Mental Health: Moving. Improving?

Please know before I get on Bummed Out Bailey to write I always prioritize working with my family and psychiatrist to stabilize myself. I wouldn’t be on here if I hadn’t first confirmed my safety.


TW: suicidal ideation

For the first time in two and a half years, Rick and I have our own place. We began moving today, and now officially reside in an ocean of boxes. We had to order a mattress (trying out Nectar cause they have a sweet ass 365 day trial) and it’s not yet arrived, so after bidding dramatic fare thee well to my in-laws, we came back out to their house on Long Island for the night. Ha. The goldens are here, the familiarity of my in-laws are here, and I know where the glasses are. I can’t say any of those things about the new place on the Upper West Side. After so anxiously awaiting this day and losing sleep over the excitement and stress of the move, we delighted in the new space for the day and then dipped out back to the comfort zone (and existence of a bed to sleep in). I feel like I’m gonna fall over, but in a good way. So, now I sip a well earned cocktail and write.

Of all days, I got a call from a potential new client and did a consult for Tidy B Organizing today, too. Phew. Once Rick and I are settled in, I will buckle down on my thesis w my eye on graduation in May.

This post is a little too pie in the sky for me, so let me bring it down a notch!

I’m gonna say something terrible (and triggering to some), and that is that, more times than not, I believe at some point in time I will lose my battle to mental illness. I’m not experiencing ideation, and I don’t have some kind of plan to employ, I just think it’s important to admit to it in case anyone else out there has a ping of “me too” from the dark recesses of their mind. I bring this up because, in therapy Monday night, I told both Rick and the therapist this truth about me. I’ve got dramatic dips and intoxicating highs, times when I actually think to myself I’m so glad I’m still here. I’m so glad I didn’t die in 2008 when I last wanted to most. I have important writings to offer. I have worthwhile things to say and kindness to spread and companionship to give to so many. And then, there’s the counterweight thoughts I’ve talked about many times before. This is my life. This is it, being at the mercy of this up and down, and I can’t take it anymore. I can’t do this forever. Maybe I can make it through this time, but I can’t do this forever. I think about my friend K who died by suicide in September every single day. I imagine her in some kind of business casual get up with ballet flats getting her running start, and I feel a companionship.

It’s so weird to feel a sisterhood in suicide. Joan Didion says that we as people are always looking “for the sermon in suicide” and I just don’t think it’s that deep. It’s an imbalance, a recurring, level ten pain, a self hatred that finally turns to numbness and then to action, because there’s nothing else left. This arc crystallizes in my mind, a piece of realism in the far distance, even when I’m experiencing good times like moving into a perfect tiny apartment w my husband half a block from Central Park. You can have all of the coziness and the comfort of being surrounded by your curated curiosities (golly that alliteration was HORRIFIC and obnoxious, sorry) you delight in, surrounding yourself with and books and books and books and still see the speck in the distance: a truth, a possibility, a place where my mind is able to go, firm and unmoving. Insoluble. The direction my life could take isn’t even scary to me anymore, cause it’s like that thing of touching a bruise to still see if it hurts. It’s still there, but you’re kinda used to it. It’s a blemish that won’t fade. Does it enrich my life somehow? I cant tell. I think Mozart said that the unexamined life is for dweebs. Maybe that was Hawking. Such poignancy should be properly credited.

I am exhausted, like fell asleep in the passenger seat of the car on the way home like a toddler exhausted, so hopefully my words aren’t alarming or weirding anyone out too much today. A little bit of weird is good though. It’s the essence of me.

Ever Yours in Cringe-Worthy Truths,

Bailey

p.s. I know my posts are always a bummer. It is my self-deprecating moniker, after all. But, I hope to start showing some joyful glimpses of the magical life I’m privileged to live on here soon. Rick is a hoot and a half to observe on the web, or so I hear. In the meantime, check out my Rick highlight on my gram, linked at bottom of this page, for more.

Written Tuesday, March 3, 2020.


Wednesday posts cover something that’s top of mind for me that week and are written in a short period of time. This means that editing is not strong. While it’s not my best work, it is my best, unfiltered thought.

More on Bummed Out Bailey:
Mental Health: Valentine’s Posts Are a No From Me Dog
Mental Health: The Social Toll of Invisible Illness
Mental Health: Tired of Me


Do you love Bummed Out Bailey? Want to help keep it going? Support me on my Patreon. Your contribution means more to me than you’ll ever know!

