That is a direct quote from a lovely English couple I met on my 40th birthday at the Grand Ol Opry in Nashville, TN. I was there with some girlfriends, we’d had a long day of alcohols poisoning and one thing about Kellie, she can open right up to just about anybody – just add alcohol. Ask my gal pals, one vodka too many and my sad story is coming out whether you want to hear it or not. Do I want attention? Sympathy? Empathy? My drink to be paid for? Probably all of them. I don’t know. Maybe I just need to talk about it but am too afraid to talk about when I don’t have the alcohols to blame it on. Maybe I’m lonely and looking for a kindred spirit. Maybe alcohols just makes me nearly intolerable and a real pain in the ass. It is a depressant after all.

So there I was, sitting in a church pew, sharing a vodka drink with my besties, just trying to tell my tale to this couple (that had a tale of there own, I can assure you of that, but, alas, it is not my tale to tell) my woe is me, alcohol induced word vomit of sadness when he looks at me and says “fuck off with your sad stories” and she follows with “yeah, fuck off with your sad stories.” And I fell a little bit in love with both of them.

And they are not wrong, as my friends are not wrong every time they attempt to shut up my drunken, sad mouth. Nobody wants to hear that shit. Everybody has their trauma. Move on. I get it. And in the right environment, said with enough love and satire to make me not feel like a piece of shit, I appreciate it.

Like a broken record, here I am again, to repeat I WRITE BECAUSE IT HELPS ME (sorry for yelling, but I needed to say it louder for those in the back). I didn’t go to therapy for a really long time. Also, I’m not so good at the talking. When I sit down at the keyboard, my fingers can barely keep up with my stream of consciousness, all over the map, tangent galore, hamster spinning on a wheel, brain. But if you were sitting right in front of me, and I were sober, and we weren’t close, I would not word vomit any kind of feelings on you. That’s not my thing. I am who I am. If I were to open up to you, chances are most everything out of my mouth would be sarcastic, morbidly funny, and I would not be making eye contact if by some chance I happened to say something on the more realistic and serious side. And it would also be followed up with some self deprecating bullshit to try to fool you into believing that I am seriously the strongest, most bad ass woman on Earth, maybe in the universe.

I’m going on the defensive here, something I know I’m not supposed to do, but since I was knee high to a grasshopper, I’ve been one hell of a defender. Fuck, in high school basketball, all 5’2″ of me played center on defense. Because I am scrappy. I don’t give up. And I will protect what is mine. I knocked some large girls on their asses, my dad couldn’t have been prouder. Right now what I’m protecting is my own well being.

Anywho, my last blog was a homework assignment from my therapist. I am not an author. Hell, I’m not even a writer. I am a woman, navigating an unexpected life, raising 2 children and trying her best. I am also a real human being. With real feelings and emotions. While I joke all the time that I am dead inside, emotionless, all the annoying things I do, I actually am not. I can be hurt. And while my parents used to always preach “sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me”, that’s just not the case. I’m a sensitive little bitty. Always have been, probably always will be. Sure, the older I get, the thicker my skin gets, the easier I let things roll off my back, the more tolerance I have for bullshit because honestly I don’t have the energy to call every asshole I encounter on their bullshit. But my heart that is not exactly made of ice gets a little bit broken. (Side note – I’m not supposed to say “but” anymore. Clearly I’m still failing therapy).

I understand that expressing myself on the line (the inter webs for those that haven’t seen The Internship) is a real quick way to invite uninvited opinions and judgments into my life. However (just a fancy but), and for the quadrillionth time, my writing is for me. If it helps someone in a similar situation, that is amazing. I’m happy my word vomit can be there for you. If you do not relate to it, lucky you. If you find me annoying and whiney (I’ve never claimed not to be), just keep scrolling. There are parts of my life that are private, that I will always keep private but there are parts of me that need shouting and this is how I shout. This is another facet of my therapy, one I started on my own, one that I am pretty proud of. One that is ugly and sad just as much as it is beautiful and uplifting. It is mine. Sure, I share it, but It. Is. Mine. (It’s either this or get drunk on the regular so I can get any kind of real feelings out and apparently daily drunkeness is considered “alcoholism” and not altogether “healthy”.)

Fuck off with your opinion of me, it is none of my business.