Blue Jean Dreams

One of my friends has a hard time with today. Ten years ago, he lost his wife to untreated mental illness. Today, he told me how brave I am. How much he appreciates that I'm getting help. How I'm his hero. He reminded me of why I'm doing what I'm doing. Because depression doesn't just hurt me. It can hurt everyone around me. It hurts everyone who loves me. It isn't just about me. And if you're going through it, it isn't just about you. So for my friend, I'm going to talk about how goddamned hard it is to ask for help. Because "asking for help" sounds so easy. But it's not, and I'm not going to bullshit about that. It's hard. But god, it's important. You can't expect to fix everything yourself. You just can't. It's too much pressure, and you don't always have the right equipment. It's like trying to hang a picture with a bulldozer, or build a bridge with a shovel. It just don't

I had a thought last night that was so terrifying that I could only feel it for a few minutes before everything went numb. I was thinking really hard about my symptoms, and trying to determine when they really started. I think I decided it was 2008, the year I was last raped, and the year that my brain broke so badly that I don't remember most of that summer. It's largely an unfocused blur. There are bits here and there that I recognise, but can't identify in detail. That was almost six years ago. I was 23. Now for those of you who are around 30, like I am, stop a moment and think about who you were at 23. I bet you were a very different person, because...well, that's what your 20s are for. Generally that's when we start turning into the person we're going to be for the rest of our lives. When we become adults for real, instead of for legal. For me, it's when I think I broke. And if I've been broken since then, I have to wonder... Will

I know, I've been neglectful again. Like Silent Bob, I only speak when I feel it's truly important. I hope that this means that you take my words a little more seriously, when I do speak. Recently, I've fallen into the deepest, most crippling depression I've ever experienced. At least that I'm aware of. (There WAS that one summer that I don't remember. But who knows what I was like then?) I mean it's bad. When I say "crippling," I mean that it's hard to function in the most basic ways--Feeding myself, bathing myself, getting out of bed. You know. Socializing and working tax me more than I knew was possible. I've recently started suffering "crashes" after extended periods of being in a good mood. After the happy activity ends, I feel myself start to deflate. If the crash is bad enough, it results in me curled up somewhere in my underwear (How did that happen? I don't even remember getting undressed!) crying for l

Well, part of my story, anyway. Please head to  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lea-grover/i-was-raped-and-abandoned-in-the-snow_b_4103516.html and read it. And if you're so inclined, tweet about #Justice4Daisy. <3 p="">

Dear Sir Patrick, I am one of the millions of people in this world who feel we know you intimately, yet who you have never met. I grew up knowing who you are. You are not aware, but you helped to shape my life in incredible ways. You helped me know from a young age that there is nothing wrong with liking exactly what I like. You helped me grow up strong, and unashamed of the things I love. You helped me grow up a proud geek, who would never chill her passions because of the cruelty of children. Since I was a young girl, I have known who you are. I have loved your characters on everything I've seen. You inspired me to read Shakespeare. You taught me of nobility, and courage, and loyalty. As characters. It was with these values that I grew up. And as I have gotten older, I have learned many things about you. My purpose, however, is not that. I just want you to know the role you have played in my life. The true purpose of this letter, Sir Patrick, is to thank you.

As some of you know, I'm in the military. Recently, the DOD and the USAF have been seriously cracking down on the rising trend in sexual assaults. Largely because it's disgusting. One of the things they've done is start a blog, which they sent out to everyone in an email so that we can all put forth our input. Here's what I wrote: "I am a normal woman. I am a Staff Sergeant in the USAF. I have been sexually assaulted three times in my life--Once by a fellow service member whose name I do not know, and never found out. I feel very passionately about the issue of sexual assault not only in the military, but in the world. The stigma carried along with the label "Victim" is crushing. The shame inherent in confessing that someone has committed against you the most personal crime I know is beyond compare, if you have never experienced it. In order to fight sexual assault, we need to do more than educate. We need to do more than train. We need to come fo

I've been dwelling. I wrote this on November 10th, 2005. Three Hundred and Thirty Seven Days I am picturing him. He's standing in the dawn light by the foot of my bd. His feet are shoulder width apart, his arms hang loosely by his side, and he has his eyes closed. He's crying, telling me that he's sorry. That I'm right and he's wrong. He's saying that he's broken and ruined, and that's why we need to be together- so I can teach him to love. So I can teach him to treat people right. I tell him we'll talk about it in the morning, and to go to sleep. I am picturing him. He's laying next to me in the bed and I keep telling him to stop touching me. He won't. I tell him to leave and he turns, he calls me a self righteous hypocrite, he calls me a liar, tells me that I'm cruel and that I'm hurting him on purpose. I'm tired, and I tell him to leave. HE begins to cry again. I tell him to let go and sleep. He attacks. I tell him

Dear Readers, you're in for a special treat today. A balls-out rant about something that I am sick of. You see, there is a TV in my office. And on that TV, we often play movies. It keeps the customers from remembering that they're waiting in line. And I've noticed this trend. There are all these movies about dorky, awkward, unattractive men who get these smokin' hot babes because the guys are just so nice. They aren't attractive. They aren't charming. They aren't charismatic, or driven, or accomplished. Sometimes, they aren't even intelligent. But they're such good guys that they get this smokin hot babe. He's like a 4, and she's like a 9. There are a couple of movies about dorky awkward girls getting smokin' hot guys, but the girls have to get ridiculous makeovers and shove their tits in the guy's face before he notices what a smart, driven, fun person she is. Are you seeing the discrepancy? Women need to earn