Zoloft, coffee, graduation, and PTSD.

Not necessarily in that order, of course. I’ve been seeing my shrink for about a month now, and I’ve gotta say it’s made a HUGE impact on my life. One, my self esteem is quite a bit higher every time I see other nut jobs in the waiting room. Some talk to themselves, others stare off into some self made oblivion… While, it is probably not so bad since the facial expressions aren’t of horror, but a smile of sorts. Kind of like, a creepy Dahmer smile. Well… Hmm. Ok, actually I’m not sure how frightened they are, but I am now that I’ve had a second to recap on what it looked like… Yikes.

We all have our quirks. Our.problems. Some physical, some mental. These problems derive from my childhood, when others could be from war or something traumatic happening that we don’t really know about. Some even fake sickness to gain some ‘good’ anti-psychotics meds so they can be fucked up all the time without actually having a screw loose in the head. Which is totally unfair once you think about it.


My father was like that, actually. One night he was all doped up on Oxycontin 80s, and while slumped in the corner of his room on the floor, confesses he’d lied to the same doctors I now go to. He would shake hands with the wall, and completely ignore everyone for days saying he didn’t know he was there – just to get some bipolar and schizophrenia meds.. His goal? Drooling on himself. Eating napkins for dinner, thinking it was rice. And he nailed that goal, ladies and gents.

“Dawn, this rice is amazingggggg… gargle, nom….” He’d slur.

“BOB, youre eating a fucking napkin!” Diva yelled, being completely exasperated in every aspect of being with this man.

Who could blame her? Not me. Not at all. Even though I basically raised this man (yes, he was my father), I still couldn’t wait to get away from him. His sickness was effecting me more than I knew, and I am the living proof of that today.

I was recently diagnosed with complex PTSD, which makes a ton of sense with my prolonged child abuse. It’s just crazy for me to write that, and have it be true. It is truly insane how much a parent can affect their child, and then, their adulthood. Who’da thunk it?

Never will I ever be able to get a pistol permit – so I won’t be able to be a badass WHEN the zombie apocalpyse hits. Not like there will be a police officer hunting people down to ask if they have a permit mid-shoot out, but weirder things have happened. Being on Zoloft also hinders my badass gun-wielding abilities as well, since anyone on it cannot get a permit either.. You know what, I really could care less about HAVING a gun, I just hate the fact that now I’m unable to get one if a certain type of air were to slip up my ass, just because I have a problem with authority. I.e. fuck you laws, how dare you tell me what I can or cannot have.


Being on this anti-depressant, I am tired more than often, with a mix of super peppy. Like, one of those dogs with the droopy face that always looks exhausted, but can’t stop humping your leg or licking your face. I’m on that level. So, writing has been a bit difficult for me because I wake up, take my meds, and while being so stoked to sit down and write something for myself and you awesome people, I’m nearly drooling on myself a few minutes after my fingers have grazed the keyboard.

It’s rude as shit, really.

My remedy, like any rational human, is to suck down coffee like it’s my life force – which it kinda is now. That’s the only reason behind me actually getting this done today.. No complaints here, I guess.

On some more good news (ha), I graduated from The Anti-Drug Warehouse! Yes, I fucking did! With no problems, whatsoever. Not one dirty screen. No homicides, and surprisingly no suicidal tendencies.

Although, during my 4 months absence from here, I had a warrant for my arrest again, but managed to square up with my amazing judge and was let go on the promise of graduating – which is now promise fulfilled. No, no – nothing huge happened, I just missed a court date like a douchebag and had a bench warrant. Still scared the dickens right out of me though, I’ll tell ya. Heart hammering and hands shaking while I stood up at that podium, praying he’d take pity on my mildly ridiculous woman-child self. Thank God he did, is all I’m saying. I do not look good in orange, yall. Not. One. Bit. In my case, Orange is NOT the new black. Nope.

Anyways, I’m super stoked, yet nervous. Now what? I’m thinking plenty of meetings, so I can continue on with my “The Anti-Drug Warehouse Woes”, because that was a huge part to this whole sobriety thing.. I definitely enjoy making fun of everything and everyone around me, so I wont be letting that go anytime soon. Not that meetings wouldn’t help me stay sober or anything, but the point being is I like writing about it, to let all you ‘normals’ get a glimpse into the horror/hell like world us addicts live in. Don’t get me wrong, it’s warm here and we have cookies, so it isn’t all that bad.

