If you’re new here, welcome! If you’re returning, welcome back!

Looking for my most recent posts?  Scroll down a bit. 

*This* is a sticky post. (Keep comments about the stickiness of *your* post to yourself, please.) It was the first post I wrote on this blog space and it’s a permanent fixture on my home page for two reasons: (1) It clearly outlines my rules (please read them if you haven’t already), and (2) It helps a very specific group of people find me.

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Of a new blog…


Because of my Exodus from the Blogland I formerly called home.  (A.F.F. anyone?  Beuller?  Beuller?  Anyone…?  Beuller…?  Feverpitch60 has left the building…)

So.  Genesis because of Exodus.

Perhaps you were thinking along the line of Leviticus?  Deuteronomy?  Numbers?

Think again.  ;-)

There will be no commandments, but there will indeed be RULES.  And while I can’t promise to stay on topic (sex, love, gardening, pet ownership…one thing leads to another, I’m afraid…and all topics eventually lead back to sex ~ it’s a hazard of being a certain age, I think), I can promise that there will be…erm…language…and photos (if I can figure out how to upload them) and occasional glimpses at my mind, body (yes, I’m an exhibitionist), and soul.  Oh!  And my funny bone.  :)

I’d like to say all are welcome.  But really, you should be over 18.  And you will have to adhere to the rules.

Oh dear, you are thinking, with all this talk of rules…  Is she a (gulp) Domme?

Yes!  (Insert evil laugh and whip-cracking noise here.)

Well, actually…

No.  Not really.  I mean…

Let’s save this discussion for another time, shall we?  ;)  The reason for the rules is more along the lines of preventative maintenance.  I learned the…hard way (heh)…on my previous blog that internet anonymity can sometimes bring out the worst in people.

So without further ado…


1.  I am a PERSON.  Not an OBJECT.  Treat me as such.  (Or you will not be welcome here.)

2.  While I’m usually pretty fun-loving and don’t take things too seriously, I am still a REAL PERSON with REAL FEELINGS.  Treat me as such.  (Or you will not be welcome here.)

3.  While I may talk about sex on this blog, that does not give you the right to treat me like a sex worker.  I am a WOMAN.  I am MARRIED to a REAL PERSON with REAL FEELINGS.  Respect us as such.  (Or you will not be welcome here.)

Also, don’t steal stuff. Creative Commons Attribution License applies. Read that, and this, before you borrow from me.

These rules apply to ALL interactions and exchanges, including but not limited to blog comments and other bitland conversations.  Anyone who feels they cannot follow these rules is free to leave at any time.  Deliberate ignorance of these rules will result in banishment from the Land of Fever.

Mrs. Fever has spoken.

So it has been written; so it shall be done.

Crazy Talk


Sometimes I get a bug up my butt* (not literally, because, eeeuw) to write about something, and no matter how I try to avoid it, The Universe™ continually sends me sneaky, snide reminders that I have Something To Write, and eventually I just.can’t.procrastinate any longer.  Like today.  There I was, driving along calmly (seriously, I’m the least road-rage-y person on the planet, so GET MOVING ASSHOLE, THE SPEED LIMIT IS NOT SNAIL), on my way home from work (if you can call it “work” – I have a client who is forever cancelling, so technically, I suppose you can say I go to “work” but once I’m there, I’m not actually doing any work, which means I’m totally qualified to be a politican), making up Christmas medleys in my head**, when I get totally distracted by Bob Marley’s voice on the radio zapping my brain with his dictatorial mandate gentle admonition…

Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery
None but ourselves can free our minds

…and I’m like, FUCK.  Because the whole post concept I’ve been stewing over for days and weeks and months has everything to do with (1) freeing my thoughts from their mental corral and allowing them to run roughshod all over this bloggy wilderness, and (2) herding them into some sense of order without chaining them, at least for the short*** amount of time it takes to get out what I want to say.

