The Inevitable…a poem.

The Inevitable … A Poem 

Rainy nights  senseless fights.

Decisions made in fear and haste,

Regret; no, it never really goes away.

Forget the hurt, embrace the numbness for a minute.

Let yourself disappear into it.

What right did we have making love like it was alright?

Spending these sleepless nights

Under a blanketed sky of a billion stars

Out there in the moonlight.

From dusk ‘til the break of dawn,

‘Til the fog had cleared and gone.

Why, when we both knew that it was wrong?

When we knew it all along,

and let it go that far, for that long.

Now we’re left to walk around with these broken hearts of ours.

And we’ve lost sight of all our goals and dreams.

Of who we really are.

Of the people we once strove to be.

This time, I fear our choices might have gone too far.

For this war we’ve waged, YOU and I,

Was over long before it started;

lost before we gave it our best try.

So many lives we destroyed,

and not just yours and mine.

All the collateral damage we struggled in vain to contain;

and all that pain.

And what exactly from it did we gain?

Two worlds torn apart; havoc wreaked from the inside out.

Despair and destruction from which we could not hide.

‘Tis a heavy price we paid for a LOVE that was built on lies.

Left were we with fragments of memories of rainy nights and senseless fights.

Regrets we’ll carry the rest of our lives.

Is it enough to know in the end how hard we tried,

to undo our mistakes and do what we thought would make things right.

To fix the brokenness inside ourselves our little affair had wrought?

But we were only human; we were weak.

We searched, but we couldn’t find the peace we sought.

All those nights.

How we took comfort in each other,

lied down with one another,

tangled limbs, skin to skin,

and committed the ultimate sin.

Time after time, over and over,

again and again.

But You and I,

We’re not the victims in this story,

we both must split the blame.

And so if by chance that you’ve forgotten,

let me remind you once again.

Hearts are fragile things.

They only stretch so far before they’re bound to break.

And all this back-and-forth you like to play,

they count–each and every move you make.

This is Real Life, not a game.

So maneuver all you want, deny and deflect,  

try to pass the blame.

‘Cause you might think you’ve found a way, but trust me when I say,

there’s nothing you can do, and nothing you can say.

You haven’t won a thing,

and you don’t get to simply walk away.

Just as I, we both have to stay.

There is no escape, no other way.

Because I know how this plays out,

I’ve seen what lies ahead.

I’ve played it in my head, over and over again.

It’s inevitable. 

No one wins in this.

We BOTH lose in the end.

-JLR 5.31.2016- 



Run, Girl, Run… a poem.

Run, Girl, Run… a poem

You asked me tonight

Got down on your knees

Romance in the air,

Flowers everywhere.

Music and moonlight, the perfect scene;

And the prettiest diamond ring I’d ever seen.

And in your eyes I saw a future; a vision of what could be.

Of white picket fences and backyard swings

A happy home and a couple of kids.

An endless love that would see us through everything.

And anything that life might bring.


Babe, you looked so sweet,

kneeling down there at my feet.

Stealing my breath,

making my heart skip a beat.

And I wanted so badly to accept that ring.

To believe that we could have those things.

To believe that we could live happily-ever-after,

YOU and ME.


But I’m not the girl that stays.

I never have been; I never will be.

I’m the girl that leaves, you see.

Time and time again.


I put up walls around my heart.

Too high to break down.

I barricade the pain inside, too afraid to let it out.

To let anyone fully in, to really be myself.

Unable to trust, I’m filled with so much doubt.

And you can try but you can’t save me,

It’s best if you just save yourself.

Trust me.

Because I’ve tried just as hard,

and I can’t fix it like I thought.

God knows if I could,

For you I would.

Babe, I’d move Heaven and Earth.

But there’s only so much you can take.

Only so long you can tread for when you’re swimming in heartbreak.

Only so long that you can pretend and fake.

When right feels wrong, and wrong feels right.

When darkness creeps in and steals your soul–a clever thief in the night.

Taking all that’s good.

Taking all your light.

Without a word, ‘til you lose your fight.


You asked me tonight.

Got down on your knees

You waited for an answer.

Pleaded with me to say something.


To the moon and back, that’s what you said.

That you love me and I love you.

And I do—it’s true.

If only that were enough for you.

For that it’s not, I don’t blame you.

You deserve a girl that can stay.

