Life Lessons

Life is a series of lessons that I’m not sure I want to continue taking.

I get it, life. I fucking get it!

Most people suck. Not only do they suck, but they also suck the life out of you.

Family is a word that implies a blood relation to someone. Family, for me anyway, doesn’t mean much of anything. I grew up with family surrounding me, but those people are all dead or have no interest in keeping in touch anymore. I’ve watched how much “family” means to my surviving kin and let me tell you, it means jack fucking shit.

My daughter and I are on our own now. My mom is gone, which marks the end of the glue stick.

Before anyone calls the funny farm to come and take me away, just stop a second.

Please. I am tired. Just so tired.

Tired of what humans do to each other, tired of pretending that I am alright, the fake smiles and laughter.

The sting of rejection and indifference.

That Selfish Bitch of a Daughter

My relationship with my mom was far from perfect.

I tend to repaint things with brighter colors, just like I did with my marriage, which was never a beautiful union of two souls who were in love. I wanted to believe that I was happy, but in reality, I was far from it. No, I was fucking miserable and trapped like a tiger in a cage.

But I didn’t want to come clean and throw away my fake canvas.

My mother suffered from anxiety and other fun mental health conditions that were never truly diagnosed and treated. Her generation didn’t talk of such things, which was probably why I was secretly shuffled off to therapists at an early age when my parents noticed I wasn’t quite right and didn’t fit in with the other kiddos.


After I had my own daughter, she micromanaged my life. I mostly followed her advice and opinions, although many times I would disregard what she told me. She wasn’t always right, of course. But if I said no, she’d tell me that I was being stupid.

I felt guilty for being depressed, anxious and suicidal, especially these last few years. I tried to keep it from her, because if I ever had a weak moment and said anything, she’d tell me that she was just too tired to deal with it anymore.

She made me cry in the ER the Saturday evening before she died that Monday morning. She practically growled at me after I had foolishly said that after they “fixed” her (we still thought at that time that she’d be alright) she needed to allow me to start visiting her.

“I like to be alone! That’s the way I like it!”

I ran from the room and my boyfriend followed me outside. Once I got myself calmed down, I went back and she looked at me curiously. My aunt whispered and said not to cry in front of her.

I was being that selfish bitch of a daughter again. I lowered my head, ashamed.

Why had she pushed me away while she was sick?

Why had she snarled at me?

I’m sickened with myself for feeling an odd sense of freedom and (still) relief that she’s gone on. But I miss her, love her and continue to wait for a phone call that’ll never happen.

I’m a jumbled up mess.

I’ve always been the black sheep of the family, but now I might as well order a T-shirt that says exactly that on Amazon.

There are moments when I wish I had never been born.

No More Pain

My mom passed away this morning. She’s no longer in pain and suffering.

I am numb mostly. Please, pray if you’re the praying type.

Exhausted by Life


Well then. It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything here. I almost forgot I had a 2nd blog that I created when I feel the need to stay on the down-low.

Which I do now.

Where to even start…there’s so much going on and all I really want to do is make a pillow fort to hide in.

I’ll just jump right into it, I suppose.

I’ve decided not to let the scared little 3 year old inside of me take over any longer. I’m facing my soon to be ex husband in court, the day after Mother’s Day, which is two weeks away. I did nothing wrong. He did the cheating and was heavy handed with his subtle abuse our entire 15 years together.

Why should I have to pay extra fines with money that I don’t have? I need to suck it up and just do it. I have a right to defend myself and just in case he thinks he has a right to half of my home, which he does not.

Since my mom is extremely ill, my aunt has offered to go with me for moral support.

I can do this. It’ll be difficult and I really hope that I don’t have a total panic attack or start crying.

Speaking of my mother, I don’t think she’ll make it much longer. She’s so miserable and I absolutely hate it. There isn’t anything that anyone can do. She’s seeing a surgeon this week about possibly getting a colonoscopy bag, if it would help her in any way, but I am doubtful that they’ll want to take a chance on a 74 year old woman with a bad heart and emphysema, who weighs less than 90 pounds.