Which will probably look a bit like word vomit by the time I’m done.

If you are queasy about such things, you might want to leave now.

Also, if you are thirsty, you might want to leave now.  At least long enough to get yourself a drink.  Or possibly a whole bottle****.  Because when you come back, we have some things to discuss.

Go ahead, I’ll wait.

While I’m waiting for you to return, I’d like to clarify the following:

*Whoever came up with this phrase must be an entomologist.  Or perhaps a proctologist.  Or perhaps, my mother.

**For example:

I saw mommy kissing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
So you better not pout in a pear tree
‘Round yon virgin I’ll have a blue Christmas

(It’s a work in progress.)

***Short is relative.  But, not my relatives.  So saying “relatively short” is sort of like saying “mostly long and not very lean but with occasionally stooped shoulders and lots of freckles.” Just to clarify.

****If it’s Peach Snapple (or cane sugar Coke, Dr Pepper, or Cheerwine), kindly bring two.

‘Kaythen, now that you’re back…

Today we’re going to talk about Mental Illness.






And the crowd goes wild…

I know, right?!  Because, HAPPY!

Furiously Happy

FURIOUSLY HAPPY, to be exact.  Because that is the title of the book I’m reading (No, I’m not getting paid to plug this book, and as a matter of fact – so far as I am aware – the author, Jenny Lawson, doesn’t know I exist.  I’d like to keep it that way.  Because, SCARY BLOGGER LADY.), and because ’tis the season for The Frenzied Sads® (I don’t know if that’s A Thing, exactly, but I’m patenting it, just in case), when all the carnivores start eating turkey like they’re some sort of waddle-addicted buzzards (the buzzards being the people eating the turkeys, not the turkeys themselves, since the turkeys are not so much *addicted* to their waddles as they are *attached* to them, considering that the waddle is part of a turkey’s anatomy) and then get inexplicably depressed for a month. (Seriously, someone should do research on whether there’s a causal relationship between the two.  Ingest Turkey = Get Depressed)

What was I saying again…?

Oh yes!  Mental Illness.

It’s really not a laughing matter.

Except sometimes it is.  It has to be.  Because sometimes laughing about what ails you is the only way to cope.

I know this because Jenny Lawson said so.  (If you don’t know who Jenny Lawson is, you haven’t been paying attention.  Kindly go back and re-read the paragraph directly underneath the picture of the rabidly joyful raccoon.)  She also says:

There’s something about depression that allows you (or sometimes forces you) to explore depths of emotion that most “normal” people could never conceive of.  Imagine having a disease so overwhelming that your mind causes you to want to murder yourself.  Imagine having a malignant disorder that no one understands.  Imagine having a dangerous affliction that even you can’t control or suppress.  Imagine all the people living life in peace. Imagine the estate of John Lennon not suing me for using that last line.  Then imagine that same (often fatal) disease being one of the most misunderstood disorders . . . one that so few want to talk about and one that so many of us can never completely escape from.

Jenny’s blog, as well as her book{s} (she’s written two so far), deal specifically with her choices and her coping mechanisms regarding her specific chromosomal cocktail of crazy.  And no, I don’t feel the least bit guilty about using that term.  It’s okay to be crazy.  (I know this because Jenny says so.)  Own it.  Do something about it.  Fight!  Win!  Shake your pom-poms.  Or your booty.  Just don’t shake too many screws loose.

Note:  Every time I type “Jenny says” I think of this song.  Which is now playing on repeat over the airwaves in my brain.  (No, that does not mean I’m an airhead.)

I am not, personally, mentally ill.

Uhm.  Let me rephrase:  I do not, personally, have any diagnoses of mental illness.  (This does not mean I’m necessarily right in the head.  Though it’s generally a good idea to assume that I’m RIGHT, period.  At least that’s the safest stance you can take when I’m hungry.)

