy bed!!! Unfortunately reality doesn’t allow for such pleasures.

sadpandaLately I have been leaving my house early for work. Sometimes 2 to 3 hours before work. I leave early because I don’t want to be home. I then find a place to grab a coffee, which I may or may not drink, and I drive around. Driving used to make me feel better. In some truth it still does. But I cry folks, I cry and cry and cry and before I know it I look like a panda. Mascara and eyeliner down my face, perhaps I look more like a sad mime, a disgruntled Beetlejuice, Morticia Addams, one of the Kardashians. Fuck, I don’t know, what ever I look like, well I am sure there is a meme out there somewhere for it.

I’m losing myself friends, I’m drowning in tears that are surely falling for ridiculous reasons. I’m lost in all this sappy and mushy shit. Emotions are exhausting, feelings are suffocating, and when they are placed inside my used-to-be hollow self… … …well, maybe I just shouldn’t wear make up anymore.

Ode To My Shower

Friends, I must let you in on a little secret. Well, fuck… whether it’s a secret or not doesn’t really matter, but ANYWAYS!

So as you guys know, I haven’t been the happiest camper the last while or so. I’ve been riding this wave of depression and severe anxiety for quite some time. Often, when sleeping doesn’t work, when being in the company of others fails to keep my mind occupied, I tend to take off all my clothes and run through the streets WE’RE GOING STREAKING!!! Ha! Only kidding folks, if only I had the gonads to do so.

Nah, what I usually do is put on some Whitney Houston, light a couple candles and hop in the shower….ALRIGHT, alright, this is bogus too. But I do jump in the shower and I often do sing ALL BY MYSELF!!!!!!!!!

For whatever reason I find comfort sitting in my shower, contemplating every possible thing I could ever contemplate. I often cry when I am in the shower, (I know big baby right.) I won’t even shampoo my hair, or shave or think to take advantage of my adjustable shower head (ladies you know what I mean). Instead, I just sit, cry, overthink, sometimes sing, write blogs in my head, overthink some more, cry some more, etc. etc.

The shower is comforting, the hot water soothes my body. Although I am all alone in a shower, butt-ass naked, sitting in the fetal position like a sad, little beefcake, I don’t feel so lonely. I just sit there, hot water tapping on me and before I know it, some time has gone by, and the water is now luke warm.

I go through phases. As mentioned before, I’ve riding this wave, and sometimes I land along the shore, sometimes I am pulled back out, perhaps in an undertow, I just never know, because I can’t control the ocean.

Lately, I’ve been having a lot of showers. Fack, my hydro bill is going to be huge!

Maybe it means I am psychotic. In fact, I would almost prefer to be psychotic, than be so melancholy all the time.

Today I had two showers. Which believe it or not,seeing as it was a day off for me I should have had about four. Towels flood my house, along with wet foot prints.

My shower is a calmness for me. It tames my love-sick feelings, it keeps my anxieties at bay, and although I still can tend to be sad while showering, my shower lets me. It wipes away my tears, and when I do choose to sing, the acoustics are…FAB U LOUS!!!

Shower, Thankyou.

Anothernotso…

Today the sun is shining friends, but alas for me…this is not so. I am in no high spirits today. Today is yet anothernotsogood day.

I am so sad my friends. Sad to the point I physically feel sick. I hurt deeply, I’m anxious, I’m on the verge of just wanting to not exist. Everything would be so simple to just not be, to not feel.

I took some of my medication this morning, I took more than I usually do because I just want to numb everything. I want to not think. I want to not feel. I would rather be indifferent and not be happy then be sad.

Just when I thought things were looking up, well it turns out I was looking up only because I was falling and falling down. In fact, I am still falling. I am looking up, but nothings there.

I’m eager to see my new psychiatrist. Not eager as in excited to meet the Doc, but eager because I really do need help. I need someone to talk to. I need someone to fix me. I am just a misfit toy- probably with some sort of recall on my label and I just need someone to bandage me up so I can be loved again.

I went to bed feeling anxious. Like something was coming and I wasn’t sure what, but I new it wasn’t good. I know I am a fuck up, I’m a mishap, I’m a mexican abortion waiting to happen, but I am trying. I suppose it’s hard because you can’t choose your feelings. This also means you can’t control them, just subdue them until you are under the false pre.tence of feeling better. I don’t feel better any more. My medication has worn off, I am only have a little left to get me through the next week until I meet my new psychiatrist. It’s almost worse sometimes, like coming off coke, coming off medication is terrible. All the feelings come rushing back.

It’s the beginning of a new year and already I am losing. Every year I say it’s going to get better and then my Hubris hits me sooner and harder and I fall, fall, fall. This say it has to be worse before it gets better. But I’ve been worse and worse and worse, that feeling better is on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 feeling the most optimum, I’m a 1 sometimes, a 2.

