Posted by: catsandfish | January 27, 2013

Back to Black

I am having this problem, trying to be positive when all of my logic tells me that this world we exist in is a terrible, negative place. A good metaphor for this feeling would be what I wear. I wear almost exclusively black. I have for years. Once I discovered that is covered my sweat from my anxiety, it didn’t reflect odd colors onto my pale skin, it didn’t stain…it seemed the natural choice. Utilitarian. Something that matches everything, requires no special care. Basic. That’s how I feel about optimism. I may try it on sometimes, but then it is back to wearing pessimism. Black makes sense. Either not giving a fuck or being depressed just makes sense. It feels natural. There are bight flashes of happiness, but still, an overwhelming sadness and horrible loneliness overwhelms every aspect of the world we live in. I want to escape, even if it is just for a night. Drink until I’m not feeling, until the noise in my head stops. The fucking hurricane of thoughts, the buzzing bee hive of insanity that threatens to break out every single day. I just want it to stop. The squirming  throbbing pain in every part of me. I just want to scream until it stops. Take every drug available to quell the banging sick shit I hear from my own subconscious. Feeling like the walls are closing in, like I can’t breathe, because the world is so awful. The only things that keep me holding on are my friends, William, and my pets. I don’t want to fuck up their lives. I have a glimmer of hope sometimes, I try to stop and smell the flowers, try to wear the pastels, but that feeling always bleeds out. Back to black.

Posted by: catsandfish | January 24, 2013

The Battle Inside

I am having a panic/in pain/sick day, bad. It’s been really bad like this ever since I had a cyst burst, about a week ago. Maybe. Time never lines up right anymore. I am not sure what happened when, or in what order. I’m ignoring it for the most part. Keeping my notebook, a play by play diary of every pill I have to take, everything I eat, everything I do.

The cyst bursting was way worse than usual. Shitting enough blood and blood clots to make the ER an option, of course at 4:30 in the morning, with William’s mom Cindy staying over. The bleeding stopped, and I didn’t have a fever or nausea, so I just had William watch me. I slept. I ate. I drank lots of water. 

The physical pain doesn’t scare me anymore. I deal with it every day. It’s just part of life now. My body and brain have decided to flood my body with panic chemicals. Every cell in my body constantly screaming that something is wrong, fix it, fix it, fix it. The worst are the tactile hallucinations. Creepy crawlies. My skin feels like it’s covered with biting ants on the outside and squirming maggots on the inside. My brain…buzzes. Like a hive of bees. My soft tissues, like my eyes, mouth, and lungs, sting like they are filled with sand or bits of glass. I want to rip out all my hair. I want to scrub my skin until it bleeds. It is all I can do to not scream, just sit still, distract myself, make sure I stay on enough sedatives. Eat enough.

My thoughts are like a hive of bees as well, each one running here, flying there, all connected, but in a way disconnected. Time doesn’t flow normally. It’s too fast, or too slow, or it jumps around.

I feel so obligated to do everything in my power to be normal, to not let anyone know, do my part. Physically, I’m so weak that standing hurts, all muscles and joints beg to collapse. Pains, sharp and throbbing, let me know where the damage in my intestines is the worst. I can’t tell anyone. I can’t let them know that it’s this bad again.

I also can’t tell them that I’m afraid I’m losing my grasp on reality. I have trouble telling dreams from real events. It isn’t just the meds. It’s the stress, and something else, something wrong, defective with the way my mind processes things. I am trying so hard to keep hold of everything in the right order in my mind.  It’s hard having this constant invisible battle with myself. All I want to do is curl up in a ball, tear at my skin and hair, scream, and drink until I pass out. I can’t allow myself to do any of that though. 

 Not being able to do what my panicked mind is begging me to do, compelling me to do, is like holding my hand over a fire. Letting myself be touched with something filthy. Even little things, like not being physically able to tidy up the messy house, throws me into nausea, difficulty breathing. People who don’t have compulsive disorders don’t understand. “Just don’t do it.” Yeah. And then I feel like I have inevitable doom looming directly over the horizon. I feel covered in filthy slime, pond scum, itching, choking off my airways. 

