Wedding Themes

Since when, though, did you need a “theme” for a fucking wedding?  Like, really?

51pXUGzAqLLAdmittedly, I am kinda obsessed with this blog.  So, I vape and I “customize” the blog and I do wedding things.  Like mix our CD of “Our Soundtrack,” which is our DIY wedding favor (the theme of the wedding is music).  Since when, though, did you need a “theme” for a fucking wedding?  Like, really?  We can’t just have a pretty, classy, cool wedding without a theme?  Apparently not. So ours is music, specifically vinyl records.  Don’t get me wrong, all the things are not records, albeit it tempting.  Our guestbook is actual records with our wedding date and combined monogram for the record label.  People write with a sharpie on the actual records, which are framed!  The invitations are mock records!  How cute!  But seriously, how cute.  We live in Nashville, and are vinyl people.  By that, I mean that fiance has a bunch of records and I think it’s cool.  Also, I wear vinyl to the dungeon.  Anyway, our reception music is awesome.  Let me just say, Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life” is our recessional back down the aisle.  Enough said.

I Am Strung Out on Wellbutrin

download But not on purpose, it’s just that this dosage of Wellbutrin is like crack. Not that I would know………(I have been sober nearly 7 years).

Anyway, I can’t sleep and I can’t eat and I can’t come.  You heard me, I can’t have orgasms.  Well, not without some crazy fucking effort.

This is unacceptable.  At least the orgasm part is. 

WHY ORGASMS, WHY?  where have you gone?

Mentally, though, I feel great.  Back to normal, not depressed.  Physically, I feel like I am a zombie from lack of sleep, or I am crawling out of my skin.

Mentally, I am going, what was I worried about with the fiance? (See previous posts: “I lost a Piece of Him,” and “I Smoke & I Don’t Eat & I Lament”)

It’s just that the weight of the depression becomes so immense that I am deprived of perspective. Reality becomes distorted, and all that exists is my feelings, which range from intense sadness to anger to literally numb.

This is all because I quit my job, thereby losing my insurance to not-as-good insurance (cause my cobra was $800/month just for the medical for me alone!).  This took me far down the scale of antidepressants to those that are affordable – generic Wellbutrin – and, well, here I am. 

A cracked out zombie girl.  To be clear, it’s not the Wellbutrin, per say, it’s the side effects of th max dose of it that my brain needs to fucking be normal.  

So, I am trying to lower the crack-head-ness feeling.  I listen to Miles Davis, but mistakenly think  the “Birth of the Cool” album is actually what I consider “cool” jazz, but it is not. 

WTF MILES?  Why have you betrayed me?

I smoke cigarettes & I don’t eat & I lament.


I smoke cigarettes and I don’t eat and I lament.  I started smoking again because in a strange way it is something I can control, a decision I made, in a life that feels out of control.  It is the last night before my mother comes into town and my fiancé is not home, is late, from work.  For every sound of a car, the dog goes to the gate, expecting it to be him.

It is too hot to sit outside, but I sit outside anyway because I can smoke.

Today I told Fiancé I hated him-very politely-because he “likes” someone else.  (See previous post: “I lost a piece of him”).

He is the only person I know to take that in stride.

Today I thought about breaking up with him,

Today he got scared.  That I would leave him.

We talk and we talk and we talk and we come to no conclusions.  Neither side wants to give up anything, so we are at an impasse.

Therefore, I shove my feelings deep down inside and hope they will go away.

This creates a river of distance between us, with everything in between poisoned.

I read Lena Dunham’s book “Not That Kind of Girl” and feel that we have similar writing voice.  Or, maybe, I just hope we do.  I can relate to it because I have fucked a lot of guys I wish I hadn’t and because I have dated a lot of jerks.  This seems to be what the book is about so far, that, and being raped.  Which I don’t feel I can relate to, but I know that every other girl I know can.  Maybe I have just been too slutty in the past, I think.  I do like sex and lots of it, and also (In the past) with lots of people.  Now, however, I do not think I can even date someone else besides fiancé, even if he can.  I message the OKC guy I am talking to (the main one) and tell him “I am not built for poly, but would love to be friends.”  And that I am shutting down my profile for this reason, but give him my phone number in case he wants to contact me.  He doesn’t.  So far.  This is too bad, I think.  He was a nice guy.

