Tuesday, January 17, 2017


Sometimes I feel I have to write before I explode. I just had that happen right now, like so much sorrow and sadness and anger was piling up and I don't know why. So I opened my blog to post something, to get it out, to stop this feeling.

And I couldn't type. I'm left feeling inadequate.

Depression lies. That's what I tell myself.

It gets better. That's what I tell myself.

Right now though, it is not better, and depression is screaming in my ear about what a fucking failure I am. My life, my relationships, my health, my mind. FAIL FAIL FAIL.

Tomorrow will be better. Holy shit, let tomorrow be better.

Saturday, December 31, 2016

Goodbye 2016, You Piece Of Shit

It's not hyperbole to say that this year has been just utter trash for nearly everyone. I think the only winners in 2016 were Death and racists. Oh, and the Cubs! They fucking did it after 108 years, and I'm glad as shit that I went and experienced the mass of bodies at the parade and celebration. But I digress.

Tonight, I'm going to focus on what affected me this year and what I'm going to do next year if I live that long.

Health: My health has been shit. I started the year with good intentions, but was waylaid by a back injury that manifested into constant pain, physical therapy, and a prescription of pain pills. Then in October, I started having issues with my blood pressure (and I just fucked it up and gave myself a throbbing headache tonight by eating frozen stuffed nachos.....good job, me). My BP is still not all the way under control, and there are days when I feel like utter crap and my blood pressure is too high and I just feel like I'm going to die. I've had a stress test and an echocardiogram and all the blood tests done to see if something is wrong with my heart, but so far everything looks normal. Knock on wood. I'm supposed to have a Holter monitor in place for 48 hours to see if it shows any heart abnormalities, but I had to cancel that appointment because I now have a cold. Oy.

I've also spent damn near $800 on my teeth because my tooth decided to act up, and it was discovered that I was gritting my teeth in my sleep and cracking them. Ha, I can't imagine why I've been gritting my teeth. So. Work done to cover the cracks, a mouth guard, and a descaling of the backs of my bottom teeth because I hadn't been to a dentist in 9 years or so, and they were in a sad and decaying state. Yay.

My anxiety is still shit, I still stress myself out over every little thing, and I'm constantly on edge.

I want to say I'm going to change all of that and start taking care of me, but it's all a bunch of bullshit that will last like a week. Maybe try to get healthier, but I say that every year. Let's see if this is the year that self-care sticks.

Death: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. The Grim Reaper has been working overtime this year it seems, and even New Year's Eve didn't escape, because 35 (as of this writing) people were killed in a nightclub in Turkey, and we lost the dude that played Father Mulcahy on MASH. It was a fucking horror show, and while I must reiterate that I did not personally know these famous types that died, a lot of them were important to my growing up years. Holy shit, the Oscar memorial is going to be like ten hours long.

Then there is my dog. It still hurts. Shit, I couldn't even type that without getting weepy. I loved Tequila. I always will, and I hope he enjoyed the life he had with us, because we sure as shit enjoyed what he brought to our lives.

I can't also forget my friends who lost their own beloved companions. Ralphie and Daisy, I hope if there is an afterlife you are keeping Tequila company and causing all kinds of merry havoc.

And for anyone that is wondering, yeah, we'll probably get another dog. I just don't know when. It will happen when the time is right and the stars and planets align.

The US elections/politics: I can't with this bullshit. If we get through the next four years without nuclear war or making enemies of all our allies or not fucking shit up for the whole country, I'll be amazed. Not holding my breath though. Welcome to the first annual hunger games, amirite? Sigh.

It hasn't been all terrible, I guess. I'm here celebrating my 12th wedding anniversary with my husband. We're still together, which is amazing, because if I were my husband, I would have left my ass long ago. He loves me though. I love him too, even when he bugs the shit out of me.

I said it above, but the Cubs won the World Series! I just like repeating it because it is so damned surreal. I've been a fan for only a short period of time (10 years), but it is still magic to see it happen, especially for the poor souls who have been waiting for-fucking-ever.

I'm homeschooling my kid, which seems like it would be bad, but I think it is working out nicely for both of us. Sure, there are days when I get frustrated, but it has been nice watching him discover new things in the arts and in world history. He's discovered his Greek roots, learned to appreciate classical music (still hoping to take him to see "Die Zauberflöte"), and has figured out he can write really well when he wants to.

So there you have it. The shitshow of 2016 in my own words. The superstitious part of my brain is hoping that writing out all the bad crap will make 2017 magically better. The cynical part of me is like, "Yeah right, bitch."

Onwards, I guess. With weapons and armor. Only time will tell if those weapons and armor are metaphorical or literal.

Wednesday, September 28, 2016


It's been a month. There are days that I can let pass by without a single thought, only to be reminded at 4pm that it's time for Tequila to have his heart pill.

There are mornings I wake up in tears because I dream about that day again. What could have been done differently. What if it had been something minor. How I could have fucking saved him.

Our cat is depressed and missing him. I know that sounds stupid, but it is true. She looks for him constantly. She's become more vocal, which I think is her way of trying to be as loud as he could be. She goes into our building's hallway and sits and waits. It breaks my heart because I cannot make her understand at all that Tequila isn't coming back.