I have to deal with it though, or I will hurt myself by doing too much. Physical health versus sanity. I get to choose. I am going with the physical health and insanity for now. It is less expensive, and if I lose more of my physical health, the problems inside my mind will just get worse. I am not a danger to myself or others. I have enough resolve and pent up rage to not allow myself to slip up and end up in a mental ward. I will not scrub my skin until it bleeds. I will hold tight to what i know is real. I will take a Xanax and force myself to stay on the sofa, watching TV. I will just keep trying to improve. New doctors, new medications. Put on a happy face, even though it feels like the skin on my face is crawling. 


Posted by: catsandfish | September 27, 2012

Pushing Myself

Update- I think I finally found a decent doctor. Tamika. She actually had an idea of how to care for a person in my situation. The last doctor, Dr. W, we’ll call him, decided I was an insane hypochondriac who for some reason wanted to take antibiotics and steroids for no reason at all. He was insulting, condescending, and physically dirty. He made me sit on the exam table, even though he didn’t examine me, and I told him that it was painful for me to do so. He barely glanced at my file. What a tool. 

Tamika, however, listened to everything I had to say, went over my medications with me, and asked a series of well thought out questions. I’m glad I found her. My medication situation was becoming desperate, since Dr. W decided I didn’t need refills on half of my pills. The kind of stuff that you can’t just cold turkey quit. 

I was unpleasantly surprised with my weight gain. I have gained almost 70 lbs since I stopped being really sick. While I do not feel “fat”, I do feel unhappy with the way I look. I don’t recognize myself in a mirror.It’s hard on my self esteem.  It is also hard on my body, carrying the extra weight. I have no doubt that I would be in less pain if I lost 10 lbs. So that is my new goal. I am just going to eat better, exercise as much as my body will allow, and just try harder in general to take care of myself. I have really been in a low self esteem pit for about 6 months. The bitch that lives in the back of my brain keeps screaming at me that I’m not worth it, I shouldn’t even try. I will never be normal. I will never be able to do all the simple things that everyone takes for granted. I am going to rip that bitch’s tongue out Spanish Inquisition style. I am sick of my pathetic pity party. I don’t need to be normal, but I do need to be better. Better to myself. I have this sick sense of worthlessness, like I don’t deserve to eat healthy foods, exercise. This is something to talk to the psychiatrist about. There is something deeply wrong with me. My self mutilation has reached a new level; destruction from inside. I might as well go back to slicing open skin and binge drinking. This stagnant sitting in limbo, not living, just surviving, is going to drive me insane. A slow, terrible, death by apathy. Inching closer to going back to being bedridden, then physical and mental shut down.

I understand that it is normal for someone in my position to lose their sense of purpose. Expected even. I am unable to do even the smallest task without worrying about my body or my mind panicking. Why even try? Because I have to. I need goals; something to look forward to, or I will fade into nothing. I will lock myself inside my timeless mental prison and let my body rot. Slow suicide. Not as dramatic as slitting my wrists or swallowing a bottle of pills, but with entirely the same intention. So I will plant a garden. Keep the house tidy. Exercise and eat better. Do my little routine. Try not to be disgusted by it. Try not to let the tedium of these tasks drive me insane. 

I think a big part of it is knowing that even if I do everything I can, I will never change things in the way I want to change them. I have to try though, to be just a bit better. Because there is no other option. 


Posted by: catsandfish | August 7, 2012

The Theft of My Free Will

Chronic disease. It sucks in ways most people would never think of. 

My current pissed off thought- “What the fuck happened to my free will?”

I am forever stuck with limited choices. Daily routine. My career. What I eat. When I sleep. What I look like. What I wear. How far I can walk. If I can walk. Being able to drive. Being able to be sober and pain free at the same time. Visiting my family and friends. Every tiny thing I do. Pills, pills, pills. 

Depression. Anxiety. Having a rush of chemicals that shouldn’t be in my brain or body. Triggering fight or flight. Emotions. Burning rage. Crushing sadness. Paralyzing fear. Emptiness. Self loathing. Making me not want to get out of bed. Making me spend days not able to catch my breath, regulate my heartbeat, keep my hands from shaking.

I am so happy that I have my medication. I can go out, maybe a few times a week. I can talk to people sometimes. The pills have given me back a fraction of my stolen life. 

Still…having these problems…it’s like wearing an invisible probation ankle tracker. Don’t go too far from home, don’t do too much, eat or drink the wrong thing. I am my own probation officer. My body helps with that. Delivers punishments for my crimes. Too much walking? Now you can’t walk. Late on a pill? Now your internal infections will start to poison you. Spend a day out? Stay on the sofa for god knows how long. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Go directly to jail.