Not one that’s made a career out of running away.


You asked me tonight.

Got down on your knees.

The perfect proposal.

Yes was on my lips, but I said no.

Such a cliché, I know.

The “it’s me not you” excuse.

But in this case, that old adage rings true.

And it’s just too much,

It’s everything, all at once.

And I can’t change who I am.

Or be the girl you need for me to be.

What you see is what you get,

this is me.

A free bird, through and through.

Afraid of being caged in;

of being told what to do, how to feel,

and how to live.

So this is it, here is where we must part.

Any further and we’ll just wreck one another.

Piece by piece, bit by bit,

‘til we’re just ghosts of two people that used to love each other.

Consumed by our regrets and sporting broken hearts,

Walking around with vital pieces missing of ourselves.


A girl like me—Babe, you just can’t trust the leaving kind.

Yeah, I’ll leave you in the dust,

I’ll leave you behind.

Always ready to take flight and fly,

just a little bit broken inside.

I rise with the morning sun.

I’m the girl on the run.

I’m the One…the One saying goodbye.

Every time.



JLR 5.26.2016

Washed Clean.

Still got the flowers that you sent / And the note you wrote that said that we were meant / To be forever / I keep them all as evidence / In a drawer under the mirror / Filled with empty promises / I don’t know why I keep letting you lie to me / Hard as I try it seems / I can’t break away / I thought that you would be the hero / Come and save the day / But you’re a villain / Your sins unforgiven


I’m going down, and you have watched me drown / In a river of tears, lost beneath the stream / Under the waves, I’ve found the strength to say / The river of tears has washed me clean / Go ‘head and wish me well / I’ll cry a wishing well / I’ll fly before I fail / I’ll set sail and drift away / So I won’t need you here / Love sinks and hope floats / In a river of tears, a river of tears


I catch your scent in every wind / And I recall the love we had  I can’t pretend / That I don’t miss you every now and then / But the hurt is for the better / Moving on, it’s now or never / Lost in the tide, I can’t keep my pillows dry / Like there’s a sea in my eyes / I realize that sometimes love brings you flowers / Then it builds you coffins / And far too often / We end up falling to our demise


Alessia Cara “River of Tears”

Oh, LOVE. It’s the damnedest thing, is it not? Why does it always have to be so hard—why does it have to be so damn complicated? So damn confusing?

I thought I knew what it meant once. I thought it was real. Now I’m not so sure. About love, about that time in my life…about any of it. Was it real? Or was I just in love with the idea of being in love? I have so many questions, but I always come up short with answers. So much time has passed that I’m starting to forget…that I’ve forgotten.

I’ve moved on. Let’s not confuse this for something that’s it’s not. That’s not what this is. This is looking back and sifting through some of the mess, with one hand letting go, and with the other trying to figure out what the future looks like from here.

Again, was it love? If you ask anyone, they’ll say it wasn’t. They’ll say he was a fraud. That I was only being used. And they could be right. It could be true. I’d like to think that it’s NOT true, but I’m not that naïve. Either way, it screwed me up. I’m screwed up now. Everything is different. Everything. I learned from it all—the whole life lessons thing and all that—but it changed me. Some for the better, some not so much.

I have trust issues. Commitment issues. Big ones. Granted, I had them to a degree before—but that mostly stemmed from inexperience and naiveté, I think. But now…now they’re worse. Much worse. It’s hard for me to let people in, to really be myself and open up and go there. With anyone really…but especially with the opposite sex. It’s not that I don’t want to or that I don’t try—there’s just this disconnect, this wall that goes up that I really have no control over. It just goes up and it’s there and I can’t do anything about it. Is it my fault? Well, partially I guess, sure. And at the same time—no. Something happened. I didn’t imagine that. I was hurt. Really hurt. I had my heart broken. I was used in some of the worst ways you can use another human being—emotionally, physically. I was tricked and misled and lied to…and we’re not talking about a couple of times here or a few days. We’re talking over the length of fifteen months. I was fooled into believing I actually meant something to another individual and against all my better judgement, I fell for that person. Hard. I fell so hard. For a lie. For a fantasy that never was and never could be. And it was all deliberate. It’d be one thing if the other person didn’t mean to, if he’d just gotten caught up in the moment and it spiraled out from there…but that’s not what happened. This person, this guy I thought I knew, this person I defended and stood up to all my friends and family for…what he did was deliberate and calculated and just plain cruel. Every phone call, every meeting, every stolen glance…it was all intentionally done. As was the betrayal and backlash when the truth came out. Every word he said, every accusation and insult, every lie he and whomever else he had do it with him spread about me—it was intentional. He wasn’t a victim. We didn’t just lock gazes in that bar or meet out of some twist of fate. It wasn’t some love story gone horribly wrong. It was a deliberate manipulation and planned attack. And I was the casualty. I was burned. Badly. And while the physical reminders of that might go away, the emotional ones are still very, very present. Even now, all these years later. Though his name is no longer a whisper on my lips, his face no longer lingers in my mind or in my dreams, and those memories—for all intents and purposes—have long been locked away and forgotten…the scars are still there.

