I want out of my own head so badly some days. “Please!” I would cry, to anyone who’d listen. “Help me out of here! I’m trapped!” And here I am, holding the keys the whole time. But they’re invisible keys. They just jingle. And have a lot of weight. So I know I can get out, but I just can’t see the way. And I keep clearing the way, but then here’s more stuff! And jingling keys! And then I go bat shit crazy. The end.

OK, well, no. Not the end. Just a few more days of me, swinging around out there on the end of my rope. Dangling in space at sixty some million miles an hour with exploding brain disease. Lord.

Do you ever just get so so sick of yourself? Like, ugh. Me to self:  “Go away. I am so sick of you. Tired of you! Sick and tired of you! And also you are fat.” The end.

It seems difficult, since I know that even when I’m feeling worse I’m getting better. So that’s really cool, and really awful. Yesterday in my group there was this:

Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers
      but to be fearless in facing them.
Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain but
      for the heart to conquer it.
Let me not crave in anxious fear to be saved
      but hope for the patience to win my freedom.


Here I am, being patient. Working for my freedom. Stirring my pain. Although sometimes ‘being patient’ looks more like me crazycakes screeching in the kitchen and then crying. Feeling my pain, even when I don’t understand why I’m in it. Saying “I’m sorry for being so screechy” and hoping it is enough.

I think it comes from never ever being able to let me be. I was listening to music in the car and there was a piano part I get really excited about and I play the steering wheel and the air like I’m playing piano. Then I do some singing too, which I get a kick out of. But then, I start to think something like this: “I’ll bet the person in front of me knows how to play piano for real and can tell I don’t know what I’m doing. And I look stupid.”

Now, now, don’t get all “Oh! It’s OK! Don’t worry about that!” because I know, I know. I just wonder how I got to be my own worst enemy. That I am the solution to the problem, and in a cruel twist of fate, the very cause of it. Well, fuck.

I think I need to ask for more help. And be more help-full. It’s no coincidence that my tea with sayings had this one today:

And it is. I can take a breath, ask for help. Look for signs. Remember that I’m doing it, I’m sober. That I’m not the worst person, wife, mother, air piano player, etc. in the world. I’m just me in the world. Finding the keys.