Dear Internet,

When I write pieces like this, this, that, this, or that all in the manner of two weeks, people get nervous.

They think I’m in crisis.

They think I’m having a(nother) nervous breakdown.

I find I have to keep reiterating that I’m fine, I’m not in crisis, I’m not going to harm myself.

Because I’m not. I’m a vengeful fucker.

Think of it this way: Writing those things is, yes, massive navel gazing, and to some extent, attention seeking1, but I like to think of writing as a big ugly cry.


Then I feel better.

What is comforting, besides people caring to make sure I’m okay, is those who come to me privately and tell me they have gone or are going through some of the exact same things. It, perhaps you make think this is odd, feels good to remember these feelings are a shared human experience.

(You are not alone.)

I’ve put together a fairly intricate plan to kick my ass in moving forward on healing. I’ll have a post coming up with the exact breakdown, but here is a summary:

  • I use my Bullet Journal to create my todo lists for the day
  • I use my carding system (explained later) to
    • Track DBT stuff (skill, techniques, pithy statements)
    • Accomplishments
    • Gratitude lists
  • I write (or try to) in my paper journal every day (steady since October!)
  • I exercise 3-5x a week (steady since November!)
  • Meditate (207 days and counting!)
  • Therapy every week
  • I go to my office

So that last part — starting this week I have a co-working place in downtown L-ville. TheExHusband and my therapist agreed it would be a good idea if I had somewhere to go outside of the condo. I researched places where I could work (bookstores, coffeeshops, the library) and it turned out to be far cheaper to use the co-working space than other locations. For $60 a month, I get free snacks/drinks, wifi, ample parking space, business address, mailbox, and locker to name a few perks. Today was my first day and my time went by fast. I loved it.

(I’ve promised myself to not stay on the computer past 5PM at home or at the office but as I cannot access the blog to write here when I’m at work so I’m bending the rules tonight.)

There is only so much one can do in exploring the city, running errands, wandering around, and walking the dog when one has no cash. I’m utterly dependent on TheExHusband and I’m mindful of what I am borrowing2, refrain from asking anything outside of necessities.

What is my job? Oh, loads of stuff.

  • Apply for jobs It takes me 1-2 hours per application (on a good day). I’ve applied for 13 jobs in the last 10 days and that’s 30ish hours of my time already sucked away before anything else
  • Look for jobs Another time suck
  • Work on DBT/RSL I need to be doing this daily — I started out strong and withered. This needs to be part of my everyday routine
  • Treehouse/Linux projects Amping up my back and front end developer skills
  • Writing Blog, Short stories. Non-fiction. Researching magazines and such to send stuff in. Everything encompassing this section
  • Other shit I’m probably forgetting

This is a lot of stuff. It feels at times almost overwhelming so. It became pretty clear I needed an away space when working from home wasn’t doing me any favors. If I didn’t wanna do work I just didn’t. If I wanted to not shower and lay about in jimjams, I did. Add in a roommate who works from home and you two end up not working beacuse you’re busy bugging the other and a dog who needs TO LET YOU KNOW THEY ARE THERE, well, you can see how I was starting to slack on getting work done.

Why am I doing this?

  • Have a place to go to on a daily basis I have to get up, get dressed, do hair and make-up, and go somewhere that is not the general living area in the condo
  • Feel like I’m contributing to society I’m creating content, participating in daily interactions with people, providing air pollution to the environment with my car
  • Socialization As I am taught in Thursday’s obedience class, the reason why most dogs bark is due to lack of socialization and getting acclimated to the world at large. I am slowly getting feral if I don’t head out of the big wide world.

That and this is my job.

I’ve written so fucking extensively on ThePlan, even I am tired of the redundancy. But this time around – it’s different.

(You’ve said that before.)

I know. I acknowledge that. I put an arbitrary time frame on something that is not arbitrary. You cannot plan out when your mental/physical health is going to suddenly be awesome sauce. Big mistake number one.

Big mistake number two is where I loaded myself up to fail. I put together a lot of stuff into the rotation and got overwhelmed. This time around I started out small and I’m adding new stuff as it goes.

Don’t believe me?

Look at the schedule at the beginning(ish) of this post. Three things have been in rotation for at least three months (exercising, writing daily, and meditating). I haven’t fallen off the wagon on exercising. Some weeks I may have only gotten one day in, but I did something and I haven’t given up even when I had shitty weeks. I have written nearly 200 pages in my paper journal since October 25thish. I have not skipped a day in mediation.

At times I may not feel as I’m moving forward but when looking at my accomplishments, no matter how small they may be, they are still accomplishments.

Don’t forget: the best apology is changed behaviour.


