Every blogger/writer has a few dirty little secrets. Often, it's these unrevealed subject matters that entice readers to read a memoir that includes already-known information. I'm no different. I have several dirty—well, not dirty in that sense, you know I'm quite prude—little ones that are just too revealing.

So due to a major one of those unmentionable 'secrets'—an issue that's plagued me since my college years—I lost it today. As in, sitting on the floor hysterically crying, overwhelmed by the mere organization of my work "basket." (I keep my work materials in a Target faux-wicker basket under my grandmother's antique, travertine card table, how me is that?) I had the suicidal ideations typical of a depressive such as myself. That's the clinical term for suicidal thoughts—ideations. Schmancy. I was a red-eyed, leaky-nosed, Jewfro-d, hot fucking mess.

"Why me? Woe is me." Yada [insert cliched, playing the victim card thought here] yada, yada. It was pretty bad—Klonopin at 2 p.m. and me telling Wally—13-year-old Wally—"That's it! When you go, I go!"

When I was diagnosed with the Breast Ca, I put up my dukes and kicked ass so that I could live for my family, my friends and Wally. I've got too much Jewish guilt to really even attempt suicide, so no worries.

"This is it," I wailed, "This is rock bottom. It has to be. I've finally hit it!" I've had so many false bottoms that I am writing a book, okay? But today—today was really it. That precipice was crossed and I've got nothing to do now but change. Change, which "means adding a new behavior," Dr. Laura says. So even though I wanted to crawl into bed with the remote or one of the three books I'm reading, instead I cleaned and went to Equinox.

There's a super cute and sweet girl who works there whose aunt has breast cancer and we chat about that sometimes as she checks me in. I gave her some of my coasters the other day, the nipple ones, to give to her aunt. So she said today that she gave them to her aunt, who liked them and was going to check out the blog. Well, we started talking about where the aunt is in the course of her treatment etc. And I gave her my post-chemo hair-growing tips. (Which resulted in my fucking, bastard of a Jewfro, but it's better than bald patches.) She said her aunt would be so receptive to that advice, esp cause she's not one of those women who was tragically upset about losing her hair. She'd shaved it off pre-chemo, as did some of her family members for support.

So she—for the love of weed I can't remember her name—was really excited about such a small but useful bit of advice. And though I walked in there ready to kill someone—er, rather myself—I got on the elliptical in a substantially better mood. The truth is, helping other people makes me feel good. Ugh, that sounds so hippie-dippy-liberal-Brother like, but it's true. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to India to work for Mother Theresa like Hemley did. But I love giving advice. I'm a writer, not a reporter. I write from the heart and tell it like it is. Sometimes that helps people, and if it weren't for that, I think I'd of given up on writing a while ago. I'm rambling, but the point is I rallied after a very scary and painful afternoon just by giving another Breast Cancer chick beauty advice. Interesting, huh?

And check out my new calling cards that arrived today. Obv this is a sample from the site; I'm way too lazy to take a photo of mine.

My friend Mel pointed me to the site and I j'adore them.