Here it comes, a better version of me...

I'll try and make this quick, brevity is not my strength. I tend to follow tangents and ramble, but I'm going to try my best to get to the point.

2014. A new year. A blank canvass. 365 days, each and every single one given to me with the purpose of making something fantastic. I've been given 40 of these. Each one I've wasted. I've let things distract me from the path I am supposed to be on. Exactly what that path is, I have no idea. 2014 is all about figuring that out.

I've had so many false starts, and I've gotten excited about things, but never saw them through. I have a lot of obstacles. Some are as big as mountains. Some can be kicked out of the way, my problem is seeing the difference between the two. I'm sure it's happened to you, something you have been dreading, turns out not to be nearly as bad as you'd built it up in your head. That is how my brain normally functions.

In 2013, I was told by yet another doctor, I am what they call bipolar type 2. Basically, I have the severe depression without as many instances of mania. Sometimes I wish I were more manic. I get things accomplished when I'm manic. Of course, once the wave of depression comes back, I'm right back to square one. It's very frustrating, not just for me, but for those who actually care about me.

The bipolar and anxiety are the reasons for a lot of the frustrating things I do. I have little to no self-motivation. Just opening my eyes is sometimes all the effort I can muster. I could leave the house to take a walk, get some fresh air, but what if something happens when I'm gone? I'm safe in bed. Under the covers. Where nothing happens. Nothing. Happens. No good. No bad. Just nothing.

And since I lost my job in September, this has become my life. I'm not living. I want to live. But, living scares me. Living takes work. Living means fighting.

I do not want this to continue to be the case. Somehow, I'm going to need to really dig deep and find some inner strength and really punch this bipolar madness in the face. Imagine me, a fallen warrior, bloodied and battered and worse for the wear. Broken and tortured, my demons gleefully celebrating their victory in keeping me down. But, just when you think I'm about to draw my last breath, I stand up on my shaky legs, and scream my battle cry, wield my swords and start actually fighting back. For the first time. They will not get the best of me. Not any more.

And there are so many battles I've yet to fight. This year, will be about winning the war.

I'm telling you this, because I want you all to know, I'm not giving up. I need you all there. But, I must warn you. This is a fight I must fight alone. You cannot fight for me. You cannot even fight with me. I just need you to know I'm fighting. And I need you to be rooting for me.

One of my promises to myself is to start writing again, and part of that will be a chronicle of my struggles. Some of you will suggest it's all for attention, and you may be right, but why does that have to be a bad thing? I don't want your pity and I'm not trying to shock anyone. I just need you to know what I'm going through, so that maybe you'll understand. And if you don't totally understand, maybe you can relate. Perhaps, it can also help someone else, fighting their own battle. Because, I think in some ways, we are all fighting.

So, I wish you all a happy new year.

Let's all demand what we want.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fgasDM5090

OK, so here's the thing...

I am very ashamed of myself.

I have no self-control.

But, you see, Davy Jones died, and I had to talk to someone and all the people who would care, were on Facebook. It's not a good excuse. I admit. And, I'm not blaming Davy. The timing of his sudden death wasn't his fault and I'm sure if he'd been given a choice, would have delayed his passing at all costs.

So, I signed back in. As I explained before, it was so easy there was hardly a point in deactivating in the first place. Sitting alone at the Gosport bus station, I put in my e mail address and password, within seconds I was back. Almost as fast, I received an e mail welcoming my return. The intention was to log on quickly, contact those fellow Monkees fans, who I knew would be joining me in shock and sadness, then vanish again before too many people noticed. It didn't quite happen as planned.

I could deactivate again, but really, what's the point when all you have to do is snap your fingers and go right back to where you were? It's just silly.

But, I didn't come here to talk about Facebook. I want to talk about Davy Jones and why his death sideswiped my life knocking me completely off course for a moment. I know, I didn't know him personally, as many will be quick to point out. But, that still doesn't lessen the effect he Michael, Micky and Peter had on my life.

