This morning, I woke up early, while it was still dark, and realized that the troops are on the way!  I know help is coming.  It was a really cool feeling.  It was like, I already feel better, because I know I am going to feel better.  That was a really neat feeling.


My take-no-BS friend had insisted that I see a counselor.  I asked a bunch of people whom they might recommend and took absolutely none of their advice, choosing instead a person who purported to have deep Christian faith.  She was very condescending and it was just not good all around. 


I discovered that I didn’t need to pay for that kind of s**t.  She told me to be assertive, so I fired her.


I feel great now sans counseling.  Thanks to yet another bad counseling experience, I know I am better off without it.

I recently asked the really happy (appearing) people I know why they are happy.  The answers fell into two groups:  “I don’t know” and “I decided to be happy.”


The secret of happiness remains an elusive mystery.

So, you have found my “secret” online diary.


What tipped you off that this is really me?


Is it my idiosyncratic, slightly pedantic syntax?


Or just that fact that it’s obviously me?


Some of the things herein were obviously written under the influence of prescription medication which has all been metabolized and excreted.  I could tell you the very minute that the last molecule of valium left my body, my soul, my mind.


Some of the things that I wrote are barely recognizable to me as mine.  It is as though they were written by not-me, by another me.  Jack said it was me but “a heightened version of yourself,” which is considerably less scary.  I just feel like I lost several weeks, but I am glad that it all happened.  (“Why?” is another post for another day.)

…key hygiene steps.


Today it was deodorant.

I wrote earlier about Eminem and how he overcame his addiction to Vicodin.  When I initially torqued my spine and pelvis a month ago, I refused narcs, remembering how hard it was to wean off the stuff.  Then I got the script from my PCP, realizing that I really did need it.  Then I was obstinate about refilling it, and went through a difficult, painful weekend…got the refill…and watching the number of white oblong magic pills decrease (slowly, with wise, judicious use)  is giving me a weird feeling.  I don’t watch the clock anymore- but I still need them in the morning to get moving, and before PT (my PT is awesome.  Although I shocked her today by asking if it was ok to resume sex again.  Did I mention I torqued my pelvis?)   She did say that continuing to play the bass will be no problem, but she didn’t directly answer the sex question.  Hmmm.  (Don’t worry about Jack.  I take good care of my man.  I am a creative girl.)


So I am hoping this is the last bottle.  But man, if I could be on valium forever, now that would be something.  What if I just get a valium tat?  It will always be on my body then.  Would that, like, work?  What if the ink were made of slow-release valium?  Hmmm… now there is a thought.  That’s an even better idea than white-ink tattoos for black people.

Ok, this is an old one, but…it’s hot and bright out, so I thought of it.

(Backstory- I’ll keep it short) A long time ago I went to a Christian retreat for college students. One of the guys we met from a different college was glasses-dependent and one of his tiny eyeglass frame screws fell out. I wore contacts at that time, but could totally sympathize, right? So I took off my (very cool, black-and-white mod plastic) sunglasses and asked, genuinely,

“Do you want a screw?”

He literally ran away and never spoke to me again.

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