Morning me wakes up with fresh eyes to the bullshit.

Morning me is a bitch, but not a bad one, a hurt one.

Morning me wakes up with the self love and advocacy that I talk myself out of  every day by 10am.

Morning me knows I am making myself sick by allowing what I allow.

Morning me isn’t scared of money, or relationships, or death.

Morning me is biding her time to thrive or die.

If morning me dies, who I am might die with her.

I’m sorry, morning me. I know I am failing you, medicating you, gaslighting you…

But insecure me has a grip on the wheel too tight to see what she’s doing to us.

At least the road is paved. Even if it is paved with bullshit.

While doing laundry, I came across my daughter’s terry cloth swimsuit cover. A deep ocean blue size 10 youth reminder of summer. I’m not sure how I’ve not washed it and put it away for the season with the rest of the summer things, but I don’t mind. For some reason it makes me feel happy. It gets washed, it gets dried, it gets folded. When I bend over and open the summer tote, I feel like I get slapped by a rainbow. The smell of clean swimsuits and beach towels, the bright sunny colors, and the flood of sunshine filled memories makes me feel happy. Maybe invisible summer rays of vitamin D were inside the tote and exploded all over me when I opened it and soaked into my skin and made my brain smile. It’s a working theory. Anyway, it was a lovely experience in my basement laundry room, on a snowy Iowa December Wednesday.

Beautiful light dims

Humanity cries alone

The world is bleeding

One hundred years from now, what would they diagnose me with from a mental health standpoint?

I’m well aware that one hundred years in the past I would either be silent about the inner workings of my brain, or be in an asylum.

But, one hundred years in the future… Will we be advanced enough to see that what we need is environmental change? Or will there be a lobotomy in pill form?

Will my descendants be a free and fed people of joy? Or more cog-like than we are today?

I wonder all this, while also believing that mental health is so fluid that a permanent diagnosis is shit.

I wonder all this while an overwhelming sense of both apathy and hopelessness constantly creep behind my every thought.

I wonder all this while taking my Lexapro and going through the motions because I have wonderful little humans counting on me.

I wonder if those little humans know how incredibly happy I am they exist, and how incredibly sorry I am that I brought them to a broken world.

Now I’m rambling.

This blog post today is about curiosity for the future of mental health, because the current understanding of it is bullshit.

If you’re taking the time to read this, I’m sorry. Also, if you’re taking the time to read this, I wish you nothing but laughter and joy and love and “good” mental health- whatever that may be.

I’ll be dead one hundred years from now, but I hope joy isn’t.

It’s a composition book, marbled in black and white. The same type most of us had in school.

But it’s so much more than that.

It’s an organized document of love in the form of preplanning.

It’s a history of joy.

It’s a record of inflation.

It’s a scroll of relationships.

It’s a deed of good deeds.

It’s a catalog of thoughtfulness.

It’s a record of Christmas spirit.

It’s a chronical of caring.

It’s an archive of benevolence.

It’s amazing, just like the author.

Maybe I do deserve all the bad.

Maybe I should just know my place.

Maybe that’s his plan.

And maybe I die, sad.

Wouldn’t be the first.

Wouldn’t be the last.

I am over committed

I am over whelmed

The injustice is killing me

The ignorance is crushing me

Passions feel far away

Fun feels non existent

Life seems stupid

The disappointment grows like cancer

The appreciation gets smothered

“Drink your water.”

“Move your body.”

“Take your medication.”

“See your doctor.”

Why?

“To survive!”

Here? In this timeline? Why?

“To try!”

This timeline is so frustrating that it is deteriorating part of my brain and lighting parts of my soul with hellfire

This timeline has been the orange optical staining one puts in their eye to look for a cut, in that I can see how truly dense so many of my acquaintances are through the orange stain that is our felodent’s regime. (Felon plus president).

I am trying so very hard not to hate. To not let the world take away my softness. Trying, but not succeeding. My softness has become a memory foam that has stiffened under the sweat and weight of a tossing, turning, and farting body.

I don’t know where I am going with this blog entry today. Hell, if you ask anyone claiming to be Christian.

Have you ever seen blast from the past with Brendan Fraser? I’d love that bunker right now.

And if you’re petitioning for the “C. K.” elementary school name, fuck you specifically today. You win the asshat award. Congradufuckinglations.

Jesus wasn’t his real name

12/25 wasn’t his real birthday

No American bible tells his real story

He had brown skin

He didn’t speak English

Yet, you’re an asshole in his name.

Good work.