To subscribe to Bummed Out Bailey by email, scroll all the way down to the bottom of the website and enter your info into the form. I can also be found on InstagramFacebook, and Twitter!

If you or someone you know needs help right now, please call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

Mental Health: In Motion

There was a time in my life when I only felt peace in transit. Unless I was drunk or asleep, I was always desperate to leave everywhere. I relished in being alone in my car, driving to community college while ripping cigarettes and blaring The Smiths, as if Morrissey certified my sadness. But, as soon as I pulled into a parking space, I’d choke on the new stagnation. It was as if no longer being in physical motion meant all that was left was for me to sit and be. Intolerable.

Day after day I arrived at school and was unable to go into class. I’d sit outside on a bench and chain smoke. No lessons learned, no feelings felt, just 20 oz tumblers of coffee sipped and Cam’ron CDs from the library checked out. Killa.

I wanted to die.

“Hey, what’s up?” An acquaintance from class asked in passing, walking out at the end of class. He chuckled and shook his head, having seen me outside of class, never in, week after week. I gave him a close-lipped smile before blowing out a cloud of smoke, eyes averting. I was wondering who’d buy me 40s that night. Twenty-one couldn’t come soon enough.

When I wasn’t moving, drunk, or asleep, I’d lose myself in meticulous, meaningless systems. Long before Spotify, I arranged my music library (composed of CDs illegally burned from the school’s music library) from least played songs to most, prioritizing the play of, out of thousands, the songs I hadn’t heard yet. The songs burned longest ago that I still hadn’t heard yet played first. Top priority. I read Vogue, W, and Newsweek cover to cover, even the articles I didn’t want to read. Especially the articles I didn’t want to read. I didn’t care about an obscure bread shop in France opening an outpost in the Mission in San Francisco, but my eyes rolled over the words, anyway. Some kinda masochistic rite, I guess. The magazines made up a neat stack in the order in which they arrived in the mail, newest on top. The magazine on the bottom of the stack was the next batter up to replace its now water-ringed, crumpled predecessor. I’d toss the old one into the recycle bin. It felt good to throw things away.

There was no solace in these rituals, just something to do. Just, something.

Whenever nothing matters, your health doesn’t matter. Education doesn’t matter. Relationships don’t matter. Cigarette burns in my car upholstery didn’t matter. I didn’t matter.

I called my dad crying from school, cut off all my hair, dropped out, worked at a restaurant in a “school girl” outfit, threw up in the morning’s unforgiving light, drove through Taco Bell, wore t-shirts as dresses and house shoes as shoes, updated my MySpace page, double-pierced my ears, carelessly drove drunk next to cops, coveted dudes who didn’t shower, dressed up as Baz Luhrmann’s Juliet for Halloween, took a backpack everywhere I went, looking like someone on the move.

I went through motions, okay so long as I was in motion.

if you be not of the house of Montague, come and crush a cup of [Shiner Bock]

More on Bummed Out Baker:
Finding the Glow
Mental Illness and Motherhood
Mental Health: My Lowest Point in Eleven Years

Wednesday posts cover something that’s top of mind for me that week and are written in a short period of time. This means that editing is not strong. While it’s not my best work, it is my best, unfiltered thought.


Do you love Bummed Out Baker? Want to help keep it going? Support here. I want to give a huge thank you to “L” ;) and René Harding, my new supporters on Patreon. Your contribution means more than you’ll ever know.

To subscribe to Bummed Out Baker by email, scroll all the way down to the bottom of the website to find the form. Follow Instagram for behind-the-scenes panic attacks and my begrudging, meat-eating husband captured in the wild, Facebook for mental health articles and discussion, and Twitter for sassy or informative tweets.

If you or someone you know needs help right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

Mental Health: The Stockpile of Gratitude

If living with mental illness is a struggle for you today, I have a piece of positivity to offer.

On my good days I find a stockpile of gratitude waiting for me because I know how dark things can get. I was just there, after all. While I wouldn’t wish having those dark thoughts on anyone, the payback of them is rich. When I come out of a dark headspace, it’s like the black and white to technicolor transition in the Wizard of Oz. When things are bad, and then they’re suddenly not, I find myself with a hyper-awareness of good.

