There Is A Site

Wit. Heart. A little unhinged.

Even I Don’t Believe Me, a Messy and honest Memoir in Progress

The scariest part wasn’t even the surgeries. It was the in-between moments.

Waiting for the next malfunction, wondering if I’d ever feel normal again. Also secretly hoping I’d get a cooler story out of it than, “My brain was just too big.”

And after surviving all that, I found out it wasn’t enough.

Person smiling while holding a bouquet of sunflowers in a large sunflower field on a sunny day.

Synopsis

Even I Don’t Believe Me is the story of a life lived that feels too strange to be true. Except it all is.

This book is about the messiness of life. The types of labels we wear (“disabled but not on disability”), and the absurdities of existing when your complex life doesn’t come with an instruction manual.

It’s a tale of resilience, chaos, and learning to laugh when everything goes sideways. Because, honestly, what else can you do?

Full of raw honesty, and even snapshots of the ridiculous bureaucratic hoops I’ve had to jump through (like the time I was officially certified to sort nuts.) It’s for anyone who’s ever felt like their life is too weird to be true.

& More

“Even I Don’t Believe Me” isn’t your typical memoir. I take the messiest parts of life—the kind you’d rather sweep under the rug—and turn them into laugh-out-loud, “Oh my god, same!” moments.

This book isn’t just a story; it’s a mirror for anyone who’s ever felt unbalanced, unprepared, or just plain unhinged. I started writing this because my life kept doing absurd things — and I wanted an excuse to talk about them

What truly sets “Even I Don’t Believe Me” apart is its refusal to sugarcoat life. Instead, it embraces the mess—the surgeries, the catastrophes, the identity crises, and deep, dark, inescapable depressions. Written with brutal honesty and the kind of humor that makes you snort-laugh in public. It’s not a guide for how to live perfectly—it’s proof that life is worth living, even when it’s far from perfect.

I’m not big on pitch language, so here’s the truth: I write mid-chaos by the seat of my pants. This project eats at me the same way my dog eats my tv remotes. If you want notes, thoughts, or just someone who gets that life is weird, that’s me.

About Me

Madison is a writer, humorist, and professional over-thinker from a small Florida town. With a knack for finding humor in life’s challenges, Dana shares her personal stories and insights. These nuggets resonate with anyone who has ever questioned their purpose. Which, is like everyone.

When not writing, she can be found drawing, painting, sleeping, and wrangling her pack of animals with her wife. She tends to work on a few projects at once, across genres. Usually a mix of fiction and speculative work.

Other Projects in progress because my brain doesn’t stop include:

– A spy novel
– A murder mystery
– A space-set speculative novel

An Exclusive Sneak Peak

“Live, Laugh, Lobotomy”

I wish I could say my first brain surgery was the scariest, but the truth is, by the time you hit surgery number three, you start feeling like a frequent flyer.

“Do I get a punch card for these?” I asked the nurse as she prepped me for anesthesia. “Like, after five, the next one’s free?”

She didn’t laugh. Tough crowd.

They called it a decompression surgery. Apparently, my brain was doing its best impression of a bad roommate—hogging space it wasn’t supposed to and generally making my life miserable. The solution? Cut a hole in my skull, poke around a bit, and hope for the best. The surgeon explained it with all the enthusiasm of someone describing how to change a light bulb. “We go in, relieve the pressure, and if necessary, we can add a patch.”

“Like a bike tire?” I asked.

“Exactly,” he said. Not even a smirk. These people really need to work on their sense of humor.

They didn’t use the patch. And guess what? I needed it. So, surgery number two rolled around, which, fun fact, feels exactly like reliving your worst nightmare but with less adrenaline and more eye rolls. By surgery three, I stopped asking questions. They wheeled me into the operating room, and I remember thinking, This is my life now. Not in a dramatic, existential way. More like the way you resign yourself to a never-ending DMV line.

But hey, if you’re reading this, at least I got the story.



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