1-800-273-TALK

These past 2.5 months have been brutal since my son has gone down to visit my family. Without the responsibility of him around my therapist has been pushing me to dig deeper into the recesses of my cluttered, dark mind.

And there are emotions in there.

So many emotions.

Some emotions welling up are so new, frightening, and overwhelming that my chest physically aches. So much so that the one night I found it necessary to make a phone call to help me get through the night.

Source: http://wonderbandalice.deviantart.com/

Not all self-harming is obvious to the naked eye. I've struggled with this illness for over 24 years and up until 2 years ago, I've never had the courage to admit this problem openly. Over the past three months I have worked extremely hard with my therapist to develop cognitive behavioral coping skills and calming techniques that I have used successfully to stem the tide of crazy that swirls in my brain at times.

But that night, the night before Robin Williams would end his life, I had so many painful emotions bubble to the surface that for the first time in years I was scared of myself. Each coping skill I tried to implement failed to have a desired impact; I grew more anxious. I couldn't breathe.

All I could think about was hurting myself. Badly. Really, really badly. I wanted the trapped pain to be outside of me. The pain was so bad this time I wanted to drive a knife in my thigh. Stab and twist. Because a twisted wound can't heal on it's own.

I've never had feelings that intense before.

I had no desire, no intention, no plan to end my life.

I just didn't know how to cope. It was 1 AM and I needed to talk to someone. I just needed to say the words, "I'm in a lot of pain right now. My therapist is helping me work through some difficult things and these feelings make me feel like hurting myself. I'm not suicidal, I'm not going to hurt myself. I just need to tell someone I'm having these feelings."

And the voice on the other end of the line, Noelle, listened patiently to me. I rambled for a few minutes and felt so much of the tension flow out of my body. It was as if allowing myself to say these things out loud took the power away from overwhelming feelings. My pulse returned to normal and I thanked Noelle for her kindness.

I sent a text to a couple of friends letting them know that I had been feeling harmful, but I had made a call and was feeling better. One night owl friend called me within minutes and kept me on the phone for the following hour and a half. We spent the time criticizing and deconstructing The Silver Chalice, Paul Newman's debut film. (If you are sad and need a laugh, I highly recommend this film. From the Sharpie drawn sets and bending metal swords to the costume department's liberal use of drapery tassels, there is not one part of the movie that isn't hysterical.).

Today is National Suicide Prevention Day. If you or a loved one needs help please call 1-800-273-8255 (TALK) or online at suicidepreventionlifeline.org. I am so fortunate that there was a voice on the other end of the line.

Found My Happy

I learn a lot of TV history while care-taking my 90 y.o. patient.  I've seen plenty semi-racist episodes of "In The Heat of the Night," heard enough horrible dialogue from  "Murder, She Wrote" to want to time travel back to punch the writers, and several 1972 porn-staches in "Emergency" to turn me off of body hair for a while.

Way to go, me!

But despite the spate of crappy TV shows I'm watching every weekend, I'm thrilled.  I've been able to find my happy again.  I'm back on track with my meds, had a few weeks of productive therapy, and furthered the storyline in my novel.  I've got more confident, have a better perception of my ability as a mother.  Great friends rallied around me, reminding me that "Those that love you are proud of you; we don't see a prescription, we see a beautiful, funny, and loving woman. . . .for everything you do I am proud of you."

So even though I have to wipe up some drool and other body functions at times, I can do it with a sincere smile, not a faked grin.  I understand now how much better my life is, now that I've made peace with my drugs.   


PS-- A special thank you to The Bloggess for sharing her struggles.  She inspires me daily and I want to give her a big, squishy hug.  "Die Vampire Die!" has become my mantra.

Just a Baby Step

My mind is gray and empty.  I'm so frustrated with it.  I want to laugh or smile and have pleasant conversations, but it's so exhausting.  I want to work on my book, but I can't put the words down.  Thoughts that that flowed from my imagination down my fingers at the start of January, are now locked behind a trasnparent door.