I want to say so much about his little life, but I still get too damned emotional to go into too much detail. Poke at me in another month. In the meantime, have some pictures instead. He was such a hamball.

First picture I ever took of him. Ready to go home with us after being a stray in California. Best gift my sister ever gave us (she's the one who found him). 2007


Chilling with his cousin Rocky in 2010.

Guarding his boy in 2011.

No idea. Just a dingus.


Double LOL

Future frenemies.

Plotting world domination.

This was taken on August 26th of this year, two days before we let him go. Looking at it now, I guess you can see that he looked tired and sad. Or maybe I'm just projecting.

I'll end there.

Monday, September 5, 2016


Eight days.

It's been eight days.

And it still hurts.

I keep listening for the clicking of his nails on the floor. For the sound of him tiptoeing into our room, past my sleeping husband, around to my side of the bed, only for him to violently shake his head so his ears would flap and make noise so I'd acknowledge him and lift him onto the bed.

The sounds don't come.

I keep waiting for him to bark at the neighbors, bark at the trash bins moving, bark at my husband, bark at any noise that did not feel right to him.

There is no barking.

Sometimes I'll see something out of the corner of my eye and think it is him sleeping.


I still use present tense when talking about him, only to correct myself a second later while my heart hurts.

I woke up early yesterday morning, but decided to go back to sleep. I regretted it because I had a dream about him. He had ran away to die because he didn't want us to hurt (how I knew what his thoughts were, I have no clue). We went looking for him and rushed him to the vet, and she said he'd be fine if we gave him this pill. And he got better.

I snapped awake with tears in my eyes. I felt so guilty, like this dream was accusing me of being a shit owner because I elected to essentially murder my dog. I went on Facebook to distract myself, only to see that his vet clinic had posted this video, which I made the mistake of watching.

Yeah. Not a good idea. I wound up depressed and quiet most of the day.

That's kind of been my whole week though, but I've just been trying to keep it inside because it's not doing my husband and son any favors to see mom go off the deep end again.

I suppose a lot of people think I'm overreacting to what was nothing more than an animal. I'm sure they're thinking he can easily be replaced. There is a lot I'd say to that, but none of it is nice, although I feel that these people could easily be replaced in my life.

I mean, they're just a person after all.

Sunday, August 28, 2016

Why Owning Pets Hurts

Because when they die, they take a piece of the good that was inside of you.

Tonight was not a night that I thought would end with me putting our little dog to sleep. Oh, I suppose I should have seen it coming. The coughing was getting worse. The wheezing. The breathing was bad. The heart was pounding. We all (including his vet) thought it was just excess fluid on his lungs. He had congestive heart failure and a heart murmur (which, I didn't learn until tonight, has varying degrees of severity and his was a 5 out of 6) and bad teeth and who knows how many other ailments. He kept on keeping on though. We thought the furosemide (a type of diuretic remove excess fluid) would work.

Yeah. We were wrong. Well, almost wrong, I guess.

I don't know. I'm writing this through swollen eyes and smudged glasses, but I need to get it out because I'm beating myself up inside. Hard.

We took him to the emergency vet when he would. not. stop. coughing. He literally sounded like he was going to hack up a lung.

We got him there. They took him back. The tech came back out to talk to us about options and if he had ever seen a cardiologist.

No. I had (now that I think about it) discussed it with his vet at the outset of his chf/heart murmur diagnosis two years ago, but she said that as long as he responded to any meds given, it was not necessary. Also, there is only one dog cardiologist in the city, and it takes months to see him (and a lot of money, of course).

And it wasn't necessary I guess, until two weeks ago.

The vet came to talk to us. We had two options. Well, three. But I'll get to that in a minute.

The first option was to leave him at the hospital overnight to see if he would respond to an oxygen cage, IV fluids, and IV furosemide to get him peeing out fluid. There would also be bloodwork and xrays and other stuff.

The second option would be to drive him an hour away to a bigger hospital where there was an internist and other access to cardiology equipment and the like. He would also have to stay overnight.

Both of these options ran between $1500-3000+.

Then there was the last option. A final option. The option neither I nor my husband wanted to bring up.

But we did.


This is the part where I feel so wretched.

We chose that final option.

And oh my god, I am regretting it so much now.

I know I was told that even if we had chose one of the first two options, there was no guarantee. He was sick. He looked sick. He looked tired, even though he would perk up off and on during the day. He could not get comfortable. He could not sleep.

But I feel guilty. Like I took the easy option. Like he wasn't worth that amount of money.

I should have moved mountains for him. I should have maxed out every single card I had for him. I should have moved heaven and earth for that little pup who did nothing but love us with every inch of his tiny little body.

But I didn't. I let him die. I let them inject my dog, my Tequila, with the drugs to make him sleep forever.

The technicians and vets were wonderful. They explained everything to us. They tried to make us feel at ease. They gave us pamphlets and copies of the Rainbow Bridge poem. They are making a clay imprint of Tequila's paw. We go to pick it up in a few days.

