me vs. ME


My heart rate is increasing…

Calm down, keep breathing.

I think I’m going to die…

You say this every time.

It’s blurry, it’s hard to see…

It’s in your head. You’re so weak.

But what if this is THE time…

It never is, you never die.

But what if this is-

You know you’re fine! Fuck!

I can’t calm myself down…

Then give in, take that pill now.

But I’ve done so good without it…

Yeah, it shows, you seem fit.

I hate these panic attacks…

If you were strong, you’d relax.

I do my best to hold it together…

You think you’re actually better?

Will this ever go away…

No. I like you this way.

But I used to be so strong and-

That part of you is gone.

Then what’s the point of trying…

So don’t. Practice the art of dying.

Zero to Thirty-Seven

What? You don’t like my vibe?

You don’t like my stride?

You mad that I have no fear of flight?

That I can cut you out without a knife.

You don’t like the weed I smoke,

that I don’t laugh at your jokes.

Your agenda is to irritate and provoke,

You’ve got an ego always needin’ a stroke.

Why you so jealous at the life I lead?

Because I don’t follow a dead man’s creed?

There’s no god able to cure the infection in me.

Accept that I was grown from a rotten seed.

I’ve been down on my knees,

both to pray and to stray.

I got only silence and a fee,

rapidly, my core began to decay.

What? You don’t like the way I’m so easy?

Does it make your stomach queasy?

The way I sleep around, so cheaply,

The fact my husband comes from my adultery?

Why do you despise the person I’ve become?

Are you unable to love me, though I’m numb?

Even the best people can be cumbersome,

To the rottenness and evil, I succumb.

Why I Ran: Leaving a Life Behind

I’ll be the first to admit that my move from Indiana to Oregon was out of the blue and came with no warning, I’ll even agree maybe slightly abrupt. I will never be able to ease the minds of the ones unable to understand the decision or the reasoning behind it, and I can’t continually try to explain it or give a little insight. The most common question I hear is “Why did you move so far away?” and the most common statement is “You’re just running from your problems.”

Why Oregon, you ask? There’s nothing more to it than the landscape. Have you SEEN my Instagram photos?? Come on, it’s so easy to see why Oregon. It is, legit, the most beautiful land I’ve ever seen. Whether you want mountains, beaches, rivers, waterfalls, deserts, forests, open plains…Oregon’s got it and it doesn’t disappoint. Point a camera in any direction and it’s a photo op. How can a broken soul not absolutely love it here?

Am I running from my problems? Y-E-to-the-motha-fuckin-S. I know we’re taught or told that you can’t run away from your problems. That wherever you go the problems will follow; and that’s true I suppose. However, you can also choose to leave behind the place that holds all of your terrible memories:

The park that I’ve had to revisit over and over throughout the years for pig roasts, birthdays, reunions, etc is the same park that holds the memory of my rape. Since leaving, I no longer have to pass by it or go to another gathering there. Am I running from that? Yes.

The small clinic on the East side that counseled me about options pertaining to an unwanted pregnancy and what the best route for a scared 16 year old girl was. The clinic that holds the deepest of secrets, heartache and scars that no one, other than the caring staff, knows about. Am I running from that? Yes.

The place that my then-husband pulled over and physically forced me from the car, called me a cow and insulted my worth; while my son screamed in the back seat. A roadside mental breakdown, where I sat for hours wondering how I’d managed to marry such a brute. A place I had to drive by nearly every day and could never pass without thinking of that day. Am I running from that? Yes.

The Beech Grove alley that I met a stranger at every week for years to by pills so I could attempt some calm within my soul. To have a couple hours of escape from the secrets and lies I’ve had to keep for so long. Telling myself I was so different from other drug users, because it was “just pills”, but knowing I am no better. The pills that became the downfall of my body, the back alley stranger that provided the stomach-killing prescriptions. Am I running from that? Yes.

The house I lived in, decorated and made into a home hoping it would be the final fix. Painted, furnished and beautiful; all it became was a house that I habitually brought men to and had extramarital affairs, doused myself in tequila, popped pills and tried to silence the extremely loud voices in my mind. Am I running from that? Yes.