I can hear the sarcasm laden dialogue, picture the perfect modifiers that convey Norma Jeanne's anger, and almost touch the pretty prepositions that would couple up next to Gams fat English bulldog.

But they won't come out and play with me.  Until I can get the key, in the shape of a horse-sized bitter pill, all I do is sit and stare at the empty word document.  And check on Facebook to see which people have updated their status in the last three minutes.  And stare at the screen, while the pointer mockingly blinks at me.  And check Pintrest because there might be a new picture to see in the last five minutes since I was on there.  And then back to the empty screen.

A lot of artistic friends I have - writers, artists, musicians, - who suffer from forms of depression/anxiety/mania, don't like to be on medication b/c they feel it stifles their ability to create.  And up until 3 weeks ago, I wondered if that was the case with me.  Would I discover more creative freedom if I didn't have my meds swimming in my blood stream?  Was there another side of me that could improve on what I am doing now?

Michael Scott will tell you the answer is a resounding 



As many years as I have been ashamed with myself for being dependent on my drugs, I guess that maybe this situation has now I helped me achieve some peace.  Quite plainly, I can't function without my meds.  I become a very depressive person.  My ability to see beauty in the mundane, to find the story of the person with a past in the eyes of a homeless beggar, to see the humor in the instances where fear or tears would be an understandable response is all gone.  I lack sympathy. 

For you worried about The Kiddo, I'm fortunate that in these past few weeks my Bipolar II Disorder hasn't affected my son.  If anything, I've been hyper-aware of the fact that I need to keep my sad emotions away from him.  I've had him cook with me and we've actually accomplished more workbook pages in this time frame than we have before (much to his chagrin). 

It's now just a waiting game.  Waiting to get to the doctor tomorrow.  Waiting to make the 1.5 hr drive to pick up the meds on Tuesday.  And waiting for them to get swimming back in my blood stream.

Ugly

I put myself back into therapy last month because I am trying desperately to work out the last kinks in my head.  I've decided that after six years on the bench I'm ready to seek out a relationship, but before I do that I know I've got a few more things to work out.

I don't want to write about this.  But I need to write this out. 

This is the constant chatter in my brain:

• You really don't have friends.  These people tolerate you out of pity.
• No one approves of your decisions and all are waiting for you to admit defeat.
• Your child is going to grow up broken because you are broken.
• You don't have any talent.  
• You're not bi-polar.  You are making it up.  You just need to work harder and stop being lazy.
• Why do you think that person would ever want to have a cup of coffee with you?  They're accomplished/written a book/not two paychecks away from homelessness/done something important.  Do you know just how dumb your daydreams are?
• No one really loves you because you disappoint them and don't do what they tell you to do.

Wibley Wobbley Timey Wimey Stuff

It was 14 years ago this week.  That's a long time.

Why did I remember it today?  What triggered my mind to flashback to that night?

The night I thought I was going to die.  The night I was attacked assaulted raped.

And when I didn't die that night, I wanted to kill myself.

Why did my brain have to go there today?  All day I've been reminding myself to "stay present," that I'm not trapped in a car on a freezing cold November night 14 years ago.

Today has been a struggle.

Time is not linear.  Especially when you have PTSD.

Source: H.P.Holo

F.R.I.E.N.D.S

I've got a neat group of friends.  Every conversation is one of a kind, totally random, and unexpected.  Sometimes we don't see each other for months or sometimes we'll talk several times in one day.

I've known some of them for over 10 years, while others I have known for a few weeks.

There's A.  She's got everything figured out.  She can cook, wrangle kids, take care of our sick friend, likes Pad Thai, and is fiercely protective of those she loves.  I love that A will level with me and put me in my place when I start to get overwhelmed.  She assures me that I'm not responsible for fixing our sick friend.

