My Thoughts On Depression and Alcohol

I had to break up with my best friend and mortal enemy, Vodka, January 22, 2017. I went to sleep about 2:30 that Sunday morning only to wake up to gut-wrenching pain and a very high fever. The fever was so high that my teeth were chattering and smashing together so hard, that if I were to think about it at the time, I might have thought they were all going to break. But I couldn’t really think about anything except the fever and the pain. I had to get up and pee once, and the walk to the bathroom, from one end of the 20-ft camper I live in, to the other, was absolutely freezing cold and excruciating. I felt an immense surge of relief, after the voyage was made and I was safely back in my bed under about 6 blankets. The relief was slight, to say the most.

I experienced those same symptoms the entire day, symptoms that probably would’ve driven many others to the emergency room, but if I had so much difficulty getting to the bathroom, there was no way I was getting in a car and going to the hospital. NO WAY. Instead, I lay in my bed and waited. I drank as much water as I could, because drinking water required me to not only move, but come out from under the covers. I was able to go to sleep pretty early with the help of my other friend, Xanax, who I really do have a loving relationship with because there is no abuse, whatsoever, one to another. She only helps me when I need her help.

I woke up the next morning about 3 o’clock, soaking wet. My fever had broken and all of my blankets were wet, the ones closest to my body were soaked, the sheets beneath me were soaked, my clothes were drenched and so was my pillow. The smell was purely awful. It smelled of infection and death with a pinch of urine. One of my first thoughts in my groggy state of mind was that I peed the bed, but I didn’t really care about that, I was just angry that I was still cold and now my blankets and clothes were wet.

I’m not sure about this because I am not one, but I think at that point a non-depressed person would have gotten up and changed their bed clothes. I didn’t, I kept on laying in them. I think I moved the top blanket to the bottom, but other than that, I just continue to lie in it and wait for it to dry, feeling sick and irritated.

I made it to work later that morning. I didn’t bathe before I went, but that was mostly due to the fact that the shower doesn’t work in this camper and I’m forced to walk next door to my oldest son’s father’s house and bathe there and I don’t like to go over there.

I ran a low-grade fever all day that would intermittently, raise then break, then cause the sweats. I hoped and prayed I didn’t stink. I have never been a person with very active odor glands, and I have never in my life, save a few, smelled any type of body odor on myself. So, that’s how I assuaged the fear of my stink. I probably did, because I was sweating out nothing but infectious toxins, but no one at work said anything. Not saying that would be something they would speak directly to me about, anyway. That would just be good fodder for gossip.

Today it is three days later and I have not had another drink. I’m still doing the sweat thing, but now it is being caused by the detox. My kidneys still hurt, but not as bad. My body is aching, slightly, all over. I am feeling random sharp pains in different places in my body. These pains will come out-of-the-blue and hit me like a knife in places like one of my ears, or in some part of my leg, arm, back, or shoulder.

I feel much, much better, physically, than I did Sunday or Monday, but now I am alone with Major Depressive Disorder with seemingly no relief. I know I don’t want to drink anymore because at this point there is no denying that I have worn out my kidneys and thought of weekly dialysis scares the shit out of me.

I never had great kidneys to begin with, kidney disease runs rampant on my father’s side of the family, I never met my paternal grandfather because he died eight years before I was born, as a result of kidney failure. I have had problems with my kidneys before I ever began to drink six years ago.

So here I sit, in this tiny little camper, me and my big dog, who is just as depressed as I am, and I wonder if this is what I’m left with? This is no life. This is just breathing…staying alive, but not really being alive. At least alcohol brought some sort of change to the landscape of my thought patterns.

I think about how I won’t be as fun or funny, anymore, without Vodka. Or how I won’t do anymore really cool shit like make international news 2 years in a row. I think about how my YouTube channel which is finally making me money is going to starve because each of the videos were fueled by depression and vodka. Now there’s no vodka.

I feel like I won’t have the confidence or “liquid courage” to do or say whatever I feel like doing or saying. Yeah, I realize it will be replaced with a different confidence, one that I hated not having with the vodka….the kind that allows me to get into a vehicle and go out in public if I need to do so. But the fact is, I probably won’t even do that, because there is nothing I want to do.

So, my question now remains…which is worse? Only time will tell, I suppose.


I have been very sick lately.

It has been awful.