But I come from a family where Crazy is in the genes (and literally, in the jeans), and I’ve struggled right alongside my kin – differently, but no less difficult – as they’ve warded off demons and talked to angels and played fast and loose with more lives than just their own. I’ve watched, helpless and horrified, while people I care about have blithely gone about the business of train-wrecking their lives (creating lasting casualties in the trauma of their wake), and I’ve stood by as a support, a stalwart lighthouse on a crashing-storm shore, getting pummeled by wave after wave when those same people finally send out an S.O.S.

It’s hard.

For everyone involved.

And one of the hardest things about Crazy is that there are so many social taboos around the idea of “not normal.”  Add in the guilt-heaping nay-sayers’ constant beratement of “There’s nothing wrong with you” and the holistic health gurus’ “You don’t need drugs to fix this” snobbery, and add in a few sprinkles of the religious zealots’ “You’re just not a good enough pray-er” and WOW.  THAT REALLY MAKES A PERSON WANT TO ADMIT THEY NEED HELP.

Aside:  They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, but it seems like the step before that “first step” would be having a problem to begin with. So is that like a pre-step?  (First:  Get yourself a problem!)  Or is the whole “first step” thing really just a maniacal scheme to bamboozle people into thinking they have to take a “first” step when actually they’ve already taken one?  Gah!  It’s like the SATs all over again.  Is this a trick question?!?  This is why I avoid interventions.

grow-cat-nipThere is much debate about the use of drugs (okay, medications) for the treatment of conditions and disorders and phobias and other such mental messiness.

You know what?  Your treatment plan is your treatment plan.  You do what you need to do.


/begin rant/

AND:  Don’t fucking preach at me or my family or anyone else who is trying to find What Works about how “medication is not the answer.”  Do not shout at us from your Pulpit of Normalcy about What We Are Doing Wrong.  Fuck you.  No, seriously.  FUCK YOU. There are no one-size-fits-all answers.

/end rant/

I love this passage from Furiously Happy, because it pretty much sums up how I feel about Keep Trying Until You Find What Works:

When I went on my first antidepressant it had the side effect of making me fixated on suicide (which is sort of the opposite of what you want).  It’s a rare side effect so I switched to something else that did work.  Lots of concerned friends and family felt that the first medication’s failure was a clear sign that drugs were not the answer; if they were I would have been fixed.  Clearly I wasn’t as sick as I said I was if the medication didn’t work for me.  And that sort of makes sense, because when you have cancer the doctor gives you the best medicine and if it doesn’t shrink the tumor immediately then that’s a pretty clear sign you were just faking it for attention.

She goes on to further expound on the idea of trying meds, changing meds, and constantly striving for balance, and stresses that once that balance is found – though it is often tentative at best – everything should just be perfect again and for always.  (She is being facetious.)  Because just like cancer, “once the cancer sufferer is in remission they’re set for life because once they’ve learned how to not have cancer they should be good.  And if they let themselves get cancer again they can just do whatever they did last time.  Once you find the right cancer medication you’re pretty much immune from that disease forever.  And if you get it again it’s probably just a reaction to too much gluten or not praying correctly.  Right?”


A thousand times NO.


I’m not saying drugs are the answer.  I’m also not saying they’re not.  I’m saying they’re an option, and for some people, they are worth exploring.  I’m saying, IF YOU NEED HELP, GET IT.  I’m saying that mental illness is exactly that:  an illness.

No two people are the same.  No two illnesses are the same.  No one person carrying two (or more) diagnoses is ever the same in any given situation, no matter how often said situation repeats itself.

And situations do repeat.


And repeat.

I have written about mental illness on this blog before.  In my family, it is generational.  And with each successive generation, things have gotten – for lack of a better word – worse.

