Deep Down To My Core


You got the best of me
Rest of me
Tried and true test of me
I lied for you
Cried for you
A piece of me died for you
I wasn’t good enough
Understood enough
I knew I’d withstood enough
You took your leave that day
Slipped away
No words of goodbye to say
You left a shattered heart
Torn apart
Tears won’t stop when they choose to start


As I have struggled over the past few weeks I have been guided to the simple fact that I get a life and personality reset.  A blank slate to build myself, find myself, and who I am.  I can wipe the slate of who I am clean and decide from this point on who I want to be.

I spent a week mostly refusing to leave a bed, unless I was draping myself over a sofa, doing nothing but reading, sleeping and thinking.  There is a lot of thinking that can get done in a week.

During that time I reflected on what I like about myself.  What I like about the corner stones of my life.  What I like about the relationships, family friend and romantic, in my life.  What did I want to keep as is?  What did I want to lose completely?  What did I want to keep but that needed tweaked a little bit to make them healthier and happier for me?

I have this blank slate before me of who I am.  I wiped everything clean.  I immediately pinned back on the things I love.  I love my career and the company my career is with, so clearly I’m keeping that.  I love that I’m caring and giving, so that went back up too.  I’m still not happy with my marriage, so that stays off.  I have a friendship or two that I’m very happy with but that needs some tweaking here and there to make them healthier and happier for all parties involved.  What did I like about the friendships?  Keep!  What did I dislike about them?  Tweak or toss.  BPD traits were really getting in the way.  Interpersonal relationships will always be hard, no matter how stable I become.  Not that I’ve been stable as of late.

I’m listening to myself, my head and heart, as I do this rebuild.  I’m listening to the collective of those in my life.  If the general consensus is that something within myself needs fixed (hey, you  might want to go back on meds) I’m going to listen and take that into account on this rebuild.  Granted, I won’t shape myself to please any one person, but if everyone around me is saying the same damn thing, it’s time to take notice.  Even if it’s just one voice, but they are the authoritative voice, like say my boss and it’s work related, I don’t need to wait for the consensus to join in.  By that point my job is in jeopardy.

I am not the same person that went into the hospital.  I don’t yet fully know who I am, yet, but I’m going to like her.

So, my friend, will you.


(I wrote this weeks ago.  And I’ve debated posting it.  Which, as we all know is rare for me, but none-the-less I have been debating.  I don’t know why.  But should this go live, it was written in June so that’s how long it took me to find courage.)

Part 2

The term is Asexual.  For me it means little to no interest in sexual activity.  I suppose it’s nice to have a name for it.  Though, I could have done that Google search at any time.  So, I suppose it’s nice to be ready for the name for it.

My husband argues I’m a mix of asexual and pansexual,  meaning I make no notice of gender, age, race, etc in my sexual decisions.

I beg to differ that I’m more asexual and panromantic.  Meaning the no real interest in sex, but I’ll love anyone I find worthy with no baring in the aforementioned list of otherwise discriminations.

Then if you want to get technical, I could be a touch demisexual or “grey asexual” meaning that I can actually have sexual desires if there is a well established emotional connection or a desire for children.  Or, in Pat’s case, both.

It explains the desire to wrap my arms around and protect those I’m attracted to, but not usually take them to bed.

It explains my lack of much of anything sexual with my high-school boyfriend.

Andrew was anger based.  I’m not sure that counts.

Pat, is well, Pat.

And there you have it.


I suppose this post was long in coming.

I suppose this is why I stopped being comfortable with the label gay/straight/bi.  I will love anyone in so many ways.

But none that lead to the bedroom.


I live life filled with passion.

I am fiercely loyal whether you deserve it or not and I will love all those in my life with the passion of the burning sun.  It doesn’t matter the role in my life, there is a love to match it.  Sibling, romantic, brain stimulant, life inspiration.

I go through life with a fire, everything I touch ignited under my fingers.  I don’t take things on with half my heart or energy.  It’s all or nothing.

My soul is on my sleeves, spilling out with my words as I share my life, or as I sing my heart out with the tune in my head.

My greatest inspiration is inspiring others and having it reflect back onto me to do better.

I will defend those I hold dear with my dying breath.  I hold dear the many in my life that have left their mark.

I question all I see in life before me, to better understand and to better love the experiences that fill my life.