There's V,who cracks me up.  She's the teenager in group.  Seriously, she's 16, maybe 17.  I never remember and her age is dependent on what day of the week or hour it might be.  I love to tease her that she'll be shopping for Depends with me in the future, which she flat out refuses to acknowledge.  She loves pink nail polish and is a great baby-sitter.

I recently met S and although I don't know her that well, I do love her artistic talent.  She draws really pretty flowers.  

D is another friend I met just a few weeks ago.  Our first exchange was through text messages.  She can't spell well, but one can't expect much from a 4 year old.  I gave her a candy flavored lip-balm as a gift shortly after we met and the joyful look on her face could have lit up a stadium.  

I've hung out with OG once or twice.  She doesn't like to talk much, but when I tell her about the summer days I spent at the Florida beaches as a child, she listens.  Once we painted our nails blue like the ocean.

EJ and I hung out in college, but she left about 6 months ago and I haven't heard from her since.  She had an eating disorder but my friends and I didn't know how to help her.  I hope she's at peace.

I met N about a year ago.  We hung out for about 20 minutes, but in that short time I learned that she loved to spin in circles and play with dolls.  She told me that her mother took away all her dolls when she was about 6 telling her 'only babies play with dolls.'

Shortly after meeting N I met C.  I found her curled up on the kitchen floor, crying and shaking.  She was scared and convinced that there was a terrible man lurking just outside the house.  

There are several other friends I have met, but some are so shy that they haven't properly introduced themselves.   

And then there's H, the most important one of this group.  She is amazingly strong, funny, loving, zany, and intelligent.  We've had so many adventures, near misses, and countless laugh-until-we-can't-breathe moments.  She flew to Florida when my wedding was cancelled and held me when I was inconsolable.  I couldn't imagine another woman who has more endurance and strength to overcome the most awful circumstances.

All these wonderful friends of mine, all these different people with their own sets of likes, handwriting, hobbies, and tastes in coffee share the same body.

They share the same body.

They were born to take care of my friend H when she was unable to take care of herself.

They protected and still protect her.

They share the same body. 

And I love everyone of them.

(Image credit: iStockphoto.com)

Dissociative Identity Disorder was once labeled as Multiple Personality Disorder.  People hear that and immediately think of United States of Tara or Sybil, the former a bastard-Hollywood version, the later a bit closer to the truth.

DID generally occurs when a child under the age four experiences HORRIFIC abuse.  Not your run of the mill 'being-smacked-around-by-alcholic-parents' or 'bullied-by-siblings' abuse.  


Think of every horror/psuedo-sexual slasher movie you've ever seen advertized and then multiply that by 20.

And then forget that. . . .Because the abuse suffered by person who lives with DID is not quantifiable.

In an attempt to cope with the trauma and abuse that is happening the brain shatters like a dropped mirror.  Each piece reflects the victim but in a different manner, at a different angle.  Each piece of the mirror become a new person, an alter.  Someone who shares the same body of the victim, who comes into being to help the victim cope.  These alters are a testament to the mind's capacity to struggle to survive.

I've listened to the stories and I've read the dairies of my friends, these alters.  Everyone has their own tales and memories of horrifying, unspeakable, unbelievable events.  
Sometimes I've wept; at times I have gotten physically sick; other times I've felt pure hatred and anger course through my veins.  

I yearn to take away the pain and suffering H has dealt with since she was 2, but I can't.  I can only love and support her.  Listen to her when she needs to talk, laugh at our shared history, sneek a cigarette when our kids aren't looking, and hang out with her alters when she needs a break.  I can't thank these friends enough for taking care of H when she couldn't do it herself.  

And I couldn't ask for a better set of friends.  
~
~
~
~
Coming Apart: Trauma and the Fragmentation of the Self is a good article if you would like to learn a little more about DID. 

Off to the races

My mind is racing. My heart beat is Mach 5. Rotten dreams stirred up fears and emotions that I long ago processed.

