Monthly Archives: March 2016

The dreaded cone of shame!

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My cat is a narcissistic psychopath and my dog is a drug addict.

Let me introduce you to Lucy, my Portuguese Water Dog since I’ve already given you a glimpse into my cats troubled mind. But before you say, “Oh you have a Obama dog” I’ll stop you, I had Lucy long before President Obama. But as I was saying, Lucy my PWD has humorously vet diagnosed anxiety issues that lead to Irritable bowl syndrome. I think she has undiagnosed borderline personality disorder and mild schizophrenia. I certainly think the animals in my life were destined for my family because any other would have been a death sentence.

My whole life I’ve had stray dogs, mutts and rarely had health problems. But this beautiful little fluff ball wooed me, the promise of a hypoallergenic, and that they didn’t she’d sealed the deal. Within a year, health problems began manifesting, skin allergies would trump all her mental disorders.  Aside from all that, we love the nut. We loved her enough to recently fix a sudden onset of health problems, a blood hematoma in her ear, skin infection from allergies, double ear infection, and an eye infection, when it’s all said and done it damaged my checkbook by nearly $2000. But here’s the fun part, the cone of shame and she’s now a drug addict. Yes, a drug addict that is currently slapping the shit out of me with the big plastic cone begging for Tramadol. BEGGING!

The big damn plastic cone of shame is her weapon. She will slap the walls, bump into everything, knock things over more than the psychopathic black cat. She makes her presence known and will go to the kitchen to beg for her pills. Sunday, we finally gave her the last dose.

Monday was withdrawal hell! At times I think the dog is dying, she trapped the cat with her cone. In my head, I imagined a conversation from the dog, “Cat go knock the pills down or I will eat your black heart.” My kitchen is very narrow and each time I walk near the kitchen the dog rolls onto her back in submission for her pills. Then when she sees I’m walking away, up she’ll bolt and knock into me over and over and over with the cone. I tell myself, It’s only for three weeks and I spent so much I have to leave the cone on her. Last night, midnight…plastic scraping drywall, back and forth.  She’s learns this get a response from me. I kick her out of my room only to have her torture my children.

We survived the night. Tuesday, I think I was going mad, had to take my own anti-anxiety medication. The plastic scraping along the walls. She is taunting me back and forth raking the walls like nails on a chalkboard. Even the cat walks by and hisses at her. Even the cat has had it with the cone. The dog constantly flips over on her back begging for her Tramadol. I swear I saw her purposely trip down a couple steps and limp in hopes I’d get her more pills.

It’s morning now, I hate the damn cone. I snap at every clumsy move the dog makes now. She’s somehow knocked my coffee over twice. I think I’ve found myself a trigger. Hello Benzodiazepines!

I’m now walking around singing “Sunshine, lollipops, and Rainbows” by Lesley Gore. If you don’t know her songs google. You can thank me later for the songs on repeat in your head. As if it wasn’t already crazy enough, this too shall pass. I’ve planned myself a mommy night. No family, no pets, just me and a quite corner in a bookstore, coffee shop. I’d even settle for hanging out in Target for a couple hours without, “Mom, can I get this?” Maybe I’ll go have a meal and glass of wine.

My family can see the black dog coming, literally!

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Oh the horror!

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Screams radiated from one bedroom, while a maniacal laugher rang out from another room.

It was the beginning of the perfect conclusion to awesome spring break day. Both my kids were playing quietly upstairs in their rooms. They had played all day, either with me or friends. I listen as my daughter asked my son, “Come on bud, let’s go play Minecraft.” Peter, “Really?” And off they went to play together. I say to myself, “You have parented well, now go reward yourself. You are winning!” It is spring break so Cork popped the cork on a meaty red wine! “Breathe beautiful wine, breathe”



They silence was beautiful. I was rather proud of my kids. They rarely need to be disciplined and are both amazingly intelligent. They were playing together in this virtual Minecraft world. Apparently, my daughter invited Peter to play in her world. They separated, he in his room and she in hers on separate devices. Suddenly screams of terror, cries from my daughter’s room. Sobbing hiccups crying, a barely audible, “He Godzilla’ed my world, he put lava everywhere!” Obviously, I’m not too informed on the Minecraft lingo or the complexity. I had read it was good for three dimensional thinking and brain development so I became a fan. In the other room, we hear laughter, maniacal laughter. Peter is obviously pleased with himself, he had finally won something against his older wiser sister. Peter saw himself as Peter the Minecraft dominator, Peter the destructor. 