I am the fire of a Borderline, the passion of a Ginger, the heart of a listener, the inspiration of a believer in the greatness others are capable of.

I am a force.  An unstoppable force and I have not met my immovable object.

This is me.

Part 1


So rarely am I ever at a true loss for words.  You don’t have to know me long to know I’m happy to talk your ear off about anything and everything.  Rarely does a thought pop into my head that I don’t share, even if it’s simply out loud to myself.

So this struggle with words over the past week or two is astounding.  I’ve written plenty, sure, but not what I really need to talk about.  What I really need to bring up.

I feel this hole within me that only tears seem able to fill.  But the thing about tears is that they drain out of this hole quickly so I’m left with this need to refill the hole with more tears.  All while searching for something that just maybe won’t drain as quickly.  Nearly collapsing when I turn a corner out of line of sight of others at work, all activity stops for a minute of my body shaking with sobs fed from tears that won’t come, because I don’t have time to cry just then, but I can’t hold the anguish in so it has to escape as quickly as it can before I can reign it in.  No one check the vault tapes.  Those are private moments that don’t involve the green stuff.

I’m not suicidal.  That would be ridiculous.  I’m responding to life, and this emptiness I’m feeling won’t last.  I’m not self sabotaging.  That would only make things worse for me.  So clearly skills are working and I will pull through.  This isn’t even BPD.  I say that with no doubt or hesitation.  Anyone wondering how I know isn’t paying attention.

I’m working 50 hours weeks.  It’s a job I love.  A boss and team that makes me feel important daily, unlike I have ever felt before.  I’m working 50 hour weeks week after week while raising 3 kids and going to school.  I love every bit every one of those 3, but I’m tired.  I thrive under pressure and I adore a packed schedule, but I too must rest.  I too have my breaking point.

We have no staff at work.  No tellers, anyway.  The other side of the room is beautifully staffed.  Except that they end up having to run teller windows because we have no tellers.  So we must pick between one side of the room or the other having no staff.

It isn’t even the lack of staff alone that has me feeling this way.  We have a solid team.  We are Human Sigma 6 three times running for a combined 18 months.  There is no higher honor when it comes to customer and employee loyalty.  We set the bar others strive for.  Our staff is currently small.  But it’s solid.  “This is my family, I found it all on my own.  It’s little and broken but still good.  Yeah, still good.”  Our numbers need to triple behind the line but who we have is the best damn team you could ask for.  So where others would fall apart, we hold strong and show you WHY you are loyal to our branch, customer and employee alike.

It’s the reason we are short that has me hollow.  We didn’t lose our last 2 tellers because they were done with us and simply took a different job down the street.  Life decisions took them far away, from my world.  One to Chicago and one to New York and with it went what little local and true friendship I really have.  My branch is my family, but those were the two that made a point of hanging out with my weekly outside of work.  Board games or bars.  Pool or Kayaking.  Climbing or Walking.  Those girls showed me what real friendship was actually like.  Lisa was the first real, solid, healthy friendship I’ve had ever in all my years.  I met her when I was 20-fucking-8-years-old.  28 years of thinking unhealthy settling was the best I could have.  The best I deserved.

Years of asking what the hell is wrong with me?  What the fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck is wrong with me?  Is it me?  Is it you?  In thinking that there is either something wrong with everyone else, or simply something wrong with me.  As much as I’d like to think I really was born with an over abundance of awesome and the rest of the world just can’t handle it, the reality is that if it seems like everyone around you is an asshole, you have to seriously consider that the problem is actually you and they are responding to what you are putting out there.

I am the Sheldon Cooper of my word.  Only less brilliant and I really am crazy.  “My family had me tested.”  I could get away with it if I was some super genius.  Or regular genius.  But despite being a human calculator, all I am is the sole member of my bank team that actually likes math.

A tired, lonely, empty, human calculator.  If only I ran on batteries and not heart.

Instead, I’m all heart and as such it breaks over and over and over.  As you walk away from 10 years of, admitted unhealthy friendship, over a pair of shoes.  As my local close friendship moves away.  As I reach out to you for companionship and you show no interest.  As I see how socially awkward I really am but don’t know how to fix it.  As I know based on well establish pattern that the majority of the people in my life who have been the closest to me, tolerated me the best, I’ve never met face-to-face because I’m best when there is an entire internet between us.  Which would be glorious if going to a movie together didn’t involve having to find a movie that starts at the same time despite time zones.  If going to the bar or playing board games didn’t involve plane tickets.  And I don’t mean to diminish that friendship because these people I may have never met, at least not yet, would be there for me for me in a second, shovel in hand, asking who I know with a decent backyard.  They laugh.  But not because they don’t agree.

