Sunday, August 24, 2014

Real Women Have… an Inferiority Complex?


I spend a lot of time bitching about oversensitive jerkoffs on the internet.  I do it because, well, complaining is kind of my thing, and I prefer to do it while not wearing pants. Plus, what the fuck else is there to blog about, bumper stickers? Pffffft. 

I'm constantly criticizing all of the keyboard killjoys out there that are so quick to cry butthurt over every stupid little thing that could possibly, through some warped invocation of Six Degrees of Separation, offend Kevin Bacon.  

You mad, bro?

But I have a confession to make: I have become one of the crotchety old crybabies. And the imaginary issue that zaps the sand in my vagina into bitter shards of glass is the Real Women Have Curves campaign.

And the common sense to never ask a stranger when their baby is due.

Maybe it wouldn’t bother me so much if I hadn’t been blessed with the body of a 13 year old boy, but honestly both sides of the calorie-counting coin tend to grind my protruding pelvic bone. But then again, that pointy fucker rubs against everything. Seriously, ouch.


I realize the “Only Dogs Like Bones” propaganda is supposed to be payback for society’s alleged love affair with skeletal fashion models. A love affair which, I would dare say, doesn’t even exist outside of the fashion industry anyway. And the misrepresentation of the average woman is such a new thing, right? It’s certainly a far cry from the good ole’ days of wholesome, curvier sex symbols. You know, like Marilyn Monroe.


Why the hell are we basing a woman’s worth on her body measurements anyway? There are plenty of more pressing matters to pass judgment upon. For instance, does she like Nickelback? Is she a Nascar fan? Does she watch Grey’s Anatomy? There’s no need to deem a woman inferior based on something as trivial as her weight when there are so many better, non-aesthetic reasons to completely despise that bitch.

All women are unique, and every single one of us is beautiful.

The hair on the mole of her third chin is simply stunning.

"Real" women are tall, short, heavy, thin, black, white, gay, straight, rich, poor; really anyone that doesn’t have a grotesque appendage dangling between their legs that drains them of all common sense. Seriously…  I’m mostly straight and all, but let’s face it: penises aren't exactly adorable.

Awwwww.

I’m not trying to go all “angry feminist” with this post. either. I might burn my bras on occasion, but only because I get cold and my itty bitty chestnuts don't really need the support anyway. No, I’m just sick of constantly being told to “eat a damn sandwich” when I don’t even have a pretty little wife to make me one.


I realize men have to deal with annoying body image misrepresentations as well. You rarely see pudgy or balding men modeling suits or the latest designer line of man purses.  But where’s the backlash, boys? I mean, I’ve yet to see a “Real Men Have Beer Guts” movement. So why do women do this to each other?


We’re all up in arms about some political “War on Women”, yet we’re too busy arguing about what constitutes an adequate amount of body fat to stand up for our poor repressed, under-appreciated, over-legislated, yet gloriously resilient vaginas.


Ladies, it’s time we quit shaming each other based on ridiculous notions of size and beauty and just embrace our differences. I realize properly embracing someone that has really big boobs without seeming all pervy can be kind of difficult, but if we can squeeze small humans out of our vaginas I'm pretty sure we can manage a group hug with only the appropriate level of groping. 

So, consider this a call to action. Let's Unite our Uteruses! And I don’t mean that as a pitch for the next film in The Human Centipede franchise. Unless they want to buy it, then they should totally call me.  Seriously, I’m not busy at all.

One in three gets a free fisting!

All I’m trying to say is, can we stop with the body shaming shit already? Beauty does not have a size. It does, however, have PMS from hell once in a while and you’d better not fuck with it if you'd prefer to keep your balls intact. 



*DISCLAIMER: Turd Mountain is an equal opportunity offender, and recognizes transgender individuals’ beauty as well. However, the Nickelback rule still applies. 

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Words of Wisdom From the Pot (to the Kettle)


You know all those sappy, disgustingly inspiring articles or blog posts that get passed around the internet like <insert dumb and slightly disgusting simile here>? That shit is nauseating, and it makes us insignificant bloggers that simply post pointless vulgarity extremely jealous. Which also makes me nauseous. Although I do have IBS and an anxiety disorder; pretty much everything makes me kind of sick. Except Pizza Rolls. Those fuckers are delicious.