Fiancé keeps bringing up Bladerunner (the original, as the sequel isn’t out until October), and the scene where Rachel makes a comment about someone (maybe Decker) having a picture of another woman hanging on the wall, “That’s not right,” she says, “She should be enough for him.”  Fiancé comments about how “dated” this ideology is and I partially agree with this.  I mean, I don’’t want to be someone’s whole world in which they have no one or nothing else, but I also think my love should be enough for him.  Poly theory has never spoken to me in the way it has to him, the idea that love is infinite and you shouldn’t just have to love one person romantically.  I disagree in the sense that something is lost, a specialness, when you romantically love more than one person.  Not that fiancé loves the other girl, but you get my point. 

I go to the psychiatrist and she seem to rely on my own self-knowledge, so I prescribe to up my Wellbutrin to 450 mg, which I think is the max dose. And to see her again in a month.  We were supposed to be lowering the meds today, as planned previously, in preparation for me to try to get pregnant.  But I do not have a job, or money, therefore, no trying to get pregnant yet.  The idea of having a child feels so far away from me, now.

Choosing The Life I Want

This is probably not good that I still relate to 20 something/millennial generation memoirs. 


I am obsessed with 20-something year-old girl’s memoirs.  Molly Crabapple’s “Drawing blood,” (which I guess, technically, she is older now, but not in the book); Marina Keegan’s “The Opposite of Loneliness,” (she is dead, but died at 22);           Lena Dunham’s “Not that kind of girl,” (actually, I haven’t read that one yet, because an early chapter freaked me out a little, but I still plan to); Melissa Broder’s “So sad today” (Ok, I just started that one and i actually have no idea how old she is).

This is probably not good that I still relate to 20-something/millennial generation memoirs. 

And how did they get enough life experience to write a memoir, or “book of essays” (or whatever) anyway?  While I am here on my fourth blog entry at like 37 years old?  Surely my drug-fueled, loose life has been more interesting?

Further, my former grad school’s email service sent me an email today-“Hello and congratulations on the successful completion of your degree, and beginning the next chapter of your career!”  Thank you, MavMail, for mocking me and the fact that I have done very little with my women’s studies master degree in the last seven years.

Fiancé and I are re-watching (for me) and watching for the first time (for him) “Buffy the vampire slayer,” and have gotten to season 6, a stand-along episode in which Buffy thinks she is in a mental institution and is told she has been there for the last 6 years.  Her whole life has been a delusion, “no she is not a vampire slayer because that’s crazy.”  First of all, this really fucked with me. I mean, I didn’t really remember this episode, or apparently take it seriously previously; but, this makes me feel like well, is that it, this whole show has been a delusion?  I mean, really?!  The episode ends (and is seriously unclear about which world is the delusion) in which Buffy decides to live in the world in which she is the slayer, but I wonder if it is a little like my whole life.  Maybe this is all one delusion.  Maybe I am not really unemployed, not-really-using any degree; but then again, maybe I just need to choose to life the life I want.

Losing a Piece of Him

I am a wreck.

“I don’t want you to be broken,” He says, crying.

Too late for that, I think, I was broken to begin with.

Polyamory (Poly) (from Greek πολύ poly, “many, several”, and Latin amor, “love“) is the practice of or desire for intimate relationships with more than one partner, with the knowledge of all partners.  It has been described as “consensual, ethical, and responsible non-monogamy.”

I feel numb as I try on my wedding dress, after the alterations. 

Is it all meaningless?, I think.

I feel physically ill, but I smile at the seamstress and say “its perfect.”

