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.







“We’re all mad here.”


This building looms over a small town in upstate NY, it’s windows resembling beedy little eyes that scrutinize your every move. It sits upon a hill, surrounded by dense woods on every side – the driveway encircling the whole length of the place before coming back out again. You come in the same way you leave. The halls smell of Lysol and ammonia, if possible, with a teencie weencie hint of death.

I hate it with every fiber of my being. Besides prison, it is the one place that truly scares me to the point of being on my best behavior.

“Jail was preferable. There they only limited you physically. In a mental ward they tampered with your soul and worldview and mind.”― John Kennedy Toole

I sat in the waiting room of ‘Bunner Street’, gripping my purse and Dunkin Donuts coffee in both hands. A death grip of sorts, if you will. I didn’t trust anyone who walked through those front doors and made their way down the puke green colored halls. Not one.

Including myself.

One thing that nut-jobs love more than money and random shit in a purse, is caffeine. It’s fuel for my crazy furnace. Er.. I mean, their. Their crazy furnace.

Okay, okay. Obviously, if I’m sitting here I am no better than the rest. I have a hideously tragic past that keeps poking its nose into my future business, and it’s really starting to piss me off. I have a MONTH left of going to The Anti-Drug Warehouse when my counseor tells me I need to have a mental evaluation before graduating… No ifs, and’s, or buts.

So there my butt sat. In an orange chair that has been carefully screwed to the tile floor, waiting for my 2nd day of probing and truly invasive question session to begin.

The first day was more panic stricken, to be honest. I wasn’t sure if they were going to admit me again to the ‘upstairs unit’. The one in which you cannot leave no matter how much you beg, bribe, or bat your lashes. The one where you are stripped of everything but clothes, and cannot touch anything remotely resembling a shiv.

Side note:  The Hubbs reminded me (from what must have been my ramblings of the shittiest week of my life) that we did origami constantly – which could have resulted in some psychotic mastermind in creating a shank for pastel colored stabbings … But, fortunately for me, they had us all doped up to the point of barely remembering how to tie a shoe, let alone make an elaborate poker o’ death.

When I first walked in, the door that led to that particular special place in Hell was displayed right to the left of the entrance – a stairway laid out right below it. It was kind of like they dangled it in front of the people who went to outpatient. Kind of like a “Hey, shit could be worse. You could be locked in here.”

Huge 7 foot windows dragged down the rest of the hallway, just so you could see the poor soul’s socks, or bare feet slowly creeping along – no where to go, but wanting to find somewhere to hide so desperately.

To get away from the rest of the people in that hallway. That cold, locked hallway.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like they prodded us (all the time) and threw moldy pieces of meat or bread at us through bars. They gave it to us on plastic trays, at little round tables, while speaking to us ever so softly with rehearsed lines. Like, Siri on Xanax. Or, a female version of Ben Stein. Shrug. Either/or is an acceptable comparison.

Anyways, back to what I was saying – this was day 2, and I was 62% sure they weren’t going to try to keep me in there. So I sat waiting somewhat patiently, refraining from mapping out my escape route like I did the previous morning.

Doc calls me in, and off I went to be diagnosed and informed on whether or not I was going to be a patient of Hill House.

“You are being admitted. I will see you once every two weeks, and from there we will decide what medication to put you on, and if we need to increase or decrease our sessions.” Plastic smile ensues.

She was a cute, round little doctor who obviously had her own demons she had to deal with. Constantly fiddling with a yellow post-it pad by her keyboard, her other hand on the mouse as she looked up the next series of questions. She let “My therapist needs a therapist” slip in mid-conversation, and in turn, my spine went less rigid and I relaxed in the office chair.

It’s nice to know that I’m not alone when it comes to being a completely derailed individual. That everyone has their own little closet full of skeletons. That I was where I needed to be at that very moment. It showed me that not everyone is cookie-cutter perfect, that some are a bit fierce.

There’s a place where all writer’s get their inspiration from… No matter where it stems, I do know one thing.

We’re all mad here.