Late on a pain pill? How do you feel about torture? Stabbing pains. Throbbing pains. Aches. In every part of you. Your shoulders curling in to crush your lungs and rib cage. Try to breath. Your legs simply wont support you. Your hands and feet turn into claws, hooks. You don’t feel human, and way too human, all at the same time. Focus on a song, a poem, a memory. Try to imagine it’s heat, not pain. Go to a happy place. Lay down on the floor and clutch the carpet . Literally holding on to your sanity. Laugh. 

I guess I do have free will. The consequences for my actions are just different than most peoples’. It’s hard not to be bitter about it, but I am slowly sliding into acceptance. 

Today is a doctor appointment with a man I have never seen before. Great. Time to relay the seriousness of my situation to a complete stranger. If I am not convincing enough, my prescriptions will not be renewed and I will have to find another doctor. If I can’t get my prescriptions refilled, my tiny bit of free will shrinks. No leaving the house, maybe even the bed. 

This post is very disoriented sounding. I will leave it that way. It’s how I feel at the moment. Floating. Drifting. Trying to paddle my way into any kind of control over the situation, knowing it’s pointless. Time to go with the flow. 

Posted by: catsandfish | April 24, 2012

All Caught Up

I just posted my recent Facebook notes. It seemed like the thing to do since I have neglected this blog forever.

More news- I have been approved for disability. I am buying a house. More on that later.

I just got back from the 99 Cent Only Store and Walmart. Classy outing, I know. I went with Krystal, in the few minutes she has between working and sleeping.

 There was this guy in the parking lot trying to catch shit in the air that wasn’t there. It was pretty interesting to watch.

Krystal’s ear started randomly bleeding, so she just screams “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?! Ear herpes?!” in the check out line.

There were two people behind us, and they both went into this much longer line just so they didn’t have to stand next to us.

We were laughing hysterically. 

I injured myself in the 99 Cent Only Store by hitting my ankle with a freezer door. Instead of having any kind of normal reaction, I screamed, “Oh man, right in the Achilles tendon!” 

More hysterical laughter.

I guess we are just bad at being in public. 


Posted by: catsandfish | April 24, 2012


by Hannah Brown on Monday, March 19, 2012 at 9:17pm

OK, as promised, here is the long story.

Thursday is our” Date Night” most weeks, we go do something together, since I don’t get out much. I was in bad pain for most of the day, but still super excited. I went out to the hot tub with Krystal and her guy Tre to try to help my back. We found and adopted a toy dinosaur. The jets for the tub were not working, so I was really bummed about that, but it was still mega hot, so that helped. After that, I went and got ready, meaning manicure, pedicure, (both super red) facial, etc. (Date Night is serious business) I put on my new black dress, lace top with a pencil skirt, flip flops, pearls, and put my hair up.


Right before William got there, his dad Kevin did, we hung out for a second, then William came in to pick me up. I was so damned excited to be out, and to be with him, alone. We were holding hands and laughing, talking, joking, like we always do. We drove over to The Stratosphere, where my favorite restaurant is located, Roxy’s Diner. It is a super corny 50’s themed place covered in neon, where the waitstaff sing once every half hour. They also play old movies and serve really delicious food. The drive took forever, because we made the mistake of taking Sahara at rush hour. I really didn’t mind, since Date Nights are so much fun, I always want them to last as long as possible. (more on that later)


So, William “forgot” to put his brief case from work in the house, and we had to bring it in so no one would break our windows to steal it from the casino parking lot. We got inside the casino, got to the restaurant, and I told William to ask for a booth, since my back had been terrible. He went and said something to the hostess. I thought he had asked for a booth, but really he had said the super secret code word, “Two for Aretha.”


We were seated in a lovely booth in the middle of the diner.


At this point, some mean old woman with a bad perm and terrible fashion taste (Really? That color of yellow with your level of jaundice?) started harassing William to take off his hat. She even pantomimed taking off a hat and putting it on the table. OK. There were about 5 other guys in hats, one woman, and two waiters wearing hats. She didn’t even work there. She just felt like being a horrible, rude person.William said “Just a second,” and rolled his eyes. I gave her a death stare, totally turned around in my seat.