The dress does look perfect, that’s true.

But how I feel is less-than-perfect, not-good-enough.

He likes another girl.

True, I agreed to poly, but it’s not what I would choose.

I am not saying you can’t play or sometimes fuck other people.  I am not crazy or unrealistic.

Emotional monogamy, however is another story.

When we fuck, I think, does he touch her like this? Does she like it?  Is she better than me?

I am a wreck.

“I don’t want you to be broken,” He says, crying.

Too late for that, I think, I was broken to begin with.

I am already lost in this world, no job, no prospects, little family.  I have never lived in a city that feels like home.

Anxiety in one area of life bleeds over to the other.

I do not want another person, another guy, to touch me, to play, to fuck, to love me.

All I need is him.

Why am I not enough?

My best friend, Mr. NN says,what are you afraid of losing?”

I say, “I have already lost a piece of him.”

He says, “she’s already married”

I say, “I don’t care.”

He says “If you can’t do poly, that’s a big deal.  It will blow up sooner or later.”

It is blowing up.  It’s blowing up now.

He has negated our love.

He has drained the joy from me.

I vacillate between hate and love.

She thanks for me for letting her be with him.

I say, “You’re welcome” and I think, Like I have a choice in all of this.

I sink deeper into my depression.

He calls.  He says, “you sound better.”

Sure.  I am thinking, what am I even alive for?

I mean, really, what I am doing that’s worthwhile?


I am broken.

It is my fault, I should have broken up with him when I tried to the first time, for this very reason.

This thought creates a hole in my chest so large that I can’t breathe anymore.

I call him and cry, sobbing, he doesn’t answer and I try to leave a message, but I can’t talk.

I think about messaging all the guys I am talking to on OKCupid and say: “I am sorry, but I can’t do this.  This is a lie.”  This would be the real truth.

For the moment, I decide I would rather live in pain (in poly) with him, than without him, which makes me feel better than earlier, with the prospect of losing him entirely.  I would rather lose a piece than the whole of him.

Misadventures with the Soon-to-be Mother-in-Law

I chose overdosing on my mother vs. overdosing on my soon-to-be mother in law.
It is like choosing to ingest rat poison over drinking Drano.

“We have to go over every detail of the wedding today,” my mother says.
“Really?” I say. “Really, every detail?”
Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE wedding planning. I fucking love it. The planning, the organizing, the lists-all are right up my OSD (ish) ally.
However, I avoid “going over every detail” of the wedding with my mother like the plague.


Instead, I watch five movies in one day and constantly check my cell for texts/OKCupid for messages. However, no one is texting, not even my fiance, because it is Fourth of July and they all have lives.

I am still depressed.

My fiance took his kids to his parent’s, who live in a Lake house in No-where, TN.
We just got back from their place the week before last.
I chose overdosing on my mother vs. overdosing on my soon-to-be mother in law.
It is like choosing to ingest rat poison over drinking Drano.
[That reminds me of the movie “Heathers” right now and I put that on my list to continue the binge- watching. Corn nuts. Yeah!]

Last time I was at the soon-to-be parents-in-law’s house, his mother criticized everything. EVERYTHING.

My fiance wants it to be like a vacation when we go there, but it is more like a psych ward.  (And I should know, I have been in the psych ward three times, but that’s another story. Or several stories).

So, one night we decide to cook dinner for everyone, just me and him. Except mom-in-law can’t leave the kitchen because then she wouldn’t be able to control everything.
Anyway, my fiance wants me to cut the green peppers in long strips, so I do.

(And, yes, this is minor thing, but sometimes, its the minor things that just push you over the edge.)

So, his mother does not say, “thank you for cooking,” instead she says (knowing I cut the veggies), “these bell peppers are cut too large.”
That is the first thing she says about the meal.


Just break them into smaller pieces on your plate and say “thank you.”   That is what normal people do. My mother said, later, you should just say back something like “Oh, soon-to-be mother in law, you are right, I like how you cut yours better.”