I can’t understand why this phenomenon of all slightly encouraging bullshit instantly going viral hasn’t hit Turd Mountain yet. Even my heartfelt (and oddly well received) cheap shot at veganism didn’t get nearly the number of views that some patronizing filth about building a perfect marriage did. And don’t even get me started on the rebuttal to a response to a tweet about an open letter to Miley Cyrus. But, I digress.

In an attempt to join the trend of telling everyone everything they’re doing all wrong, I’ve decided to write a helpful guide to surviving depression. You’re welcome.


Remember that annoying “Chicken Soup for the_______ Soul” trend? Well, consider this post a Laxative for the Bound-Up Brain. Maybe Words of Hope for the Hopelessly Depressed. Or, something to skim through to kill three minutes that won’t make you need to punch a fucking unicorn in its stupidly cheerful face.


So without further ado-doo, here are a few tips to lift you from dejected and miserable to a comfortable state of so-so:

-Find something positive in every situation. Start small! “Hey, right now I don’t want to kill myself” tends to remind us of all the reasons we really do want to, and all of our congratulatory self-talk goes down the shitter. Find a way to celebrate what you’re already achieving. “Hey, if I didn’t have crippling social anxiety and could actually join a yoga class, I bet my instructor would be super impressed with my ability to hold the fetal position for three days on end!” Now that is optimism you can’t argue with yourself about! Unless you said it all snotty-like. Then you kind of have it coming.

I am so in tune with my body right now.

-Hoard animals. Chances are you’ll be too busy cleaning up piss and puke to dwell on your misery. Plus you’ll never have to wonder if anyone gives two shits, because chances are you’ll find at least that many in your shoes.


-Drink vodka. Forget that whole “alcohol is a depressant” thing. More vodka is consumed in Eastern Europe and Russia than anywhere else in the world, and honestly, when you think of the happiest places on Earth doesn’t Yakustk immediately come to mind?

Eat your heart out, Disney World.

-Keep your therapy appointments. Spending an hour a week having a stranger uncomfortably stare at you while you try to choose the right lies to keep your ass out of the loony bin again will make you realize things could always be worse. You could have to do that shit twice a week.


-Start a blog centered around dick and fart jokes, thereby luring strangers into reading the pathetic details of your personal life. This will give you an inflated sense of self-worth, that will only come crashing down when you realize the only beings that can stomach you at your worst are your cats, and that’s just because they’re giant whores that will gladly dole out a snuggle or two in exchange for a full food dish and a clean box to poop in. (See “animal hoarding”.) But until then, you matter!


-Invest all your money in pajamas. It’s impossible to hate the world when you’re wearing fleece Hello Kitty jammies. And if you get ambitious and decide to clean yourself, what better than another pair of supercute cozies to change into? It’s like a slumber party all for you! Don’t be embarrassed; nobody’s coming to visit. Not now, not ever.


-Take pills. Lots and lots of pills. But get them from your doctor. They have the good shit. Sometimes the side effects even include "delusions of grandeur" and wouldn't that be a nice change of pace?


So, that’s it. Just follow these easy steps and you’ll be almost functional in no time! I’d give you examples of all the great things I’ve accomplished lately, but my lawyer has strictly advised against posting anything about my personal life until a few things are, um, settled. But I assure you, I’ve never been happier. You can trust me. Hey... if I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.

Please kill me.

A bonus tip for my fellow weak writers out there-- End with a quote from somebody far more articulate than you could ever dream to be. For example, I can think of no public figure so inspiring to wrap up this piece of worthless drivel than the great prophet Mike Tyson: "I'm on the Zoloft to keep me from killing y'all."

If only we could all be so well adjusted.

**Legal Disclaimer: Kimmy is not a mental health professional, she’s just a professional at needing mental help. Do not actually follow any of her advice. Ever.  Please drink responsibly. Any accounts or descriptions of this blog without the express written consent of the National Football League are prohibited. And always stop, drop, and roll. Dicks.


Thursday, November 7, 2013

The Death of a Dermoid

Like childbirth, every patient’s surgical experience is a neat little story all its own. And also like childbirth, no one except the owner of the desecrated vagina really gives much of a shit. Seriously, this crap happens all the freakin’ time; no one cares. But this is my blog, and I don’t have anything else to bitch about.  Deal with it.