On the good side (what’s that, Abbey?) of life, my 1 year anniversary with my boyfriend is coming up on June 3rd. It’s been a true life changer for me. I still have trust issues, mainly with being rejected once he finds out how fucked up I am, but I am sorting through all of that a day at a time. He treats me so well, I suppose that I’m still in shock most days.

That’s pretty fucking sad in its own way, isn’t it?

But back to the shitty end of the stick, I hate money. More importantly, I hate that I cannot work and make my own. I mean, I went to the grocery store on Saturday with my boyfriend and I used the zippy cart. Well, due to the continuing cold weather, internal stress and whatnot, it sent me into yet another fibro flare.

As much as I’d love to be healthy enough to work again, it ain’t gonna happen.

I try to keep my head above water, but I’m finding myself constantly sinking. I’ll probably have to sell my car to pay my house taxes.

I think that after my divorce is final, I’ll also be looking into possibly selling my home.

Poor people shouldn’t own a home.

I’m just really exhausted by life.


How about you?

God & Company

I believe in God. The Universe. My angels.

I feel my deceased father around me, even 32 years later. I talk to him periodically.

I have faith.

Ain’t no man or men that can change the shape my soul is in. – Avett Brothers

But I still have no idea what the fucking point of all of this is.


Why does my brain want me to self-destruct? The thoughts that percolate in there are dark sometimes, my virtual friends.

As my mom would say about me, I don’t handle stress well. This is true. What also is true, my entire family knows that I’m a bit off my wheel.

“Crazy Aunt Abbey.”

Yep. And honestly, as much as I hate to admit it, I am.

Might as well own up to that shit, am I right?

I pray to God & Company to assist me in this life, to help me to stick around and not swallow a cocktail of medications or hang myself from a nice oak tree in the park. I really don’t want to go, but fuck my brain when it starts going in that direction.

I am used to those thoughts, that I am weak and not worth much to anyone. It’s true that under stress, I crack like an old coffee mug. I’ve always been rather Eeyore-like, I hide it behind my sense of humor. I am not the only person who does that, it’s a survival tactic. It’s always worked for me, everybody loves a clown.

A sad clown, a fake-ass funny, happy fucking clown.

I pray with tearful eyes, please God, help me stay strong.

Help me stay alive.


Anonymity is pretty fucking neat.

Well, a few of you know who I really am. If you’d do me a solid and keep that knowledge to yourself, I’d be forever grateful.

But if you have no idea who I really am behind this crazed drawing of a woman handling sharp scissors, I’m a seasoned blogger with 6 years of experience. (Hire me for your next event!)

I recently decided to start over fresh as a completely different persona. But I’m still me.

Mind boggling, isn’t it?

When you have family and friends reading your writing…well, it makes it awkward sometimes. Like for example, how could I share that my Aunt Edna smells like fish-heads?

This clothespin fucking hurts.

I don’t have an Aunt Edna, but if I did, I’d have to keep that nugget all to myself, which would be a damned shame.

To get right to the truth of it, my cheating ex-husband played a large part in building my old blog and I started to become sickened by it. (As my name here suggests, I am not normal.)

I’d develop a panic attack when I went to start writing something. Not fun, not good and the more I thought about it, I realized that I had a legit phobia going the fuck on here.

Blogophobia, I suppose.

But now being anonymous, it gives me the freedom to write about whatever the hell I want to without any filters. Now I see why there are so many bloggers who decide to go incognito.

Until next time, remember, don’t be an asshole.

Abbey  11/25/18

All About Abbey

I do not condone running with scissors.

I’m in my mid 40’s because time keeps on slipping into the future.

I am disabled, live with my adult (sort of) daughter and my two dogs. I’m still technically married to a cheating fuck, although we have been separated for close to a full year.

I’m a suicide and domestic abuse survivor, twice over by nasty men with whom hopefully karma will catch up with. Now I am trying to start my life over again, this time on my terms and awake as fuck, like the kids say nowadays.

This blog is a part of my healing, but if I happen to gather some kindred spirits, that would be pretty cool.

Abbey Normal 11/01/2018

There’s a woman screaming in my neighborhood, so come read my blog!