Which is why I’m in the predicament I’m in. I’ve gotten better. Some. I’m not quite as jaded and cynical as I was. But when it comes to love, I’m still wary. I try not to be, but I can’t help it. I have this amazing guy in my life and as badly as I want to just let everything else go and just be with him…a part of me is still holding back. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because he can’t possibly be as amazing as he seems. It’s got to be a ruse. That’s how I feel. It’s not rational and it’s driving me insane, but I can’t help it. He’s asking me to jump. He’s willing to hold my hand. And I’m just standing there on the edge, like a complete and utter idiot, scared out of my mind. I want to. God, how I want to. But there’s so many what ifs running through my head. What if I jump and it doesn’t work out? What if I end up with another broken heart? I just got mine pieced back together…I can’t imagine going through that kind of pain again. Or worse—what if it works out? What if we take that leap and it all goes well for awhile…until it doesn’t. Because people leave. They just do. You see it all the time. Relationships, marriages—they don’t always work out. And growing up, I’ve watched too many “love stories” spark and then die out. People aren’t faithful, they cheat, they always want what’s on the other side of the grass, so to speak. It’s not pessimism…it’s being realistic. It’s a horrible way to live, always doubting everyone…doubting yourself. Even when you have all the facts, when you know that he’s not him—that he doesn’t have some girlfriend or wife and child stashed away somewhere—and you want so badly to believe again in fairy-tales and love and happily-ever-after…it’s still so hard. He’s not the villain in this, and neither are you…and still, you hesitate. Because you know what can happen when it doesn’t go the way you’d hoped. When you’ve put all your faith and trust in this one individual and in doing so, you’ve essentially given him everything he needs to break you down and tear your world apart, from the inside out, if he so chooses. It feels like a game. You don’t want it to—and you don’t want to look at it as that because you don’t want to be that girl that’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop or expecting the worst in people—but it’s out of your control. And that control—it’s all that you have. After everything that’s happened, after everything that he put you through and stole from you…it’s all that’s left. It’s everything. And you cling to it. And it’s hard to give that up. Even if you’re there, even if you’re ready to, even if you want to. It’s still hard to let go.

He understands. God help him, he’s practically a saint. After all this time and even the distance…he’s willing to wait. And I know that guys like him don’t come around that often. I know that I should jump at this opportunity and just let go, once and for all. But I’m scared. I’m so fucking terrified. Love hurts. Everyone says that it’s not supposed to—that it’s supposed to be this great feeling and that when it’s right—when it’s really right—it’s not supposed to hurt. It’s supposed to be the greatest feeling in the world. And maybe they’re right. I honestly don’t know. But I want to. I want to at least find out. I’ve already experienced the heartbreak and the devastation. I know what it’s like to have the world ripped right out from under you—to have that one person you gave so much of yourself to turn around and treat you as if you were, as if you are less than nothing. I know that feeling. I’ve been there. I lived and breathed that feeling for so long, slowly suffocating. I don’t want to live like that anymore. I want to come up for air. I want to breathe again. To feel clean again.

Am I ready? Hell if I know. I just know that I’m tired of living in fear and in the shadows of the past, second-guessing myself and everyone around me. There are still good people in the world—good guys…I have to believe that. And I have to trust myself to know the difference. I’m not that naïve 21-year-old girl who let herself be fooled by a pair of twinkling eyes and smooth lines and empty promises. I know better now. And he’s not him. If I have to keep reminding myself of that every single day, then that’s what I’ll do, but I’ve let him in this far…maybe it’s time to take down the walls…to really take that leap of faith. I’m terrified…but I think it’s time.