While constantly considering my mortality is exhausting, it also manifests in all kinds of ways. I’m grateful for my physical mobility. I find myself with a wealth of mercy for people acting in any undesirable way, because life is short I have no idea what they’re going through. I feel fortunate to have such comforting, sweet-tempered golden retrievers, because dogs are an expensive luxury. I admire all the people who’ve shown me grace, supported me, taught me things, and have loved me when I wasn’t very lovable. I think about how grateful I am for a comfy bed and a safe, quiet place for me to sleep in peace.

When I’m mentally gridlocked, thinking of these things is like pushing on a button that doesn’t work. I’m numb. If that sounds like you, just know that when you emerge from the other side, and you will, you’ll have the stockpile.

It may not seem like much, but us mentally ill folk have got to stick together and take what we can get! And we get the stockpile.


Whenever I get a song stuck in my head I start to list the things I’m grateful for instead and it always does the trick to get the song out. With that being said…

Fun fact! Did you know that “Bug A Boo” by Destiny’s Child, a song in regards to an overbearing romantic interest, can also be applied to mental illness?

You make me wanna throw my pager out the window 
Tell MCI to cut the phone calls 
Break my lease so I can move 
Cause you a bug a boo, a bug a boo 
I wanna put your number on the call block 
Have AOL make my email stop 
Cause you a bug a boo 
You buggin’ what? You buggin’ who? You buggin’ me! 
And don’t you see it ain’t cool

“Bug A Boo” by Destiny’s Child

I would say “you’re welcome”, but the true accolades go to Kandi Burruss for her multi-faceted lyricism.

Related on Bummed Out Baker:
Mental Health: Communicating Mental Unrest
The Uncertainty of Mental Illness
Mental Health: Saying No in the Spirit of Self-Care


To subscribe to Bummed Out Baker and get my mental health musings and recipes emailed to you directly, scroll all the way down to the bottom of the website – Follow on Instagram for behind-the-scenes panic attacks and my begrudging, meat-eating husband captured in the wild – Follow on Facebook for mental health articles and discussion – Follow on Twitter for sassy tweets and a sprinkle of nonsense.

If you or someone you know needs help right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

Mental Health: Mourning the Living

This post has been removed in order to submit to publications, but can be accessed behind a small paywall on my Patreon. Your contribution means more than you’ll ever know.


Writing this post felt like flipping over a hard shell and exposing a big, soft belly to figurative daggers. For me, this is the essence of vulnerability. No matter how hard I work on this piece, how many times I revise and rework it, it’s still coming out emotionally discombobulated and, at times, confusing, which I suppose is a poetic parallel to the complexity of my and Alex’s relationship.

Something has happened to me, and I’m still feeling tidal waves of emotion like a meteorite landing in the ocean. My psychiatrist and I have made the provocative decision that, aside from edited events with my family, I need to distance myself from unnecessary engagements until this book about Alex fully emerges from my head. Unfortunately, it’s not a project I can turn on and off between birthday parties and happy hours with friends, but this is a story that needs to be told. It’s hard-earned content that needs to be exorcised for both the sake of my mental health and that of my relationships. It’s not fair to anyone, especially Rick, to drag this out any further. Also, Alex deserves it. What’s that saying? Something like you can’t go around it or over it, you just have to go through it? Well, I’m going through it.

The last time I saw Alex in person he said, “I hope you write my story.”

I’m on it, Ally.


Writing through PTSD helps me name my feelings and heal, and I encourage you to share Bummed Out Baker with anyone you think may find it helpful or relatable. I put days and days of work into it for that very reason, to create community and conversation around what are often painful topics.

Subscribe at the bottom of Bummed Out Baker to get my mental health musings and recipes emailed to you directly – Follow on Facebook for mental health articles and discussion – Follow on Instagram for behind-the-scenes panic attacks and my begrudging, meat-eating husband captured in the wild.

If you or someone you know needs help right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

Mental Health: My Lowest Point in Eleven Years

On Thursday I experienced some kind of psychotic episode that concluded with the strongest suicidal ideation I’ve experienced in eleven years. I’m working with my psychiatrist and family to address what happened to me and how to move forward. I’m still reeling from the episode and am physically, emotionally, and mentally weak. When I’m able to, I have every intention to share the details of that day. But right now…

I’m walking the walk.