Thursday, September 21, 2017


Such a dramatically sad word.  I thought of it today.  Out of the blue.  The way words tend to do.  It's one of those words you'd expect to hear in silly chick lit or an Adele song, yet one not normally heard in everyday speech. 

Feelings spent, yet not returned.  Given, yet not repaid.  Wronged, yet not righted.   Energy, love, time, soul, wishes, needs, words, songs, winsome smiles through opaque curtains..... gifted, gifted, gifted... on, and on, and on.... tangled round a maypole in dancing threads of shine, yet no hand reaches for you to refill your cup. 

We are told to give with no thought of return.  We are taught the depth of sincerity is measured by the altruism of our offering.  Yet there is not much talk of where to look when emptiness leaves a void where pieces of you once shone.  More often than not, it just sounds selfish to talk about it at all.  We should be filled with the smiles we give away for free. 

It sounds good on paper.

In reality, it's about as true as anything with the word "unrequited" in it- written for heartbroken little girls wishing on a star, covered in a picture of a bare-chested man with a sword in his hand, sung by a reheated and warmed over British Alanis Morisette who isn't old enough to know dick about heartbreak.  Fakey, fakey, fakery with fake on top. 

We learn to share in kindergarten. 

No drama required. 
No poetry or silly songs. 
If you take, just give it back.  


Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Strength and Leprosy

And then, I got the medical records I requested from my nine days in the nuthouse.
Never in a million years.
I cried.
I cried so hard I had no more tears left.

Bipolar type 1 with psychosis.
I still refuse to believe it.
There has never been a time in my life when I have felt reality slipping away from me. In the 40 years I have been alive, all the doctors I have seen, the myriad diagnoses I have been given, psychosis has never been one of them.

It's like a scarlet letter. It's something I'd never tell anyone. It's something only 2 people know, and I plan to keep it that way. I feel like a leper. Who'd want to be a friend to someone who's been told she's psychotic? What would you do if you were walking down the street and a little voice whispered to you that the girl across the street has psychosis? Walk the other way? Put your car keys between your fingers?

I'm a psychiatric leper.

Reading through the 30-40 page document, it almost feels like I was given someone else's medical record because I remember none of this. Is that more proof that I've lost reality?

I'm a cutter. A cutter? Maybe for 2 weeks after my sister passed away because I was 15 and it seemed liked nobody else in that assbackward hick town even remembered she existed.
Head-banger? Ok, yeah, when I was 16, at Lakewood Amphitheater in Atlanta, GA.
Substance abuser? I took the medications I was prescribed by my doctor! Nothing else.

I need to throw the whole fucking thing away. The more I read it, the more psychotic I become.


Friday, July 7, 2017

Manic Pixie Dream Girl

I know a psychiatrist isn't supposed to function as a therapist, but mine does. Well, he has so far. Up until this last dramatic explosion in my otherwise dramatically nondramatic life (yes, that actually means something, although it might only make sense to me). Either way, that's what he called me. Or, rather, I should say, that's what he said I was in danger of becoming- the manic pixie dream girl. I look back on a few relationships and times in my life and I can see his point. Yes, I was someone's manic pixie dream girl. Yes, that makes me angry. It makes me angry that I allowed it, that I was being used as someone's elixir of life. I don't want to be anyone's stock girl who is never expected to step outside of her box, that can be taken off the shelf when someone's ego needs to be stroked or when he needs to be reminded of his masculinity or virility or desirability or because he wants to feel like there is a perfect, unchangeable, damaged but intoxicatingly so, female version of himself out there in the aether just waiting for him to fall into her arms. 

I can't be that manic pixie dream girl. I am damaged, and it's not intoxicating. I am so damaged it will take your breath away. I am so damaged that unless you've known me my whole life long, there is no living thing that could dream of being with me in love or friendship or even in the same line at the grocery store. 

To those who were led to believe I am something I am not, I am sorry. I'm seeing an actual therapist- not a psychiatrist- for the first time since I was 5 years old on Tuesday. Maybe, eventually, I can sort some things out and be unboxed and alive again. 