I saw my nephew a few months ago.  It was the first time I’d been in physical contact since his first hospitalization in 2014.  It was the first time I got to see him with my own eyes, and it was the first opportunity I’ve had to have my questions answered (I ask questions – my nephew’s mental illness is not my brother’s mental illness is not my uncle’s mental illness; broad understanding is a Good Thing, but just like all genetics, expressions of a trait differ vastly between individuals) since his breakdowns began.  It was the first time I saw, in flesh and blood, the ways that father had manifested in son.  It was the first time I saw, in black and white, the lists and lists and lists and lists…  Doctors, police interventionists, diagnoses, medications, behavioral modifications, restrictions, etc, ad infinitum.

Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD)
Autism Spectrum Disorder
Bipolar Disorder
Oppositional Defiance Disorder (ODD)

Educational Team

And on and on…

And it was the first time I’d seen – truly seen, with heart and head – and felt exactly how giant the wall is that he and his brother and their custodial grandparents are trying to scale.

But the key is, they are trying.

With mental illness – no matter what the label – you can’t stop trying.

For some people, this time of year is when they hit their all-time lows.  Ghosts of Holidays Past haunt.  The weather conspires against us.  There is an expectation of Happy that can feel impossible to live up to.  Everyday struggles somehow stockpile, and for some, that molehill quickly becomes an insurmountable mountainous obstacle.

Depression is a common ailment, one that doesn’t have to be clinically diagnosed to be felt.  And outside of chronic depression, or seasonal depression, there are a myriad of conditions and disorders that include depression, or for which depression is part of a cycle.

ZappaMy dad has PTSD.  When he’s not depressed, he’s angry.  And when he’s neither, he’s self-righteous.  He’s a hard man to live with, and and even harder man to love.  But here’s the thing:  He is mentally ill.  And he is finally – FINALLY – seeking help. Forty-seven years after surviving two tours to Vietnam – tours he volunteered for because he was so broken inside he wanted to die – he is finally seeking help.  He’s still depressed.  Often.  He’s still angry, though less often.  But the key, for me, is that he is finally starting to see the fact that he’s in a hole – one he dug deeper and deeper for himself over the years because you can only be an asshole to people for so long before they walk away; abuse is abuse, and mental illness is not an excuse (that’s a post for another day) – and he is slowly, grumpily climbing his way out of it.

Recovery is a climb.

Day to day living, putting one foot in front of the other, is – for many who suffer from mental illness – a constant climb.

In Furiously Happy, Jenny Lawson talks candidly and humorously about the realities of her constant climb.  And while I’m not one for making one-size-fits-all recommendations of any variety, especially not where What To Read is concerned (book recommendations are extremely personal to me), I am going to say this:

  • If you or someone you know is making that climb, read this book.
  • If you have suffered at your own hands or the hands of someone you love because of mental illness, read this book.
  • If you know nothing about mental illness, but want to learn, read this book.
  • If you don’t believe mental illness is a real thing, READ THIS BOOK.

And if you are suffering:  Go to therapy.  Talk to your friends.  See your doctor.  Run marathons.  Do yoga.  FIND WHAT WORKS FOR YOU.  Keep climbing.

I don’t have any grand point, or perfect answer.  I am not an expert, nor do I play one on TV.  I am just a person, one who gives a damn about people, especially the people I love. I don’t know why these thoughts have been clamoring in my head, but now they are out, wreaking havoc all over the page.  And maybe, just maybe, somebody out there will need to read what I wrote just as much as I needed to write it.

I don’t have any brilliant way to end this post, so I will leave you with this:

peanuts (1)

And go easy on the turkey. Seriously.

Love, and other Incurable Diseases

Lily Tomlin

I’ve had a lot of love thrown in my face lately, and quite frankly, I’m sick of it.

Not that I don’t want to be loved.  Of course I do.  But loving someone?  Truly?

Love…  Well, let’s just say love is a bit like Mike Tyson.  It’s batshit crazy, it packs a mean punch, it fights dirty, and when you’re a contender, it’s a damn good idea to cover your ears.