But as amazing as that friendship is, it isn’t enough  Not since I have learned what it is to have a regular girl’s night, in or out of the house, just hanging out not caring about a thing but spending time together.

I have a few I could work into my life more.  I girl I went to school with who has a kid Sambam’s age.  We talk about setting up play-dates.  She is about 10 minutes away  A girl I knew a long time ago that I’ve causally kept in contact with over the past few years.  We’re going kayaking next Saturday, in fact.  She is the furthest at an hour or so away.  Another woman I met at work as a customer, who is fun and I’ve hung out with her a few times.  She lives about half way between the other two.  But you know the difference between a friend, or even best friend, and an acquaintance?  While you can indeed hang out with both, one fills a deeply driven need, the other fills an afternoon.  And that’s Ok.  Not everyone should to be everyone’s BFFOREVER!  But I could appreciate the acquaintances more, because I’m sadly currently incapable of appreciating them as much as they deserve, if I had a local BFFOREVER.

I have fun with acquaintances.  Girlfriends know my soul.  And that’s what I need.  Someone local who would never need to read a word I wrote because they already knew it all.

Yes, that’s what I need.

I need to fill this hole.  With something that lasts longer than tears.  The vault is getting soggy.


It is amazing what comes to light when you are in remission from a major mental health issue that dominated your life.

Did you know I have major sensory issues? I didn’t. Until it slowly dawned on me over the past few months. Pat, the ever observant husband whom knows me almost too well, has known much longer. But I’m betting not too many other people realize it. However, he both knows me and what to look for.  (My mom’s response was “duh” so that makes 2 confirmed.)

I don’t really know when I realized.  I think I just started noticing it in Luke and then started recognizing it in myself as well, as an after thought.  And then when I finally put thought to it I’m all, “Whoa that explains so very, very much!”  And I’m like, “Husband, did you realize that I have major sensory issues that go beyond just the hair thing?”  And he’s all, “Fucking duh, wife!”  Well no, there was no cursing.  Just patient understanding while I talked out almost 30 years of being overly sensitive to touch.

And possibly light.

Maybe even sound.

He maintains that I experience a normal degree of sensitivity to sound and light.  I maintain that he suffers migraines so he has a skewed idea of normal in those regards.  Not really sure how I’d ever know.  I know there are times I can’t even stand the glow from my alarm clock.  And even in total darkness I will sleep with a pillow over my head at times to block out the light and sound found in total darkness.  But, I’m also weird and might just enjoy the pressure of it over my eyes.  It seems to block out all senses.

I don’t even know how to begin to explain the degree this explains things.  The list of things explained by this.

Slimy, sticky, tacky, tickily.

The pink stuff those whom work with cash rub their fingers against to get some tackiness to separate the cash, that I can’t stand to touch.

The time my old teller supervisor asked if I wanted some of his nice hand balm and I was so eager to use it until I got some on my hands and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and OMG why are my hands covered in wax that won’t go away and rubbed and rubbed and I’m sorry but I have to go wash this off my hands now.  Then scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed before my hands lost all trace of the feeling of something having been on them.

Greasy lotion, which is the exact opposite of waxy hand balm.  It has to rub in all the way with no trace or I don’t care how much it cost, it is NOT being used, no way no how.

The hair thing, is of course the one obvious thing.  The second my hair is long enough to tickle my ears, my neck, my face, it has to go.  If it doesn’t go, and it brushes anything, I nearly claw my flesh off trying to remove the tickle and I end up having my entire body covered in spiders and bugs creeping all over me with their legs.  Or that’s how it feels when my skin crawls.  As I type, my hair is long enough to touch itself and the skin on my head is crawling.



Warning the following isn’t PG.  It discusses sex.


