Reaching Out

Back from the cities!

For at least twenty-four unadulterated hours, I was able to be a normal human being. I was able to hang out with friends and do stuff that I've never done before, like going into a make up store and ASKING FOR HELP! I see this as my new openess and ability to reach out to others when I am no longer able to cope by myself. I walked into the store and said "I am a forty year old woman who doesn't know what the hell I'm doing with my make up. Can I have some help? Or should I just get an estimate?"

And the twenty-something sales clerk was more than happy to make me up and let me know that I should NEVER wear frosted lipstick. (Note to self, empty out that drawer of frosted lipstick.)

Apparantly, I look best with almost no make up at all. Well, hot damn! That means I've been nearly doing something right for a good many years!

Another thing I did was allow my friend to not only give me a manicure


But also a pedicure.

Now, I have personally picked people's brains up off the sidewalk, (As a paramedic, not as an office person. Yet) but nothing wigs me out more than feet. I am not a fan of toe-cheese or frito-nails. My daughter knows how to push the very worst 'drive mom up the wall' button by simply laying opposite me on the sofa and putting her feet anywhere on my body.

But hey, this is the new me!

The me that wears make up AND nail polish.

At least until it starts chipping and I look like a $2.00 whore at a half off sale.

I got the chance to let this new "open" me fly even before I got down to the cities. Friday morning consisted of my daughter and I going in for our intake at the Mental Health Emporium and Feel Good Barn.

The intake consisted of us talking to the first licensed mental health specialist since the proverbial shit hit the fan two and a half months ago. We got to go seperately and she has us all set to talk to different people at the end of this month. Perhaps the funniest part,(or saddest, depending on your ability to laugh at trauma)came when she was asking all the golden questions. "Do you have trouble sleeping?" "Do you have trouble eating?" "Do you cry a lot?" "Do you want to hurt yourself?"

I answered yes to everything except the last one. I then proceeded to explain that I wasn't suicidal, but rather homicidal.

She raised an eyebrow and continued on with her questions: "Do you have scenarios planned for committing violence?"

Maybe it was the smile on my face or the way I clapped my hands and rubbed them together gleefully while describing scenarios 1 through 6. I was able to tell her how I knew that there were no metal detectors at the court house, that the court security officer looked like a wuss, and that although my aim would probably be poor, I wasn't too concerned with the fate of the lawyer either so I should be able to get a decent head shot on my STBX and if the lawyer got in the way, who really would fault me for that?

I then proceeded to talking about baseball bats and skulls so smashed in that there would be nothing above the shoulders but blood, brains, and a single unpopped eyeball.

After that, it was knives and a discussion of blood spatter patterns.

She then asked if I had access to firearms.

I told her I didn't.

But I had friends that did!

But then she asked what kept me from doing it.

My kids.

My kids deserve at least one parent that isn't incarcerated. They deserve at least one parent that realizes there are consequences to every action. They deserve at least one parent that recognizes what is acceptable and what isn't and reaches out for help when it's needed.

Thankfully, I don't have to wait for help until late March. I find it everyday in my friends.

And my four legged therapists.