See, lately everyone (okay, maybe not everyone – but *at least* two people, and that is {1} more than enough, and {2} as annoying as listening to someone crunch carrots) is all “Oooooh, I’m in luuuurv” like it’s some kind of coma-inducing sugar high.  And you know what?  THAT’S NOT WHAT LOVE IS.  (What the fuck is up with that, by the way?  I thought springtime was when all the twitterpated idiots took to the streets.)  Love is not a when-it-feels-good emotion that comes and goes with the wind.


I had a conversation with a fellow blogger recently about love, about recognizing love for what it is.  I said, in part:

People are far too casual about throwing their words around. “I love you” does not mean “I think you’re neat and as long as everything stays fun, I will still love you.”

No. “I love you” means, on your worst day, I would walk through hell with you. It means I will be there when you don’t deserve it, and I will hold your hand and help you up when you fall, even if the proverbial trip was over your own two feet, and you deserved every scrape you got. It means caring for the whole person, the REAL person, regardless of their flaws. Perhaps because of them. And “I love you” is never NEVER about what you get. It’s what you give.

Sure. That'd be great. I'll take one of those, supersized. With fries.

Sure. That’d be great. I’ll take one of those, supersized. With fries.

Love is caring deeply for someone even when they don’t deserve it.  It is wanting the best for someone when they are at their worst.  It is not a feeling.  Or rather, it is not *only* a feeling.  It is what you have between two people (or more, if you’re into that – but I have decided opinions about relationship constructs and how emotions develop, and I don’t have time in this blog post to get into all that, so for now we’ll stick with the idea of two, mmmkay?) when the honeymoon is over, when the skeletons are out of the closet and rattling around the living room, when the money is gone and the patience has run out; it’s what you have when s/he draws the last (short) straw and places it on top of the load you’re already carrying, knowing it could break your camel’s back.

No, I’m not saying you look like a camel.  (I’m not saying you don’t, either…)  It was a metaphor, people.  Work with me, here!

We want to believe that love is easy.  That it’s a fuzzy blanket we can wrap around ourselves and that it cocoons us from all the frigid uncomfortable-ness of reality.

Ideally…  Sure.  I can buy that.  And sometimes, it is that way.

But have you ever had your heat go off in the dead of winter, when the winds are howling outside your window at gusts of 27 miles per hour while the snow and ice pelt against your drafty door?  A fuzzy blanket only goes so far in those situations.  And when you have to be someone else’s fuzzy blanket in the middle of a blizzard, your own hide goes unprotected.

And that’s the thing about love.  It leaves you unprotected.

I’ve had some rough patches in my love life over the past couple months.  My paramour made a unilateral decision that left me reeling, and my spouse…  Well, let’s just say he committed a major infraction.

There were tears.  On both occasions.

I.  Don’t.  Cry.

I fucking HATE crying.

I suck at touch-screen typing. But you get the point.

I suck at touch-screen typing. But you get the point.

We (the respective we’s) worked through it.  And if there’s one thing I am NOT afraid of, it is Work. Which is a good thing, I suppose. Because just loving someone? While it can be complicated, it doesn’t necessarily require much effort.  But acting on love? Showing it?  Making a successful relationship out of it?  That is a full-time endeavor.

As anyone who’s seen the beginning of the movie Grease knows, Love is a many-splendored thing (cue Olivia Newton-John running on the beach in all her tanned Sandra-Dee glory). But also, in the immortal words of The J Geils Band:  Love stinks (yeah, yeah).

And I know what some of you are thinking.  You’re thinking, “But but…  But love is warm and lovely and heats you from within.”

*insert gooey mushy endorphin-filled but-s/he/they-is/are-so-AWESOME blah blah, here*

Okay.  I can go with that.

Love = Heat, a la Comedienne:

Love is a fire.  But whether it’s going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.