I have a coworker who every day we work together, he asks me how I am feeling. He knows mildly so about my obstacles, but he understands. He’s been in a similar spot at a time in his life, he listens, he knows it’s not easy, he knows that it does get better but it takes time. He always asks me on a scale of 1 to 10. I lie to him and say I am a 4. He reaffirms that a 4 is not good. I know this, especially since I am not really a 4, I am a maybe 2.

I’ve tried different techniques to make me feel better. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t. Before I would call my top 5. But when they don’t answer I get more worked up and unsettled. I’ve tried looking at objects I am surrounded by, I say what they are, I described them and I try to remember where I acquired them. Sometimes this works, but mostly no. Sleep for me works best. But at some point I wake up, and yet again all the feelings come back and I feel suffocated.

If I could flash forward 5 years, I would. If I could go to bed and wake up and it’s 2030, I would. I just don’t care about this world anymore, only the few individuals in it.

I feel sad for my Barrie. I look into his eyes and he knows something is wrong with his mommy. He knows I don’t feel so good, he knows I am sullen and I hurt. He tries to comfort me, but ultimately I am inconsolable. I feel disappointed in myself because he only has maybe 10 years of life left, and the first 3 I have been not so happy. He just sleeps when I sleep, which is as often as can possibly be.

I keep telling myself ‘I know things will get better,’ but in all truth of the matter, I don’t. I don’t know.

A Love Letter

Hello There,

I am writing a letter to you my love, and yes I know some may consider letters as rather passe, but for what ever the reason, writing is the only way I feel I am able to communicate, fully and completely so. This being said, I’ll start once again.

Hello There,

I am writing this letter to you, to allow you to see me as who I am. To understand where I come from, to see how deeply I feel for you, and in all essence, this letter is me giving you my heart.And you are right, I am not one for all this sappy shit, but today is an exception. Especially, since being hungover, depressed and lonely, makes all the more welcoming of sappy sad sacks of facts of …me.

I love you. You know this. I love you so much so, that I think about you constantly. I wake up and you are my first thought (Side Note: I don’t process thoughts or think until I am sitting on my porcelain throne taking my morning shit). I always want to call you, but rarely do. This is so because I don’t have anything to say, just having you on the other line, present in some sort of moment with me, is all I need. Obviously only crazy, people would seriously call for this reason right? That being said, Hey there stranger, if you ever want to just be on the phone with me just to be, HOLLAR! Fortunately for me, you are always the first one to call, just to tell a story. Which is perfect because I always have so little to say and I like stories.

It’s weird for me. I love you, and you are said to be in love with me. But I am afraid to show affection towards you. I think this is because we did show affection quite early on and although it may have repulsed others by us making out like two young hormonal twats, I loved every minute of it. I feel as though that perhaps I embarrass you if I try to show a little PDA. And maybe so because we are not a couple. You are my not boyfriend and I am your not girlfriend and together we are not a couple that do not couple-ly things.

I remember we would drive around, I would have my hand on your leg or in your hand, and you would hold it or caress it. Sure, it’s something small, but this something small, is hard for me to now. I worry that it won’t be reciprocated.

I have never felt jealousy until I met you. This of course is not counting the time, one of my siblings got a PS3 for Christmas and I was left with a leg lamp (legit, true story). Now let me explain this a little more. I am not the jealous type. The only time I am jelly is when it’s  spread on a peanut butter sandwich (mmmmmm….peanut butter). In the beginning of our liaisons I wasn’t jealous at all. I simply couldn’t be. We were both playing the same game, we both were eating our cake, it was all good. Now it’s different. I think is comes from us being not boyfriend and not girlfriend, it makes me want to hold on to you even more. It makes me paranoid, it makes me sad, because although I don’t ever wish to have ownership over a human being, not really being your girlfriend, well….there is no comfort in that. I met you at time when you had a not girlfriendThis is where I think the jelly creeps in..

I had a really nice time with you the other night. We stayed up way too late, popped some fun stuff, drank, conversed and played video games. It was awesome. It was probably the one time in the last little while that I could see you were enjoying my company and I wasn’t a burden to you. It even ended with sexy time that I didn’t even have to initiate. (#nailedit.)

I love you, you know this. It is extremely hard for me to love you so and just be your friend. I wasn’t ready for a relationship for a very long time, but with you, I love you. Why couldn’t we give it a go so to speak? Everyone always bitches and moans about putting a label on something. I get it, I do. But something like this, why not? Can’t I just be yours and you mine?