Apparently, William’s black fedora was the clue to the wait staff that we were the correct couple.


We ordered, William took off his hat, and I did my usual date night stuff, asking about his day, singing to the 50’s songs, doing jazz hands and drinking coke. William ordered a glass of wine. It came in a shot glass on a pedestal, possibly the world’s smallest glass of wine. He got a cheese steak sandwich, and I got the steak dinner with fries, a side salad, and no dairy.


Our waitress, Aretha, was great, cracking jokes with the table of drunk idiots sitting behind William. They kept asking her to sing, since that is the theme of the restaurant, and she kept smiling and saying she would soon.


William was done with his food in about 10 minutes. I took about an hour. Nibbling french fries and poking at my food a great deal before eating it.


Apparently they were supposed to wait until I was done eating to sing.


They cleared my plate away, and Aretha asked William if we wanted her to take our picture. I said yes right away because we had been snapping photos with his cell phone the whole time and having one with both of us would be great. William then pulled out some random camera and handed it to her, saying our friend Chelsea had let him borrow it in case we wanted photos on date night. Aretha said that the camera was out of batteries and she would get some from the back. I assumed after a few minutes that the kitchen had stolen our camera and we would never see it again. Then I saw that Aretha and another waiter were setting up to do a song and thought that it was probably a timed thing she had to do, and that is why our camera had not been returned. It was at this point the mean old lady left and thanked William for”finally being a gentleman” sarcastically. The look on his face was priceless. If only she knew!


They started a duet, “Unforgettable” by Nat King Cole. I LOVE that song, so William and I were holding hands across the table and I was smiling, thinking that this was totally the best date night ever. Then the instrumental hit, and the duo moved over and sang to our table.


William looked at me and said, “Stand up.” to which I replied, “No.” thinking,”He’s being rude, what the heck is happening?” It took him saying “Stand up” 4 times before I did. He got down on one knee and pulled out a little blue box. He opened it and there was a ring. Two heart shaped stones, one garnet, my favorite stone, and one opal, his favorite, with diamonds. I looked at him and thought about the last 10 years; him kissing me goodnight, every single night, him walking into Burger King alone on Valentine’s Day because I wanted a Whopper and didn’t want to go in, him hand feeding my dog kibble and speaking sweetly to her when she was nervous about eating, him talking me through some of the hardest times in my life…I snatched the ring from the box and shoved it on my finger as quickly as possible. He stood up and we hugged and kissed. The whole restaurant was screaming and cheering. I had no idea. It was only me and him. That was all I could think about. We were the only people in the universe for that moment. We stood there hugging until they finished the song, and I then collapsed back into the booth.


That wasn’t the end of the night. William had “forgotten his bag” on purpose. He had a comfy dress, and all my essentials, as well as our 1969 bottle of Chianti wine, which turned out to be amazing, like a good port. He had also booked us a suite for the night with a view of The Strip. We went up to our room and it was great, jetted tub, (yay, since the hot tub jets hadn’t worked)  huge bed.


We spent the rest of the night walking around the casino, going to the top of the tower, having our caricatures drawn, overflowing the jetted tub with bubbles, and making sweet love in the room. Also a bit in the elevator.


I didn’t sleep that night. I just smiled the entire time.


The next morning we checked out, hungover, and dragged ourselves through the casino to the parking garage. We went to Denny’s and had breakfast, then went home to our pets. I have barely been able to move because of all the activity for days.


Worth it.

Posted by: catsandfish | April 24, 2012

Gov. Psych Eavluation- Fun Fun Fun

by Hannah Brown on Monday, December 12, 2011 at 7:54am ·

OK, as most of you know, I had to do a government psych evaluation yesterday for my disability claim. They had all the evidence they needed to nail down the physical problems I have, but they needed to make sure that I am not a threat to myself or others when it comes to my mental state. Since most of you will never get to have such a fantastic experience and in my opinion should know exactly how the establishment judges sanity, I am going to give you a quick run down of what happened.


OK, so first of all, due to conflict of interests, the government has to use a 3rd party doctor for disability cases. Because our government is broke as hell, this means that they are going to find the cheapest evaluator possible. Think Dr. Nick from the Simpsons, or Dr. Spaceman from 30 Rock.


William and I drove into the ghetto part of town, saw a police murder scene between Shifty’s Bar and a strip of like 6 bail bond places, about 7 people yelling at traffic, a ten year old with amazing sign spinning skills for whatever business he was advertising, and then tried to find the place.