He died in my arms. I held him until the last. I felt like that was the least I could do for him after sending him to death. They had wrapped him in a blanket. He was partially sedated when they handed him to me. He whimpered a bit, but it took effect quickly.

And then he gave that final last loud sigh and was gone.

I don't have much to say beyond this. I wanted to do a nice post about him and some lovely pictures of his life.

But not tonight, because I cannot get that sigh out of my head. I cannot erase the fucking picture seared in my mind of his lifeless body as I handed him to the tech so he could be sent to be cremated.

Guilt is the order of the night. Guilt and grief and so much sorrow.

Monday, May 2, 2016

Back At It

Here I am again, willing myself to talk about physical and mental things that are fucking with my life. I know I was writing once a week before I started slipping into a depression. Then I gave it up, like I did with eating well and getting more exercise. Yeah, I fucked up.

It wasn't any one thing. It was a lot of pain from my back. It was worrying about money constantly. It was people treating me like I was only good for one or two things, then not even having the decency to listen when I tried to voice my issues. It was a lot of being so tired of everything: tired of life, tired of pain, tired of failing. I know that all of what I just typed (with the exception of the pain and money issues) are symptoms of depression, but it was a huge weight that just kept growing.

I ghosted for awhile. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want to interact. It was hard for me to even chill with my family. It was a pain to be pleasant at physical therapy when my body and mind were hurting so much.

I started coming out of it a couple of weeks ago, but I was already back to my old ways, which dragged me down further. I finished physical therapy, but I've been slacking on doing it at home, which is a bad thing. I do some stretches and some stability ball practice, but then I don't push myself further. Apathy is a motherfucker.

Then last week, I developed a horrifying pain in my neck and shoulder blade. I couldn't turn my head. I couldn't lie down without developing a headache. I just felt like shit. I hurt so so much, and just wanted to sleep all of the time to get away from it. But I had obligations and other things that I had to deal with, so no sleep for me. My neck finally got better (still slightly twinge-y, but I don't have to down naproxen and muscle relaxers like a fiend anymore), but the no sleep stayed, and now I'm suffering from insomnia.

I'm a hot mess.


I decided, yet again, that I cannot continue on this path. I started over again today. I am still creeping out of depression and pain, but I need to push forward.

I weighed myself, and by some fucking miracle, I have only gained a few pounds. I went for a long walk with the dog, and am only a couple hundred steps away from my walking goal today. I plan on doing my physical therapy exercises after I digest lunch.


Food. That is still where my weakness is. I just ate a sandwich and more chips than I care to think about, then started thinking about the ice cream and cookies we have in the house. Instead of indulging, I sat down to write this to try and distract myself. It's sort of working. I figure that since I've already binged on chips, I need to not eat other crappy shit. I might have a glass of skim chocolate milk, which sometimes help when my sweet tooth hits.

This food thing is a bear. I can't just stop eating, but I can't do what I did right now. I know part of the reason I ate a bunch of chips was because I ate breakfast super fucking early today (insomnia got me out of bed at 5), then didn't have a snack in between breakfast and lunch. I felt ravenous and stuffed myself. Now I just feel guilty, and will hate to see what my calorie tracker says after I enter the information.

Ah well. I can't undo it. Onward, I guess.

Tuesday, March 22, 2016


Didn't write a health post last week because I was upset and depressed with everything. I almost didn't write a post this week, but here it is. I think I'll start doing them on Tuesdays because I'm usually wiped after physical therapy on Mondays.

So. Health. I hurt. A lot. But only sometimes. Other times my leg and back are just fine. Then I move wrong or sit wrong or think that I don't need Advil or Skelaxin. Then I pay for it. Mightily. I really hate it. There have been more than a few times I've dissolved into tears because I feel useless and I hurt. SO. BLOODY. MUCH. I can't lie on the floor anymore and play board games. I have to sit upright, and even then, I can sometimes still hurt myself (typing this as I stand lest I hurt). Getting into the car is a fucking joke. I can't sit on public transportation because the seats hurt. I have to stand and pray that they don't jerk too suddenly and fuck up my leg.

I've been having more panic attacks lately. I'm spiraling into depression because I feel like a failure at everything. My sleep is shot to hell. I made it through yesterday on three hours sleep after waking up to have a panic attack over money issues (another story for another day). I haven't been exercising (with the exception of walking and physical therapy) or really eating right. I'm trying to snap myself out of this funk, but it is hard to do.

Having a physical injury when you're already mentally destroyed is like hell on earth. The feelings of being useless multiply. You feel like you're letting down friends and family when you say that you can't do something. I try to be upbeat and do my physical therapy without complaining and just try. TRY. And at the end of the day I'm wiped the fuck out from trying and get snappish with my family. Lately I've taken to crying in the shower, usually because I'm upset, but there are the times that my leg and back hurt so much from just standing underneath hot water that I have to let out the pain somehow. Crying doesn't help, but screaming wouldn't either.

I try to be strong. I try to just live my fucking life. I try to tell myself that tomorrow will be better, that tomorrow I can try again, that tomorrow the therapy exercises will make a huge difference.

It never fucking happens.