As I discussed in excruciating detail in my previous post, I had this neat little alien entity growing on one of my ovaries. Initially I was told the ovary and fallopian tube had gone in on a Groupon with the teratoma and would be coming along for the magic bus ride to the internal organ inferno, but my doctor changed her tune at my pre-op checkup a week prior to surgery. Although she spent far longer than she needed to the first time around convincing me that I wouldn’t miss the ovary (seriously, take ALL my girly bits—I’m a good tipper!) suddenly she wanted to attempt to save the dumb egg-crapping contraption, but wouldn’t know if that was possible until the slicing and dicing began. I can only assume there’s been some sort of bonus plan for leaving organs intact implemented, thereby creating less medical waste and/or insurance paperwork. You remember Cash For Clunkers? This is Coins For Loins or some shit. But I digress.


So I was left with more questions than answers going into surgery—how long will I be in the operating room, will I be in the hospital overnight, how large of an incision will the procedure require, how many body parts will I wake up missing… all the unknowns were shaken, not stirred, into one giant crap cocktail for an anxiety-plagued control freak such as moi. Luckily I’m also a great big weirdo, and despite all that other crap the only thing that bunched up my panic attack panties was the thought of going under anesthesia.


To make a long story short (too late) let’s fast forward to surgery day.

The only thing remotely interesting from the first two hours I was at the hospital was having a hose inserted near the crotch of my humongous hospital gown that inflated the whole thing with hot air (or cold, if you prefer your clam slightly chilled), making me look like the Marshmallow Man and that shrunken head dude from Beetlejuice mated and I was their puffy, panicky progeny.

Yes, I was terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought. But my mad Paint skillz remained intact.
Despite my toasty warm vagina, I was still pretty nervous. And a complete raging bitch because I hadn’t been allowed coffee that morning, but my family didn't really notice the subtle difference in my disposition.

Anyway, after about a thousand years of laying around being bored, scared, and bored of being scared, the Antichrist himself—my anesthesiologist—wandered over to introduce himself. It wasn't easy, but I managed to explain to him that he was my worst nightmare and he should eat shit and die (no offense! *winky face*), and he politely nodded, patted my inflated shoulder, and galloped away on his cloven hooves. I assumed he went to gather the seven horsemen and some virgin blood. Or take a pre-procedure piss. Whatever. Some other scrub-donning jerkoffs gathered around to unhook my cunt cooker and take some vitals. Then Dr. Demonpants trotted back over holding a syringe of something green. Our eyes locked and he uttered the words I’d been longing to hear my entire life: “Want me to slip you a mickey?”

After that they wheeled me into the operating room and had me scootch my ass from the stretcher onto the operating table. Seriously, why do I have insurance if I have to move my own ass? Pffft. I remember my doctor explaining how they would be looking at my innards on the screens hanging from the ceiling all around me, as if I really gave a shit. I could’ve used some Pink Floyd and maybe a little laser light show, but otherwise I was high and happy. The oxygen mask went on it was lights out for Kimmy.


When I awoke in the recovery room the first thing I did was pull up my gown (you’re welcome, old dude next to me!) and inspect the damage – three small incisions; one on each side of my lower abdomen, and one straight through my belly button. I was also pleased that I wasn't laying on ice in a seedy motel bathtub, though that would have made for a better story.

Anyway, I was eventually transported to my own little recovery room, where I was reunited with my family and informed that while it was “tedious” work (I’m not sure how they code that for insurance, but they’ll find a way), in a fantastical feat of operating room heroics the surgeon was able to save the ovary. (Again… like I give a shit.)  The doctor, who had *promised* to save me a teratoma tooth if she found one, described the growth as “large and hairy” but didn’t leave me a single souvenir.  Other than, you know, scars. Bitch.


I went home later that night. The total time from being dragged kicking and screaming through the hospital entrance to being wheeled drunkenly out translated to about ten hours. Not bad.

The first few days of recovery sucked. Thanks to a wicked sore throat from the breathing tube, a bitchy bladder, and an anxiety level that was far too high I didn't get much sleep. The gas they inflated my abdomen with was not only painful everywhere from my shoulders to my stomach but also kept me bloated, without the joy of a toasty twat. Apparently our abdominal cavities aren’t quite as easy (or fun) to empty out as a whoopee cushion, which I believe puts a final nail into the coffin of the intelligent design theory, don’t you?