So, being on this anti-depressant seems to be working, and as an added bonus, I will never mistake a napkin for rice. Ever.

Expect more posts more frequently, because I’m back, and semi-awake.







My life is just like a soap opera filmed in a psychiatric ward.

I’ve always wondered what my ratings would be like if I had my own reality TV show. A few years ago, it would have been a mix of Intervention, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and small clips of Scared Straight.

Now, it would be a category 5 hurricane of Modern Family, Awkward, and The Walking Dead. (TWD would just be me while shuffling to the kitchen at 5am for coffee. Its unnatural.)

Between JHubbs and I, we have 4 chit’lins – ages ranging from 6 to 8. Not only do we have all of them every other weekend, but I have mine (little booger man) as much as possible, and hes allowed to have his son, Con-man, usually every weekend.

Did I forget to mention we live with his parents while we get back on our feet?

Have you ever locked yourself in the bathroom claiming to have a belly ache/explosive “machine-gun-shits” just to get a minute of peace? You have. Don’t fib.

“Okay kids! Time to play ‘Don’t move, don’t speak and stare at the TV while Misty has a smoke before she rips out her hair and writes her last will and testament!'” It usually works.. Until someone starts tattling that someone else spoke, moved, or my favorite – breathed.

It can be hectic, messy, and just plain crazy while all of the wee ones run the house. We have 2 sensitive boys, one tattle-tale, and a cuddle monster who desperately needs your attention. So, when we have Princess, little c-bug, Con-man, and little booger man all together, we try our best to give them as much attention as each one deserves, while trying to ignore the pleas of the other kids complaining that we didn’t see what they were yelling for us to witness 38 times.


/Face palm

One thing we do need to work on is sleeping arrangements. Like I said, we are staying with the ‘rents while we save some much needed cash, so we have very limited space. We try not to have them all sleep in the same bed, because it’s only a matter of time until the sleep-over mutates into “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours”.

I refuse to let this happen. Keep your little man parts in your pants, and the same goes to you, little lady. No peek-a-boo shows going on HERE. /glare of death

My family life is definitely handing me lemons lately, and instead of making lemonade, I somehow messed up the recipe and made myself a ‘Fuck-My-Life” latte.

I’m thinking the dash of self-pity is where I went wrong. Next time, definitely substituting it with a pinch of Suck-It-Up-Sally.

Recipes can be fickle.

I’m sorry for what I said before I had my coffee.

coffee1To speak, or not to speak to me in the morning? Thatcannot be a serious fucking question. For some reason, when I wake, I am in my own little world. I need time to breathe, and do my own little morning routine before people invade my personal bubble. It’s my bubble. Not yours. Buy your own damn bubble.

For some other sick and delusional reason – people of this damn earth cannot seem to grasp this concept. Maybe I’m speaking in tongues in the wee hours of the morning? Shrug. Who knows. I am not approachable before coffee. In fact, I am a Grouchy Tiger, Hidden Dragonbreath asshat as soon as my feet hit the floor. I shuffle towards the kitchen, turn on The Bunn (because why the hell wait more than 3 minutes for coffee? 4 is just absurd) and wait impatiently with my face inches from the dripping deliciousness.

Diva (my mother dearest) is the same way. She will cuss a mutha out. Quick. Maybe throw a spoon at your face, and put a hex on you at the same time, I don’t know – it’s very mysterious. I don’t get too close usually, unless I have put a cup on the table before she rises from her dark slumber, then sloooooowly inch it towards her hand with the end of her witchy broom stick. From around the corner, I might add. Because I’m one talented daughter.

I am old, therefore I need coffee. If you are old, and do not need it, you are Satan.

Who doesn’t need coffee?? Really. What sorcery is that? I don’t get the whole ‘waking up excited for the day and smiling with sunshine flying out my ass‘ attitude.

I mean, don’t get me wrong – life is a blessing and I am thankful to still be alive and on this planet, but that takes me at least…. THREE to 4, maaaaaaybe 8 cups o’ jet fuel to feel like that.

Seriously though, guys… I’m not addicted to coffee.

Its addicted to me.