Leaving my entire life behind wasn’t difficult for me because I had no life to leave. Other than my children, there was nothing left for me to fight for there. Friends moved on, family split, co-workers quit; to which I’m not placing any fault or guilt. That’s just how life goes, at some point it’s your own battle. I’ve been called a terrible mother, behind my back of course, but at which point does it make me a better parent for realizing I was self-destructing? For leaving my children in the hands of two people that have been stability and a great source of love to them; that makes me a terrible mother? For finally finding doctors that have done more for my medical care in 6 months than the Indiana-based physicians did in 10 years; I’m terrible for wanting that care? For leaving a state that contains more hurt than joy; I’m terrible for that?

If you can’t see passed the fact that I left my children, the hardest thing I’ve ever done, then it’s you that needs reevaluation. I decided to leave my worthless soul behind and start anew in hopes that I could go back to the mother I used to be. I receive no credit for the amazing little people my children are, as if me leaving 6 months ago negates the 16 years I raised them; and I’ll swallow that “bad person” pill.

So, speak ill of me to my children if you must. Tell me how wrong I am for leaving if it helps you deal. Call me a terrible mother and attempt to discredit the goodness I instilled in those kids. But do NOT question my reasons…ever.

Depression Session

Oh, hey you. You beautiful thing;

Didn’t know you were droppin’ by.

Here to fuck my whole night up?

You got that spark in your eye.

I’m not in the mood for this shit,

No time for your “cat & mouse”.

Last time you almost killed me.

So, I’ma need you outta my house.

Oh, you’re not leavin’? It’s fine.

I rather enjoy the blade on your throat;

The grip is the most important.

Pooled in blood until you choke.

I’ll bury you where I left the others.

Deep below my surface, unmarked graves.

Between you, panic and total fear

it feels like I am going to suffocate.

In the Red Corner: Anxiety

Why do you constantly grip me at the throat?

Always fuckin’ up my good-vibes mode.

You clutch my airway so tight, I’m at your will.

Does watching me squirm give you a thrill?

My heart beats so fast, almost outta my chest.

I struggle to maintain the last bit of air I have left.

You bring me to my knees, I’m begging you to spare me.

And just when I think you will, you squeeze more life outta me.

I inhale what air I can when you begin to tire out,

I don’t know how many more rounds are left in this bout.

I feel my limbs begin to go numb and become useless,

For some reason your brute strength makes me envious.

The pain in my chest becomes like a well-lit fire,

In the terms of fucking panic you are the finest supplier.

With each attempt to regain my control, you strike.

I’m gonna need a doctor to assist me in this goddamn fight.

I manage to choke down the pill, an assist, my salvation.

But every attack counts as a win for you, another annihilation.

On the Verge

I was born with a sadness inside me, feeding on me excessively. My memories of joy, it continually buries.

I was a child that felt an abundance of love; But I came equipped with a shortage of affections.

I’d spend long days with my Mimi, so genuine. Takin’ swigs from her soda and stealin’ sugared berries.

An angel among humans. A saint among sinners. Whatever life she was sent to in ’91, I’d like the directions.

Then a coward forced more sadness inside me, further down I tumbled. Scrapin’ my knees, while on them.

Stumbling and tripping, fucking sobbing and weeping. Oh Adam, inventor of my downfall…do you ever think of me?

I think of you nearly every day, you’ve managed to consume me some days. I’d love to bash your pitiful skull in.

But I’m supposed to push through it and accept it, right? However, I tend to draw the line at the rape of me.

So I hide.

And I cry.

And I lie.

And another part of me dies.

Moving…to…the Suicide State??

Journal entry: 10/3/2017

Let me make this fucking clear.

You have no idea what goes on in here.

A constant buzz inside my ears, inside my head.

A creature is crawling around, creating a web.

There is not one second in a single fucking day,

where I don’t have the freedom from pain.