Where's your God now??

While I wasn’t overly worried about it, six days post-surgery I got the phone call that the pathology report was in for the tumor and it was benign. I suppose anytime someone wants to call and tell me I don’t have cancer I’m not going to complain.

And now, a week later, I’m beyond bitter and bitchy with everyone and everything in my life. In other words, my recovery is going smashingly! My incisions are still a bit swollen and my belly button looks like Frankenstein’s butthole, but things are looking up. In a few more days I’ll be back to work and have a whole new set of imaginary problems to bitch about.


Oh, and I’m totally buying one of those climate control thingys for my cooch.

Thanks to both of my readers for all the love and support. Dicks.


Thursday, October 10, 2013

An Ovary Bite?

I think I’ve made clear how much I hate being a chick. I even rebelled against my gender by refusing to grow a respectable set of tits. Hey, some women burn their bras, I took it a step further and just flat out (see what I did there?) have no need for those mammary-muzzling contraptions of titillating torture. But now... well, NOW my genetically inferior reproductive system has really shown its cunty side.


I began having abdominal pain that would not go away a few months ago. At first I chalked it up to just another side effect of the depression/anxiety shitshow that has been gnawing away at my brain nonstop since my latest (but certainly not greatest; I’ve had better) meltdown. But after weeks of constant pain and a few nights spent crying in the fetal position because it hurt too much to move, I decided I’d better suck it up and go to my dumb doctor. You don’t have to feel sorry for me here, as crying in the fetal position is one of my favorite hobbies. Now if I had an affliction that caused me to mall walk whilst sipping a pumpkin spice latté and swapping some super juicy sex stories with members of the local Parent-Teacher Association, then I would request your sympathy.  As well as a mercy killing. But I digress.

After stealing some of my piss and listening to my bowels (he called their sounds normal—I think magnificent is a much more accurate adjective) my primary care physician ordered an ultrasound of my lady bits in order to make me go away. In his defense, I’m a total pain in the ass patient. Thanks to a traumatic ER experience during my first panic attack I pretty much have to be fully sedated to even have my blood pressure checked, which is apparently a little counterproductive.

Anyway, the ultrasound showed a “large, septated mass” on my right ovary, requiring an MRI for further diagnosis. Figuring that the medical field was just fucking with me, I considered putting an end to the whole diagnostic adventure right there. Transvaginal ultrasound? Fine. It’s not like I’ve never had a lube soaked, condom-cloaked wand shoved up my twat… I did go to a public high school. But an MRI was a little much for an anxiety-plagued fucktard like myself to endure. But I handled it like a rock star (Translation: I took a LOT of pills first) and got through it. Two days later (and two days before my follow up appointment with my gynecologist) the clinical report, complete with diagnosis, came in the mail: Ovarian Teratoma.

I believe this is the appropriate place for a: Dafuq?!?

The follow up appointment with my gynecologist confirmed it: my abdomen is harboring a tumor roughly ten times the size of my ovary that may or may not contain hair, teeth, and brain matter. I don’t know about you, but I think that is fucking spectacular. I mean, if you’re going to have a tumor, it may as well be the freakiest fucking thing imaginable, amirite? Some less sadistic medical professionals call this a “dermoid cyst”, but where’s the fun in that title? I mean, TERATOMA. Like tarantula, only with sharper teeth and GROWING INSIDE YOUR FUCKING BODY. Anyway, she scheduled surgery to have the alien mass, as well as the victim ovary, related fallopian tube, and whatever other lady bits that need scooping removed and sent out to be dissected in some lab, where I’m sure they’ll come to life and eat the faces off of a few pathologists. While I learned all this back on September 20th, my surgery isn’t scheduled until October 30th, which is the icing on the cervical cake.  I mean, a monstrous tumor being cut out of my body on Devil’s Night? I couldn’t write a better ending than that. Mostly because I’m not that strong of a writer.


