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Trouble With The Meds

Drinking and mental illness go together like old people and Swiss Chalet. It’s true. I have a raging case of depression and I drank half of a bottle of birthday cake vodka in four weeks. I didn’t think that it was a problem until I realized that it is not normal to celebrate the day my mom shot me out of her vagina like a cannon ball for that long. In my defense, there have  been other birthdays that I have celebrated this month, like the random “I don’t really know why I accepted your friend request on Facebook because I have no idea who you are Jimmmm Something Something but happy birthday you son of a bitch.”

Life tastes good with cake and life is made better with booze.

It’s only natural to marry the two in my mouth at the same time.

*Said your mom*

The trouble with medications for depression is this: they can take weeks, I’m talking 4 to 6 weeks, for them to work at their full potential. Do you know what that’s like for someone who is in death’s grip? It is excruciating. Some days I feel like lying down and giving up on life after an hour of being awake so living like that for an entire month, wordswordswordswords.

I know that drinking isn’t the cure for depression and in fact it does make it worse in the long run. Sometimes, however, you just need that extra hug to help get you through.



I’m not saying that I drink until I can’t feel feelings every day, I just do when the bottle is within my reach.


It’s only here and there  just like anyone who has had a bad day at work every single day of the week.


All jokes aside, I’m afraid of this place in my head; that constant negative feedback keeps picking at me and my thoughts are now shifting in a direction that I don’t want them to go. They are settling in comfortably and making my body feel as though it is weighed heavily on the ground. It’s like gravity was all, “F*ck it. You’re now a cinderblock.” No one wants to feel like a cinderblock.

While I feel hell’s heat at my back and wrapping around my throat, there is nothing wrong with what is in front of me; hope in new days.

When I lose hope, someone better f*cking come pick me up.

These were new days that I am thankful of experiencing:

Pumpkin picking

Pumpkin picking


Apple Picking

Apple Picking

This book is happening....

This book is happening….


Thanksgiving card Chunky made. "Dad and me are playing baseball with Champ. You (me) are sitting in the chair watching because you have a crippled back"

Thanksgiving card Chunky made. “Dad and me are playing baseball with Champ. You (me) are sitting in the chair watching because you have a crippled back”

Thanksgiving with my siblings who are the Lithium to my crazy

Thanksgiving with my siblings who are the Lithium to my crazy


Chunky was one of a few six year olds to try out for the hockey travel team. I was so proud of how hard he worked next to 7 and 8 year olds.

Chunky was one of a few six year olds to try out for the hockey travel team. I was so proud of how hard he worked next to 7 and 8 year olds.


He's bad ass

He’s bad ass

cups that tell you what you need to do

cups that tell you what you need to do

And there's always this

And there’s always this

Do me a favour this week…

…call that friend who needs a smile.



As always, the button never effing works. Join here: http://summat2thinkon.wordpress.com/2014/10/17/ten-things-of-thankful-70/



I finally got my dog to come to the house after I scared him by punching the patio window. He cowered as he moseyed on in and then shook off the cool fall rain onto my walls and then barreled through the kitchen with muddy paws. I didn’t yell. No. I  just stood there staring at the only thing that I had managed to do all day

ruined1ruined2 ruined3



ruined 6

ruined 7


ruined 7






My legs gave way to the overbearing weight of hundreds of thoughts racing through my mind and I crashed onto the kitchen floor. I curled up into a pathetic ball because it’s more dramatic that way, and I started to sob.

Rescue breathes became shorter as I started to lose self control of my emotional torment that wanted out. All of it at once. My vocal chords strained and began creating unidentifiable human noises.

I scared ants.

If there were ants.

I don’t even know if ants have ears.

I laid there in my protected cavern until I felt ridiculous lying on my muddy floor.

And so it begins.

The rapid decent into madness.

*This post brought to you by bipolar-too much wine-somnia  

Mama’s Losin’ It

Collected Like Old Friends

I wish that I could rip those dark memories out of my life, ones that should’ve been someone else’s nightmare, not mine. I’m always dragging them around. They are here, there, everywhere, day or night, and right in this quiet room. There is nowhere for me to hide nor ever will be.

Today I sit here, a shell of what once was, and listen to the memories collect like old friends. They laugh at my fear that is  burning like the city ablaze in its autumn colours. Their chatter is constant and loud, sometimes louder than a pop of a prescription bottle.

People will never know that there are demons hidden behind a pretty painted face that smiles on cue. The vacant look in my medicated eyes dissipate with my jokes to liven conversations. It’s a façade that Shawn can see through. He says I look f*cking insane.

“It’s going to get better,” Shawn says, “and then it’ll probably get worse again.”

I laughed because it is true.


Legs rarely work in dreams whenever you’re trying to run from something horrific.

In my dreams, it’s me that I can’t run from.

It’s coming.

It’s coming.

It’s coming.

This should’ve been someone else’s nightmare.

Not mine


My Name Is Kimberly And I Chose To Stay


Hi there, my name is Kimberly. I won’t bore you with details about who I am and  why I am convinced that my mom gave me bipolar disorder the day she cut my hair into a  mullet, but if you feel so inclined, click here.

I don’t know why you are here, perhaps you are looking for the same things that I did when I was in a dark place or maybe you were looking up home remedies for diarrhea. It doesn’t really matter why, I’m just glad that you are here .

Now that we are hanging out like old friends, I want to tell you about that one time when I didn’t want to be here; when I didn’t want to exist in a world of pain anymore. But before that, I’m going to tell you about yesterday.