I think I could possibly be losing my mind,

or at least the last little part of it that’s mine.



Our little family has been hanging on to some news for a little bit and it’s finally time to inform everyone of our plans, especially since we depart tomorrow, Saturday.

We are moving to Oregon, more specifically (for now) it’s Portland. Our ideal goal is to between Portland and Eugene, out of the hustle & bustle of a city; although Portland only has 650,000 people. Eugene has around 50,000 people and is the home to the University of Oregon, so I’m not sure I can handle annoying college kids all the time either. The coastline is not far from where we’ll be and that will of course be a place we’ll try to remain as close to.

The kids will be staying behind in Indiana with my parents for a little bit until we (me and Shane) can get settled and find a home for us. We have a 1-bedroom apartment we’re sub-leasing at the moment, it’s 1050 sq st and fully furnished, which is what we need since we’re, quite literally, leaving all our belongings behind in Indiana. We’ll be taking our clothes and few personal items that I am not prepared to part with. Everything else will be gone forever from our possessions.

I know this will seem crazy to some people, will seem like I’m a terrible mother to others for leaving my children behind and I’m sure some will be extremely upset at the fact that we’ll be going 2500 miles from the only home I’ve ever know; but at the end of the day…..that’s not my problem. Leaving the kids is probably the toughest choice I’ve had to make throughout this entire process, they are all I’ve ever worked and lived for since they’ve entered my life. However, they are SO incredibly excited and willing to sacrifice some time away from me and Shane in order to start our new life in Oregon.



Why Oregon? I’ve been asked this by my mother many times and I really can’t give a concrete answer. It’s beautiful, it’s serene, it’s peaceful, the ocean is (from what I’ve heard) indescribable, the crime rate is nowhere NEAR what Indianapolis’ rates are and that’s a huge thing to me. I am tired of living in city where I hear gunshots near my home multiple times a week. Before anyone else says “You’re only going there because weed is legal”, I’ll stop you there and explain why that’s one of the most ridiculous comments. I smoke weed here, in an illegal state, every day. While it is legal for both medicinal and recreational use, I assure you that was not at all a factor in our decision. I actually didn’t realize Oregon was a legal state, I knew Washington and California were, but also found out that Illinois, Colorado and Michigan are as well and they’re clearly much closer, so if that were the issue, I could be much closer. Why would I have to move 2500 miles away for something so simple? I wouldn’t, so that ends that.

Jordan and Annabelle have inherited my Wanderlust, my desire to travel and explore. I’ve kept that at bay all of my life, only ever leaving Indiana to move to Georgia for military life. When I first approached Shane and the kids with what I’d been tossing around in my head, the kids both immediately said Oregon, so it almost seemed like fate. I hadn’t mentioned Oregon, I had only asked where they’d like to live if they could choose any place in the USA. I had even considered Mexico for a brief time, but that is a little too “off the grid” for us. And I can’t even count in Spanish……….so that’s out. My sweet Shane has no “ties” to Indiana, he isn’t from here, wasn’t born here, wasn’t raised here…..he is here because of me. He came from Maryland to be with me and the kids so he feels no emotional connection to this state, not like I do.

My entire life has been here and there’s a lot of things I’ll miss but there’s also a lot of things I won’t. With social media there’s no reason to ever feel like I can’t stay “connected” to the people I love here. No one ever comes over to my house now, so really it will be no different. I will miss Friday night football games with those of you that came, the faithful fans of Jordan. Those are special memories and times I enjoyed so much. I will miss my best friend’s Brandi and Michael; you two are my reason for being here as long as I have; but as you know and as I’ve told you, you’re in a new phase of your life that I’m not in anymore. The “little kid” phase, the Kindergarten phase, the field trips and Girl Scouts phase. I wish we could have gone through it at the same time, but unfortunately, we didn’t. And I’m so happy that you guys get to make all those amazing memories with the girls, and I know it’s a cliché thing to say, but it does fly by. Enjoy it.