Anyway, the good news is that my little demon has a 98% chance of being benign. While a 1 out of 50 chance of cancer is still not a risk I’d choose to take, the odds are quite lopsidedly in my favor. The MRI showed no other abnormalities, except for something about my uterine lining, but I always knew  that bitch was a little shady. Basically I’ll probably hobble away from this still being completely fertile (Sorry, world!) and no worse for wear. The biggest unanswered question at this point is how major the surgery will be. While most ovary extractions are done via laparoscopy (small incisions, fast recovery) at the time of my exam little Georgette Stark (fuck yes I named her) was hiding behind my uterus, which means her removal might entail a full C-section incision. The fun part is my doctor won’t know until she starts slicin’ and dicin’, so I’ll get to play the Wake Up and See How Big Your Scar Is game. Trick or Treat, motherfucker!


While I’m nervous as hell and totally dreading surgery, in typical panic patient fashion the part that is worrying me has nothing to do with pain or what other parasites may be found leeching off my fertile crescent. No, I’m afraid of anesthesia, all because the last time I had to be knocked out by a trained medical team I flipped out, and I’m worried I’ll lose my shit again. Yes, all of my worst fears boil down to being afraid of having a panic attack, even though I have them nearly every day anyway. Also, I tend to sedate myself to the point of near-coma without any sort of medical supervision on a nightly basis... but having those pesky professionals involved freaks me the fuck out. Dumb.

The strangest part of this whole ordeal (yes, it gets weirder than having a hairy tumor with teeth) has been the reaction from others. I mean sure, this fucking thing has caused some discomfort. But seriously, compared to the multitude of bullshit that going through life being bipolar and with an anxiety disorder has caused, a little abdominal pain isn’t that big of a deal. I certainly didn’t expect the reaction I’ve received.

Handmade with love -- a crocheted teratoma from my bff. She gets me.
At first I got pissed about the barrage of well-wishes that were needlessly pouring in. I have spent my life fighting thoughts and urges that would make even the most gangrenous of growths quiver in their cystic little shells. Nearly every day that I’m forced to go out into the world I face “fight or flight” panic on level with being attacked by a rabid donkey that’s only sustenance has been Viagra enemas. I blow off every obligation I can in order to embrace every opportunity to hide from civilization… and the breaks only make my fear worse. I’m constantly being told to cheer up, calm down, or get over it. Now… well, now I have a glorified stomachache and suddenly I’m a target of unsolicited sympathy.

It’s amazing (and slightly infuriating) how differently people with REAL ailments are treated. Even my doctors, once hostile toward me, are now warm and sympathetic. In the long run this isn’t even a major condition. My recovery time, depending on the surgical procedure required, will be ten days to six weeks. The recovery time for my mental affliction is NEVER. But if I complain about that, I’m a whiner, or a pill seeker.


But like most things, I’ve decided… fuck it. I’m going to milk my little gremlin for all she’s worth. I’m going for all the time off from being a functional human being I can get out of this. Because when you’ve been told most of your post-pubescent life that you just need to suck it up, it’s kind of nice to kick back and leave the sucking to everyone else.

Friday, August 30, 2013

I’d Be More Confident if I Didn’t Suck So Much

(^^ and I don’t mean in the good way)

They say confidence is sexy… and arrogance makes you look like a repulsive, pig-faced whore. Okay maybe I made that last part up, but I only know a handful of people that manage to successfully straddle the line between self-assured and self-obsessed and they truly are the most charismatic people around. In other words: Fuck them. (This time I DO mean in the good way. What? It’s not my fault those cocksure cocksuckers are so damn irresistible.)

I, on the other hand, carry myself with all the confidence of a dung beetle whose kingdom of crap is always on the verge of collapse. If I ever had a single ounce of self-esteem, I certainly snorted it at some point during my high school years.

It doesn't help being greeted with SNOBS in every aspect of life. Some things haven’t changed a bit since high school, other than I at least ask the person in the next bathroom stall what it is I’m snorting before I vacuum it up with my face. Usually they tell me they don’t fucking know, since I brought it in with me. This isn't the 80s anymore, people. Or even good ole' 90s Beverly Hills 90210 Kelly Taylor shit. But I digress.

Yes, I know this is Donna and not Kelly. Sober Tori Spelling just makes a better mess than a coked-out Jenny Garth.