I want to run until I'm tired. I want some sort of physical activity to break the chain of thoughts.

I'm supposed to be heading to Mass, where in the still and quiet, I should be able to speak to God from the depths of my soul. But I'm afraid I'll sob in front of my child.

A child who doesn't need to know the pain running around in my head. This is the time when it gets dangerous for me. I want to hurt myself, just to let my brain find some other source of pain to cling to.
My shrink tells me to write it out when I get like this. That bringing this insanity out of my head and on to paper for others to see will help. That bringing this shame out of the dark and into The Light will give me more control. That sharing this secret might help me conquer this silent shame.

For almost 20 years I've subjected myself to pain that has left my body riddled with scars. It's time for me to face this, grab this demon by the hand, and force him to march alongside me. So I can show this demon that he can't hide inside my head any more. That others know about my secret.

And that I'm going to fight this out instead of hiding and hurting.

*Whovians will understand this reference. A friend sent it to me. Seems there is a Doctor reference for everything in life.

You Can Go Home, But You'll Sometimes Find Assholes There

Went back to my Alma Mater for homecoming yesterday.  It's been 9 years since I graduated, leaving behind the tiny college I called home for four years. Four long years of debates in the class room, thousands of hours procrastinating writing papers, and scrubbing toilets to pay for my tuition.

Got all dolled up in my Red Dress of Courage.  It has been 8 years since I saw many of these people, almost 7 years since I gave birth to my son.  I needed something to make me feel wonderful, proud of myself, and all the achievements I have made in the last 9 years of my life.  

Was asked by a former classmate if I enjoyed being raped. 

Was too shocked to come up with a good reply, but wish I had retorted, "Of course, why do you think I'm dressed like this?"

I noticed many nasty glances and pointed fingers but didn't care.  Was ignored by people who were my friends when I was engaged but who didn't even bother to call when my fiancee left me at the alter.

I went for me.  I went to prove that I could go back there and not be ashamed of who I am, of the path my life has taken.  I'm not ashamed of my blue hair, of my views on the world, of the fact that I write openly about my rape, struggles with depression and anxiety, or the fears that run around my head.

I went because I am so my bigger than all the nonsense that use to keep me down.

And for all that I say with a smile on my face, I might not be the best Catholic out there, but at least I'm not a hypocrite.  And I can live and strive to do better than that.  

All in my head

I went to an apple orchard this week. The weather was beautiful, the fruit was delicious, and The Kiddo couldn't stop laughing. I couldn't ask for a more picturesque setting. Yet underneath my happy exterior I was fighting to keep the voices that whisper mean things to me at bay.

 "You're quite pitiful and pathetic. Look at you, acting like child. What sort of 31 year old woman runs around on a playground, climbs trees, and dives into a ball pit? Do you see the other adults acting like you? The answer is no, dumbass."

When I hear these things, I feel like a fraud, a failure around adults. I don't have a strict 9-5 job, so my paycheck shifts around. I don't have my own place, I don't eat vegetables at every meal, and I take The Kiddo into cemeteries looking for weather-worn headstones. My days aren't planned out and neither is my grocery list.

I know I don't follow the norm, and some days I am fine with that. Most days I secretly hope that The Kiddo's friends will think he has a neat, adventuresome, somewhat quirky mom.

 But those voices can be so mean. I just want to be happy and love being me.

Trembling

My brain snapped when I was 18.

I'd come from a long line of anxiety and depression riddled family members; it was only natural that I would inherit the chemical gene and growing up in an environment where I could sense the prevailing anxiety and depression that loomed in the air shaped my natural temperament.  Yet I was a happy child with a fanciful imagination, but always tinged with sadness, fear, and self-doubt.


I probably could have gone my entire life not really being too effected by my chemical imbalance.  I would have had my happy days and my not so happy days.  I would have been able to chalk things up to PMS, lack of sleep, or poor diet. 