I’ve been asked if I’m going to Oregon because they allow “legal suicide”…..allowing doctors to medically help you die; I would be lying if I said the thought had never entered my mind, but that is not the reason. Rest assured.

When I had my stomach removed, my small intestines dissected, my esophagus trimmed, my feeding tubes placed….my most painful time emotionally and physically, something changed in me. I have jokingly said that when they removed my stomach they took a piece of my soul, because I am no longer the woman I once was. I am lost. I am broken. It could be because I had the ability to work taken away from me so abruptly and at a young age, it could be because I’ve had to endure too much physical pain, it could be because I’ve been “put under” so many times maybe some brain cells died off in the process, it could be a multitude of things that I don’t expect anyone to ever come close to understanding.

Of course, I have no idea what will in Oregon, we’re standing on a ledge and choosing to jump off and hope for a smooth landing. I feel it is best for us though and that’s what matters to me. If Shane or my children told me they had any reservations or doubts I’d probably give in and stay, but they are all so on-board with this it makes the decision much easier. As some of you know, my relationship with my mom has been strained and I’m hoping that maybe, just maybe, this will be what starts a process of mending that. My brother lives in Florida and I see him, maybe, once a year; so it’s not that I don’t care about him, but he doesn’t affect my daily life so his opinion is only that. Needless to say, he doesn’t have the same good vibes as me, and that’s ok.


Bottom line, people move every day, all the time, all over the world…..we are no different. I have a small immediate family, so it makes it hard to leave only for that reason. I don’t have an extended family that gets together all the time, we’re all just too spread out and in different spaces in time.

Truly, we welcome ANYONE who wants to come and visit, any time. If this gives someone else a reason to come explore the West coast then come on out and we’ll go whale watching or see the many waterfalls or mountains.

Peace and Chicken Grease,

The Beachler’s






An Anxiety Attack: Real Time


Ok, so this is probably going to be all over the place and I don’t think I’m going to go back and “edit” this after I post it, just to see if my theory is working (we’ll find that out together later). So the grammar and language and punctuation and like, whatever the fuck you grammar Nazis go after, it might be a bit askew. Ha, define askew Brittanee!!! Biiiiitch!!!!! (that’s a 30’s something soccer mom who secretly drinks and probably has had one, maybe two, affairs when she was in Mexico and her husband still doesn’t know but instead of just bangin’ her man and getting some she’d rather tell everyone on Facebook when they misspell or type. We get it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Pro-Tip: Remember Brittanee, when I rant my bitchy voice is always Brittanee.)

I am literally in the throws of a panic attack….like, right now. I have shaky hands and a fucking HUGE darkness just sitting right here beside me; that darkness, that panic that makes you go from sitting on the living room floor, playing with your Bulldog (the cutest one ever, though….21366733_10155206157687732_4697558447119970858_o

but, I go from playing with her to running (not exaggerating) over to the couch to my husband and exclaiming “Something is wrong!!!!!” He confusingly says, “Well, what’s wrong?”…….

Uhhhhh, physically? Nothing……..

In my body and brain?? Let’s see:

Scenario 1: I’m dying!!! How can you not tell?!?!?! Do you not see the sheer panic on my face, which clearly indicates that I must be meeting with the Grim Reaper for tea this evening? Does my panic not tell you that, while perfectly normal in appearance and speech, I am clearly slipping away at this moment. On my death-bed. Knock, knock, knockin’ on Heaven’s door….

{My sweet husband, he does so well during what I can only assume is one of the most confusing experiences that exists. He is ready with the keys and my purse in hand if I utter, “We should probably go to the ER.” It’s happened more times than I’d care to remember, but he’s never made me feel stupid for going.}

Yet, I sit here trying to out-think a panic attack, trying to tell myself that there is no lump in my throat, there is no twitching in my eye, there is no chest pressure making me feel like I’m definitely having a heart attack and will be able to haunt Shane from the grave and say “I TOLD YOU SOMETHING WAS WRONG!”

[sarcastic chuckle]


It’s with great sadness that we announce…

BLOG POST. Sorry, I had to do it….I’m talking myself off a ledge here, I can make sick jokes.

