But really, what else are you going to talk about in line at the liquor store? Childhood trauma seems like the natural choice, since it’s the reason why most of us are in line there to begin with.

Writing about my illness put me into places. It was very triggering. I had to completely remove myself and practice self-care. I learned to be patient.

I am the Wizard of Oz of housewives (in that I am both "Great and Terrible" and because I sometimes hide behind the curtains

I have trouble getting approvals from my heath insurance company for basic antidepressants. And I have the best plan my agency has. I can't get high off this stuff! I'm not going to sell it! Getting my medication is critical. It's me saying, "I just want to live." And their response seems to be, "We agree that it's a matter of life and death; that's why we're declining it." Every time I get a cold, I have Tylenol with codeine coming out the wazoo. But the medication I need to live? Nah.

YOU are using a frisbee as a plate." "Uh, what? I'm not using a--oh hang on, this is a frisbee. Weird." Victor glared at me. "Dude, calm down, I'll wash it afterward. It's probably dishwasher safe.

If you could hear the insane stuff going on in my head, it would scare the hell out of you. Probably. Or fascinate you. Depends on how easily you're startled, I guess.

The first thing I do when I come home is check the refrigerator for cats because I'm convinced that if one dies, my husband will hide it in there because I don't cook and so I won't see it. I do drink Cokes, though ,so technically he should hide the corpse in the oven. And now I need to start checking the oven.