My daughter’s sadness quickly grew into anger and then acceptance. Rowan would surely rise like a Phoenix from the Minecraft world ashes. My son, well… we all learned why he’s blocked so much on Minecraft. He was apparently known to Godzilla worlds with lava, he was indeed Peter the destructor. My husband and I often talk, she is a genius with the morality of a saint. Peter has a bit more creative genius with flexible morality. He’ll either go to prison or find the cure for cancer. Both are incredibly smart. I think about the possibility of one or both inheriting my genetics. Tonight I saw myself in them both, I laughed silently with Peter and cried internally for my daughter. Her forgiveness was humbling and his apology priceless, “It’s just a game, I’d never hurt you in real life row.” 
My hope is my children see my struggles and learn from my mistakes. They recognize the symptoms, they watch out for each other as adults. They learn from my openness of my own mental illnesses. They adapt and overcome, they are kind, they grow up knowing how to handle their superpower. Something I only learned as an adult.
I parented tonight and the wine was wonderful.

Yes I am obsessed with your blog!

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I found myself reading blogs like novels! Yes, probably your blog too. I may possibly be stalking you. *Maniacal laugh…… I do really like to read, expecially with my new medication (new doc, hahaha she gave a stimulate to a bipolar who was rapid cycling, I’m chasing squirrels right now) I can concentrate, until it ignites mania and then it’s back to mind numb forgetfulness. But I read a lot of blogs and yes I do love your blog. I think I’m going to start showcasing mental doppelganger bloggers of the week.

I read, heard a long time ago when you read books, papers, or articles you absorb a small part of that author. It really made me a bit picky about my choices in literature. Hemingway will always have my heart. He wrote with such conviction, blood emotion, and experience. I instantly feel in love with a dead man who suffered from the same mental flaw I am fighting. I never knew Hemingway was bipolar until recent years. Once I  reread his works with my new understanding of his mind it really explained my analysis and sometimes unorthodox synopsis of his stories. I read them with a bipolar mind and he wrote it with a bipolar mind. It really is beautiful to admire his beautiful mind. I don’t discount the darkness, He lived with sickness, Hemingway himself and put a shotgun in his mouth in his finest Chinese robe in his door hallway. He saw the sunrise one last time. He knew his story had ended and he was determined to write the ending, not a  sequel. He knew his ending which is a very sad statistic for those who are  diagnosed bipolar. 

It’s a bipolar thing, we like to write our endings. My challenge is to bring back the sequels. A story doesn’t have to end with the story book,  Prince meet princess and they have beautiful children and live long prosperous lives and die without regret, pain and have a long legacy. I can say with certainly those handsome narcissistic princes you meet along the way will always satisfy their needs even thought they have beautiful princesses. I’m around it everyday, it’s really sad the poor girls/guys who accepts the repeated infidelities of a narcissist, because they feel they have a trophy husband or trophy wife. I am sad for their delusion of happiness and infidelity. It’ll never stop, it’s a cycle. It makes me sick how many people live such a fake life or repeatedly try to reinvent and change their lives….until they get drunk again a cry to listening ears. Until they gey the attention from the assfish who circle them. Those people are DUMBASSES!

I am happy to admit I’m flawed, possibly worse than the abusive narcissist married to a dumbass. I love deeply and  I crave a happy ending. I love to satisfy emotional and physically. I am hurt very easily when my affections aren’t returned. Sometimes all you want is to be held, hugged, touched, and cuddled. It makes me so happy that I have someone who loves me, holds me, satisfies me, touches me, and holds me and I know they aren’t that narcissistic person or playing me a fool. They know all my demons and still love me.

I HOPE and pray sometimes I relay the true depection of the emotions of my mental health in words that help someone. The comments and messages I receive give me great hope you hear and share my musings.