Scenario 2: Could the panic be that I’m missing a stomach, small intestines, part of my esophagus, gallbladder, uterus, ovaries, cervix…..I think that’s it. And let me clarify that missing does in fact mean “no longer inside Cori’s body and is now missing.” So of course, when I panic, I immediately go back to the day that something was fucking wrong and I ended up admitted through the ER and returned home minus Uno Stomach-o. On that day, I felt a rush of blood, like a heart flutter, but repeatedly and non-stop. I felt sluggish and fatigued, I think I had a head cold. And playing on the floor tonight with Pudge, my heart fluttered and that was what started this panic attack.

“Wait, what? THAT is what this? Literally exerting energy causing your heart to flutter caused you to panic and think that same flutter meant another organ was failing?” Yes.

“That seems really stupid.” Yes, it is. But does that make what’s happening any less real? No.

“You’re fine, just calm down.” Oh ok, thanks Sally for your intricate medical advice you acquired from…..Macy’s? They tell people WHEN THEY’RE SHOT AND DYING to “just calm down”, so you’re not saying anything that’s helping me out here. All that says to me is “Holy shit, this lady is clearly about to die for no outwardly, visible reason.” Idiot.

A panic attack is like….how do I explain the scariest shit imaginable? IT’S THE SCARIEST SHIT IMAGINABLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It feels like you’re in a plane crash that just won’t end. Like 12 minutes ago the pilot was like “I think our plane is crashing……but it might take a while, so like…make some phone calls.” No, no….it’s like living that last scene in The Sixth Sense, where you find out Bruce Willis is a fucking DEAD PERSON! It’s that moment of “Ooohh, wha….oh my…this is some bullshit”, over and over and over and over and over and over and over again and again and again and again and again until your brain is like “Yeah, alright…chill.” It’s like that movie with that dude that played future Darth Vader in Star Wars….something Christaansen or…..anyways, it’s not like Star Wars, but that dude that played future Vader was in a movie where he had some kind of surgery and they thought he was asleep but his mind was awake the whole time. Like, WHAT THE FUCK?!?! That’s what anxiety feels like….like someone else logged in to their Facebook account on your phone and instead of logging out they just kept your phone and keep updating their status. It’s so fucking crazy, to think that my brain; my big, genius-level brain, that it would be able to just taken over like that by…….anxiety?

Panic attacks are enough to make you question if you’ve got a brain tumor and they just aren’t telling you because they don’t want to “burden” you with more; Or is that the panic attack making me think I have a brain tumor? Or what if my brain tumor is trying to tell my panic attack to tell me that I have a brain tumor? So, assuming I DO have a brain tumor and like I really am gonna die tonight (how freaky would it be if this is the last words I write, for real), I digress, but so I’m dying… that the reason for the panic attack? Is it because I don’t know what waits for me? The Great Beyond. Maybe my panic is not knowing if I get to be me after this life; do I get to remember all my amazing experiences?

{my children’s laughter, moments with Shane, the good times I had with my parents, laughing so hard I can’t breathe (and probably have a panic attack), the smell of a campfire, stealing cigarettes from my Mom’s secret stash, driving with the goddamn windows down and your hand out the window, so many things….}