The anxiety is so thick that if I could remove it from my body, put it in a pot and cook it on the stove, it would make a sturdy roux, but it would taste like straight fuck.

I feel like I am losing my mind at a very rapid pace.

Too much change going on….

I suppose I do not handle change well, anymore.

I used to be able to deal with it, well, in my twenties. Back then, my life was nothing but constant change. But then I got settled down and in and it felt good. I got used to the monotony of doing the same things every day.

I got used to be being a mom, a damn good one. I got used to taking care of my family. I got used to washing dishes and clothes and cooking supper and cleaning the kitchen.

Then one day, everything was gone.

Everyone was gone.

My Beautiful Shoulders

I know you didn’t ask…but this is how I feel:

I feel beat down.  I feel like every time I think I have gotten ahead, life grabs me by the neck and yanks me back behind everyone else.  I feel like I am always utterly truthful with everyone I know and the sentiment is rarely returned, especially when it’s wanted and needed the most.  I feel like I know I love you but I don’t know how to proceed at this point because anything going forward from here will be an act of will on my part to be the bigger person.  I feel tired of being the bigger person.  I feel tired of being the smaller person.  I feel tired of being a person.

I feel tired of being thrown under the bus.  I feel tired of always being “do or die” when it seems to me I’m always left for dead. I’m tired of feeling betrayed, hurt, lied to, abused, taken advantage of, and called out of my name.

I am sick to death of being slandered and jumped and having the cops called on me.

I am sick to death of always having to look over my shoulder.  I have good shoulders….I shouldn’t have to always fucking look over them….maybe that’s how I know how beautiful they are.

I feel like saying “FUCK YOU” to the Golden Rule, thermodynamics, Karma, the Law of Sewing and Reaping OR WHATEVER ANYONE WANTS TO CALL IT.

I feel like telling a small list of people that this is exactly how “going postal” happens.


Am I staying up all night getting in fights going to jail losing my job because I am off of my meds or am I off of my meds so I can stay up all night getting in fights going to jail losing my job?

Cause You Are

I keep losing at 8-ball pool but i keep playing anyway I’m listening to Tool cause this sunny day was a rainy day I gotta lotta thoughts i wanna say but my demons and angels keep getting in the way  that sounded like shit and i just want to quit bullshitting around at this night’s last sip no it’s really not the last sip of the ship that is going down flaming while i do a backflip i just lied again because I can’t do a gymnastic i took lessons one time and i loved that shit but dad thought it not so fantastic he told me i would end my life by breaking my neck a mop he gave me told me to sweep up his deck….i love being punny because i think that  its funny and i love to laugh in my belly when things are smelly and putrid and rotting and the whole thing that i call my world is twisting and turning and i know im a girl or a woman i suppose i love to cover my face in panty hose and pretend im a rob ya and rape ya and say that i got ya cause you suck balls and i don’t like you but i want you to love me and think that I’m awesome as gold wait til you see how my life will unfold, so far it’s been bad with some sprinkles of good when Im doing the things they say that i should but when the words in their mouth don’t match the words in their motions it causes my heart to feel some emotion and the emotion is anger cause that’s the one i’m best at I can cuss you up one side then this side and that and sound like my old favorite doctor who is doctor suess many times in my life dr suess has been my muse especially right now tool still playing in my ear and all that I hear is vicarious  so near but I’m not queer cause you are.

An Angry? Borderline In 107 Words

I don’t care.  I don’t care…i don’t care

i don’t care….no, bruh, i really don’t fucking care, I don’t give a fuck, fuck off, lol, fuck you, i dont care, it doesnt matter, i’m fine, i’m a’ight, fuck me, fuck yourself,, fml, fml, i want to die, i wish i would die, i hate you, fuck you, eat shit and die, i love you so fucking much, why didn’t you come?, why don’t you love me?  what the fuck did I do to you?  You’re a fucking sociopath  I hate my life fuck i don’t care that didn’t hurt

go fuck yourself

leave me alone


i don’t know why I always feel

when the truth comes out and I must reveal

my innermost feelings I keep concealed

I must make them rhyme to seal the deal

Maybe it is that it’s easiest to say

the hardest words in a poetic way

Onomatopeia turns black and white to grey

and maybe it’ll make you stay around to play

and if you did, I’d push you away

My subconscience mind is who I obey.