But then my brain snapped when I was 18. 


Raped.
Verbally Abused.
Stalked.
Humiliated.
Belittled.
Threatened.


One night I thought I was going to choke to death.


But I pushed it all away.  Convinced myself that I was to blame, that I should have stayed away, that it was really just a bad breakup.

For years my heart would race uncontrollably at times.  I would cry without understanding what had set me off.  I'd jump every time I saw men with dark crew-cut hair or glasses. I would scream if people, intentionally or accidentally, walked up behind me without my knowledge. 

I just shook it off; I'd tell myself that  I was a spaz, jumpy, just high strung.  The doctor's have a name for that.  


PTSD

 It was almost 12 years ago, but sometimes there is a trigger that my subconscious picks.  One moment I am fine, the next my hands begin to tremble, my pulse races, and my airways narrow making each breath a challenge. 


And it's so fucking frustrating!  


I internally berate myself: 
                    "It was over 12 years ago!  Get the fuck over it!  Are you putting on a 
                     show  for attention?  Why do you have to randomly make it apparent 
                     that you aren't fully functional?  Can't you knock it off?"


Intellectually, I know the mind stores memories very deep.  That these uncontrollable, unintentional, involuntary reactions are part of who I am, who I have become.  

I know that they are part of me, that they will always be lurking in the dark recesses of my conscious.  

But I know they are not going to rule my life.

So I sit here, trembling and fighting to take a deep breath, waiting for this storm to pass.  The calm will arrive eventually; I will be exhausted, needing to crawl into bed. 


Jesus told the storms to calm; please Lord send that peace my way.

I Don't Have Many Original Ideas Right Now And Need To Post

If I'm going to admit it, I've been a lazy blogger as of late. Wish I could offer legit excuses, but I'd be blowing smoke up my own ass.  Been watching too much TV, reading too little, and writing even less.  Bad, bad, bad girl.

Thank God 2012 is just around the corner.  I can make a new set of resolutions that I will maintain for three weeks days before I break them.  Well, at least I'll follow up on the lose more weight train.  I've got a wedding to be in for April and I wanna look super hot!

Since I "work" with Aunt Becky and The Band, I usually see when she or my other Bandmates have updated their blogs.  I, however, doubt that many don't take much interest in mine.   And I'm not a big Memer, but I figured this was my lazy bloggers way out of getting some writing done. Plus I get to link back to Mommy Wants Vodka, who started me on this little path.

1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?
Started freelancing, for reals yo!  I've written articles on spider porn, the beautiful nation of Belize, and cycle safety in the UK.  I bit the bullet, opened up my can of crazy and started sharing my fears with the Net and all of my 2 readers.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Nope and nope.  Because I will inevitably break said resolutions, feel immensely guilty, which will lead me into a shame spiral. So this year, I resolve not to make resolutions.  Dammit!  Now I just broke my own resolution.  Shame spiral here I come.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Yes.  Several people.  And while my heart was saddened with jealousy, my uterus was doing a happy dance.  
4. Did anyone close to you die?
Yes.  My Gonga died over the summer and I miss her so much.  Every damn day I forget that she's dead and I get ready to call her three times a day.

5. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?
Money

6. What countries did you visit?
Ummmmmm I'd need money to do so, which I had none.

7. What date from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why:

The Kiddo's first day of school.  September something or other.  (As a History major, it's a crying shame I suck remembering dates).

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
See # 1.  Also?  Became an editor at The Band.


