Dear Vincent, It is the new moon, and I'm pretty sure I'm ovulating

Dear Vincent,

It is the new moon, and I’m pretty sure I’m ovulating.

They say the smell of burning is a sign you’re having a stroke, but it can also be a sign of poor stove top and/or toaster hygiene. Death is certain, its time is uncertain, why do I still eat beans? And why did I text the Married Man on Mother’s Day?

Because every sad Married Man needs a darling Happy Mother’s Day from a long ago, faraway, once upon a time fuck who continues to love him in a narcissistic and compartmentalized way.

Married Man has the same old Failed Oprah Project, Dying of Loneliness, Ridiculously Crazy Busy Angst as usual.

This weekend I was not Ridiculously Crazy Busy, and I remedied my Failed Oprah Project and my Dying of Loneliness Angst by sorting out the highly amateur chaos of my junk drawer and my wine box, which tends to hold mail from the government, and ADHD checklists, and letters from my ten-year-old pen pal who has autism, and bars of soap from my tiny mother who does not know that I find the way bar soap melts on the side of the sink or the bathtub to be rather and deeply upsetting. And I recycled the abnormal psychology text book which I found in a plastic bag that was getting wet in front of a dumpster on my way home from dropping off my tiny mother at the train station. And I cleaned my fridge and freezer that contain about seven food items, plus ketchup, and I wiped down the shelf that hold my empty coconut oil jars, and emptied the crumbs of my toaster that would and will throw up bread forever, even though I always forget to buy bread and only tend to eat it every six to nine and half days. 

I consoled the Married Man with the theory that everyone in their thirties is alone every Saturday night, sorting their Mason Jars and watching Youtube videos about attachment trauma and dentist-free dental hygiene. 

Re: The Mason Jars, My relatively famous sister is a case in point.

Sentences that start with Everyone are so easy, and kind of my favourite

The Youtube video about dentist-free dental hygiene was a bit of a slog, but I did end up making homemade toothpaste, alone on a Sunday evening. I poured the toothpaste into a jar, and it looked like a moist and chunky brown stool sample. Putting the toothpaste into my mouth reminds me a little bit of cookie dough, and also the questionable mixtures my sister and I used to put together out of everything we could find in the kitchen and the bathroom, and we’d call it a potion and serve it to each other in a mug, and say, “if you loved me, you’d eat this.” My homemade brown stool sample toothpaste tasted like our childhood potions, but minus the orange juice.

As I child, I feel I had more access to orange juice than any other food source. Now I feel totally at peace with the thought of never drinking orange juice, ever again.

 

Stool Sample Toothpaste + Sister and Me at the Height of Our Potion Making and Exceptional Fashion Sense Era.

The Married Man did not ask me how I made the toothpaste. If anyone is wondering, I made it out of clay, and diatomaceous earth, which is the hippie’s defence against bed bugs, plus a few other things I could find in the kitchen, and this did not include orange juice.

The last thing I texted the Married Man was, I don’t see how what I just made is actually toothpaste.

I feel this is a reasonable ending.

Happy New Moon!

Love, Erica.

Do not die of Loneliness! Me and Imaginary Vincent would love to hear from you! Send your letters to the secret address, ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

Do not die of loneliness!


Follow Erica J. Schmidt on Facebook

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Instagram: @deepcleanswitherica


The Magical Rock Vagina Cleanse


Dear Vincent, 
It used to be that the last time I felt home was in a tiny blue penthouse apartment in Mysore, India on the 10th avenue of the 3rd stage of a neighbourhood called Gokulam in November of 2014.


Dear Vincent, When I get really upset, I need to be seen, heard, felt and loved by someone whose dick has been inside of me. Or else you.


Dear Vincent, Looks like you got some sun.