It’s time.


Our Skeletons.

I’m going back. To Nashville. I’m going HOME. Yes, because that IS what Nashville is to me, it’s HOME. Not here. Not anymore. A home is a place where you feel loved and protected and safe and wanted. And I don’t feel any of those things here. I should. My family is here. And therein lies the whole of the matter. There’s this saying that goes “…sometimes it’s funny that the people you’d take a bullet for, are the ones pulling the trigger.” It’s true. With my family, it is SO true. My “family”.

You know, there was a time when I would have gone to bat for any one of them, no questions asked. A time when I actually believed they were good, loving people. When I would have said that while “sure, they’re a bit dysfunctional, but what family isn’t” and defended them to others…to myself. Growing up, I didn’t really think much of the dysfunction, you know? It was just the norm. The fighting, the secrets, the cops being called on nearly every holiday or family get-together. I ignored it, hid it. On some level, I think I was probably ashamed of it. I mean, our house wasn’t the place for birthday parties where you invited your friends from school or sleepovers. There was just too much yelling and drama for that. The older I got and the more skeletons that came out of the woodwork—the more I realized just how selfish and callous and oblivious they could be. I finally started to see these people for who and what they really were. My grandmother—the woman I’d pretty much looked up to and idolized my whole life—I saw her for the controlling narcissist that she is. She’s the matriarch of the family, through and through. Right down to who holds the reins and what is and/or isn’t. She’s spent her whole life raising kids. She loves kids. It’s the ones out of pull-ups and grade school that have opinions of their own that she despises. Oh, how she loathes anyone and everyone who dares to even breathe a word in opposition to her. Heaven forbid she’s ever wrong about anything. And my mother—well, she wasn’t much of an enigma. I’d figured her out long before the training bras came off, so to speak. I guess that happens when you’re five-years-old and you wake up in the middle of the night from a bad dream and Mommy’s nowhere to be found…so you go to the window and watch her getting in the car and leave with whatever guy she happened to be seeing at the time. And while you’d like to say that it only happened once, you can’t. Because time and time again, she put you and your siblings in the 2nd priority slot and never the first. It’s hard when you’re little, you know? You’re five. You don’t understand why your Mommy would rather be with some man and not you. You don’t know why you aren’t good enough, or what you didn’t do for her to love you enough. You blame yourself. As you get older, the clouds lift and everything starts to look a hell of a lot clearer. You start to blame yourself less. You realize that it’s not—that it’s her. And part of you feels sorry for her—because she must be sick or at the very least have something wrong with her to be so cold and disinterested in her own child. But the other part of you—that’s the part that gets angry because you’re not a kid anymore. You know that the decisions she’s making are exactly those…decisions. Choices. A deliberate and conscious effort and action. That what she’s doing is wrong and unfair. You know it and you want her to know it…but you know it’s pointless because in the end, it’s not going to change who she is. That that is who she is. And all you can do is accept it and move on and hope like hell that you didn’t inherit that motherless gene from her that makes you love—for all intents and purposes—but not actually care about your child if and when you decide to become a parent yourself.

I’ve made so many excuses for them over the years and I’m done. I’m just done. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t defend them when my heart’s not in it anymore. And my heart’s not in it. It may be a horrible thing to say, but they aren’t worth it. I came so close tonight to giving in and giving up and cashing in all these chips I’ve collected over the years…because of them. And the fact that they could push me that far and that close to the edge—well, it scares the hell out of me. And I’ve come too far and worked too damn hard to get to where I am right now to throw it all away for them. They’re my family. They’re supposed to have my back. They aren’t supposed to be the ones to stab the knife in it. They’re supposed to be loyal, but they don’t have a loyal bone in their bodies. I honestly don’t think they even know the meaning of the word.