Scenario 3: Maybe that’s what anxiety is…the NOT knowing more than the knowing. If you know you’re dying then you can be like “Hey, we’re all here together at Texas Roadhouse, on what appears to be karaoke night, so that I could tell you that I’m dying and I’m checking out on ____insert death date____.” But if you don’t know then every time you think it’s something fatal, you panic because you don’t have that “time”. No peanut shells on the floor time, no good ass dinner rolls, no incredibly loud table of MILF’s out on a Wednesday boozin’ it up; you don’t have that good-bye. I wouldn’t be able to tell Shane that he is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, his soul is so amazing it seeps through his skin. When he kisses me I feel like the only woman in the world and I fucking LOVE that; I wanna be able to have that again. I wouldn’t be to tell my children that while bringing them into this world was not ideal for me financially or personally or emotionally or budget-friendly or fucking unicorns and rainbows, it was two days in my life that I somehow remember every moment of. Despite pushing out human beings from my vag; I mean, that’s another topic, but Jesus……how do we actually do that?!?! They are annoying, irritating, money-sucking, question-asking, sloppy, loud! I, like, for real can’t stand them, I watch Dateline for tips. But somehow they are so fucking great, which I know if ’cause I popped them out or whatever, but I was a total shitbag at their age and they’re both super smart and in Honors classes…, I firmly believe that whopping your kids’ asses and telling them to “Shut the fuck up Jordan, we know Optimus Prime is a damn Autobot”, is totally the best way to raise them. So, suck on that perfect moms. And I wouldn’t be able to tell my bestest friend in the whole wide world how much I love her. I’ve been a bad friend, I’ve been a good friend, we’ve drifted, we’ve met back up. You’re in my life for good whether either of us like it, we’ve got too much dirt on each other and that can ruin a funeral. Graveside confessions are a thing, Google™ it. (I put that ™ thingy so I don’t sued) I don’t need Brandi rollin’ up talking about “Did you guys know Cori did ___________.” Don’t be like that B, stay classy. Wear all black, head-to-mutha-fuckin toe and keep them lips sealed sister! I wouldn’t get to tell my parents and my brother that I know we live different lives, we believe in different “gods”, we disagree in a lot of fucking ways, but I love you. You are in starring roles in a lot of my awesome memories, maybe “less is more” with us and that’s ok. Ya can’t spell family without “OH MY GOD, ___SO AND SO___ IS FUCKIN’ CRAZY”. Wait…there’s no “L” in that sentence. Ya can’t spell family without “OH MY GOD, ‘OL ___SO AND SO___ IS FUCKIN’ CRAZY.”


Scenario 5: Is my panic because I don’t know what this “life” thing is. Deep I know, if you want to skip forward feel free… free thinkers need continue.

ok, we lost ’em….Like, why would “God” allow Us…Indivuduals….Me, specifically….aka. The Fuckin’ Human People Living This Shit to go through some of this? Who loses a stomach? Mother fucker, are you reading this correctly….A STOMACH!!! Like, the doctor said:

Doctor: "Hey, so yeah, I gotta take that out."
Me: "Take what out?"
Doctor: "your FUCKING STOMACH!"
Me: <an actual "What in the actual fuck?" face>

I mean, like……for real. If you were at a party and they were playing that “Tell one interesting fact about yourself” any of you that read this could be like “Holy shit you guys, gather ’round. This chick in Indiana had her stomach removed….like…Removed, man. Gone. The Whole Sha-bang.” You’d totally have the attention of anyone for at least 10, possibly 15 minutes. Try it. (Pro-Tip: If they ask, they attached the end of my esophagus, after removing some piece at the end that I guess is like turkey fat, but human? fat. Anyways, attached that to my small intestine and I eat like, every 2 hours, I puke, I wanna die most days….Awesome. Glad to be here.) Why would “God” allow me to experience the utter embarassment of a rape. I hate that word, I really fucking do. I hate saying it more than I hate the actual raping. But if we called it something different then those bitches that lie and accuse every guy that touches them of rape, then they’d have to say something super shitty out loud if they wanted someone to know. I hate those bitches more than the rape. I’d take the rape every like, 10 years, if it meant no bitches could lie about it; because they’ve ruined it for us. They really have. It needs a new name….

