I am nervous, excited, scared, happy, and sad all at the same time.

It’s fun being me.

I’ve been looking over a contract to possibly get my book published.  Suddenly I’m freaking out!  I’ll have three months to finish it once I’ve signed the contract.  

What if it sucks?  What if no one likes it?  What if…?
I need to calm down.  Breathe.  Maybe do some yoga?  Nah.
I am manic as hell today.  I took some energy pills, because yesterday I was in depression hell.  I figured today at least I’d get something accomplished.

I massage my temples, trying to get this manic headache to go away.  All I want to do is pace around the house. I need to sit down. But I can’t.  I need to do a lot of things.  But I can’t.  I can only use up this crazy energy, like the way I cleaned out my entire walk-in closet, switching all the clothes from winter to summer.  It took two days.  I haven’t slept.

I’m seeing my doctor soon to get my meds figured out…right now I’m a mess.  A better mess than I was yesterday, but still…
My thoughts are racing…I can’t keep up.  Deep breaths.  

Everything will be okay.

Everything will be okay.

Here is a sample of my book if you’re interested in reading it once it’s published:

That Night

Scratches covered my body. Blood ran in tiny rivulets from each scratch. My daughter had them, too. Bruises appeared in places on my body and I had no idea why, or how.  I couldn’t find my shirt…what time was it?

I made it home and fell into bed next to my husband, attempting to put the pieces together of the night before in a way that he would understand…that I would understand.

I didn’t understand.

I remembered the wine…the Ativan…more wine…more Ativan…it was raining outside.  I remembered the bathtub…

What happened?


After a two-day hangover, I started putting pieces together.

The alarm clock had startled us that morning.  Six a.m.

We were still drinking.

It was a Friday.  I had to drive home from my friends’ house with my children in the car.  I must’ve fallen into their rose bushes while holding my youngest daughter, which explains the scratches up and down our arms and legs.  Waves of guilt washed over me when I discovered this.  I was officially the worst mother alive.  I wanted to die.

I drove home completely blacked out.  I got there okay somehow, feeling as if I’d been hit by a train.  Yet I was still completely drunk.

The first thing I did was call my therapist to tell him what happened the night before.

I couldn’t stop sobbing.