This Day in Lisa-Universe: 2015, 2015,  2014, 2001

1. As I’ve said before, borderlines need to be the center of your world. TheExHusband hypothesizes my need to put myself out there on the interwebs is to get that kind of attention. I’m not going to argue that there may be some validity to that argument, but my rebuttal is I don’t have a large readership. I have, maybe, 500 or so readers via RSS and email. I maybe get 100 hits a day. I’m not exactly chasing down here. There is also the fact I don’t do large scale campaigns to garner hits. When a post is published, it posts to my Facebook page, Twitter, Tumblr, and Google+ accounts. Once. The only exception is Twitter where I’ll set up an auto-tweet with the post info six hours later. There are a couple of other places a link to the site is advertised (my social media info, my email signature) but that’s it. So yes he’s right but only in theory, not context.
2. The number I’ve borrowed is — quite large. TEH doesn’t see it as borrowing but I do. I am beyond thankful for his help but I cannot live with knowing I have not paid it forward, or him, in return.


(TW: rape, sexual abuse, sexual harassment)

Dear Internet,

I know! Two daily entries right next to each other. What in the fuck is the world coming to?

This morning on Facebook I said:

In the “2AM Bad Decision Hour” a few nights ago, I enabled my OKCupid account which consists of a few questions and a pic. That’s it. No lengthy intros, outros, what have you. In less than an hour, my profile had been liked over 20 times and I had 5 generic “hey baby” messages in my account. I immediately disabled the account and look forward to ten glorious months of being date-less. So while Hume is on point with inductive reasoning, I can say with the utmost sincerity and respect he’s never been on a dating site where without a shadow of a doubt there will be some twat who thinks sending dick pics is a good introduction idea.

Alright then.

I’ve come to some reasons, with personal introspection natch, why my romantic relationships tend to have my lover dump me rather than the other way around. In fact, of all the adulting relationships I’ve had since I was 19, I’ve only dumped one person — every one else dumped me (and came back with the “You’re the love of my life!” routine). This is not to say I went out with everyone who was interested in me or I was throwing myself into promiscuous behaviour at every chance I got (which goes against the typical hyper sexuality of the bipolar) but I did shoot down those I wasn’t in the mood for and typically cut the dumpers out of my life pretty quick. (Which is why they always come back, right? People typically want what they can’t have. Then I want them to want them just as bad and the cycle repeats itself.)

Between not having a father figure or any positive male role model in my life (my father left when I was 5 months old), traumatic experiences with sex (I’ve been date raped at least twice, attempted gang rape once, and of course the ongoing sexual harassment), I see nearly every man as a threat to my personhood. And I see nearly every man as a thing and not a person — my mother’s mantra was, “Don’t let a man run your life.” Which is WHY when I lose control in the relationship, which pushes the person to dump me (usually), I cut them hard out of my life. Because not all men ™.

My Connecticut therapist noted my sexual behaviour is to be the one in control (I fuck like a stereotyped man — I always make the first moves in relationships or I always initiate sex in those relationships). By being in control, I can direct where it’s going and how it will work without having the conscious effort of someone else being in control or letting them see my vulnerability (which explains why I always need to be the dominate one — which unsurprisingly frightens some of my past lovers. On the flip side, I crave to be dominated by a man and have rarely met one who can dominate me. I have a strong will.).

As long as I can be the best fuck they’ve ever had, they won’t leave. Right? (And my assertive and aggressiveness is why I hear over and over again through the ages I WAS their best fuck. Yay me?)

Literally the moment she said this, a huge weight came off my shoulders and I could enjoy sex without treating it as a means to and end and be my assertive self without the weight of the bullshit. (Women can’t like sex, be aggressive, or want to get fucked 10 ways to Sunday so to like sex was a BAD THING, amirite?)

When I was 15 or 16, my mother pushed me to ask my father as to why he, allegedly, sexually abused me. As one might assume, he was incredulous. For most of my adult life I’ve carried around this thought there was “something” happened but exactly what was never clear. Either something did not happen and my mother merely planted the seed or something did happen with someone and I’ll never know who.

One night, a few years ago, a revelation hit me. Why would my mother push me to ask my father about this particular topic? And if he HAD sexually molested me, and she knew what was going on, why was she continuing to send me to see him every summer? What kind of mother does that to their child? (And if you ever wondered why I’ve divorced my mother four or five years ago, this was the topping on the proverbial cake. )

There’s a lot under the hood in regards to my romantic and sexual life. A lot coming to the surface after years of not discussing it and ignoring it. Thus if I want to have a healthy relationship in the future, discussing it NOW in this place will allow me to forgive what has happened, forgive myself, and finally move the fuck on with my life.

(As an aside: I have no memory of my childhood up until the age of 13. Seriously. I have bits and pieces of “things” like learning how to ride a bike or kissing Jeff what’s his name against a tree when we were 7 but other than that? Not a goddamned thing. This contributes why I loathe people with normalesque families and my desperation to have one of my own verses shunning all blood familia.)

Another behaviour I’m aware of is the tattooing and remaining fat keeps (supposedly) potential suitors at bay as societal norms dictate a fat, tattooed woman cannot find love or sex. A weeding technique for potential future lovers is if your perceived notion of me is I’m a “prison bitch” with all 17 of my tattoos, then I don’t want to date you and I can block you out of my life. If you can see beyond the fat and think I’m beautiful, then you’re someone I want to be with. Being fat and tattooed keeps me safe or so I’ve trained myself to believe. (But obviously it hasn’t or else I wouldn’t be confessing all of this to you.)