I hope you love me because I’m writing a tragedy, but you know it ends a love story. It’s that crazy Nicolas Sparks novel! No one dies or gets sick, those books and movies are just full of heartbreak. I’m surrounded with heartbreak everyday right here on wordpress. Except I can interact with the characters, the real people and real stories. Unless your one of my fictional writers or poets. Then I’m probably just obsessed with your way with words. I love the poets!

I think eventually in a lifetime you get it right and your soul can rest.My soul needs to rest and this is my nutty story…….I love your blog!

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How to lose friends and piss off people.

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 “When we deny our stories, they define us. When we own our stories we get to write a brave new ending.” Brené Brown

 
In the most inopportune times my illness takes the wheel and steers me into the ditch.  In the ditch, I’m not reliable, I’m not consistent, and I’m constantly having to reschedule or delay planned activities, because of the grip of anxiety and an overwhelming fear that is unexplainable and inexcusable. I forget birthdays of even my closest friends and family. I’m the definition of a flake, but only because I hide behind a mask everyday. What most people don’t know is that I don’t intentionally flake. If I had a choice, I’d be the outgoing, helpful, and reliable girl they love to be around everyday. The life of the party, dance on the table fun girl, the girl who volunteers as much time as she can to help others. It hits me like a sledgehammer, usually a slight trigger but many times no warning. I know I’m not getting depressed, I am intimate with depression.  I’m suffering the suffocation of anxiety and PTSD. I have a sudden lost of all control of my emotions. On top of everything,  I realize I have won the jackpot of mental illnesses. This one much harder to treat, memories have become the enemy. 

Unlike my superpower bipolar, Post traumatic stress disorder is normally in my community associated with military members who have given their mind to our country and suffer the wounds of war internally. Their wounds aren’t always visible. It’s definitely not a superpower and has no benefits. It’s become a mainstream topic and given credibility because of the media coverage and the fact that more doctors are recognizing it as a serious condition. So being around the military, I rarely talk about my own PTSD as not to take away from the service members. I hate being asked if it was caused by my service. Earning the title Marine was and is still one of my greatest achievements. My PTSD has absolutely nothing to do with my service to my country. Many of my symptoms are the same as my Bipolar disorder, except I’m haunted at times with nightmares and sudden anxiety. Triggered by the memories of near death, trauma, and lost a precious baby boy. I’m not sure I can write anymore about the cause, the trauma is something my mind can’t fully accept. I never talk about the nightmares and sudden overwhelming fears. It hard to balance being bipolar, being stable, and uncontrollable anxiety. I hide it well and it is exhausting, sometimes I am amazed I survive day to day.

So you might ask how do you lose friends and piss people off?  You don’t tell them you can’t leave the house, you just cancel plans without reason. You are embarrassed to let anyone see you cry and trust me, it isn’t something that can be controled. You just don’t show up and withdraw from society. The fear of sitting or being in a group and starting to cry terrifies me, the circling of strangers asking if I’m okay and rubbing my back trying to help me and I know I can’t explain myself or my actions. It’s the fear of unwanted attention. It’s like choking and not being able to talk. You voice is muffled, when you do talk is that of a gasping hiccup. It passes like a storm, but when the dust has settled and the rain has stopped. You find yourself alone, because you decided to protect them from yourself. You cancelled, you didn’t show up, you flaked. You couldn’t bear the embarrassment of being perceived in any other way than person you chose to show the world.  Turn out this pisses people off, who knew? 

In my pursuit of normalcy, I realized I segregated myself from an incredible support system. It was only once I was honest about my mental health did people understand. Many times once I opened up they opened up about their own struggles with mental health. Some of the strongest people I know had their own demons. Like myself, they hid that they relied on similar drugs. The stigma, It’s the whispers, the people who try to help, and the embarrassment of being a very professional outgoing extrovert who crashes into a barely functional introvert.

So my laundry is piled, sink is full of dishes, and I just want to be alone, the battle has begun. I will not be a flake and a prisoner to my mind.  I’ll start today by going to the grocery store and I’ll cry in aisle three. I’ll let a stranger comfort me and accept the embarrassment that is only in my head. We all need to be more open about mental health.  

It’s the clean up in isle three that can be just as scary.

Cats and narcissist

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Cats are narcissist, self gratifying creatures. My love for cats is never hampered. I still love the creature that needs me to feel loved and cared for daily. I know the cat is beautiful and can survive easily if cast aside to the wilderness. I admire the the cat.