Dear Vincent, It is Mental Health Awareness Week and now I am going on 33 years old and just about two decades striving to earn my Mental Health Certificate, or, even better, my Mental Health Prize

Dear Vincent,

It is Mental Health Awareness Week and now I am going on 33 years old and just about two decades striving to earn my Mental Health Certificate, or, even better, my Mental Health Prize. Some might say these perpetual and frequently neurotic efforts have made me far too obsessed with myself and quite frequently, I would tend to agree. And then every once in a while I think, well and oh well, all this had made me a reasonably eccentric and vaguely lovable and fascinating creature with very Shiny Chrome and almost impeccably clean windows, and liberating fashion sense, and an interesting sentence every once in a while. 

These days I am thinking about how if you are suicidal or deemed psychiatrically at risk, you are more or less stripped of your human rights and thrown into a room all by yourself for 72 hours, often restrained. I doubt this is very helpful at all. In fact, I think it is terrible. 

And I am not really sure about Borderline Personality Disorder. I kind of think that Borderline Personality Disorder is like the irritable bowel syndrome of psychiatry. When I eat too many carrots, I get diarrhea, and this does not mean there is anything particularly disorderly about either me or my bowels. Something similar happens with too many grapes, or spoonfuls of coconut cream, and chocolate covered almonds, and all of the legumes. I won't say anything else about this except that, I have a saying that goes, Clap Loud If You Believe in Borderline Personality Disorder. The correct response is, a whole bunch of devastating dad jokes. 

The other thing I feel very aware of is that everything can change in a flash and though you might have all the champion strategies and an excellent network in place, life might still unravel rather tragically.

On Tuesday, as I sat in a park, I saw three kids playing with a bright yellow sponge bob square pants ball. They thought that it would be a brilliant idea to throw the ball into the middle of the pond. One of the little girls changed her mind about the brilliant idea and when she saw the beloved ball in the middle of the pond, she let out an indelicate weep. The little boy say, "Don't worry it will come back." But he didn't do anything, he just watched. And in fact, one or two times the ball did come back and the children giggled with delight. Then the third or fourth time, the ball got stuck a couple metres from the edge of the pond. So Indelicate Weeper sobbed some more and Don’t Worry It Will Come Back shrugged his shoulders and just waited. But the other little girl, maybe 4, said “I’m gonna find a stick.” With the stick, she could reach the ball, and everyone giggled in delight again. And this went on until after one throw, the ball ended up just a little too far for I’m Gonna Find a Stick to reach it. So Indelicate Weeper sobbed and Don’t Worry It Will Come Back shrugged his shoulders. But four-year-old I’m Gonna Find a Stick wouldn't give up and she found some bigger kid and asked her, “Can you help me get the ball?” And the bigger kid said yes, and she could. And the ball came back to the edge of the pond and everyone giggled in delight until it was time to throw the ball once again. 

What I want to say to people who struggle, and this is a lot of us, is, keep reaching however you can. 

Love, Erica. 

Reach out to me, or to Imaginary Vincent at ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.
p.s. Vincent is my therapist and  I have that thing where you love your therapist, and I get to see Vincent every other Wednesday.

This is your strange and beautiful life


Follow Erica J. Schmidt on Facebook

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Instagram: @deepcleanswitherica


Guillaume, Part Two


Dear Vincent, Thank you for responding to my hysterical phone call.
Dear Vincent, This is a hungry ghost.  
Dear Vincent, This is what the Dead Inside Man says about killing yourself.

Deep Unyielding Depression, Part Three

Dear Vincent,
I had a mood swing.
My apartment smells like chicken.
I'm cleaning my windows.
Love, Erica.

Send your letters to me or to Vincent to the secret address ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.




I had a mood swing.



Follow Erica J. Schmidt on Facebook


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Instagram: @deepcleanswitherica


Deep Unyielding Depression, Part One
Deep Unyielding Depression, Part Two

Dear Vincent, It used to be that the last time I felt home was in a tiny blue penthouse apartment in Mysore, India on the 10th avenue of the 3rd stage of a neighbourhood called Gokulam in November of 2014.