Your manic pixie dream girl

Monday, July 3, 2017

I Don't Forgive

Please remember that there was once a little girl named Jillian Ashley who died on July 4, 1993. She'd be 36 years old now. She might have been a veterinarian. There might have been a man who loved her, and a man she loved. I may have nieces and nephews, and my children would have an Aunt Jill. My mother would never know what it's like to be a mother who's lost a child. 

I'd have never seen the process of a human body as it's dying, nor felt a human heart as it's breaking, or a soul as it's falling apart.

While you're spending the day with your perfect little families, having your picnics, laughing and playing and celebrating summer and whatever bullshit this day has come to mean, watching your fireworks and holding hands with your love while being grateful for all that you have and everyone you love, please remember a little girl who never got the chance to have what you have; a little girl the whole world forgot except the people who loved her; a little girl nobody knew except the few people who come to know a person in 11 years of being alive. 

She was my sister. She sneaked into my room and slept at the foot of my bed when she was scared at night. She laughed at all the things I didn't. She loved in ways I never could. But I was allowed to live while her life was taken away. 

Have fun tomorrow. Giggle. Hold hands. Feel grateful. Kiss. Lie in the grass and daydream in wonderment. Aggrandize your beautiful life and all the perfect things in it. 

By then, you've already forgotten my sister. 

Lucky boy. Shall there never come a day when you become a parent who's lost a child, or when your daughter or son has to stand over their sister's hospital bed and watch as her soul leaves her body, knowing she'll never sneak into their room at night and sleep at the end of their bed. 

I hope you never become the one who relives that day over and over again every year while the whole world forgets that there once existed this beautiful little girl who doesn't exist anymore. 

I hope you never have to live the rest of your life with people who have no idea what to say to you, so they say "She's in a better place," and it takes all you have not to slice them from ear to ear so they, too, can go to that better place. Or they say "Heaven gained another angel," and it takes all you have not to ram a knife into their back to make room for their own wings. Or maybe they say, "Obviously, God needed her for bigger things," and it takes all you have not to find this god person and disembowel him slowly while waterboarding him with isopropyl alcohol. 

If you are a parent, I want you to imagine your child lying on a hospital bed. Unconscious. She's been that way for 3 days. The doctor has told you the damage done to her brain by the meningitis is fatal. In fact, she is only now being kept alive by the machines she is connected to and you should start making phone calls to any family members who might want to come and see her before she dies. 

Close your eyes and look at your child. Trust me, she won't look the same. Because of the IV fluids, she'll look bloated. Her skin will be a bit pallid. Her eyes will be closed. Although you've heard what the doctor just said, you still wait for her to wake up and sit up in her bed any moment. But she doesn't. 

But it's not that simple. Death is never that simple. The reality of life doesn't stop being harsh just because your child is dying. You have to think about a funeral. Where's her favorite dress? How does all this work? You've never planned a funeral before. Is there a catalog or something? How do you plan it? Is it like a wedding.... only sad? 

There are about 40 or 50 people sitting out in the waiting room. Even though they are all people you love and who love your child, you still feel like you can't even grieve in private. 

Then, the time comes. The doctor asks if you want to be present when they turn off the machines. You know you do. You were there when this baby came into the world; you held her, you kissed her, you cried and looked at her perfect little body in wonder, you stroked her hair and were amazed that she was actually yours. Now, she needs you to be there when she leaves the world. She needs you to hold her and kiss her, look at her perfect body in wonder, stroke her hair and still be amazed that you were given 11 wonderful years with her, that she was actually yours. 

Go ahead and imagine that feeling. Holding your 11-year-old baby daughter in your arms, stroking her hair, your tears falling onto her face. The room is silent except for the sound of the machines, until the moment comes when the doctors eyes meet yours and you tell him with a glance that it should be now or it will be never. 

The heart monitor slows to a stop. You cradle her and sing the song you used to sing while you nursed her as a newborn. Look at her face. Feel her body in your arms. Still warm. Still the way you remember her feeling the last time she hugged you with her eyes open. 