9. What was your biggest failure?

I haven't learned how to stop hurting myself as a way to deal with stress.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Dropped 40 lbs of frozen Kumquat puree on my finger.  The pain was soooooo intense I almost blacked out and the damn cut kept reopening.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
My new phone.  I <3 it so much!  I use to scoff at those who raved about the capabilities of their wonder phones.  But when I found out that my phone had a flashlight built in, I wanted to marry it right then and there.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
I was going to say Antoine "Hide Yo Kids, Hide Yo Wife" Dodson, but upon Googling him I realized that was a 2010 event.  (I am always late to the game.  Like I just discovered the awesomeness that is Psych and The Big Bang Theory). So I don't know.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Sandusky.  Child rapists sicken me.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Gas.  When prices reach $4/gallon, I am trading in for a horse.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Going on a date for the first time in three years.  It was a total bomb, but I was proud of myself for getting out there.  Plus I have a funny story.

16. What song will always remind you of 2011?
Yea, gonna pass on that.  Have no idea. Maybe something from Weezer.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
i. happier or sadder? Happier 
ii. thinner or fatter? Thinner.
iii. richer or poorer? Based on money: poorer, life experience: richer, and I am all the more happier 

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Reading

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Blowing my nose.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?
It's over at this point, but The Kiddo and I spent the night at my parent's house so they could see him open up the presents Santa brought him.

22. Did you fall in love in 2011?
I fell in love with an English hot toddy.  Which makes me sound like an alcoholic, but it was the only thing that calmed my cough.  But with a real person--James Roday of Psych, Jim Parsons of The Big Bang Theory.  Always been in love with David Boreanaz. So in the realms of being possible, yea.  No.

23. How many one-night stands?
I'm not capable of that.

24. What was your favorite TV program?
Bones

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
Yes

26. What was the best book you read?
How I Write ~ Stephen King

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Les Fragments De La Nuit

28. What did you want and get?
I wanted the courage to write and I got it (mostly).

30. What was your favorite film of this year? That sucks. I’m going to make up a new question:
Where are your pants? 
Not on me.  All pants, except yoga, are bullshit.


31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
  I turned 30, threw a party where I made authentic gyros with the best lamb meatballs.  Lamb meatballs sounds redundant, but who wants to say they ate lamb balls?

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Drunk dialing a long time friend and him not laughing at me the next day.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?
Unique.

34. What kept you sane?
A large quantity of coffee and well-timed naps.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
See #22.  Also, I really have a girl crush on Jen Lancaster.  She's funny, out-spoken, and a former member of the rat race that became a writer after being fired.  I'm trying to do that.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
Don't get me started.  My days of getting hot under the collar about politics were over after I left DC.

37. Who did you miss?
My sanity?  Oh wait, the question was who, like a person.  My Gonga.

38. Who was the best new person you met?
My many BandMates.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011:
I must absolutely do what I love, or else I'll run the risk of doing nothing at all.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
Hide Yo Wife, Hide Yo Kids

If you care to follow suit and link back here, please do so after the beep:

About Benjamin

Since I'm working for myself, I am really nobody's bitch any more.  Except for when I am working with The Band.  Then Benjamin becomes the task master.  I haven't been beaten with the whip yet, but I just waiting for him to tell me that my editing could use some fine tuning.  According to him, I'm not allowed to double space my sentences anymore.   Whatever!  I do what I want. . . .at least here. . .and I'll use my ellipses whenever I damn well feel like it, Aunt Becky and BreakfastMeat.

So Benjamin has decided to join the blogsphere which he realizes is kinda late in the game.  After all it's not 2003 anymore.  Go check him out.  Tell him The Diatribest sent you and that you think he's hot.  Or not.  I don't know. All I can tell from his photos is that he is a skinny tow-head and I would probably crush him.

Peace and Chicken Grease,
Caro

  
The Soliloquy of the Antihero

A very long time ago, in the cold tundra of Minnesota, I was born. Kicking and screaming, I was brought into a world I didn’t understand, to be the antihero in my own life story.
Thirty years and a few crazy decisions later, not much has really changed. I’m a new transplant to the Chicago area, and took up writing and editing mostly as a side-effect of joining The Band. It turned out I wasn’t as bad as your average chimpanzee, and so I decided that writing was something I was going to start doing on a regular basis.
I love food, children, games and puzzles and have spent my whole life trying to figure out new ways to play with all of them (not at the same time) and that’s kept me amused most of the time.
If it’s crazy, I probably tried it. If you can make a buck at it, I probably did it for a living, and if it was fun, I probably tried it again. I can’t stand ellipses, bad use of semicolons or the phrase “The fact that” in a sentence.
Benjamin Searle, an important part of a nutritious breakfast.