When you first told me you loved me, I was sad. Sad because I couldn’t help but be fearful that it wouldn’t last. Sad because I loved you too and for whatever reason I always seem to fuck everything good up. Truly, everything good I have or had just goes to shit. You are part of my good, I don’t want to lose that too.

Yes, I over think things. You know this And perhaps a good portion of this love letter is just over thinking. But I can’t help but feel so deeply, and love so madly that for something to not come of it is…it’s okay. But I simply don’t want to be around it because I hurt. As much as I love you, being around you makes it more painful, because although you are right in front of me, I’ve already lost you.

Alas, my not boyfriend. I would like to say I couldn’t tell you this in person because I have lost the words, but clearly I have more than a few words.

I do love you. You are wonderful.

Love Always,

Cait.

Cait Interrupted

Hi friends,

Alas, where do I even begin…

Monday I was admitted into emergency. Now, in my mind absolutely no real emergency whatsoever. I say this because, for the last two days I was just indifferent. I felt empty, I felt like any feeling I ever felt was gone and that for the remainder of my so-called life I would always feel just this…just…desolate. Cait’s very own wasteland. A place that used to be bumping full of energy and smiles and happy-go-lucky type shit. Now it’s just nothing. An abandoned amusement park, no longer amusing.786e44a15f57dded1b6359cd0e6cfd32

This year has been quite the rollercoaster to say the least and fuck do I ever hate using that metaphor, but it is so true. Up and down, then stalls, then up and down, then some bitch loses her phone because she’s a fucking idiot for trying to take a selfie with a phone……UGH!!!!!!!!!!! This ride isn’t fun anymore.

I called my mom on Monday. I was sad. I often call mom when I am sad. I don’t mean too, and I hate to have her feel helpless because she isn’t here, but there are only few people I feel semi-okay/butnotreally/butitstheclosestIwillgettofeelingcomfortablewithsomeone.

If mom is busy, I call the ex. Now, before you guys go to any conclusions let me explain something to you. My ex and I have been broken up for two years now. In the beginning I would do my best not to call him in these moments, simply because I didn’t want him to feel used. I didn’t want him to feel like I only called him because for 8 years we were together and it was routine, it was comfort. However, he knows me. He knows I’m incredibly stubborn, he knows I hate feet, he knows the scars on my body (inside and out), he knows about my secret obsession with nutcrackers (shhhhh it’s a secret!). He just knows me. He perhaps, is my closest confidant.

On Monday, after being on the phone with my mom, I called the ex. We decided it was time to take me in. Where folks? TO THE LOONY BIN OF COURSE! Kidding! I get I’m crazy, but I am not quite girl interrupted yet. Hospital it is.

On the way to there, I was thinking two things: 1) This isn’t a real emergency? 2) So craving a Happy Meal…

We get there and it isn’t busy one bit. Thank gawd too. I would hate to have someone with a machete in their head or someone birthing a goat have to wait on me just because I am having a sad, sad day.

I was shocked. And I don’t know why I was so shocked, but when I got there everyone was so comforting. The nurses seem to genuinely care about my well being. They didn’t want me to leave, they didn’t want me to feel sadness anymore, they truly wanted to help me. So much in fact they bumped me up before a sick baby. Sorry sick baby, but Cait’s a baby too….

They brought me in to see a psychoanalyst. I forget her name, but she was quite lovely. They also brought in a general physician.I was broken friends. I couldn’t stop feeling sad, I couldn’t stop crying. How did I let it get to this point? ME! Cait the mother fucking great, the toughest cookie in town was crumbling.

I talked to ….lets call her Miss Lovely (psychoanalyst). She truly was lovely. She seemed to have compassion for me, she wanted to understand, she genuinely was listening to all my words and ramblings. She asked me questions, upon questions, but for once I didn’t mind. She asked me about my drug use, I was honest. About my diet, I was honest, about any past or present relationships and in that I tried not to share. I tried not to be honest, but in the end she knew the whole story.

Miss Lovely, then talked to the ex. Since he knows me best, sometimes I think better than I know myself. They both came in a short time later.

I will now be going to an outpatient treatment center. Just to have someone to talk to once 3a51a-depressiontwo8-2in awhile. Someone who can hopefully help me sort out my shit. Someone who is either willing or at least paid to listen to my stories (and I got lots of them stories).

It was funny, on the drive home, the ex turn towards me and… Miss Lovely was so fuck foxing, I should got her number….ugh!!!!! BOYS!!! We had a laughed. He dropped me off, helped cleaned my place a bit, tucked both Bear and I into bed and then it was Tuesday. A new day, still a sad one, but then it’ll be Wednesday, then Thursday, and if it’s true what They say (who ever They are), every day gets better. And I’ve finally taken steps to get better myself.