The doctor gives you as much time as you need to be with your child for these last moments in this life, but eventually you know it's time. It's time to lay the body of your child down and let her go. 

Let her go and watch the world forget. 


Saturday, July 1, 2017

They're All Gonna Laugh At You one had even spoken to me. I tried. I tried to ask the security guards if I could speak to a nurse. No response. I tried to ask what was happening to me. No response. The only things I ever heard the security guards say were jokes about the other patients on the ward, and jokes about me. They laughed at me for crying. They laughed at my size and how I looked wearing the paper scrubs. They laughed when I asked if I could take a shower and one said to the other “Where the hell does she think she’s going, on a date?”


Friday, June 30, 2017


The sad part was that I did not come to the hospital this way. I became this way once I knew I’d become part of a machine I couldn’t stop, once I’d realized the mistake I could not undo. The saddest part was that no one but my husband seemed to notice. No one noticed that I had come to the hospital quiet but scared, calm but hyperventilating a bit, with chest pain but not crying, with tunnel vision but no one asked, with a migraine, feeling as though the weight of the world was on my shoulders and it had become so heavy that I couldn’t take it off even if I had somewhere else to put it. I was sweating. I’d become agoraphobic to the point where I could not walk out the front door to check my mail. I have severe irritable bowel disease which has given me an irrational fear of eating almost anything. I came to the emergency room because all of this had become too much. I had my regular appointment with my psychiatrist in a week, but I didn’t think I could last that long. I didn’t know what “last that long” meant, all I knew was that I needed help because I was not living, just surviving. I thought maybe there would be someone at the emergency room that I could talk to, an objective conversation that could help me get through the next week until I could see my doctor. Those were the symptoms that brought me to the ER. That was the na├»ve thinking that brought me to the ER. Typing this out makes me feel stupid, but in that moment, when I saw the fear on my husband’s face when I said “I can’t handle this anymore,” I knew that I at least needed to do something for him, if not for me. I needed to do something.  I was stupid. 


Wednesday, June 28, 2017

A Good Girl

I was met by a police officer inside the hospital who asked me, as though I were a petulant child, if I would go quietly with him or if I should be handcuffed.


Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Primum non Nocere

I said “I want to go to sleep and not wake up.” In retrospect, what I said was the equivalent to saying “bomb” in an airport. What I wanted to say was that I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up in that place, but in my home. However, according to the law, this doctor was obligated to involuntarily commit me to a psychiatric facility. Though this is the only thing that happened to me during this entire ordeal that was technically legal, I still take exception to the fact that I was deemed “involuntary” since I presented myself to the hospital voluntarily. Furthermore, I can’t imagine that anyone, whether they were having a panic attack or not, after having been shoved into what amounted to a jail cell, left alone, stripped of their own clothing and forced into ill-fitting paper scrubs (I am only 4’6” tall), ridiculed, baited, and harassed by security guards and left completely unmedicated for 19 hours, would have had any desire to go to sleep and wake up in that place, either.

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Three Years Later

I think three years is long enough to resurrect a blog in the hope of being anonymous. Maybe? Of course, someone with common sense would simply start another blog. Or write the old fashioned way. You know, with a notebook and a pen. But that just ain't how I roll. Not to mention the fact that blogging has had its heyday, really, and it's probably time to put it to bed. But I'm supposed to write. It's part of my "therapy" my shrink says. Part of getting beyond those 9 days, 9 scars, 9 nightmares that are still playing out in my mind every night. I wasn't Susanna Kaysen, and it wasn't two years, but I was a girl interrupted, and I'd like to talk about it. Maybe. I think I do. Or I suppose I could talk around it. Or between the lines or the minutes or the hours. If nothing else, I am having loads of fun reading some of the things I've written here in the past, both published and unpublished, both silly and brilliant, back when my crazy was only in my head and not signed by the probate judge and a notary public. 

I am not a goddess from the machine anymore. I am a goddess who broke the machine, and I'm not quite sure I want to put it back together again.