It’s a long story, but there’s been a war launched between my brother and I this week. He’s had his skank of the moment and her kid nearly moved in here. Neither my mother or grandmother want her here and he’s been told, but of course as he always does, he does as he pleases. Because they don’t have the nerve to confront her directly, I did. Well…he didn’t take too kindly to that, or my calling the bitch for what she is: a whore. And I don’t use that word lightly, but she is one. Hell, that’s pretty much his type—blonde, white trash whore. Of course, you can’t dare insult any of his skanks because then he turns the tables onto you—in this case, me. So it was back to the whole “I’m a whore, I’ve slept with half the county, traded sex for coke…blah, blah…” spiel that’s so worn I’m surprised he doesn’t have dry mouth when he says the words. He also tried to punch me in the face—would’ve if my mother hadn’t stepped in the middle—and threatened to kill me. Wait, what were the words… oh yeah… “I’ll bury you.” Yep. And yet, I get told to shut up and just ignore him. No calling the cops or going to family court and getting an order of protection against the bastard because of course, that wouldn’t look well for them. After all, they have the kids to consider. Funny. They’re so concerned about these kids when it’s convenient for them and never when they actually should be concerned. And the kids aside—what about me? Where the hell is their concern over me? Their flesh and blood. Someone they claim to love. Someone they constantly say they don’t want to go back to Nashville. Where the hell is their concern when he’s spouting his bullshit at me? Holding the worst things to ever happen to me over my head? The bastard has held that damn party 9 years ago and my secret over my head for years. But you know what? I’m done caring, of shutting up and letting things go just so he’ll keep his mouth shut about that night—things he read in my journal that he stole—the words and secrets of a scared 16-year-old who had literally just had her entire world turned inside out, who had to cover up and lie because she didn’t want them to think less of her for having made the mistake of going to a stupid party and getting raped. Even so, I’ve come to terms with what happened and the things I’ve done. I’m not a saint, nor have I ever claimed to be. I’ve made mistakes. I made one that night. I’ve made a hundred more in the time since. I won’t deny that. But I won’t stand there and shut up as he calls me a whore and accuses me of sleeping with scores of men and trading sex for drugs when I have never and would never do such a thing. I may not be lily white, but unlike the trash that he whores around with, I can sleep at night knowing my sexual exploits.

Rather than cause a scene or hell—make her leave–what really pisses me off though is that they continue to let her come over—despite both still saying that don’t want her here—ESPECIALLY after all the shit he’s done and said to me over the past few days. And the fact that his smug fucking bastard self is winning is what pisses me off the most. He gets what he wants and nothing changes. Nothing. Ever. Changes. It’s the story of my entire fucking life. And they don’t see a thing wrong with it. They don’t see how their silence is, in essence, condoning everything that he’s doing. Everything that he’s saying to me. I told them to make a choice. Either get rid of her—and stand up to him for me, for once—or I’m done. And they chose to let it be. To “keep the peace” by not making her leave—as in, not get him pissed off by kicking her out. So…they made their choice. And their beds. I’m done. I can’t do it anymore. They aren’t my family anymore. They’ve shown it time and time again that they have no regard whatsoever for how I feel. So I’m going HOME. To Nashville. To the place where I don’t feel like yelling and screaming at the injustice of the people and situation I’m surrounded by every five minutes. The place where I don’t feel like I constantly in a backslide into the past, being dragged under and drowning by memories. The place where I feel like I actually have a chance. A future. Where there are people who actually care—good friends that I might not have known for very long, but that I trust a hell of a lot more than these people I share the same blood with. Those people—they’re my family now. And maybe that’s a horrible and hurtful thing to say, but until you’ve met my family, until you’ve lived with them, been dragged down into their hell where there’s no air and you can barely breathe and you’re alive but you’re just waiting for someone to do the humane thing and let you out of your misery…don’t judge me. Don’t you dare.

As soon as I can make the arrangements, I’m gone. As badly as I want to just pack it all in, get in the car and drive and not look back right this second—hell, at this point I don’t think I care what the destination is so long as it’s a hell of a lot of miles between there and here—I can’t. I’m stuck here, thanks to these damn headaches and the doctors—half of which don’t have a clue and the other half who seem to be getting off on treating me like a guinea pig the majority of the time. Thanks to the lovely state of Tennessee and the even lovelier medical specialists it employs, whom for some godforsaken reason won’t treat a patient with out-of-state insurance, nor someone who doesn’t have full-resident status in the state—despite the treatment being for injuries sustained in an accident that occurred in that lovely state. Oh, the irony! So thus the dilemma I find myself in. I am stuck. I can’t stop treatment—I need it. And I’m hoping like hell that it works. Then there’s the legal aspect—the lawyers and this damn court case. So no, I can’t just stop. So instead, I’m spending my time trying to find a loophole—something—that could fix this little dilemma of mine somehow. Once I figure that out—figure something out—I’m out. Once and for all.

