Part of my daydreams and thought-processes involve scripts in my head. Movie-type scripts. I am always the central character, though I often mold and change into different personas, usually desirable ones. People in my life are the characters that I converse with and are part of the action. These made-up scripts revolve around me saying all the right things and having the upper-hand and proving a point. These scripts are also do-overs after conversations and social situations that didn’t go well.

The further along I progress on my path to healing and recovery, I wonder — is it normal to cast roles and scripts and have scenarios play out in your brain that always work in your favor? I’ve never really dissected the scripts in my head because “writing” them was commonplace. I guess it’s some sort of coping mechanism. Now that I am aware of it, I decided to write one of the scripts down and tinker with it.

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I started a post on Monday with the intention to come back to it, but instead I got plagued with a violet stomach bug. I wasn’t entirely recovered from the flu and, bam, I had a gruesome (and unwanted) total body cleanse throughout the night.

When I finally tried to get out of bed the next day, I felt like I had gotten run over by a semi-truck. I stumbled back to bed for the better part of the day trying to regain my senses.

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Victim, Survivor, PERSON

My last two post have been crazy, emotional, serious, all over the place, way-too-much-thinking kind of posts. I would apologize, but I won’t because I am a crazy, emotional, serious, all over the place, way-too-much-thinking kind of person.

The operative word being PERSON.

Yep, I am a person. Fighting the good fight in life. Trying to look for a little more laughter and a little less woe. Especially lately.

I feel a little bad trash-talking my Dad in my last post. But only a little. He can handle it, should I ever share those feelings with him.

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The old, the young, and the process

When I was in Florida last week, I visited one of my great-aunts, 87, in an assisted living facility. She’s the sister of my late grandmother. In all, there were eleven siblings in their family. Three sisters are still living, including the one I visited.

My great-aunt has alcohol dementia and is unable to live on her own. She’s sober and happy and lives in a gorgeous facility well-equipped with many creature comforts. When I saw her she looked just like I remembered her the last time I saw her, which was probably ten years ago.

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Defying stigmas about mental illness

When I walked into the house late last night the first thing my eyes honed in on were two pairs of kid-sized sneakers — a girl pair and a boy pair. I stood there in the dimly lit entryway, and I smiled as I thought about my two children sleeping upstairs.

Yesterday I did something out of my norm and drove two-and-a-half hours to Pittsburgh to attend a writing work-shop hosted by Creative Nonfiction magazine. The focus was on telling true stories about mental illness. In the past I would not have considered walking into a room filled with people who are openly admitting a connection to mental illness. Why would I ever want to put myself in that group of people? People with mental illnesses are crazy.

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