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.