What bothers me is if I’m cast aside would I survive? Cats have this natural instinct and narcissistic attitude. The people who I am drawn to are usually representative of a narcissist cat. They would seek self approval, if human wod post over and over again their perfect lives to a social media format. When in reality cats will kill without cause or need, breed with multiple mates, and turn on you and love you in the same moment. They will hurt you and make it your somehow your fault. I love my narcissist cat. But I’ve learned there are people who are like cats. They eat us alive. They feed on our weakness to care, to love unconditionally, and the need to be loved. They look for someone who will say, “your amazing” “your beautiful” daily to them, someone who constantly reinforces their egos. Someone who merely says thank you. Someone we imagine to be like that of friendship in Hollywood movies. These people know we will do anything for them. They know it the day they meet us and continue to accept and fluff our self-esteems until we are completely obsessed. It then they start to show their true natures. But for us, we have invested, we have loved, we just want to be loved back. We don’t want to walk away from the beautiful creatures that once told us they loved us, it rare someone could love someone like us. We certainly come with our own flaws, like the narcissist, but we never hurt to make ourselves feel better.

We invest, we love, and we grieve because we attract those who love our bipolar, anxiety, and depression. Some people are drawn to us, because in a very sad way they are using us to feel better. They don’t face there own narcissism. They are self serving and need those who will pet them, feed them, and scoop their shit.

I have all that with my cat! Why the hell would I put up with someone who emulates animal behavior (unless it’s only sex related, then maybe)? My cat metaphorically is constantly taking selfies of her amazing social life, her amazing vacations, and just her selfies of herself,  she’s the Kim Kardashian of black cats. I’m scooping her shit while she’s at club med.

Dammit, I love my cat even though she doesn’t love me, I love her. She stays with me, provides me comfort with her presence. It makes me feel good she occasionally purrs on me……I know she wants something, but it’s affection. I crave affection. She meows, she talks to me….I know she wants something and I reward her. I pet her, I tell her she is the best cat in the world, she’s the perfect cat. I love narcissist cats! I recognize narcissist people because of my psychotic narcissist cat.

I guess my point is those who suffer from lows, wherever it be on the bipolar depression anxiety spectrum, remember narcissist will feed on you. You will and probably already fluff their egos daily on various social media’s such as, Facebook, instagram, or twitter to hang on to thier love and approval. Stop promoting that behavior and look at those friends who need your attention. I’m guilty of ignoring those who needed me for narcissistic people. I learned my lesson years ago, but it took my cat to put it in perspective.

You can cast a cat aside, they’ll survive to exist.  Cast me aside, I’ll survive because I existed.

Today the Muse has the Wine Flu, but the nut got out!

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As I walk around trying to unravel and piece together my night with the wine flu today, I’m constantly finding little notes to myself. I know when I drink too much I don’t remember, it’s like I’m on a break and that “nut” is on the loose. So sometimes I leave myself notes so I don’t forget the epiphanies. She must have been dying to break free.

The nut certainly took over from my estimates around 10:30 pm based off emails, blog post, text, drawings, and notes all over the place this morning.

The sticky notes….
As I walk down the stairs I immediately notice yellow sticky notes everywhere. On each one it read “This doesn’t belong here” stuck on shoes, toys, books, dishes, and random object that should have been put away. Oh that’s right, passive aggressive nut must have been cracking herself up last night over the sticky notes. So I dig further, I knew I blogged last night, but hadn’t really read what I wrote, but I remember writing it so it can’t be that bad so I move on to my text messages.

The text messages….
Have you ever been up at night and get a text from a strange number and they immediately text back, “I’m sorry you must have the wrong number.”? Well I did that a couple times, but then tried to engage in conversation with, “Oh I’m sorry. How are you doing then?” Guess the nut was lonely. Those went nowhere beyond that, but I chuckled thinking what those poor people must thought. Not too bad, let’s check sent email.

The emails….
I open my email and click on the sent folder. “Dammit, she emailed!” She actually was doing pretty good. Replied pleasantries and general responses to many emails that needed to be addressed. So far, not too bad, until I scrolled to the one to myself. As I read it I forgot this was actually written by me to me for me. I am completely delusional and really engaging. I wrote myself about all my memories and past lives (saving that gem for it’s own post). It was awesome and I’ve rarely write to myself with such details. It was really making me think I had tapped into the universe somehow…….until I start telling myself it was critical for me to get a pet skunk and name her Petunia. I laughed and moved on unraveling my night.