Little Blacksheep is far from “on fleek”.

blacksheep2on fleek: [fleek] – the quality of being perfect, or on point i.e. Zayn Malik

To be the black-sheep of the family is an honor in my eyes – I am different, the ‘outcast’, the minority. I shall wave my black-sheep flag proudly, and smile at all the cookie-cutter buttholes that look my way. Since I can remember, I was looked at differently in my family. My father and his friends would call me black-sheep, and it just became the norm. No issues, no “WHY GOD, WHY AM I THE WEIRDO?!”, definitely just accepted that I was unique and rocked that shit. When Sister would listen to her pop music, I’d be painting my nails black and jamming out to Incubus or Metallica. ROCKED. THAT. SHIT. Who wants to be a carbon copy of someone elses version of perfection? Or how the kids say nowadays, who wants to be “on fleek”? I don’t. (btw, for the record, I do not say that. To be 100% honest, I am not friends with people who say that. So don’t. Like, ever.) I am flawed. I am a beautiful mess, y’all. I have a small gap between my two front teeth and used to HATE it, wanting braces so no one would pick on me (Not like Madonna or Amy Winehouse, and definitely not like that girl from the commercial who says, “Get  the London look.) But looking back now, and seeing all of my other positive qualities, I say screw it. Its cute.

My flaws make me who I am, and I’m pretty fucken rad. I always rebelled against any authority figure, though. You tell me to blow my nose, I’d probably pick it and fling it at you like a little turd. As I got older, I got into more trouble – sometimes involving ‘the fuzz’, which was super fun in a really terrifying way.

And when I say that it was “fun”, what I really mean is, “I will never do that again”. Ever. There’s definitely nothing like standing up at the podium waiting for the judge to figure out if he wants to ruin your day by sending you to the clink. There is no escape. For example, this will not happen:

God “I find you guilty, and I sentence you to 60 days in [whatever towns] justice center. No bail.”

You “Wait, what? Actually, sir, that’s not going to work for me. I’m not really feeling that – I think I’ll just say, “no thanks” and get outta here. Thank you so much for the offer, though.”

So instead of getting myself into that kind of situation, I’ll refrain from doing anything illegal – I’ve got children and nobody really likes raising their kids through letters and weekly visitation.

There’s a fine line between good and bad black-sheeping. Yes, I said ‘black-sheeping’. It is a word.

Well, now it’s a word. Cause I said it was.

Anyways, like I said, there’s a fine line – some are good. You may just be introverted while the rest of your family are social Gods, and instead of joining them you sit and play WoW in your basement and lick Cheetos cheese dust off your fingers. Shrug. No, I’m not speaking from personal experience. I swear. *crosses fingers behind back*

Then there’s the bad – like, if you were to be a Satan worshiping sadist while your mother and good ol’ father (who’s a reverend) goes to church every Sunday and you make lists of who to massacre at Sunday school. Yet again, not personal experience. Real talk though.

I’m the black-sheep of my family because I never listened. Always had to learn the hard way, no matter what the consequences… Lately I’ve learned to take a little bit of advice, even if it kills me swallowing it down. I’m a stubborn asshat who needs a good reality check every now and then – thank God for families, because I keep them on their toes, and they keep me on mine.

Black-sheep’s unite, tell me your story.

#bigcurlyhairdontcare. It’s a curse, not a blessing – most of the time.

bobbypinI’ve always had this insanely thick, long hair since I can remember. My mother and father absolutely REFUSED to let me cut it – saying it would be a waste, because everyone who doesn’t have it, wants it. When I turned 24, I had a little nervous breakdown and buzzed it all off… I looked like Mrs. Potato head minus the plastic hair.

It. Was. Horrible.

I didn’t look in the mirror for around 3 months until it started growing, and even then I cringed at the sight. Some people can pull it off and look amazing doing so, but this Italian girl, cannot. I seriously looked like a big ol’ pile of steaming poo, and that my friends is somewhat insulting to that hot tempered feces.

Here’s a few downsides when having Sasquatch genetics –

  1. I cannot go in public without someone touching my hair. Even if I think I look like ran over cow dung, I still get random fingers in my hair, scalp touched, and then eventually it gets frizzy due to their fingers and palms being all up in my business.
  2. I wear the shit up ALL the time, which will contribute to my hair loss one day because of the weight of it. Which is, you know, amazing.
  3. I spend around 40-50 bucks a month on shampoo’s, conditioners, hair gel, anti-frizz creme, and hairspray. Which, again, is great because I don’t have anything better to spend what little money I have.
  4. If there ain’t central air, I ain’t goin’. Unless you wanna see a poodle with green eyes.
  5. I lose my hair just as fast as I grow it. I find it in the WEIRDEST places, and often clog the drain when showering… You’d think with all the hair I lose, I wouldn’t have this issue and I would have some paper-thin hair, but alas, I do not.