Screw you government. The place was super hard to find. There was no street sign, it was buried in an unmarked parking lot, then buried in this shitty business complex with no real signs. Great, just try to confuse the disabled, crazy and sick. You guys are real sweethearts.


OK, so by this time I am sweating like a marathon runner, shaking all over and stuttering from anxiety. I was also lugging around a massive bag filled with my many meds and snacks, a bottle of tea, as well as my notebooks where I write down everything I do so I can remember things like meds and what I ate, in case of medical difficulties, my cane, and my regular massive purse. We find the office, and go into the shitty waiting room. I brought my camera and snapped a few photos which I will post later. There were a bunch of crappy waiting room chairs, fake plants and some really disturbing abstract art that should be nowhere near crazy people. There was also a very filthy public restroom that I had the privilege of using. Hand sanitizer for the win.


Then there was the check in window. I made sure to take a photo of it. It was frosted glass so the check in guy, David, a very smiley calm man, could section himself off from the crazy folk in the waiting room. Much like a frosted shower door. On the window there was a large sign that said, “DO NOT TOUCH GLASS”…challenge accepted. I had to touch it several times. Screw them and their rules. OK, so then we got our paper work, which was basic, except it asked a bunch of questions like if I do street drugs, have I ever been arrested, do I ever think of killing myself or others, if yes, then do I have any plans to do so now? Please describe these plans. Etc.


The other people in the waiting room were all chill, except this one guy, who was really pissed off about the frosted window, how hard the place was to find, and how he had no idea when he got his driver’s license. He did a lot of yelling, but was friendly about it. He had a lot of questions for David, the check in guy, and would go up to the window and yell, “BRO! HEY, BRO! BROOOOOO!” until the window was opened. He also had a lot of stuff to say to the form.


It took me forever to fill out the form, and I needed a lot of help from William because I suck at remembering dates. It was at this point that I noticed the camera capturing the events in the waiting room. Sweet. I would love to get my hands on that footage. I finally finished and was taken to the exam room, basic desk, 2 chair set up, basic exam table.


My doctor was about 27, pretty attractive chick with a bob haircut, very empathic eyes, a nose ring, wearing overly colorful scrubs. Her name was Dr.T. I was very glad that she did not try to touch me in any way. She had an amazing poker face for the entire interview, even when I made her crack up laughing.


I sat down, with a lot of trouble due to my massive amount of stuff, and the exam began.


She started with an explanation of why I was there, asked me what race I was, to which I shrugged and wanted to know why the hell that mattered, and she laughed and said she had no idea. I wish I would have answered that with “human”.


Then…she started asking me vague personal questions, like exactly how my disabilities have an effect on my life, why I didn’t like to leave my apartment etc. Stuff that really wouldn’t let you know how sane the person was. The thing was, I could see that she had my forms I had sent in months ago in her hands, with all of my answers written plainly and in extreme detail, so this whole exam was just bullshit. I got pissed, and the panic attack started. Between gasping for more air and crying, I gave her a run down of what my life has been like, how my chronic illness, depression, and anxiety affect my day to day life, how it was so unfair how my cat Friendly only lived to be 2 years old, and exactly why I hate the human race/reality as a whole and therefore do not want to leave my apartment. There was a lot of angry hand gestures, swearing, crying, (I had brought my own embroidered cloth hanky, thank you very much) odd inappropriate jokes, and losing my train of thought mid sentence in my rage and panic.


She had an amazing poker face. Polite smile, nod. “Well that makes sense.” Etc.


After I was done telling her my basic life story and ranting about how humanity sucks as a whole, she thanked me for giving her so much information and making her job easier. I showed her my notebooks that I compulsively write in and she said that I manage things well, considering. Then I got to do a basic math and memory test, which I did…mostly well on. I was too stressed to count backwards from 100 by 3s, so I was like, “Let’s skip that one.” I got to tell her why we obey the speed limit, why we floss, who George Washington was, who our current president is, and several other basic fun trivia facts. She was nice.


I left still shaking, crying and, sweating. I will hear back from them in 4 to 6 weeks.


After this we went home and ordered delivery from a pizza/sandwich place, and of course they got my order wrong. My sandwich came smothered in deadly butter and cheese, after William had spent 10 minutes explaining exactly how to prepare the sandwich. We finally got the correct sandwich, covered in bacon, turkey and veggies, I devoured the entire thing and went to sleep.