The year was 1985. I was 11. Chubby, frizzy-haired book worm who as you can imagine, wasn't the most popular kid in class. Summers were spent in lonesome roaming around an empty house. My dad and step-mom at work, my younger brother at daycare, being that I was considered too young to look after both of us. I was always left a list of chores I would put a half-assed effort into, before turning on the television and zoning in to whatever nonsense Nickelodeon had to offer. (Turkey TV anyone? You Can't Do That on Television? More on those at another time) It was easy to pass several hours, before I'd hear the familiar sound of the keys unlocking the door, meaning the parents were home and I could look forward to being yelled at regarding the chores I didn't do properly or at all. That was the whole of my life. Then one day, something magical happened.

The moment is so significant, I can even tell you it was on a Monday. Around 9ish in the morning. I turned on the TV, and there were some people I'd never seen before. The show looked old, which didn't matter so much to me as I grew up watching shows that were popular long before I was even a twinkle in my mother's eye. ''My Three Sons''. ''Donna Reed'', ''The Little Rascles'', to name a few. Before my mother died, she made sure I was exposed to these shows and thanks to Ted Turner, I was given every opportunity to enjoy them. Little did I know, she was grooming me to become a pop culture spewing machine, as were she and her sister, Melissa.

Only a few minutes into the show, I was in love. I still remember the first episode I saw. It was ''Monkees in a Ghost Town'' The one where the Monkeemobile breaks down and they are chased around by mobster and locked up waiting for The Big Man. And Lon Chaney was a guest star. It was zany and madcap fun. Just what every 11 year old wants in a half hour television program. I was hooked. The Monkees were now appointment viewing. I woke up every morning just in time to watch and swoon over one Mr. Davy Jones. No one could work a tambourine like he did. I was well aware the show was actually produced 20 years before I'd discovered it, but to me it was brand new and he was so dreamy. And British. I had a thing for the accent, what can I say. Still do. He was defined it terms of ''The cute one'' The pretty face. Micky was the quick-witted, Michael the moody sarcastic, Peter, of course, the fool. And it worked brilliantly. I would excitedly tell my dad all about the ''new show'' I'd discovered. He was polite at first when he explained it wasn't new at all, and then became just downright annoyed when I would go on and on, saying, ''I saw the show when it was originally on. Been there. Done that.'' He wasn't keen to relive his childhood vicariously through me.

I begged for greatest hits cassettes and played them non stop. While other kids my age were loving Madonna and Bon Jovi, I was going in reverse. That's not to say I didn't enjoy modern music. I was what you would call back then a ''Duranie'', meaning I was a fan of Duran Duran. But, so did a lot of other boys and girls. When school started again, I was the only one who had ''I heart The Monkees'' written in black ink on my binder. The Monkees were mine and mine alone. Kind of like a secret hiding place. When my world would become too much for me to handle, I had them as an escape. Then, the resurgence of ''Monkee Mania'' hit again. Suddenly, my secret was exposed. They were in magazines again. Touring, giving interviews, (minus Michael) television appearances. (Anyone else remember Davy Jones on ''My Two Dads''?) I wanted to scream at all the girls in my school, ''I found them first!'' But, I hadn't. Not really. Not even close.

Over the years, I learned the truth about my beloved band/TV show. They were a carefully created fabrication from the mind of Don Kirshner. (also responsible for The Archies ''Sugar Sugar'') Only two of them actually played instruments (Michael and Peter) Micky and Davy were actors hired to look like they knew what they were doing. I soon learned of the turmoil behind the scenes. The four of them actually wanted to have a little bit of say so in the creative direction of the show and music to which Kirshner was firmly against. He basically instructed them to act as his puppets. One of my favorite stories involves Michael Nesmith punching a wall next to Don and then telling him, ''Next time that will be your fucking face.'' I was shocked, this was not the mild-mannered, wool-hat wearing character from the show. But, I guess that was the whole point as to why he was unhappy. Peter wasn't really a fool. Actually, he was very smart and an accomplished guitarist and folk singer. But, learning all about how much they didn't want to just grin and bear it, also tainted my unrelenting love for what they created. Like when I found out how much David Cassidey HATED playing Keith Partridge and went to extreme measures to be released of his contract. Because, you see, I loved The Partridge Family, (still do) and now I felt really bad for it. It's like when someone gives you the graphic details of a particularly gruesome surgery. You're glad it happened, but you really didn't need to know all about it, and now that's all you think about. Not the good that came out of it, but the horror of how it happened.