The fact I can’t stand body fluids of any type.  From sharing a drink with a kid, to a tongue in my moth, to the various juices that come from sex, of a male and female nature, to verify.  That’s why sexually, being with a woman has limited appeal when it comes to me pleasing.  I can’t understand or fathom why anyone would want to eat that.  It’s. So. Slimy.  Hell, sometimes I have issues with Pat going down on me because why would anyone want to. It’s. So. Slimy.

Every now and then I can realize that it’s a love/lust/pleasure thing and I can work past that hang-up but not nearly often enough.

Or the fact while I’m perfectly capable of the big O, I can feel that it is building and I can even actually feel the release but the OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD?  Sorry, can’t feel it.  Doesn’t matter what caused it.  Sensory overload so my body shuts physical senses down to protect me.  From my orgasm.  Just what I need.  Thanks.



Sex talk over.


Fibromyalgia?  It’s common knowledge that fibro is a mental condition.  It’s also generally thought that it is sensory overload.  Why the hell can’t my body protect me from that one!  (If you didn’t read the sex bit, this makes no sense.  Sorry!)  I suppose it tries but it can only shut itself down for so long before it has to give up and I have to feel.

The fact I can’t hug.  I’m sure BPD far from helps with the personal space bubble.  But if you are going to touch me, it needs to be on my terms so I can prepare myself and a you need to use a firm touch. Too light and the spiders are back crawling all over.  Tickle me and the spiders are hairy.  Graze me and they are small but there are millions of them in a concentrated site.

How my skin crawls just talking about this.  Thinking about this.  It becomes overly sensitive to the light touch of my clothing, setting things off.

I’d like to think that this is all a valid reason to refuse to wear pants.

But let’s be honest, I don’t need an excuse to detest pants.  Pants are bullshit.  Any blogger can tell you that.

Yes, I joke.  Because if I can’t laugh at myself, what can I laugh at?  And what is to keep me from despair?  I mean, do I really need to add to my list of mental issues?

Speaking of, I wonder if I should get this added to my file with my meds doc before my file gets closed.  Just so it’s on record somewhere.

Because that file isn’t thick enough as it is.


When I was a freshman in high school, so roughly 15, I had an online friend, whom was depressed.  Suicidal.  I knew this.

One night I sat and read his plan as he typed it to me over ICQ or Yahoo, whatever we were using at the time.  This was 15 years ago.  I read his anguish and what he intended to do about it.  I knew it was coming that night, that hour.  So I started him talking.  Anything to keep him talking.  I gained ground, and I lost it.  I’d gain more, but I’d lose twice as much.  That’s what it’s like when someone isn’t just wishing life away but putting a plan into motion.

I kept him going for an hour or so.  Maybe it was far less.  Maybe it was more like 3.  This was half my life ago and in moments like this, time doesn’t progress normally anyway.  But we talked a lifetime away as I kept him talking right up until he couldn’t type anymore.  And I continued to type to him knowing full well it was too late, he was at that point of no return.  He was already gone.

I had it confirmed, I don’t even know how much later, by his younger brother.

My life was never the same after that night.

I suppose that’s why, so many years later, I can’t just walk away.  It may not be my personal problem, but it’s someone’s problem.  Someone’s friend.  Someone’s son or daughter.  The love of someone’s life, whether they can see it or not.  And maybe for whatever reason, they can’t be the one there keeping them talking.

But I’d like to think that if I hadn’t been available on that fateful night, someone else would have been.  Maybe they could have done better, maybe I got further than anyone could have.  Just as long as he wasn’t alone in his final moments, even if I was an ocean away.

And so no, I can’t walk away.  It doesn’t matter if you are a total stranger.  Someone who knows you and loves you will always be grateful for the heart I put into gaining ground in keeping your life intact.

I told my father the day after it happened.  Knowing full well he was gone, did we have any means of confirming it?  But this person I cried for the night before was an ocean away, and I didn’t even know for sure where.  Technology was much the same then in the sense of talking to people around the world, but unlike today, there was no Facebook or twitter making it possible to narrow down where a lost life might be found so police could be called.

I still think of him time to time.  I don’t remember his name.  Too many years have passed and I’m not good with that aspect  of my memory.  Yet I will never forget, until my own dying days, that feeling I was left with when all was said and done.

And if in my life I can prevent that feeling for anyone else, then I will fight to make it so.

Because you don’t have to love someone to feel that hole of a life lost.

You’d be surprised who can care about you and how.

And no one is better off when anyone is gone.

Next Page »