I’m going back.

I’m going HOME.



A Migraine By Any Other Name…

Ugh. I could just scream right now. I am so unbelievably fed up with these headaches and these doctors and all these damn appointments. I had my appointment with the new neurologist today. As you can probably already guess, it didn’t go so well. He flat-out told me that the fact that the headaches haven’t gone away by now most likely means that they aren’t going to. Isn’t that just wonderful news? Yeah, no. So apparently all these doctors, including the previous neurologist and my own primary care doctor, have been spoon-feeding me a bunch of bullshit and lies all these months–telling me they’ll eventually go away and to just give it time and that no way will they still be an issue after a year or so. And as for the meds I’ve been taking–that my PC doc and the other neurologist prescribed–according to this new neurologist they should have weaned me off them months ago for the fact that 1.) they aren’t doing anything to decrease the intensity or frequency of the headaches–they’re pretty much the same  AND 2.) the medication has some pretty serious side effects–like the damage its done to my kidneys that’s already landed me in the OR once and the cognitive effects I’ve been experiencing like the fuzziness and blackouts and all that. So yeah, they definitely screwed up somewhere. This new guy seems to think that the headaches I’m having are migraines that were caused from the trauma. Technically, they fit the description. The whole light sensitivity, noise, throwing up, dizziness—yeah, all that fun stuff. The thing is, we’ve tried half a dozen different migraine meds and there was no response with any of them. We tried those even before the last batch that I’ve been taking up until now. If they were migraines, there’d be some response–even if it’s little or minor–there’d be something…but there’s nothing. So it follows the classification–but they aren’t necessarily migraines. But he’s decided to try me on a bunch of new ones anyhow. I’ve got to get another MRI and one of the meds is a self-injection that’s supposed to be injected in the midst of a headache–I hate needles…so this is gonna suck. Down the line I think he said he might want to try those BOTOX injections and some other procedures they do for migraines, who knows. Honestly, I don’t know if that’s what they are or if he’s wrong and the other doctors are right. Or if it’s my eyes. I don’t know what the hell anything is anymore. But I’m so beyond caring at this point. I’m sick of it. It’ll be a year next month and no one has any definitive answers for me…no real solution to the problem. No one can do anything about these headaches. Looks like I’m stuck with them and the pain for the forseeable future. Lucky me.  This sucks.


11 Months and Counting.

So I had my appointment at the Concussion Center today. It went—ehh—ok, I guess. I saw the neuropsychologist again—same lady that I saw back in August. I got to give her credit, she’s not as bad as most of the shrinks I’ve talked to in the past, but at the same time, she’s still a shrink—no matter how you dress it up. And if you know me, then you know I’m not a fan of shrinks—at all. The whole, “and how does that make you feel” and “let’s get all gooey and share-y our feelings” — like that’s really going to make everything all sunshine and rainbows again—yeah, that’s not for me. Which I’m well aware is kind of ironic considering I have no problem sharing my feelings here, for the world and complete strangers to see and read—but it’s different. There’s no face-to-face interaction, or having to sit there while someone is looking at you all judge-y and literally writing down god-knows-what in their notebooks every other sentence. It’s not that I think psychology is one of those pseudo-sciences or that all psychologists/psychiatrists are bad…necessarily. I think counseling and psychotherapy can be beneficial for some people…it just depends on the person, and the person doing the counseling.

Personally, I don’t have the greatest track record when it comes to therapists/psychiatrists. It probably didn’t help that my first experience with one was involuntary. I was 13 and got into some dumb argument with my mother and brother and I did something really stupid. Long story short, the hospital wouldn’t release me unless I agreed to mandated outpatient therapy—aka I had to go to a shrink—and well, at 13, I really didn’t have much say in the matter. My mother made me go. I think I spent the first half of the first session in the car, refusing to step foot in the place—that’s how against the idea I was. Anyhow—I didn’t like the lady at all. She was a total cliché. Had the couch, had the glasses and the notebook, set the timer, did the whole “and how did that make you feel” every time I said anything…and yeah—it wasn’t a fun experience. When I refused to talk, she decided instead to ply me with candy—like I was some 5-year-old that would trade all my secrets for a handful of M&M’s (actually, I think it was Skittles, but not the point). Clearly, that tactic didn’t work for her. It was frustrating, to say the least. And what bugged the hell out of me is that she’d act like she had me all figured out—how she “understood” what I was going through with my mother and brother and why I did what I did…when she didn’t have a fucking clue. I remember in one of my last sessions with her I flat-out called her out on it. She said she understood, so I asked her if that meant that she, too must have grown up with an absentee mother who prioritized her boyfriends over her kids…or that she’d had a brother who made it his mission to make your teenage years a living hell and told you the world would be better off if you were dead every other day. Of course, she had nothing to say to that other than some psycho-gibberish, so mouthy miss that I am, I pointed out to her that having a degree in psychology DOESN’T mean you know or understand what it’s like—it just means you’ve read a few books. Needless to say, I think I only went to like one or two more sessions after that. I refused to keep going and I think my mother got tired of fighting with me every week. So Shrink #1 and I parted ways.