When Your Liver Begins a Dialogue and you have to stop playing dumb

I feel my liver talking to me tonight…”Athena, I can’t do this much longer.”

I felt that vibe from my liver area earlier tonight.  I’ve actually been feeling it for a few months but I’d rather ignore it and pretend that’s not real.

I’m really good at pretending shit’s not real.  I have been exceptionally good at denying Hepatitus C for the past 15 years, so you’ll understand my relief at the knowledge of the newfound cure to hep c.  I don’t have to ignore it, anymore, because there’s a cure.

Seriously, when I was like 23, I ended up at Charity Hospital in New Orleans, Louisiana.  I don’t even remember what sent me there.  I was probably just really tired and sick from shooting dirt.  I was homeless at 23, because I had been technically ‘homeless’ since I was 21.  My parents, my dad and my step-mom, who raised me, had “washed their hands” of me, and my real mom was as fucked up as I was, at that time.

My real mom drank herself to death and I guess the apple don’t fall that far from the tree.  Another way to say it might be:  maybe I am that bad of a soul that God wanted me to not only watch my mom drink herself to death, but wanted, also, for me to drink myself to death, too, while my five children watched.

So, at Charity Hospital, I remember waiting in a 14-hour line, the next thing I remember is being in a small examination room with a short, Indian doctor, who told me:  “YOU MUST NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER DRINK ANOTHER BEER.  NO ALCOHOL.  YOU MUST NEVER DRINK AGAIN.”

I was feeling so bad that I’m sure I was like, “oh yeah, I’ll never do that again”, halfway meaning it.

I suppose I ended up drunk as soon as I could after being released from the hospital and getting me a bag of powder, then shooting it, and then becoming so paranoid that unless I had a xanbar, the only way for me to come back down was to get drunk.

The only reason I ever started drinking in my early 20’s was to kill the paranoid schizophrenia the cocaine induced.  I don’t use the term, ‘paranoid schizophrenia’, lightly, because when I shot dope, that was exactly my diagnosis.  Good thing coke made me skinny, or it would’ve been really hard to position myself in the middle of the side-by-side washer and dryer at that crack house that one time I did that for 4 hours.  My God, the auditory hallucinations alone were as real as, well, the real sound of police kicking in the door and asking for me by my name.

So the part of my abdomen that lies directly beneath the right side of my rib cage is decidedly tender and somewhat achy. I have also been experiencing some other symptoms that I care not to relate.  This sick feeling isn’t really freaking me out, but I think it’s causing the depressive state of mind that I have been ignoring, yet experiencing the last couple weeks….perhaps months.

In my normally depressed mood, I sleep til about 11:30 a.m. or 12:00, after having gone to bed no earlier than 3 a.m. Here, lately, I am not waking until 12:15 p.m and then continue to sleep until 1:30 or 2:00 p.m., when I went to bed by 9 p.m. the previous night.  I really don’t want to get up at 2 but I know my dog probably has to pee, so I get myself up to let him out.  And…my God, when I open that door and the sun hits me, I feel like the undead.  I hate it and wonder why it is that I don’t want to get up anymore.  I love the sun and there is nothing going on here, at home, that should make me not want to arise.  As far as the rest of my life/complaints go, things are fucking great.  In fact, things are better than they have been in a long time.

I really don’t have any complaints…except that one about my firstborn son and his mean and angry father.


So now I am at the metaphorical “CROSSROADS”.

Do I want to continue to drink, knowing that my liver light is blinking and bad kidneys run in the family?

Or do I want to just keep on keeping on, refusing to be a quitter, until I meet the reaper again, without him taunting me?

Fuck Decisions.

I hate decisions.


I have so much I could write about but no laptop to type, and I am sticking to that excuse.

My mood is far beyond depressed,  which always means I need to get it out of me in some sort of prose.

Everything is coming apart again.

The ground never remains level beneath my feet.  However,  I really do try (at least in my head before I go to bed) to be the ” forever optimist”.  And the more unstable things become,  the more epiphanies of God I am granted witness.

So that’s pretty cool.

It’s unfortunate that I forget most of them.

Just Go

Nobody cares

they never did

nobody shares

think I’m lying?

Go off the grid

Spend a week or two

then you will find

your friends are few

and lagging behind

they ain’t really slow

they just want you to know

that they..








just go.

and suck my purple cock in SLOW MO