Fantastic day. Let’s hope the psych ward people don’t show up at my door.

Posted by: catsandfish | April 24, 2012

In Denial or “Why does The Man need to put me down?”

by Hannah Brown on Tuesday, March 6, 2012 at 9:33am ·

So, as many of you know, my claim for disability was denied, despite the fact that I am definitely disabled, and there is no way I can work. This just pisses me off. If the government is unsatisfied with my team of doctors and their conclusions, they are supposed to send me in for tests with their doctors.That way they can look at my thin, sickly blood, my broken intestines and swollen joints. They can see me have panic attacks and review my daily diary of extremely depressed thoughts, the written records I compulsively keep of everything I do, and say, “Oh. Indeed you are disabled.” Instead, they deny me the money I really need for things like food, medical care, and rent without a second thought.


I understand that there are some messed up jerks out there who are pretending to be sick just to scam money out of the government. This pisses me off like you would not believe. Screw you guys. I would love to work. Sitting at home in intense pain isn’t fun. It is horrible, lonely, and depressing.


A lot of you may be asking “Why, Hannah? We all know how terribly ill you are; why won’t they just give you the money? What reason did they possibly give you?” Apparently I am not in “enough pain”. I can” act in my own interests”. They don’t have “enough evidence” to be sure that I am unable to move. A monthly trip to the doctor for the past 3 years, the handfuls of pills I have to take every day, not to mention my almost never leaving the house, just isn’t sufficient.


They were kind enough to say that there is no way I can do any of the work I used to do. But I should be able to find SOMETHING. I would love to be a Wal Mart greeter. Or a telemarketer. Hell, I’d even take stripper at this point. That would actually raise my self esteem, because I could contribute to society in SOME way. I am just physically unable. I would love for them to find me a job, especially in this economy. Have my own money, a sense of independence.


I can’t leave the house without someone with me. I don’t drive anymore due to medication side effects. I can’t even sit in the same position for more than a few minutes without intense pain, even on pain pills. I have short term memory loss. I have panic attacks every day, even on Xanax. I have to rest for several days if I go out for lunch somewhere. I have trouble talking to people due to anxiety. I have even had a family member (Krystal) move in so that I have someone with me to help with simple things like eating. Not exactly hiring material. Unless they have a job where I lay on a bed alone in a room, have someone bring me meals (dairy free, shellfish free, and Crohn’s compatible), and keep track of the 8+ times I need to take medications during the day, I am just not seeing myself working. Maybe the two years of being a house bound hermit should have tipped them off to that. I am not even healthy enough to visit with my family in town, and California is out of the question. I didn’t get to see my grandmother before she died. Because I am sick.


And sure, I have good days. Every once in a while I can go on a date, maybe go to the 99 cent store, or go for a short drive. Then I have a week of barely being able to stand up. A week of getting winded trying to make a pack of Top Ramen. A week of cysts bursting in my intestines every time I try to move. These are not happy times for me. There is a reason I am on enough pain meds, steroids, antibiotics, Prozac and Xanax to take down a giraffe. Not to mention supplements and vitamins to help fill in the gaps of what my body won’t absorb from food.


Yeah, so now I have to hire a big, mean, scary law firm to politely tell Uncle Sam that he’s a stingy bastard. Richard Harris Law Firm. So far they are legit. All paperwork delivered on time, polite service.


I just wish things weren’t so difficult. Not just for me, because I have people to help me. I have William and Krystal at home, a great doctor, and a great support network of family and good friends. But…what about the people out there who don’t have anyone? Especially those with social anxiety and other mental disorders. It sucks that most of those people probably give up because this process is so intense. Just the first pack of forms I had to fill out literally made me cry. It was like 50 pages. My hands went into spasms of pain just trying to fill them out. The questions were complex and terribly worded. It honestly seems like they are trying to mess with the disabled so that they can give out less money.


I already knew the system was messed up. It just sucks when it gets shoved in my face.

Posted by: catsandfish | April 24, 2012


by Hannah Brown on Tuesday, December 6, 2011 at 6:14pm ·

OK, so I just got back from taking Penny out in this freezing weather, and it took her forever to do her thing, I am hurting all over so I am already fussy, and here is this freaking letter stuck in my lovely miniature cactus garden. It states that upon recent inspection by the property manager my patio has been found unsatisfactory and I need to clean up my “unsightly” patio, removing all trash and non patio items.