The drawings…
After checking everything else and breathing a sigh of relief I see I had my journal next to my seat on the couch. I open it to read and to my surprise I had drawn hobbit houses with my ink pen. Pretty cool, but rather sloppy for my work. I knew I was better than that and under the journal were some really impressive pencil drawings. I was pleased with the nut.

I was indeed very pleased with the nut, but unfortunately she needs to be locked back up. I need to learn to bring her out without alcohol and teach her to be productive. She has ruined me for the day when I desperately need to be productive. Hangovers are hell, but in combination with my medications they are even worse. I know I shouldn’t do it be we all need to howl at the moon ever so often. I just wish she would have cleaned, she does that sometimes. Always a gamble with her.

Oh I  played the song lost boy by Ruth b a million times too.

All aboard the coo-coo train….it’s time for some musing.

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  Let me start by saying “Yes, I have been drinking” and “You’re no better than me” in my best drunken voice.

First item of business cats, Why do you got to be assholes? Only once did I have a cat that loved me unconditionally and he had a heart attack when he was two, it’s a hard life loving me….even for a cat. But back to the asshole black cat who has found her way into the hearts of everyone in the house. I’m sure part of her dark plan to off me with nail clippers in the middle of the night and take my place in the house. Cats are funny, we really are their pets. She doesn’t like where I sit my glass of water. Cat, “Oh I see you sat water here, let me knock that off and water the floor for you. You’re  welcome human.” Or the constant meowing and purring like she wants to be loved. I reach to pet her thinking, “This is it, she finally loves me.” WRONG……Cat’s mind, “Oh no! Don’t you dare pet me like an animal. Follow me now human!!! I AM STARVING. My bowl is only half filled and I peed in my box SCOOP IT now human, NOW! NoW!”  I can set items of mine on the bar and around the house at random then sit with a glass of wine or coffee and just listen to shit hit the floor all over the house. Anyways, why you got to be an asshole? I like my clutter, but Trubul likes clean surfaces. The cat need meds, like yesterday!

I just completely lost track. Second, I decided I really want a raccoon.

Third, I hate that I gained 20 pounds from the fucking medication, I only took for two months. What’s up with that shit?!? Husband typical rational response, “Well honey, it may not be the meds, diet and exercise are just as important and well you are a spring chicken anymore.” Well thank you Mr. Obvious. Thank you for reminding me, but I think it’s probably just the medication…..and maybe a little too much wine. Did I mention I quit two days ago only to drink for this night?

Third, why is the nut drinking and musing tonight? To be honest to avoid a low, I’m celebrating my misfortune. Yes, celebrating my misfortunes of the past two weeks. My bank account is nearly $5000 dollars poorer. Unexpected expenses just keep popping up, such as my two flat tire in one day on each of my vehicles, new tires all around, Hooray! If that wasn’t enough the dog joins in with her problems. This weekend, Dog, “my ear hurt human, I am itchy human, my ear hurts human” As she wagged and bugged the shit out of me. I finally pet her and scratch her ear to discover the dog has scratched so much she has a hematoma completely bulging in her ear. Also overnight, ear and eye infections, and a flare up of skin allergies. Off to vet, $700 later and a scheduled surgery this Friday estimated to be another $700 the dog is walking around happy and stoned on pain meds and allergy medication. I swear the dog thinks she is my husband mistress tonight. I actually getting jealous. I need a good scratching too……more wine.

Forth, I don’t even know what this post started out about, but pretty sure I was mad at someone and ignoring them by blogging.

Lastly, “You shouldn’t drink if you’re on medication. It defeats the purpose  and effectiveness of the medication you are taking” and my response to myself, “I fucking know that and you have to howl at the moon sometimes.” Pardon my language, it’s the Marine in me and being around them for decades. OMG, decades make me feel old.

I shall toast and be embarrassed tomorrow. But being bipolar does not mean I can’t howl at the moon every once in a while.

I am pretty certain the cat beat the dog up.