I've stuck my toes far enough into the shallow ends of both the writing and pin up modeling pools (weird combination, I know) to be surrounded by “peers” that are a million times better than me in their respective roles, and most make little attempt to hide their superiority. Either I’m a dick because I've never read an Indie writer or I’m an ugly slob because I can’t apply liquid eyeliner and have never graced a magazine cover… there’s always a reason to be treated like an infected wart on a platypus’s nutsack. Of course there have certainly been pleasant exceptions in both of the previously mentioned professions; hence the objects of my unwavering lust from the first paragraph.  And yes, I would hump ALL of their faces if given the opportunity, but the majority of the fucktards I've encountered I’d like to scratch in the damn eyes with my jagged, unmanicured fingernails.


Luckily, due to my own lack of effort my writing career seems to have finally hit its bathroom ceiling, so I won’t have to face the fallout of people finally realizing I’m an untalented shithead. But the part of myself I've always struggled the most to like is, well, myself. 

Modeling might seem like a stupid hobby for someone who can’t stand the way they look… wait, now I’m dumb too??? Christ. <Adds “lack of intelligence” to running scroll of her own faults. Along with “referring to self in third person.” Also “makes way too many lists.”> But there’s something about being prepped, pampered, and posed to look your best that is quite therapeutic. Until you look at yourself in the mirror again without all that professional help, but that’s a problem for another day. Most days, actually. But for a FEW minutes every few months I feel pretty… and that’s pretty awesome.

I’ve not peppered this post with pictures of myself because I don’t want a bunch of “Awww, but you’re so PRETTY” comments. If I wanted to go fishing, I’d be on a boat drinking beer and refusing to touch worms… which is a lot like what I’m doing now, except I’m on dry land. And I don’t really mind worms. Except for on spring mornings after it rains and those squirmy little pricks are laying dead everywhere, like slippery little landmines. And it always smells like sweat outside on those days, although I don't really think that's the worms' fault. Anyway, I'm just trying to write a little blog post here, so get the worms out of my fucking face, okay? Yeesh.

I’ve actually lost friends over my inability to take a compliment. I know my always-down-on-myself attitude is a drag. And all of the highest compliments in the world from others won’t do a damn thing to improve my image of myself, and its my own perception that is the problem. Obviously everyone else thinks I’m awesome. Pfffft.


A few months ago I set a goal for myself in an attempt to overcome some of my stupid insecurities: going fully nude for a photo shoot. I did it, and for a little while it actually did help. (And it was completely private and tastefully done, so sorry—even if the Google could find it for you it wouldn't add much fodder for your spank bank.) But I've long since sobered up and am back where I started… but you know what? I don’t care. I’m too old to be so self-conscious about every stupid thing.

My big crooked nose, small boobs, and weird bulges of arm pit fat are all parts of who I am. My bad puns and excessive use of alliteration are my style, however juvenile. And yeah, I totally rhymed “style” and “juvenile” on purpose, so cringe away motherfuckers. I’m not trying to kid myself that I’ll ever grace a bestsellers list or the pages of Vogue, but I’m no longer going to hide my face in public or lie and say I don’t want to be a successful writer. I’m also not going to attempt liquid eyeliner ever again. (Truthfully I've never tried it at all; it looks hard, and I’m insanely lazy with my appearance for someone who can’t stand how they naturally look.)

I am, however, going to hold my head high as I look in the mirror—as that’s the best angle from which to identify and pluck any weird growth of chin hair—and attempt to take pride in myself. Because no matter how ugly or talentless I may be, at least I still have a fabulous ass.





Sunday, August 11, 2013

Panic Disorders are Dumb.



I’ve received a lot of comments and private messages on my Facebook page that my openness about my own mental, um, “inefficiencies” actually serves to help others dealing with similar ailments.  It flatters, yet scares the semi-psychotic shit out of me, that anyone would look up to my dysfunctional ass. I mean, I’m not the best adjusted ballcock in the bowl. Seriously, look at me; I’m addicted to POOP PUNS. For fuck’s sake, my main goal in life is to become a shut-in cat lady.  While I realize that is an envy-invoking ambition, I’m not quite there yet.


After asking a few of these kindred spirits if they were out of their god damn minds (and obviously, they are), it turns out what draws fellow whackjobs to me is that I’m able to make fun of myself while dealing with the daily downer that is being bipolar with a side of panic disorder.