Brittanee: "Oh my God Jennifer, what is wrong with you lately?"
Jennifer "Brittanee, I had forced intercourse with cumming, with
some homeless man behind Panera. I was on fucking break."
Brittanee: "Oh my God, someone forcibly intercoursed you and came???
Jennifer: "Ok....Quiet down. People are looking. It's not true. I'm sorry
I lied Brittanee."
Brittanee: "Whatever Jennifer. Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

*if “Forced Intercourse w/ or w/out cumming” seems appropriate, email your Congressman. (Pro-Tip: A girl, woman, lady, is not proud of her rape. She won’t boast about it, she’ll inform to make sure other women are aware to be careful, but if you’re at the kegger hearing how Sheila got raped again, chances are……she a slut.) Why would “God” allow me to re-build myself only to watch it all burn to shit with a man as worthless as a limp dick? I understand I “chose” him, I am not pissed about the initial interaction; I’m pissed at the fact that “God” loves me SO much, so fucking much, that he would sit up on his throne or whatever and just watch my life crumble more and more and more and more every, every, every, every, every, every mother fucking, pissed off because you are still breathing in the same air as me, I hope you wreck you’re car on the freeway because at least I will get $250,000 you piece of shit, day. Why?? And then this “God” is praised for getting me through all of this……..the surgery, the forced intercouse w/ cumming, the trainwreck life……..he is supposed to get all the praise for all the mother fucking work that I put in!!!!!?????????!!!!!!!!!!!!! I did the goddamn work! I got up, on days when I would rather just never take a breath, I’d wake up and eventually I took a fucking breath, I DID! I raised two kids damn near by myself because he’d leave or be in training somewhere or be deployed or sign a contract to go overseas or just find any reason to leave, leave leave, leave, leave….I raised them. I DID!!!!! I went through stick after stick after surgery after surgery after test after test after results after results….my body. Me. My skin, my fucking tears and pain and hurt…..I DID THAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I begged that mother fucker to come down to me while I was in the hospital, readying myself to have my stomach removed the next day and I called to him…..I cried for him….

No one came, no light appeared, no apparition in my bagel or Jesus on my Cheez-uutssss. I was trying to make it rhyme. No entity or being heard me when I truly needed something “bigger” to believe in. But you know what did show up and do what I asked? My fucking doctor and his amazing hands that held those tools and cut so precisely, that he learned to hold while at medical school which I’m sure he’s still paying for today because that shit is super expensive, I peeped it when I was healthy. Dodged that bullet, huh? Phew. He showed up and he used devices made in a lab by brilliant people; not one of them was “God”.

Scenario 4: But it could also be that something is actually wrong, like maybe I am sick and I should go see the doctor. I have been sick lately, my heart rate is really low, I keep getting this horrible right ear pain, then a migraine, then I ask Shane, repeatedly, to cut my head off and I promise I’ll leave a note so he doesn’t get in trouble, I just wanna like, ugh, I’m super tired, but I can barely sleep even though I feel like I just came off a weekend at Ozzfest (Ozzfest 1999 baby, best year ever!!), and not much if an appetite (no stomach jokes please, leave that to the professional), so when do you know if it’s a panic attack or a real-life “Rescue 9-1-1” situation occurring???

Exactly. While I know that NOW I’m still alive and fine, when I started this at approx. 9-ish I was in the “come down” of a panic attack. So, the best way I can describe what it’s like to experience a panic attack is: It’s taken me 4 hours to type out what I was thinking……..4 hours…….but I thought it about 20 seconds.

I will keep my word and not edit this, I want to be able to go back and read it and see if my theory worked….and it seems to. I thought that if I sat down and tried to explain in words, would it help me? Since I opened this laptop at 9, I haven’t felt my pulse once……and trust me, THAT is a big deal.


The Shepherd

Blog photo

There is a god, so you say, that’s full of love,

You worship him and pledge to be his sheep, for what?

For the golden ever after that you hope you get a pass in to,

But really, you aren’t in for sure, what if he’s like, “fuck you.”?

If I were God I couldn’t allow y’all to hate and do it in my name,

“God loves us all, sin forgiven”, right? Unless of course you’re gay.

Or gender confused, into BDSM, bisexual or a little different,

You just condemn them to Hell, you.. the social media bullies…you’re trippin’.

All you do is say how the almighty God wants us to love him; only;

But how am I supposed to love a ghost, I just need a little “show me”.

While my heart will always remain broken,

you have made a home within me.

With just a sly smile you set my world ablaze,

and have allowed my soul some peace.