One thing has never changed. My love for The Monkees. To me, they were a real band. So, they didn't write all their songs or play all the instruments all the time. Their heart was in the right place and that's what meant so much to me. And as time wore on, my tastes changed and Micky became my stand out favorite. I can't explain how it happened, but his songs are the ones I played the most. He was more jazzy and soulful. I dig that. Davy was the showtunes kind of guy. Not that he wasn't revolutionary in his own way. His dance was so awesome, Axl Rose made a career of doing an imitation, (whether he meant to or not, I don't know).

When I heard Davy Jones had died, somewhere inside, that 11 year old's heart broke. He'd been a part of my life, without knowing, for so many years, it's hard to imagine a world were he no longer exists. I hope he knows how much he meant to several generations of kids who sat, glued to their TVs following the antics of four fabulous guys. And now, he's in that special place of heaven where all the great entertainers go, and it's a non-stop, good time, gig. At least that's what I would like to believe. Somewhere, Davy Jones is still giving his adorable smile. Somewhere, Davy Jones lives forever.

Hello, it's me again...

Sigh. Nearly a week since I've deactivated. So far, it's been strange. When I see an article online I would like to share or discuss, I have to keep it to myself. No longer can I hit that little blue ''f'' and post it to me wall for all to see. When I'm watching videos on YouTube, same thing. It's all for me and me alone. I can tell people who I regularly see face to face or have some other means of contact, which is good because it encourages actual conversations. I'm missing out on things, I know. Important things are happening in my friend's lives, and I'm none the wiser unless they make the effort to let me know.

At first, the break was liberating. I was no longer obligated to sign in. I had time to anything I wanted. Which, turns out to be, not a whole hell of a lot. I work. I come home, still turning on the computer, but now it's seemed to have lost it's purpose. I forgot how to use the internet without facebook somewhere, lurking in the background. Always beckoning me to, come reason through thousands of statuses, read dozens of articles and posts. Play games. Watch videos. I have to actually go looking for things to amuse myself. I was hoping the time I was saving, could be spent writing, but I've been at work a lot this week, which leads to a lack of creative brain functioning. But, hopefully soon.

As for any news in my life. Nothing significant to report. The Oscar's are tonight. You'll be watching. I'll be sleeping. I'm rooting for George Clooney. I saw the Descendants. His was a performance worthy of an award. I'm not just biased, I promise. Had they recognized Ryan Gosling, which is a crime he was nominated for nothing, considering his performances in ''Drive'', ''Crazy, Stupid, Love'' and ''The Ides of March'', were some of the best I'd seen in years, I'd have a serious delima on my hands. But, again. Not biased.

Also, I've made an appointment for Rizzo to be ''fixed'' It's a routine operation. I'll have her back at the end of the day. She's going to be fine. These are all things I'm being told and keep repeating to myself. Doesn't stop me from being a nervous wreck. March 5th I have to take my baby in. Prayers and good thoughts are encouraged. Mostly for me.

Do I miss facebook? Yes. But mostly the people. The feeling of being constantly connected to several hundred individual lives all at one time. It's actually kind of lonely, but I think that's what's wrong with it as a whole. People use it to replace actual contact. Why should you call or write someone when you already know everything going on with them? Why should you hang out when that not only involves getting dressed and leaving the house, but also, you can just post something on their wall? It's not quite to the extreme where people are eliminating all contact, but we aren't heading in a good direction guys.

Do I want to come back. Yes. And, no. At this very moment, I'm so tempted just to say, ''To heck with it.'' and come running back. But, there is a huge part of me that wants to see this through. Mainly, to prove to myself, I.can.quit.at.any.time. As Lesley Gore once said, ''You don't own me.''I'm hoping I'll come back, like seeing an old lover again, after you've gone on with your life. No one expected you would. Everyone said you wouldn't make it after the break-up. But now, you can see that person and not feel the compulsion to throw yourselves at their feet and beg them to take you back. Calling and leaving hysteric voice mails. Pleas of how, ''things will be different this time'' Drive by their house late at night to see what they're doing and who they're with. No, this time, it will be on my terms. I've moved on. I am my own person. I can take or leave you. Facebook, that is.