While I've discussed my depression a few times on this blog, other than little jabs at myself here and there I haven’t really delved into the drainpipe of despair that is living with uncontrollable anxiety. But I assure you, that doesn't mean I don’t find it hilarious.


I've been battling chronic anxiety for seven years. In that time I've lost a few jobs, a marriage, and my social life… so as you can see, there have certainly been some real benefits to the benzo life. Seriously, fuck all of those things. I've moved on to a better job and stronger marriage to lay waste upon, and if I really wanted to strap on my crazy boots and go out on the town, at least I don’t have to worry about appealing the desires of a bunch of fickle ass friends. I can get blackout drunk on my own time, and that freedom alone is worth its weight in tequila.

What? I'm having the time of my life.
Since coming down from my Klonopin withdrawal, anxiety has been kicking my ass like it’s a fucking snake on Samuel L. Jackson’s fucking plane.  I can only recall one day in the last four weeks where I didn't have a full blown panic attack. And while I know the few people that have stuck close to me mean well, there’s nothing more bitchslap worthy than the phrase, “Just relax.” Holy gee, I can’t believe I never thought of that!


It’s not that I’m actually scared of everything. In fact, I’m kind of a badass when my brain and body can cooperate. I don’t consciously kick myself into “fight or flight” mode, it just happens. While I've learned to recognize some situations that don’t agree with my personal level of dysfunction, most anxiety attacks are completely random. And the situations that do turn me into a hyperventilating fucktard are kind of unavoidable. Like, going to sleep at night.

You see, having an overactive imagination for all things catastrophic causes my mind to take note of every minor change in my bodily functions, and for once I’m not talking about my digestive tract. Sometimes the seemingly simple act of falling asleep can trigger a panic attack; the slight change in my heart rate when entering sleep mode freaks me the fuck out.


Another side effect of being so in tune (and yet so far out of line) with my body is that I cannot accurately judge the severity of any unusual symptoms. Because I don’t want to labeled as a hypochondriac, I tend to wait to seek medical attention until I’m positive of imminent death. Even then, sometimes I give it a few days, just to be sure. Recently I waited two weeks to get paralyzing abdominal pain checked out, because I couldn't tell if it was truly a busted ovary or just a suppressed fart.

Earlier this year I went to see my personal sex god (William Shatner) perform in his orgasm-inspiring one man show. I spent the first half an hour pacing in the ladies’ room, holding my chest to keep the blood splatter to a minimum when my heart inevitably exploded from my chest. When I was a 90 pound teenager I loved being flung around bloody mosh pits; now I couldn't even handle the intensity of a Kenny G concert without losing my shit.

Really any time I’m required to sit down and shut up, be it a movie theater, wedding, a play, etc., I go completely apeshit. Just going to a routine dentist appointment takes at least three weeks of preparation and sedation, and I still end up squirming like a flatulent whore in church while stuck in that chair.


If you've ever had to veer your car onto the shoulder of a busy highway with your knee and use your elbows to shift it into park because your fists are stuck clenched so tightly shut that your palms are dripping blood, you know where I’m coming from.

But a panic attack typically lasts only 20 minutes. While an elevated level of anxiety can last for days on end, the actual “event” that I've grown to become so fearful of is so fucking exhausting that once all the adrenaline I can produce runs its course through my body for no reason whatsoever, there’s really nothing left to worry about.  And after that, well, I have to laugh. What else is there to do?



My dad died of cancer; somehow he cracked jokes about his condition to the very end. So I’m a little fidgety. So fucking what?


Some of my nearest and dearest friends are living their lives with very real illnesses. Every day these people muscle through cancer, epilepsy, or Crohn’s disease.  And I’m over here all like, “Waaahhh, my body can’t tell the difference between being hunted by a rabid sabre toothed tiger and dealing with the Sunday afternoon crowd at Applebee’s.”

My point is, while I appreciate all the kind words, it really doesn't take any special feat of strength to laugh at myself. There are plenty of times where I can’t bring myself to leave the comfort of my cat-covered couch; I just don’t spout off on the internet about it. But having a sense of humor and being a jittery mess CAN go hand in hand… as long as you can pry that fucker of a fist open.