Aunt Becky, You Shut Your Whore Mouth

I am tempted go all John C. Mayer on Aunt Becky's ass. Because I want to be #3 on Google entries about songwriters who are waiting for the world to change while they touch bodies of wonderlands.

I will use ellipses if I damn well want to. . . and there's nothing you can do.

By the way, US Postal Service, why the fuck did you think that an 8x10 one of a kind, limited edition, autographed print of a Land's End model slightly crazed, rhinestone-studded, chainsaw-wielding mother of 3, wife of The_Daver would fit in a 4x3 PO Box slot? 

To my Angel

If you are reading this, whoever you are, thank you so much.  You will never quite know how much your gift means to me.  

Fuck it all, I'm crying my eyes out.  I'm not sure who did this for me, all I know is that I got a deposit into my paypal account that said Because of Band Back Together.  I am so touched.

Whenever I tell friends or family that I've been doing work for The Band, their first question is, how much am I making,  I laugh because even if I or anyone else with this group were drawing a salary (which we aren't) I'd be doing this anyways.  I'm not doing much, a little of tweeting, some social media promoting, hell I've pledged to work on 2 pages, but haven't finished them because my inner critic has been telling me that I suck at writing.  (I know, I know, baby steps!)  But I've been doing what I can to help The Band and now I'm on the receiving end of some help.


Since I'm only partially employed, I can still get a portion of my unemployment check from when I got laid off from my job w/ Social Security.  One of the stipulations is that you have to search for work every week and report it.  Well, when my Gonga died in June, I spent 3 weeks getting her estate in order.  So when I reported that I didn't look for work the week she died, unemployment stopped my check so they could verify her death.  That was on June 23.  So since I've gotten down to my last $5.  I haven't paid my rent in 2 months and I've been praying that this horrid mess will straighten itself out by the end of the week.

I've been fortunate enough to pick up a few small jobs last week, and it looks like I might have a new client who will supply me with steady work, so I think my luck will be turning around.  I've worked so hard to make a life for myself and my son and I'm not about to give up.

So whatever angel of mercy sent me that gift, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Love, hugs, and happy tears,
Caorline

Aunt Becky Likes Vodka, as well as The Band

I'm With the Band and I Rock At Life

So I did a little dance today.  Actually, it was a dance that I preformed several different times in front of several different family members.  It included a flying Superman dive onto my parents bed while my mom talked with her BFF. 

See the other day, I decided to put myself out on the line.  I sent an email over Linked In to Rebecca 'Aunt Becky' Harks and asked if I could be an editor at a group blog she started up after delivering her third child, who suffered from a neural tube defect at birth, realized, with the help of her amazing Band of Merry Pranksters, a need in the blog world for a place where we could all come to put our thoughts down.

She replied that she didn't need an editor, but she wanted me to join the brains behind the band.  MAJOR YEA!!!! 

I am so happy and beside myself I want to dance a lot more than I am right now.  No money changes hands but it's major boost for my portfolio.  Plus, when (not if, but WHEN) I get my novel finished (please God, by the end of the year) I'll have a much larger audience to work with.  I feel like I got a great big hug today.

So now I am going to learn to juggle SEO articles, DZI, the Twitter, this blog, and whatever I'll be doing over at BBT.  And I couldn't be happier!

Band Back Together strives to provide a safe and supportive space on the internet where anyone in need can find support, resources, catharsis, healing and/or hope by connecting with the blogging community through writing.