Now, don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying I don’t think my hair is beautiful, and wouldn’t have it any other way, but it can be a hassle and a half. My mother and I have the same exact hair, and she too knows this burden, and leaves it naturally curly like I do. I straighten it sometimes when I get a certain hair up my butt, but mainly I put it up, braid it or glob tons of gel and anti frizz serums THEN douse it in hairspray before I go anywhere… The outcome?


Is this, and yes the facial expression comes with it.

Riding in cars with strangers.

public transportFour days a week, I have to ride in a cab to get to the Anti-Drug Warehouse, in which I have to share with others while I commute. I’ve never had good luck when it came to public transportation. In fact, I’ve always had the most mind-blowingly scary rides – due to being in the same vehicle as unhinged passengers. Like, they should be in straight jackets, unhinged. I. Shit. You. Not.

What happened, you ask? Well, here’s a fun little story for you. A peek into my past horrifying rides. While being 7 months pregnant with little booger man, I took a city bus to Carousel Mall, now known as Destiny USA. I was only like 5 blocks from there, so I figured I’d chance it. No big deal, right? Wrong. I’m sitting there, minding my own obese business, when all of the sudden an older lady looked me straight in the eyes and whispered… “There’s ghosts and amplifiers on every corner.” Naturally, I look at her all bewildered like, and look around me slowly to see if she could be talking to someone else as crazy as she obviously was.

Nope, no such luck. I look at her and say, “I’m sorry, what?”

She ignores my whiney plea, and continues to repeat the phrase slowly getting louder and louder, until she is literally screaming, and standing up to yell at other patrons. I’m in some serious awe right then, and cover my stomach like she’s going to whip out a samurai sword and impale me. People on the bus are getting outraged, yelling to the driver to take control of the situation. “She’s probably dangerous! She’s a nutcase! Hello, are you going to do something about this?!” Like, it was almost a straight up lynching squad ready to attack. The driver finally pulls the bus over, and tells her calmly.. “Look lady, you’re freaking everyone out. You need to sit down, shut up, and STAY seated or you will be thrown off the bus.” I look at the guy, and say “Really? You’re gonna make her sit right across from a 7 month pregnant chick?” He sympathizes, and says, “There’s nowhere else. You’re just gonna have to deal.”

Of course I am. She sits, and just whispers it to herself until I got off, so I really have no idea what happened after. All I know is, is that she belonged in a mental institution of sorts. I literally had a nightmare that night about it – shit was no joke.

Now, my recent ride wasn’t the worst. Instead of it being an elder lady, it was an older guy (like 42 or so) who was interested in my purse, dress, and phone. Naturally, he touched all of my things, asking me what they were made of, how much it was, and what size I wore. Literally, petting me and my belongings. My dress, he picked up the edge of it, and asked me what kind it was, to which I said, “Effing Billabong dude, you want it or something?” I mean, he would’ve looked great in it and all, but I’m not one for small talk.

After that, he didn’t really talk to me much, for which I am thankful. Moral of the story… Be a dick. They’ll eventually leave you alone.

That should be a Hallmark card.

“Adulting” vs “Actual Fun”.

I am, without a doubt, a huge kid at heart. To be brutally honest, I can still sit down and watch a Disney movie/show with my little man, and continue watching that channel after he loses interest… Shit. I may just delete that confession and completely revise this whole thing due to my possible death of embarrassment and/or scrutiny. Ahh, fuck it. Judge me all you like, I walk on the wild side.

