They say that there is no love like a mother’s love. That a person doesn’t know how much love and devotion they can possibly feel until they have children of their own. For some, I suppose that’s true. For me, it doesn’t work that way. It’s just that I once loved someone so much that they took some of my love away forever: My mother.
Okay, guys. Chill the fuck down. The thing is, all over the world, it has been proven that this does not have to be a binary argument. Here’s an angry rant I left on a Facebook Comment, but I think needs a LOT more attention. Hate me as you will. News flash: the government
My childhood trauma sometimes triggers a cycle of events that leave me in a no-man’s-land of helplessness.
In case you can’t see, Terminally Intelligent is having its website rebuilt. I’ll be back soon, but please don’t hate on the page if it’s not the kind of pretty you’re hoping for. Chances are, it’ll change as the design is implemented. For now, enjoy a cute picture!
If you’ve lived anywhere other than under a rock, you’ve likely heard horror stories of folks with Bipolar Disorder. Thankfully, they aren’t all true for everyone, and many are exaggerated.
So, unexpectedly, I had a calm Christmas. Yes, I had nightmares. Yes, I’ve been depressed. But those symptoms are predictable, and I can mentally prepare myself ahead of time. I can keep my care team (read: wife and medical professionals) in the loop, and keep everything in context. Nothing major or disruptive, just depression and
I’ve been quiet a lot this month, and I’m sorry to anyone who has missed me, or worried. I just have a hard time being 100% myself in the winter, and my energy all goes to my kids and Jenny, because they are most important. Happy Christmas to you all, by the way. I know
I’ve always had a hard time putting the symptoms of my depression into words in a way that I can share, and quantify in some way, how my depression affects my day-to-day. During my latest wave of depression, I noticed my work was going much slower, and that I was spending more time working than normal. So
I moved to Arkansas when I was 12. My mother had fallen in with the most abusive man I’ve known (which is quite the damned feat, I tell you what). We didn’t say goodbye to our friends. We didn’t have a going-away party. Our family just woke one day to find that we were suddenly
Today I got to see some of George’s family. His sister and her family were here visiting George’s mom. Jenny and I swung over to say hi before they left town again, and to see the new addition. George’s mom and step-dad had a beautiful Sycamore planted in his honor on their terrace. (Pictured above)