Yesterday I woke up. Did things that normal people do in the morning like eat, brushing my teeth, taking a shower. I walked my son to school and was fighting to be present to feel his small hand gripping mine. Walked back home from school alone and I didn’t want to be. Cranked up the radio so loud that it drowned out the thoughts. Some other things happened and then I lost my mind in the pharmacy after the third grandma, maybe she was yours, elbowed me while checking her blood pressure.

I fished out my phone and with shaky hands, I texted my support system.

“I’m am not ok.”

Within minutes I had received support.

“Breathe. How about you come over and we build a Lego castle out of the 1000 pieces of bricks I pulled out of the bottom of my foot?”

“You’d better answer me” …. which led to … “Don’t say that and not pick up. PICK UP. I’m at work but I’ll leave if you need me to.”

“Vagina” … because my husband thinks that makes me smile … because I’m weird, it does.

“Here if you need to talk. xoxoxo”

“Take your g*d damn medication,”  she demanded … don’t worry this is her way of making me laugh.

No, they didn’t cure my depression, but they reassured me that I wasn’t alone and that I’ll never have to struggle this alone.

You’re not alone either.

This place that you’re in, I know that place where your soul fights to find its way out of a maze that is seemingly created with only wrong turns. It’s the merciless struggle against the pain that is consuming everything that you loved about life and everything that you loved about you. .

“You’ll never find the end,” depression whispers.

The farther and farther you go, the darker and darker it gets. The pain is insurmountable. You’re lost and you’re tired and you’re giving up hope. Just like I was in October of 2012.

I could not bear to live another second in pain so I made plans to end it. I was a failure at life. I wasn’t worth the air normal people breathed. I was a horrible mom and wife. No one could save my damaged self. I was a burden to everyone. They’d be better off without me.

Instead of carrying through, I reached out my weary hand from that darkness and said:

“Help me.”

Two years later, I’m here writing to you.


I know that it is hard to tell someone that you’re not well. It is the scariest thing that I have ever done but in order to move forward, to heal, to be lifted from the intense weight of our illness, to get our lives back, we need to ask for help.

There will ALWAYS be someone there to fight for you when you can’t. Friends, family, co-worker, neighbor, teacher, classmate, doctors, crisis help lines, and even online support groups. Yes, it may seem odd but some of the greatest support that I’ve ever received was from someone going through the same online — like me!

You’re not alone, (even when you’re sitting in a busy pharmacy, and texting your friends to talk you down)

I want you to try really hard to remember that you once lived in brilliant colour and that my friend, is worth fighting for. Truthfully, it is a struggle but I can tell you that the small things that once made you smile, will  slowly begin to fill in the emptiness that the depression created as you heal.

You are worth it.

And today the world is showing you just how much.



If you’re wondering why I am wearing purple it is because I support the Amanda Todd Legacy Society. Today the world is Lighting up monuments, buildings, houses, businesses etc. in hopes of raising mental health awareness. You don’t have to light up anything purple, you can simply wear purple, carry something purple, and what Carol Todd told me, “Do random acts of kindness. You never know what someone is going through. And talk about it.” 

Please stand with us and put an end to stigma and reach out to those who need us most.

To find out more please visit: http://www.who.int/mental_health/world-mental-health-day/en/ and to find out more about the  Amanda Todd Legacy Society Light  Up The World Purple, please visit here: http://amandatoddlegacy.org/



You do not have to be suicidal to call.

I blog for World Mental Health Day

Cowbells. Cold Beer.

Her name was Billie Jo, the girl with the  beautiful blonde curls that bounced with every heel, toe, step of our dance routine. We were horrible dancers I am sure but we had fun pretending that we were something magnificent. We wore beautiful yellow costumes that were detailed with yellow feathers and silver sequins. My grandma applied her deepest red lipstick on both of us in the stairwell and for some reason, that is the strongest memory I have of her.

We danced our hearts out to a cheering audience of family and friends. I hope with all hopes that when I said that I’d see her at the next dance lesson that I hugged her.

She missed the next class because she was sick. Then missed the next and the next and the next. I inquired about her all of the time but they kept telling me that she was sick. Fed up with the same response, I just stopped asking. I never knew what happened to her until I was in my teens.

Billie Jo had leukemia.

I believe she was six or seven when she passed. I get that parents want to protect their kids from horrific illnesses and death, but I was her friend. I’m sure that she could have used one.

We were going to be famous tap dancers you know?


I’ve only known J* for three years through hockey but in those three years, I have known her to be the most hilarious, down to earth, sarcastic, all around awesome woman who loved her son beyond words. She had a squeaky voice that I loved. It made bitching about our husbands that much more animated. Even on shitty days, her happy was contagious.

Our husbands rigged the teams this year, each one of them coaching together so naturally, our kids have to be on the same team. It was going to be a good year.


She was supposed to bring the cowbell for the game on Sunday because we were determined to be those annoying loud moms. And for added trashy effect, we were going to take turns putting booze in a Tim Hortons “Take Ten” box and paint our kid’s numbers on our faces.

Only Sunday came and she wasn’t there.

J passed away suddenly on Thursday.

She was awesome. 


Hug your significant other.

Hug your child.

Call that friend.

Keep the cowbells annoying and the beers cold for hockey mom row J*

You will always be missed.



No comments just  prayers and thoughts for her six year old son and her husband of 15 years.


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