But, if I being honest. It is a little lonely without it.

I hope you are all enjoying your lives and everyone is happy and taken care of! I hope to hear from some of you soon! Let me know how you are.

Just have a listen...

Kicking the habit in the taco!

Day one. No facebook.

It's weird. I woke up this morning, turned on the computer, and did not automatically sign into facebook. Of course, I'd already reminded myself, that no matter what, I was strictly forbidden from doing so. And, I'm alright. No body tremors, or breaking into a cold sweat, or hysterical sobbing, begging just. one. more. time. Not that these drastic withdrawal symptoms were at all expected, but you never know when breaking an addiction.

But, it's fine. And while we're being honest, I'll tell you the main reason I'm going to succeed, is the fact my husband has absolutely no faith in me seeing it through. I'll show him, by god. Even if it kills me. Which it won't. It never does.

I will tell you though, it was a lot harder to deactivate than I'd originally thought, and I'm not just talking about the last minute anxiety of ''Wait! What are you doing? Don't do it!'' I had finally mustered up the gumption to just do it. Hit the button. Then, I couldn't find the damn button. After finding it, I held my finger over the mouse for a moment before clicking. ''Do you really want to do this?'' I asked myself. And even though I said facebook was doing my head in, I started making a mental list of all the things I would miss. (Also, it doesn't help that on the deactivation page, facebook tries one last time to lure you back, by showing you a select pictures of a few friends with the caption, ''If you deactivate your account, 'so and so' will miss you.'' Awwww.) ''Just click.'' I urged myself. And so, I pressed my finger down. I was expecting a feeling of relief, like the hands that had been strangling me, finally released their grip and I could breathe again. But no. I got some message about how I wasn't allowed to deactivate, as I was the sole developer of some app and it needed me to stay. To my recollection, I'd never created an app. Come to find though, I had. And by the time I'd found it and deleted it, I'd gone through the deactivation process 14 times. Each time, seeing new pictures of people facebook was promising would be lost without me. My resolve chipping away. It was suggested by a friend that I not totally deactivate, but just leave it unattended for a while. But, that's too easy. I could just sign back in. This way, I'm completely absent. A virtual memory.

However, I did find it a little disheartening, just how easy it is to reactivate your account. I was hoping there would be something difficult. Like a jousting dual, or climbing the top of a mountain and finding a rare jewel and present it to Mark Zuckerberg to prove your worthiness and gain access back into his kingdom. Or maybe eating a goats testicle. I don't know. A little blood loss. Something that would give me pause before jumping right back in. But, no. It's as simple as just signing back in. So, at the end of the day, I'm going to have to rely on my self-control to keep me away. Those of you who know me well, can attest the the fact, my will is paper thin and easily torn right through. But, I can do it. If I don't, then Terry will be proven right, and we can't have that now, can we?

I think I'm going to be blogging a lot though. So, be prepared.

And expect to hear from me again. Very soon. x

Just trying something

Some of you have expressed concern that with my Facebook gone, I won't be able to update you on Rizzo and post 45 pictures a week. I'm going to see if it will work here...

Hey, guys! Over here!

If you've been on facebook today, you know that I'm taking a break during Lent. I've written a long, involved note as to why, so I won't bore you with the details here.

I believe this will give me a good opportunity to write this blog, as well as other things I'm working on. I keep saying I will. Then I don't. I'm too easily distracted, as I've explained many times before.

But, here it is. The old blog. I've dusted her off, and cranked her up and she is ready to go! Instead of silly status updates, you will get full thoughts and updates. And if you follow me on here, you can comment and we can still discuss things.

It will be like I never left. Facebook without all the brain crunching status updates. Ahhh, bliss.

Of course, I'll miss it. And I'm sure it will feel very strange. As if something is missing. But, I'm hoping to fill it up with so much other more productive stuff, it won't be bad for long.

I just need this. For me. You all mean a lot to me. Every single one of you. Even people I never talk to, just silently hover around your life, like a ghost. It's all going to be for the best.

I hope you find you like it here, and are nice and comfy. I will be bringing you updates all the time.

And I'm not leaving. I'm always here. Just, not there.

Much love to you all!