This is the antecedent to my reality: I’m called beautiful/pretty/attractive or whatever by scores of different people on a regular basis. Despite the fat, I’m told I have an awesome bod and men want to fuck me, also on a regular basis. THIS is where my arrogance (and also conflicting) behaviour comes in: If I can get dick (as Amy Schumer so succinctly states), then I’m not a typical “fat girl” (yes, I’m fat shaming myself here and others — but it is to make a point), and I can have anyone I want (which tends to also be true). And I’ve been told over and over again my arrogance (or confidence) is what is most attractive about me: If you don’t want me, then fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Someone else will come along who will take your place (as long as I can fuck them into a happy relationship and they never leave says my internal monologue. Joke’s on you Lisa!).

This is cemented with commentary made my ex-lovers and street harassment:

  • “If you lose weight, you could model.”
  • “You’re really pretty – for a fat girl.”
  • “You don’t want to date me? Fuck you fat ugly bitch.”
  • “You should smile more, you’d be a lot prettier.”
  • “Nice rack/body/legs/shoulders (?!?).”
  • “You’re too pretty to wear makeup.”
  • “You don’t wear enough makeup.”

And so on. (See why I have a complicated relationship with my image?)

There is the exterior dialogue (I know why I behave this way), interior dialogue (I hate myself and no one will ever love me), and the reality (I can get dick anytime I want and 95% of the time always come back. They leave again but they always keep coming back). It’s conflicting because all of it is true.

The self-awareness of all of this, something I’m frequently told from therapists and TheExHusband alike, is rare. When you’re judged for what you are (or who people think you are or how you think people see you), bullied, and what have you — you spend a lot of time analyzing why you do the things you do. You look for the patterns. You muse on the whats / hows / and whys. You see how other people handle their own relationships and you model the good stuff (as you see it) into your own. In short, you psycho-analyze yourself into submission because it is ALL YOUR FAULT, you are the only person you have who can tell you the brutal and honest truth (with commentary from the peanut gallery to confirm or dismiss your findings as either quantitative or qualitative or neither. Or both.)

I stumble as I am human, something I keep reiterating for a very long time as I didn’t believe I was. I also think others think this about themselves as well. It bookends my loathing for the term “stable” as no one is ever REALLY stable. We have our stable moments that could last for months or years, but we all fall at one point or another – often more often than we care to.

This is where the forgiveness comes in: This is not a woe is me type of confession, it’s to clarify and map out those patterns that keep repeating themselves so I can break them. An ongoing theme for the last few years here at EPbaB is to break those patterns so future endeavors can begin, maintain, and end in a healthy way. There are things I cannot control (rape, harassment, my mother) and things I can control (how I react, how I present myself to future lovers, how I treat myself). The goal here is stop trying to control the things I cannot or ever will control.

Once I can work past those barriers that seem to plague me, take responsibility for my own actions (that I can control), is when the healing begins.


P.S. I forgot to mention my half-year birthday the other day (December 12), so it’s with a small reminder my birthday is in 181 days.

This day in Lisa-Universe: 2014, 2013, 2012, 1999, 1998

giving birth to the world

Dear Internet,

When I gave birth to my first self-published book, The Lisa Chronicles: Vol 1: 1998, in January, I experienced a divine feeling, for that is the only way I can describe it, when I hit “publish.” Here was something many years in the making in which I was able to clean up, organize, and present as my baby.I knew it wasn’t going to be a big seller as the singular goal was to give it life.

Sales have not been spectacular but I want more of that feeling. I want to give birth to writing things and even for just a little while, feel like I am queen of the world.

I want to say the last year has been one for self discovery and I want to believe I’ve learned a thing or two along the way. I want to believe all of this is worth it, all the pain, the smearing of my reputation and name, the rejection from several communities has been worth it. I swore to anyone who would listen that I had to sleep with me at night and as long as my conscious is clear, that’s all that mattered.

But at what price does “doing the right thing” come?

I keep talking about my exhaustion levels. I keep mentioning how this lifestyle I’ve jumbled together from bits and pieces is tiring. I harp on how this is effecting me. Underneath it all, all I feel is I must do something with this life of mine. I must take what has happened and create some kind of purpose or meaning. If this doesn’t happen, I feel, then I beat myself up over and over and over again for being a failure. A loser.

I stare at my screen, that taunting cursor winking at me. A million and a half ideas and nothing is coming forward from my brain to my mouth to my hand. My sketch book is a mockery. I cannot get it out of my head if I cannot make a living at doing this, wha then will I do?  This thing, this writing, chasing that dream that so many have gone before me and so many of them magnificently failing. When editors tell me they love my voice and my writing, I am convinced they tell everyone the exact same thing. How is my voice unique and how can it make matter?

What if everything I’ve been telling myself is a lie? What if this is all there is?


P.S. Don’t want near daily emails or can’t make it here everyday but want to keep up with what’s going in my world? Subscribe to A Most Unreliable Narrator, a monthly-ish newsletter roundup of what’s happening. Bonus! Comes with GIFs!

This Day in Lisa-Universe: 2014, 2013