It’s my fault for being happy for 30 seconds

When I left your house, I was happy.  I was fucking happy.  This should have set off warning bells, but it didn’t.  I went home and I talked to my friends about you and I smiled like an idiot and gushed like a teenager. 

Late night revelation

I switched medications because I wanted to try having a wider range of emotions: I was getting tired of having only numb and number. Although I am coping better since starting this medication, I don’t have that overly medicated zombie-esque façade to which I become accustomed. Quite often it would go through my mind that perhaps this medication was not working.

Tell me the future

If someone said to me, “I’m taking you on a vacation; let’s go,” it would stress me the fuck out. What do I pack? Are we going somewhere warm or somewhere cold? Do I pack casual clothes or something fancy? Will we be doing a lot of walking? Do I need my running shoes? Where are we staying? Should I bring my hair dryer, or will we be at a hotel that has one? Or maybe we’re camping! Do I need my pillow?

I’m Going to Die Alone and That’s Okay: The Story of The Psycho

No great love story ever started with, “We met on Tinder.”

Case in point. I met a guy on Tinder. We talked on the app for a few days, and then exchanged phone numbers. Texted back and forth. Tried to make plans for a weekend, but I had my kids and the only window of time I had didn’t work for him. So we texted for another week or so, and then made plans for a Friday night that I didn’t have my kids.