Grocery Store Panic Attacks

Something about the grocery store gives me a panic attack every time.

Even though I go in prepared with a list, I can’t hold it together long enough to get everything on it. I usually end up literally running to the self-checkout stand with less than half the shit on my list. Then I sit in my car and cry like a fucking idiot who can’t buy groceries like a goddamn adult and drive off without everything I need.

Enter Instacart.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

This is a lifesaver. I can sit at my desk (or on the fucking couch!) and sort by unit price to make sure I’m getting the best deal on what I want. In 1-2 hours, everything on my list is AT MY FUCKING DOOR.


Check out Instacart with this link and get $10 off and free delivery!



My dreams are always pretty weird.

The last two nights, they’ve been very vivid.

Two nights ago, I dreamt that I was back at the egg donor’s house with her piece of shit racist boyfriend. It was Christmas, but there was no sign of it anywhere. The egg donor asked, “What’s your fucking problem?”

I responded by saying, “I came to visit for Christmas. It would be nice if there was some acknowledgment of the holiday.” But before I could finish my sentence, she was talking over me, to her shithead boyfriend, about something completely unrelated. Pretty par for the course, actually.

Last night I dreamt that I was living on what was basically a commune with about ten other people. We were having a community meeting, and everyone voted for what was dubbed a “forced shared economy.” Everyone agreed that we would share all resources. All of them.

As the meeting was ending, I was pondering what this could mean. I grabbed the attention of one of the other members of the commune and tried to discuss the implications of it with them and get their perspective. I was afraid that it would mean anyone could decide what you were using or even wearing was theirs to use at any time they pleased. “Oh, I like that shirt, take it off and give it to me” someone could say, and because we agreed on a “forced shared economy” you had to give up the shirt off your back right then and there.

While I don’t think dreams are predictive at all, I do believe they are how our brain tries to process things, particularly emotions.

The first dream about the egg donor is pretty straightforward, I think. I know the egg donor doesn’t give a shit about me, and her talking over me and not acknowledging my feelings is basically the story of my life when she was in it. And the fact that I didn’t hear from her on Christmas. No surprise there.

The second dream is a bit of a mystery, but I think it’s my brain trying to process the decision I’ve been trying to make about getting a roommate. I purposely rented a 2 bedroom 2 bathroom apartment so that I have the option of getting a roommate. I can afford to not have a roommate, but I want to have the option just in case money gets tight or if I get too lonely. I’m just not sure if I want to share my home with someone else and have company and be able to pay down my debt faster, or take the time alone to heal and move forward with my life.

Speaking of dreams and sleep, I need to buy a mattress. Since this one has a shitload of awesome reviews on Amazon, I’m going to get this one. Fingers crossed it’s decent!


I’m getting out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, about to get dressed for work.

All of a sudden, he’s standing right in front of my closet, preventing me from getting dressed.

“Excuse me. Boundaries.”

“I’m getting ready!” he exclaims.

“You need to respect my boundaries. I don’t want you watching me get dressed.”


I didn’t retort that I had paid the entire rent here this month (he didn’t pay a dime) and am moving out halfway through anyway, so really it’s my fucking apartment and you’re welcome for paying the rent.

I didn’t bring to his attention that he was standing in front of my closet, not his, and he was already fucking dressed, so no, you aren’t getting ready you fucking manipulating sack of shit.

I didn’t remind him that he was supposed to have already left for work, and I planned my morning routine around him.

I didn’t scream like I wanted to, that even if this were “his apartment,” it wouldn’t give him the right to disrespect my boundary of not seeing me naked.

Derailing the conversation to get me arguing and ignoring the extreme boundary crossing is exactly what he wanted.

“Boundaries. You seeing me naked is a boundary. Please move so I can get dressed.”

He storms off yelling incoherencies.

11 more days.


I’m sitting at my desk, The Spill Canvas is playing on the Google Home speaker behind my laptop.

As I’m mindlessly scrolling through Facebook, I stop on a Portlandia skit about organic chickens. The video auto-plays, but the sound is off.

All of a sudden, I can’t hear the music anymore. It’s still playing, but my heart rate is louder and it’s all I can hear.

“What the fuck?” I think to myself. “There were no triggers. None. What the fuck. Oh fuck. This is a heart attack, not a panic attack. It can’t be a panic attack if there are no triggers. I’m having a goddamn heart attack.”

By now my head is throbbing and I’m sure I’m about to die at my desk.

“Fucking stop it.” I tell myself. “Stop being a little bitch. YOU’RE FINE.”

Still alive. Still very much an anxious fucking mess. And now apparently there doesn’t have to be a trigger I can identify to cause a fucking panic attack.

Fucking fantastic.

A Letter To My Narcissistic Mother

A Letter to my Narcissistic MotherDear Egg Donor,

Thank you.

Thanks for the anxiety.

Thanks for the depression.

Thanks for the self-loathing.

Thanks for making me question everyone’s motives.

Thanks for not believing me when I was in second grade and told you the man at my daycare was molesting me every day.

Thanks for treating me so shittily that I moved out of your house and into a physically abusive boyfriend’s house when I was 16 years old because the physical abuse he put me through was easier to deal with than the emotional abuse you put me through.

Thanks for following me across the country to humiliate me in front of my colleagues at a conference and scream at me that my marital issues are all my fault.

Thanks for cutting me out of your life when I asked for an apology.

Oh wait, those thank you’s were supposed to be fuck you’s. Except the last one. Seriously, thanks for cutting me out of your life. You don’t deserve to be in mine.


The Giver

Do you remember the book (or the movie) The Giver?

The lesson struck me today as I was talking with my best friend across the country who is also currently going through a really rough time.

If you haven’t read the book or seen the movie yet, I highly recommend it.

The premise of the story is a dystopian future that brings to light the comparison of pain and joy.

Without pain, we cannot experience joy. If we don’t have pain to compare joy to, do we really even feel it?

We need both to truly experience being human. There is a lesson in every experience, no matter how painful. Even if it is just so we can experience joy in the future.

The Mug Of All Mugs

If you’re a coffee addict like me, you know how important a good mug is.

One of my good friends got me the mug of all mugs for Christmas.

I loved it at first because it is huge and super cute.

But holy hell, I fell even more in love with it today when I forgot my coffee from this morning, only to remember it roughly six hours later.

I don’t know what the fuck possessed me to try six-hour-old coffee, but guess what?


Seriously, get this mug now. You can thank me later.

Update: I have dropped this mug when it was FULL twice now. IT DIDN’T SPILL A DROP EITHER TIME! This thing is a fucking beast!