EXCUSE ME?!? OK, now this would be fine if there were anything “unsightly” about my patio, but let’s be honest, it is a thing of freaking beauty. Being a shut in, it is one of my 4 hobbies, keeping that patio looking nice. I am out there at least 3 times a week sweeping, misting plants, dusting my patio chairs and removing the piles of leaves that their maintenance guy with the leaf blower constantly blows on to it. I have a flippin’ blooming rose bush out there. Have these bastards ever tried to get a rose bush to bloom in the middle of December? In VEGAS???? I also have amazing cascades of philodendrons that are supposed to be living in a rain forest. I keep them alive by watering them and misting them constantly.

So…WTF? Why are we the only ones to get this letter? Is my tiny garden gnome showing too much beard? Add to that the fact that the upstairs patio is a playground and several other people use theirs to store stacks of cardboard boxes advertising cheese whizz. Then just pile on how we couldn’t find our speakers the day after the cleaning crew cleaned the clubhouse after our anniversary party and the office woman was a bitch to me and wouldn’t really let me look for them. On top of that, we JUST signed a 6 month extension for our lease. I’ll tell you what’s unsightly, YOUR FACE IS UNSIGHTLY!!!!

Damn it. William just went in and handled things like a boss. He also got our speakers back. These bastards are lucky, I get up at 5 am, I was going to be waiting there for the first person to unlock that office. I was going to take them on a fantastic tour of my patio so they could tell me exactly what was “unsightly”…

Posted by: catsandfish | April 24, 2012


by Hannah Brown on Wednesday, October 26, 2011 at 7:08am ·


So yesterday was terrible. I flooded our apartment because I passed out while running a bath. I am glad William was so calm, because I had a panic attack when I woke up and saw the water.

Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink. I was reminded of Alice in the pool of her own tears.

Everyone is so damn calm, it pisses me off. Why can’t I be calm? I am on the outside, but right now inside is just a huge mess of anger…at myself for being stupid enough to run a bath while William was gone, at The Universe in general. I was much better with the rage for the past few months. Sometimes I can’t help it. I hate myself and my situation.

I am Dependant.

On the meds, on my doctor, on society in general,  on William.

For the girl who grew up in the woods, cooking over fires, running through the forest like a wild thing, the feral child, the angry teen with plans of world domination, black lipstick and a middle finger at structure, the career woman workaholic with her perfect pink lipstick and expensive things, screaming INDEPENDANCE, for all the past mes who still live inside me in some way, this is like prison.

I asked William to take me to the care home again. So I can wear a plastic bracelet and take the burden off of his shoulders and pass it on to the state, or just accrue my own massive amount of medical debt, I am not sure how it would work. If his little sister wasn’t moving in with us, I think I would just find a bus schedule and go in the night. He is Atlas, the world on his shoulders, my world, but he never drops it, never flinches. He just tells me everything is OK, he is happy to be with me. I don’t understand this. I feel totally useless to him. A bother, a constant mess living in his house, the elephant in the room, a ragged ghost of the angry girl he met, somehow even paler now than before, my medical problems draining our spirits and our bank accounts to their breaking point.

I feel like a pool of radioactive toxic waste, everything I touch takes a little of my sickness with it.

I find it hard to ask people to interact with me, to be my friends, my family, my doctor, my lover. I feel like I constantly, through no fault of my own, fail them. I feel like I should quarantine myself, go into a reclusive state again. It has only been a little over a month since I stopped being a total hermit. It was fun to be outside, to talk to people again, but makes me wonder if I am being fair to the people who choose to reach out to me. I even wonder if it is fair to write this and let it out of the prison that is my head so it will be free to wreck havoc on the outside.

I find myself constantly mentioning my illness to people when I meet them. (Sorry about that, FoodFest Folk) I think I feel the need to do so as a warning. The same way my parents would warn us about an animal who they knew we would kill for food or a pet we would have to give away. Don’t get too attached. This is what you are getting yourself into. I feel like a need a flashing neon warning sign over my head letting people know of the danger. Caution tape over my mouth.

Warning: Toxic.

I don’t feel comfortable letting people share that.

We will see what the new day brings.

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