A Spoonful Of Crazy

When my dark thoughts come, as they always do, I feel better if I write about them.

In actuality, I am not my dark, icky thoughts. I’m a flawed, sensitive person who allows these thoughts to control me sometimes but they do not make up my entire personality.

I make the people in my life laugh. It’s one of my favorite things. I figure, if I can make somebody crack up, then they won’t be as worried about me when I’m having a bad day. Also, it gives me something to be proud of. As a kid, I would bask in the glow of the laughter that surrounded me, smiling with the knowledge that much of the time, I was the reason for that laughter.

I’m also, as it turns out, kind of crafty in my middle age.

My first finished decoupage project.

Groovy, baby.

My daughter now has, what she calls, a real job. (She’d been working at a gourmet burger place for 5 years while she was in college, a manager the last two… and she hated every minute of it.)

She’s working with adults that have autism in a group home setting and she’s doing great. Her mood has much improved and I can tell that she already truly loves the residents. I’m extremely proud of her and I know for a fact that her grandma up in heaven is smiling down at her.

I swear that kid of mine has one hell of a work ethic. I’m not sure where she got it, though. I’ve walked out of more jobs than I’d care to admit.

Me: Fuck you all! I’m outta here, kiss my flat ass!

Coworkers: Um, okay. Don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya!

So because of this, we’re doing a bit better financially. It helps that I’m blessed enough to own my house, although I still have to pay house taxes (duh) and make sure that things get fixed in a timely manner, that the grass gets mowed and weeds pulled (so many fucking weeds!)

I don’t feel as stressed out like I used to about money. I mean, we’re not even close to being well-off but we have food, a roof, my bills are paid in full and I can purchase craft stuff without feeling too guilty.

She helps out more than my asshat of an ex-husband did.

I told my therapist that I think I’m ready for a new antidepressant, so she said that she’d put in a referral for me. I see my regular doctor on August 10th but she said last Friday, well, let’s get the ball rolling a bit sooner, shall we?

As nervous as I am about switching meds (ah fuck, 2015 was a scary-ass year) I need to try. The Effexor is starting to, as my therapist said, poop out.

So my boyfriend and I sat down to Google some options. I’ve taken many of them over the years, only finding any success with 3 of them. Prozac, my beloved Zoloft and then my current one. We compiled a list of ones that might be helpful, so when I see the shrink (takes a pretty long time, sadly) I’ll be ready to advocate for my own healthcare.

I learned so much from my year in hell. When a med is making things worse, do not say okay when the shrink wants to up it.


Only a spoonful of crazy, please. I don’t want an entire cup of it!

In the past, I’d never spoken up for myself when it came to my mental health medications. I blindly followed whatever the doctor said and especially when I was in the psych ward. The in-house shrink made a bad call when he upped the dose of the shit that I was taking and caused me to have a full-blown psychotic episode. I lost my grip on reality, became a combative ball of constant panic attacks and attempted to overdose on my pain meds.

This time, I’ll do everything in my power not to allow that to happen again.


  1. Speaking of craft supplies, I *finally* got off my dead ass and sent you a box of goodies. Please accept my apologies for not sending it sooner. Also, that decoupage project is absolutely beautiful. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

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