If I wanted to be a fake bitch, then maybe.

Later, I tell fiance that she is this way and he’s basically like “I know.” But very supportive and sweet. Because that is how he is. Almost perfect. And at least there’s that.



The Universe Hates Me

I am still depressed for days at a time and I don’t know what I want to do with my life. Or rather, I know, but The Universe seems to be opposing me on this point. 6 months. 75 job applications. 4 interviews. 0 job offers. This is probably because I wasted my 20’s doing pot and cocaine, stripping, having mental breakdowns, working stupid jobs, going to jail, and volunteering like a good little feminist activist (which while is good experience, no one gives a shit about.)


I am almost forty (Ok, well almost 37, but that’s in the ballpark) and everything is pretty much the same as when I was 23. Minus the drugs, the living with my parents, or couch surfing.

I am still depressed for days at a time and I don’t know what I want to do with my life. Or rather, I know, but The Universe seems to be opposing me on this point. 6 months. 75 job applications. 4 interviews. 0 job offers. This is probably because I wasted my 20’s doing pot and cocaine, stripping, having mental breakdowns, working stupid jobs, going to jail, and volunteering like a good little feminist activist (which while is good experience, no one gives a shit about.)

My mother calls and I tell her I am depressed. She says “how can you be depressed when you are about to get married?” I tell her “ I don’t know,” and then, “well, I think it is the birth control and my hormones are out of wack.” This excuse makes me feel better. But she says, “Well if that is the case, you are going to have to stop taking the birth control, then you will get pregnant, which you can’t afford to do because you have no job and no money and you guys (me and the fiance) have to finish raising the kids you already have (his kids, which will be mine via marriage soon) and what are you going to do when he has to write a $10,000 check for college?

(Shit. This is actually how this went down.)

I feel a panic attack coming on. This is not helping. And she knows the only thing I want (by some strange miracle after years of saying this is the exact opposite of the thing I want) is to get pregnant. But apparently the universe thinks I do not deserve even one child because I am broke and have no job.

Anyway, I hang up on her.

She calls back.

She tells me I “should go back to therapy to figure out what my problem is” and I say “I Know what my problem is I do not have a job and so I am depressed.”

(Also, I was in therapy for 10 years previously, and while I am not saying it wasn’t helpful, I am just saying it seems dumb at this point.)

Mom is still not helpful.

What a surprise.

I hang up on her again. She doesn’t call back.

I text this guy I am talking to because I am in an open relationship, but I don’t really want to fuck anyone else besides my fiance, but I am bored and lonely and you can’t be on a dating website without the pretense of someone might get laid, so.

He says “Can you do something like yoga, or meditation, or pillow karate?”

I know these things could help (except maybe the pillow karate, because I am unsure of what that means) but I think to myself, I hate that hippy bullshit.

Instead I say something lame like “I am just going to focus on talking to positive people.”

He does not reply.

I go out and buy 2 cheap dresses at Ross, driving fast, and listening to loud, offensive music (or at least music that would be offensive to most old people, especially my soon-to-be mother in law, but that, my friends is another story).

I feel better for a time. Then I get home to an empty house, except for a dog who may hate me because I have not really walked him today, and I cry.

Then I listen to my voicemail and my dad seems like he actually has something to say to me, which is unusual, so I call him back and try to pretend like “Everything is ok.”

He goes on and on about working at the Veterans Association (Or whatever it is called, the VA) and how if I could get a job there I would make lots of money and “oh it is so easy, the social workers go around and ask “how are you today?” and fill out paperwork.”

Sure Dad. Ok.

Then I write this and try to think about how JK Rolling had a tough life, struggled with mental health and addiction, but look at her today!!! This gives some such hope (perhaps false hope).

I remember that people like these sort of stories and I can kinda write, so I should keep writing. I feel somewhat better and decide I will go out to my local dungeon tonight with my fiance and watch him spank someone else, because that is hot.