There were a couple more shrinks after that, a few sessions or so during the whole ED stage. Nothing really stuck, though. Again, I didn’t need someone with a degree to tell me what I basically already knew. I wasn’t in denial. I knew what my issues were. I knew my triggers. There’s nothing a shrink could have said or done that would have made much of a difference, then or even now. My 2nd lengthier experience was in college. That didn’t go too well, either. I thought it might help, talking to someone about everything—because god knows I couldn’t talk to my family about what was going on, without them trying to swoop in and fix everything. The lady was nice at first, but after like 6 or so sessions, when I felt like I was ready to ease off and try to work things out on my own—she played up the bitch shrink card, essentially telling me that I didn’t know what was right for myself and that I was making a mistake and well, there’s more, but you get the point. And maybe she was right…but she definitely could have handled it with a lot more finesse than she did. Maybe if she had, I wouldn’t have high-tailed it back and done a complete reversal like I did. I’m stubborn. It’s one of my biggest faults, I know. And I don’t like being told what to do. Or feel like I’m being back into a corner. And that’s how I felt when she all but ordered me to continue the sessions. So yeah…big bad shrink experience #2 right there.

Anywho—now that I went completely off on a tangent—back to the present and today’s appointment. Like I said, it went okay. It wasn’t so much of a gooey, share-y session as I was expecting and dreading, so that’s a big plus. We talked about the headaches and my other symptoms/things I’ve been noticing since the concussion. She thinks there might be something wrong with my eyes and that when I got the concussion I might have damaged or pulled on the nerves or muscles—something—and that might be what’s causing the headaches seeing how most of them start when I’m on the computer or reading a book or something and they always start in the same spot, right around my left eye, and spread outward. She’s setting me up with an ophthalmologist who also specializes in occupational eye therapy in case it is an issue with my eyes. It’s just a theory, she said, but hell…I’ll take it. She’s the first person in all of this to actually try to do something to diagnose and figure out something about all these headaches and why I’m still having them. Everyone else has just dismissed them by telling me they’re concussion headaches and they’ll go away on their own (they said they’d go away in a few days…then weeks…then months – ha! Next month it’ll be a year! –) or passed the buck like the one neurologist I saw who referred me to pain management for those lumbar injections. I’m hoping there’s nothing wrong with my eyes, but at the same time, if there is, at least I’ll know what I’m dealing with—and I can stop feeling like I’m going crazy.

I’ve got another appointment Thursday with a new neurologist, and hopefully he might have more answers than the other guy did and be more willing to actually do something to help, rather than pass me off to pain management again. I don’t want to deal with pain management. Their solution is drugs and I don’t want to be dependent on drugs for who the hell knows how long. And honestly, I don’t know what they’d try, considering we’ve pretty much tried everything under the sun already. Narcotics and all those fun drugs might work great for migraines—but they’re a bitch with my headaches. And it’s bad enough that the meds I’m on now—that barely dull the headaches—have already caused issues with my kidneys. I’m sick of the drugs. There’s got to be another way. Luckily, the lady today said that if I don’t think I got anywhere with the neurologist after Thursday’s appointment, to just call her and she’ll set me up with one of their physicians which are a hell of a lot more familiar with concussions and the headaches. So, we’ll see.

So yeah, that was today. It sucks that this is still happening. I mean, in so many ways that accident really did put my life on hold. I know I have to be patient and get treated and just deal with all of it, but it still sucks. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But then, such is life. Especially in my world.

‘Til next time.


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