Because this is just for me, I can talk about things.

It’s hard to understand how other people decide they can craft how you tell your own story. How you showcase them, their actions, their mistakes, their behavior towards you. But they do. And I don’t really feel like trying to explain why, how, when, and what I’ve said about anyone to anyone.

Not that I talk a lot about anyone other than this household. Who else really matters?

I’ve noticed that I’m the family member that the others ‘pose’ around. My sister hides the ugly parts of her life from me. My brother hides his drug use. My oldest brother doesn’t talk to me much in general unless he needs something. And, as much as it irritates me, I’ve pretty much taken to cutting them out of my decisions and nuances. I move forward without wondering what they would think, how they would react. I wonder more about what old friends would think than I do them, and I don’t talk to anyone outside of this house, really.

It’s a bad turn of events but it’s honest. Families grow apart. It’s all in the building, especially when you’re trying to make a new one. When you’re trying to solidify a new one.

I want a house.

That bug is back and biting, viciously, scrapping its teeth along my nerves. I want something for us to build upon. Me and the three sirs. I want to be able to really say

Let’s go home.


We’re okay.

… … …

The small act of watching a show with Wuff, his hands rubbing my feet, puts me in a very good place. My nihilism dies down a bit. My mouth doesn’t feel so full of dry wit and violent sarcasm. Even my physical pains ease up a bit, leaving me free to actually laugh and enjoy our time together. We’re watching Atlanta (excellent work, Mr. Glover) and I’m able to do so without being a nervous wreck. I’ve been a nervous wreck lately, we’ve all realized.


Still Beautiful, Still Growing

Going on and on

This is new. I’m in a beautiful mood, in a gorgeous state of mind. The PMDD has subsided for the month. My bank account is at a steady ZERO but I get paid tomorrow, then again on Monday. After bills I’ll have a little left for myself and my family and we’ll relax, like we do.

We always relax.

If there’s one thing I’m definitely giving to my kids it’s the love of relaxation. Of video games and creativity. The love of hearing narrators, watching people tick, and avoiding too much exercise. They exist in their rooms, with my classic love of solitude, watching what they watch. While I watch what I watch.

House of Cards (season 2) tonight.

It’s interesting to think about my life. I’ve always been a watcher. For a while, I was a walker. I loved walking and experiencing the world from various point of views, but I rarely thought about escape unless I was depressed.

Same, honestly.

I think, sometimes, that I will never get that nomad bug. I like being still. Sometimes I want to go to another place and be still, but it’s usually in the interest of finding somewhere that will hold me for life. I am less Samurai Champloo, more Me-teru No Kimochi. I like the idea of being inside a beautiful home, deep in the woods and hard to access, and living out my years.

It’s my dream, now. Write. Love. Sink into reclusiveness.

But, eh. I only have six minutes left in this 2nd episode of House of Cards and then I think I’ll move on to manga.

One thing about us Briggs’…

We relax.


I have a system.

My anger fits nicely into that system because, usually, I get over things quickly. Embarrassment? Not so much. But my bouts and fits of rage usually start to dissipate almost immediately after they start, and then I’m back to sarcasm. I’m back to my obnoxious laugh and shrugs.

As I accomplish things, and I have (no matter what I tell myself in the morning, I have my old journals to prove it), this system is breaking down. Or maybe it’s the age. 28 has probably been the most relaxed, most accomplished, most mundane year of my life. And somehow it is turning my brain into absolute mush.

Someone honked at me this morning. I told them to shut the fuck up. I drove slowly to irritate them. I seethed at this honk the entire way to The Young Sir’s school, then the entire way back, then into my house. I let it go at the door when I realized how stupid it was, but why the fuck did it sit with me so long in the first place.

28. Year of the whine.

Though it could honestly be the driving. There’s nothing worse than driving anytime other than 2am – 5am. Nothing. fucking. worse. I can’t even comprehend why this is a truth, but it fucking is. I find myself heated with rage and near death incidences at least twice a day.

28. Year of the groan.

Maybe it’s relationship issues? Those have come to a head in a way, though they’re going back and forth. We’re working things out, then not, then working those new things out. It’s something that’s been growing heavy between Wuff and I for centuries but we’re finally talking about it and trying to meld back together. We’re trying to make a connection kinda like what we had way back when in apartment 1212 of The Darlington, downtown Atl living, but with more openness and a whole lot less vicious arguments.

Our arguments aren’t exactly docile but they’re nothing like the door Wuff broke back then. Nothing like the scratches I’d leave on him.

28. Year of the EH.

Who knows what’s changed. People get older. I’ll die someday. Everyone in this house and out of it will. I want to enjoy my time without spending too much thought on lengthening my time, if that makes sense. Feel good. Accomplish goal. Be a fucking LEGEND in my own head. Keep going.

28. Year of the angry wince.

We’re getting somewhere.


Tell me, in simple terms, how it is that I find myself disappointed in an endlessly disappointing person.

It doesn’t make much sense. Not anymore, at least. Disappointment is not supposed to be so frequent and it’s definitely not supposed to be unsurprising. I don’t usually SET OUT to be disappointed, to sigh with great effort, to press my lips together and widen my eyes.

Like, yeah. Of course.