~ Joan Crawford

Here’s a clue:  If you’re on fire for someone, that’s cool.  (Actually, it’s hot.)  But if what you’re feeling is dopamine-fueled, sex-induced, brain-addled melty-ness…  I strongly advise caution.  And if that *feeling* (and the feeling alone) is what’s convincing you that you luuuurv this person…  And if you have a desperate “need” to have your feelings reciprocated…  Come down to earth, please.  There’s a huge difference between love and limerence.

Nothing like having realistic expectations.

Nothing like having realistic expectations.

And, thanks to Completely Unrealistic Expectations, fueled by Disney, romance novels, poor relationship models (thanks, Mom & Dad), and beer, a lot of people cannot tell the difference. Especially if the ‘honeymoon phase’ lasts longer than a few weeks, because the unthinking masses average person has the attention span of a gnat and has been brainwashed by popular media to believe that anything that lasts more than a few weeks is somehow REAL.  And MEANINGFUL.  And OMG, if s/he’s shown me their best side via text and Facebook and a date or two for three.whole.WEEKS, they must be THE ONE!


We now interrupt this broadcast for an important announcement:

FEVERISH ADVISORY:  Do not marry someone you’ve only known for 6 months.  It is a Very Bad Idea.

You would think people would know better, but…  Nope.  I have known several people who have been blissfully happy in their marriages when they said their vows after a very short acquaintance.  Ecstatically happy, even.


For approximately three months.

And then shit gets real.

Real ugly.

Because the rose-covered glasses lose their pink.

A pair of powerful spectacles has sometimes sufficed to cure a person in love.

~ Friederich Nietzche

There’s a reason they say love is blind.

And sometimes what we do – or think we *have to* do – is done equally blindly.  When we’re “in love” we do things towards Taking The Next Step that just serve to shove our loved ones (and our relationship{s} with them) into a pre-packaged set of parameters, and the result is that all of the beautiful, wonderful, unique, free-thinking qualities you love about that person become…  Squished.

I hate feeling squished.

I try very hard not to squish people.

Unless it’s between my thighs.  But I can’t really help it that I’m strong, and that I’m slightly sensitive, and responsive…and that’s not what we’re talking about right now…

*pulls mental meanderings back to the topic at hand*

Going back to the blogging conversation I mentioned above:  It’s easy to get caught up in the “We love each other, so what now?” cycle of Following The Standard Plan.  But…  As I expressed to my fellow conversant:  WHY?

Love… Well, it’s not quite the same thing as Togetherness. So I understand what you mean about “What then?”, because I think we have these Expectations about Commitment(s) and Next Steps and Joining Our Lives, and really… Maybe – just maybe – that’s not where the focus should be.

Stand together a while. Choose a direction. Take a step. Re-evaluate. Be side by side and take it all in. Choose a direction. Take a step.

Go on like that a while, without creating unnecessary forks in the road. See where it takes you.

You choose your own path, and you grow along the way. Why rush for the highway of Love = All The Things We Must Do? You needs must do… Nothing. Anything. Something. Everything. Different.

Dare to be different.

Go ahead and feel.  But dare to think.

Say the words.  But dare to act on them.  When things are *not* fantabulously PERFECT.  [insert fangurl squee, here:  __________ ]

Think about the future.  Make plans.  But do not follow the road less traveled.  Instead, dare to make new footprints along your own path.

Thrill to the butterflies that dance in your heart when you’re at your height.  But dare to not let go during the lows, and hang on for the ride when the rollercoaster corkscrews.


And, lest you believe I am one of those “never let go” people, let me state it clearly:  I do not believe that love means Always Holding On.  There are times when the healthiest thing to do is to let go.  (And that…  I have thousands and thousands of words I could write about that.)  But my point here is this:

Love – Real Love – is the absolute best and most terrible condition one can find themselves in.  It is one of the simplest, most complicated, easiest, most difficult things you will ever do in your life.


And when your ardor gets a bit arduous, or your emotions too onerous, step back, breathe, and if all else fails, channel Winnie-the-Pooh:


Proper Credit and All That Jazz: All images jacked from Google.