Knocked Over By A Feather

Saint Mother

My mother hates talking to me on the phone when I am stoned.

“You don’t shut up and you repeat yourself.”

I hate to argue, but so does she without being high.

“You say things like, ‘but nobody understands the pain I’m in!’ over and over. I do understand, there just isn’t anything that I can do for you.”

This part is true. But she does listen patiently while I bitch and moan.

And no judgement whatsoever. My mother is a damn saint, I swear. She doesn’t like that I am mixing drugs with alcohol, but she understands why I’ve been diddling around with different concoctions.

“I’d rather you just smoke the weed and leave it at that, but it isn’t any of my business.”

That worked for a long time, but within an hour or so, it makes me want to crawl into bed with my warm blanket and memory foam mattress so that I can sleep like a giant slug.

I want to be awake, damn it.

My antidepressant is working. I actually want to do things now, like watch Lady Gaga videos. (My guilty pleasure.)


I also played with my Barbies until I was 15, but that has nothing to do with anything.

I am not afraid of the light creeping into my bedroom window anymore. I am not frightened to face the day, even though it’s filled with pain and all of the other bullshit that I contend with.

I wish I still had my Barbies.

A Heart of Gold


Out of the blue the other evening, I asked my husband what he thought my best quality was.

“And not my breasts.”

He thought for a minute or two, brow furrowed in deep thought. I sat patiently and waited for his reply.

“I’d say your sense of humor. You crack me up and are oftentimes hilarious.”

I nodded with satisfaction. If he would have said my heart of gold, I would have laughed at him and given him the finger.

You know how much I love my song lyrics.


“Heart Of Gold” by Neil Young

I want to live
I want to give
I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold
It’s these expressions
I never give
That keep me searching for a heart of gold
And I’m getting old
Keep me searching for a heart of gold
And I’m getting old
I’ve been to Hollywood
I’ve been to Redwood
I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold
I’ve been in my mind
It’s such a fine line
That keeps me searching for a heart of gold
And I’m getting old
Keeps me searching for a heart of gold
And I’m getting old
Keep me searching for a heart of gold
You keep me searching and I’m growing old
Keep me searching for a heart of gold
I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold


My heart is not pure gold, but more like gold plated.

The Good Girl

My shrink referred me to a pain specialist last week, raised my Effexor to 300 mg and refilled my Klonopin. She was disgusted by the actions of my GP.

“If you want to die, you’ll find a way. You’re in pain! If I could give you something for it, I would.”

I called the pain specialist and they are supposed to call me back by the end of the week to make an appointment. It could take up to 8 weeks to see the doctor himself or a nurse practitioner.

Meanwhile, I am doing what I can to make do.


In the evenings, now that my daughter has finally gotten her drivers license, I start off by having a can of this. Then I take 2-3 mg of Klonopin and smoke a little weed.

Please, no lectures. I know that mixing alcohol and benzo’s are not a good idea. At this point, I give absolutely no shits whatsoever. Throughout the day, every day, I am miserable. I am also fucking tired of it. Since I can’t get any help from a doctor right now, I have to use my noodle and make up my own form of relief. I end up falling asleep within 2-3 hours anyways and sleep for a good 4-5 before I am awakened by the pain.

It’s not good, guys. For whatever reason, this disease has taken root within my body and won’t budge. Even my good days suck balls.

You get to a point where you just stop caring about being the “good” girl.

This is my fake smile. Pretty damn believable, eh?

Yes, I’m tough. But for fucks sake, I can only handle so much. I am at that breaking point.

Again, please no lectures or natural cures. I am fully aware of the predicament that I am in. I binge watch the TV show “Intervention.”

But like I said, by 5 PM, I am in a world of hurt and need to take a vacation for awhile. I am harming no one. (But myself, yadda yadda.)

Time will tell what will happen at the pain doc. But for some reason, I am not holding my breath.

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