A person who is this disappointing is a lost cause, right? So you’d think. And yet I keep waking up with a stupid smile and stars in my eyes and a face that says


and it’s disgusting. It’s getting harder to keep that smile on my face, though. It’s getting harder, almost impossible, to utter those words and nod my head and just go. It’s getting harder to explain to disappointment WHY it’s disappointing, to take all the blame, to second guess myself over and over annnnnnnd…

You get it, I’m sure.

So we’ll see what happens as my hope and care and love erodes, slowly. This PMDD is not helping me hold on. It makes everything sit under a magnifying glass. It pokes me in the face, it screams, it tears at my skin. THIS BOTHERS YOU, ACTUALLY, SO YELL. THIS HURTS YOU SO CRY, RIGHT NOW. And I’m realizing that my PMDD reactions are not from nowhere – they’re the things I’m not reacting to normally. Hormones don’t play, apparently.


… … …


Dude Ranch and I got up early and got washed and dressed. The Young Sir was up, of course, and we dropped him off at school. Immediately after, we drove to the track and walked. There were only two other people out there, obviously regulars, and that pre-8am air was nice and warm (not hot, not sweltering, not boiling). We managed to walk around twice and then play in the brand new playground. They actually built a handicapped swing, fina-fucking-ly, so Urijah got to swing without worry. It was beautiful. His face lit up, his laugh was thick and honest. We have a new routine.

When we got home, I cleaned a bit. I’m trying. I want to get up and do these things. I cleaned and then we did our homeschool thing (counting today) and we did a good fucking job. We managed to get all the way to 100, writing up to 10, and we used the abacus the entire time. I think I’ll stick with math the entire week and then switch to writing/reading next week. We’ll get the potty training in there sometime.

I guess it’s not really potty training anymore. Toilet training. But he’ll get it.

Before I had the talk, I felt honest. Simple. Happy. The only time I felt tired today was when we got in the car to take Wuff to get the money he needlessly borrowed from his Grandmother.

Let him.


I think finally getting over wanting to believe in someone is a good thing. It leads to walks in the morning and less sighing and focusing on the abacus. It leads to setting a schedule and finally getting that backed up work done. It leads to jasmine tea instead of coffee. Oatmeal. Music.


It leads to something other than disappointment. At least, other than the same unsurprising kind.


PMDD is Irritating

You are not who you think you are, Trey. Not today.

That’s the focus of my adult life right now. In the mornings, I wake up with all this purpose jammed straight up my ass, keeping me moving, making me useful. I wander about this house, listening to music in one room, working in the other, having no general space to just sit and be. I struggle to homeschool Urijah (I’ve realized by now that he learns when he’s ready and never before. I doubt it’s the autism – seems to be a stubborn Briggs thing, really). Rajesh is taken to school on weekdays, left to his own devices on weekends. Wuff sleeps until probably 2pm or 3pm or sometimes even later and I leave him to it. It works. We work.

A week comes and suddenly life is under water. My chest is being violently, slowly crushed. That sinking feeling when you’re embarrassed, when some bitch laughs at the way your eyebrows jump when you eat, it’s on permanent mode. I’m exhausted. I can’t move. In the mornings it takes almost three cups of coffee to get me to Rajesh’s school and our usually witty/sarcastic conversations are all ice and edge. Wuff is visibly confused, frustrated, and doesn’t understand what he did wrong. Urijah avoids me altogether.

And then there’s a notification on my phone. PMS IS COMING.

Duh.Fucking DUH.

It’s like I am walking straight into the ocean, fighting the waves. Every step brings tears. Every step brings teeth gritting sharp anger, baths me in absolute anguish. I am a growing teenager again and nothing makes sense and everything hurts.

American Horror Story: PMDD

It’s irritating. It’s debilitating. It’s crippling. Other words, other words, other words.


I haven’t had a personal blog in quite some time. Everything has been boiled and dulled down to work writing. Even my fiction sits untouched and unloved on my desktop. But this PMDD phase of my life is really ripping into my ability to be a coherent person. So I figured a personal blog could pull me out of that ocean a bit. Even if these posts just end up being jagged pieces. I’m not writing to please an audience.



I’m genuinely interested in seeing if my relationship, my personality, and my mind will survive this crap. The trip to the hospital last night, frantic with worry about myself and uncontrollable rage, proved one thing to me: Never talk to a doctor about actual problems. I’ve never had anyone try to have me commited before, especially not for something as vague as ‘depressive thoughts’. Especially not something as small as:

“Are you having any harmful thoughts?”

“Kinda. Just feeling bad, nothing serious.”

“Do you have a plan to kill yourself?”

“Huh? No, I’m awesome.” 

I guess any admission of being depressed is enough for a call to security. The look on the woman’s face when my trademark friendliness died away and I scathingly informed her why I wanted someone else to talk to was satisfying. But I still learned a lesson I won’t soon forget. When the next doctor came in, I answered in a series of ‘fines’ and ‘not even stressed’.

And people really wonder about the mental health situation, how we can help, what we can do. Listen?

EH. Anyway.


This was a garbage first post but eh, I love it. It felt good. This blog is going to be like a magic painting that holds all my irritations and muddled thoughts.

What a dump.