Speaking of wild side, I wouldn’t back down from a good water gun fight (ballsy, I know.) and on a serious note, I’ve been looking up courses near me for Airsoft courses. How. Bad. Ass. Its basically military simulation – “milsim”. Its as close as you can get to getting on the actual battle field. Scary? Nah. Adrenaline pumping junkie status? Yesssssss. Sign me up. I’m a NYer, so there’s not many courses around me (FML) although there’s a few that I definitely plan on attending. I will definitely write about my experience, with many pictures of my bruised and bloodied little body. AND, as much of an asshole as I am, I know I will be focusing all my rage on J Hubbs, so I will also post his booboo’s as well. /maniacal laughter ensues

I’m also a huge fucking nerd when it comes to my video games – my “digital adventures”. I am always in search of games whos format is somewhat like Silent Hill’s… Who doesn’t love a good ol’ fashioned horror survival game with terror lurking its ugly head around every corner? Honestly, people. If you’re not a fan, we can’t be friends. It’s that simple.

100% serious.

I’ve recently played this game called Outlast, and damn near shit my knickers. This game. This. Fucking. Game. It’s somewhat like the Silent Hill franchise, yet instead of beating the bloody snot out of the monsters, you just run instead. Fucking RUN, and hide that news reporter ass of yours and pray nothing finds you.

First, I'd find this completely safe bed to hide under.

First, I’d find this completely safe bed to hide under.

Then, seconds later…

THIS asshole would be all up in my grill.

THIS asshole would be all up in my grill.

WHO would think of a game like that? Wait a second, I’ll address this issue quickly.

Creator of Outlast – are you Satan? No? You’re lying.

J Hubbs refuses to watch me play, let alone play himself. That should speak volumes all in itself. And no, he’s not a bleeding vagina, thank you. He’s manly and amazing, and can break crowbars with his teeth, and open beer bottles with his belly button. NOW, thats a man. Yes, ladies – that gem is all mine. Sheeeeit, hands off.

Now, when I say “Adulting”, I merely mean going to a job I despise, and being paid mediocre money to do so. Or, doing my own taxes. What the fuck is this sorcery? Riddle me that!

Yet, I have to admit, I do enjoy some adulting. I absolutely love to cook. Friggen love it. In fact, one day I hope to have my own catering company. Bad-ass tatted and pierced folk who know how to cook the best kind of comfort food around, and that ADORE doing so. Sinfully delicious combination if I do say so myself.

And I do.

My company will be NY based, hopefully starting in my town, then head up to the big city before going worldwide. Yes – I have quite the ambition, and I dream like a kid who just saw a pony for their first time.. But, I will achieve this. So, watch out for me.

Sp-sp-sp-spit it out, junior!

I go to outpatient 4 days a damn week, and of course like everyone else there, I feel waaaay more superior than each and every single ass sitting in those chairs. I sit there impatiently while ‘worksheets’ are distributed amongst either an uncomfortably small group of 4 people, or 20 heavily medicated adults are mushed into the “front-room”, which is much like the redheaded step child’s corner.



Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I look just like that. I try not to – no, really. I fricken try, man. I drink about a pot of coffee to my face and shuffle my butt to the cab to travel two towns over to get to this place I call, ‘The Anti Drug Warehouse’. Anyways, I’m getting off topic – back to my story.

I have ADHD, pretty badly sometimes and I can’t help but start nitpicking at things I can’t control. Like, I’m sitting in Anger Management getting ANGRIER than all hell over the people in the room over-sharing. And I mean, oooooover-sharing. Like, 23 stops past sharing.

How was your weekend?

Oh, it was lovely. My mothers sisters brother Kenny came, bringing his girlfriend Tabby who claimed she looked the way she did due to horrible menstrual cramps, while all the while my brother Billy said no, she just has resting bitch face syndrome – right before my sister Carly Mae said Oh my God, like I totally have that too but only when Jerry tries to poke me with it in the middle of the night when I am clearly sleeping and not in the mood for any sort of nasty bits.

Blink. Blink.

I mainly get so pissed due to the fact that we have an hour to do “check-ins” and we have to go over it with everyone in the room, so if you take 32 minutes discussing ONE barbeque I will seriously lose my shit. Please be somewhat considerate and keep it to 5 minutes. HELL, keep it to 2 minutes – we got shit to do.

This isn’t all my life revolves around – yes, it’s crucial at the beginning, but I cannot wait to move past all this and just have my normal, crazy, somewhat chaotic life back. But for now, I’ll blog about it and tell everyone about how my journey has been so far, and how it’s only going to get better.