Starting this blog is incredibly necessary for the continuation of my healing from a lifetime of traumas that continue like fucking hell on toast to hold me back from living my best life.

Wow, that does look like a real sentence…damn, Abbey.

Not bad.

Within this space I will lay down, with sincerity and truth, all of my worst memories.

It might come in spurts or like an avalanche, I cannot promise you a post a day, also not in chronological order. I can however promise to be real.

We are made from our past, slowly molding into the people that we are right at this moment. If you hadn’t met that one person and gone to that party, or had that emotional gutter punch to an already upset stomach that aches day and night.

My mother cannot shit. I mean this sincerely. This issue has plagued her for going on 5 years and she’s slowly starving to death. She tries so hard, my God she tries, I am suffering watching her weaken before my eyes and holy fuck she’s going to die pretty soon and all of us who love her has to watch.

Does anyone else feel this way, or like me, afraid to bring it up least we all face the music?

People are afraid of the truth.

I need a safe place…cause I have a bunch and they are screaming at me.

Abbey Normal 10/31/2018

I’m Abby & I’m Not Normal


It’s that sound of my roommate snoring that makes me want to take my pillow and push it up against her innocently sleeping face, but I don’t move from my perch on my own cheap mattress pad. If being locked up in a modern-day asylum for the crazies is beyond dreadful, imagine how bad being put away in a woman’s only prison for murder would be.

I just stare at the ceiling, listening to her nose whistling, in and out, my eyes closed. The smell of her is pungent and is almost comforting in a sick way, but then again, I am sick.

I shouldn’t be so cruel to the poor woman, she’s more alone in this world than even I am, but I just cannot find any empathy for her. She follows me around the place like a scared puppy dog and instead of allowing her the refuge that my kindness would give her, instead I scowl and give her looks of evilness.

Leave me the mother fuck alone, you nutcase bitch!!!

I am also a nutcase bitch and I have nothing left for anyone, especially not you.

My beloved, the man who I’ve put all of my love into for years, has betrayed me. I want to tell everyone inside this dank building, where the food is tasteless and the hours crawl by slower than the baby ants carrying cracker crumbs back from the Sunday church picnic.

Listen, I know that he doesn’t love me anymore, that he doesn’t want me! I have driven him away with my mental illnesses, by my not being a normal girl, not giving him enough blow-jobs and letting him cum on my titties! As we speak, he’s out there fucking another woman, I just know it.

I don’t have proof, but I know that something inside of him has switched from caring about what happens to Abby to only caring about his cock.

I swallow back my tears and take my medications like the good little puppet that I am. If I lose my sanity in this God forsaken place, they’ll keep me in here forever. I smile falsely when the shrinks ask me how I’m feeling. Oh, just fine doctor, I am feeling as stable and as normal as I can given that my entire life is going to fucking hell in the same garbage can where I vomited up all of those pills.

I failed at killing myself, they let me down just like my old man has.

The newest resident of the crazy-barn wants me to braid her dirty, disgusting hair and since she seems the type that would kick my ass if I didn’t follow her orders, I comply without complaint.

It’s like opening my mouth when a man wants me to suck him off.

Her nasty brown hair feels like grease and smells like open ass, but I braid the holy fuck out of it because if I don’t, she’ll become my enemy. Life in the mental ward is difficult enough as it is, so I really don’t want to piss off the alpha female.

“Nice job, although it could be a little tighter, she says. The other ladies of the manor are staring at me, waiting for my response.

A bit of my inner angry bitch sneaks out.

Hey, I say, I told you that I wasn’t all that great at doing hair.

She laughs and looks away. I silently berate myself for being so careless with my attitude, but the c-rag inside is quite pleased.

You’re going to miss lunch, I hear the nurse tell me from the doorway of my sparse accommodations.

I’m not hungry, I mutter back from under my blanket. Your food is just awful.

She makes a disapproving sound with her tongue and walks away, logging it into her little notebook.

If I keep losing weight, maybe my man gone astray will change his mind and love me again.

If I really desired, I could hook-up with the male night nurse. I can tell that he’s interested by the way he looks at me when he gives me my pills at 2 in the morning.

I don’t pursue it, although I regret that decision now.




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