“Passive aggressive” *insert maniacal laugh

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  Some people have writers block, but I always have another problem…..touchscreen keyboards. Yes, other than my evil nemesis the black cat, it’s touchscreen keyboard. My hands have a tendency to sweat all the time. To me it’s gross, discussing, and has caused me social anxiety my whole life. I alway think, “My god, they are reaching for a handshake” and I roll in for the inappropriately timed hug. Sometimes it’s normal and sometimes with anxiety they drip with water. I’ve learned to control it a bit over the years, but it drives me bonkers using an iPad or touchscreen device. I toss them in frustration, and you’ll hear a snicker and laughter from one of my kids, “Mom must be trying to write with wet hands again.” My kids are hilariously times and know how to make me laugh. Sometimes, my oldest who likes to be a bit sassy, will see me getting upset and walk by ever so causally and say, “E—-eeeeeeyore” in her best Eeyore voice and we both laugh. Her best is when I’m talking and anytime I am passive aggressive and she hears it she will say loud enough for me to hear,”Passive aggressive!” It humorous and she knows her boundaries. She usually snaps me out of my aggressive or depressive behavior. 

So as I was trying to type and tossed my iPad and went in search of my laptop this morning. I heard a little voice in my head and smiled. Then in the search for my laptop I asked passive aggressive questions in my head and heard that little voice in a sigh say, “passive aggressive.” There on her bed my laptop, battery dead. This time I don’t ask, “Who took my laptop and forgot to replace it?” This time I leave a note that reads in bold, “Passive Aggressive!, I heard your voice. Love you so much for keeping me cool.”

So next time you find yourself asking passive aggressive questions, hear a voice like that of a maniacal muppet like that of my conspirator Uncle deadly saying, “passive aggressive” and smile remembering the honesty of child who lives with parents who just isn’t right sometimes. 

P.S. The Lego image and why Legos? All parents can relate it a huge source of passive aggressive behavior at night in the dark when barefoot.

Who is the mad woman?

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 “A man’s face is his autobiography. A woman’s face is her work of fiction.” Oscar Wilde


I’m sure some curiosity is stirring about the person behind the blog. I use to be completely normal. That statement seems funny now, because I am a new normal. So how is it normal isn’t the same now? Now I’ve learned to embrace my genetic flaws. Society would probably never labeled me as normal, society puts labels on mental disorders such as crazy, depressed, or sickness. The doctors over the years have added labels such as Bipolar disorder, General anxiety disorder (GAD), post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), and Depression. Overtime I’ll share the stories behind the labels. Life happened and my brain just stopped making certain chemicals and wasn’t able to deal with trauma or stress. The big label is Bipolar disorder. In combination, I am a physiological mess and a real pain in the ass to treat. Treating bipolar takes priority, because the medication for others can create chaos, mania, and manic episodes. On occasion my doctor will give me something to help with the others, but with mania and depression under control I maintain the quirky new normal. I started a blog to share how it’s not crazy. I share my ups and downs, stories that somehow pop in my head, and if you’re lucky occasionally lunacy, drunken rantings, and delusions. I write those just before the fast acting antipsychotics start working. 
I can be very normal in appearance. It is exhausting when I have fake it all day. Those around me may never know that I suffer a daily battle in my head. I hid the deep depression as the flu for years, but rarely could I hide my mania or psychosis. I know some old friends and acquaintances are reading this right now thinking, “I KNEW IT!” In reality, I hear the whispers and for whatever reason someone always unbeknownst to them remind me how people love to talk and gossip, It’s human nature. They talk about my “illness.” I never confronted them and they never knew they hurt me so deeply when all I needed was help, friendship, and acceptance. Being bipolar is unfortunately very lonely and you hurt the people you love most, you hurt yourself. So I became very open and own my “sickness” instead of fueling speculation. 
I’m not sick, I am bipolar. I am very intelligent, some may say gifted and very artistic. I can remember the placement of every object in my house, even junk drawers, a convenient superpower. I’m generous to the point of giving what I do not have to give. I have an almost obsessive need to learn talents and skills. I absorb things and like to be independent. I start hobbies or even sports at random. Once I’m satisfied with mastering the activity I move on to another. Over the years I’ve become like a human Google of useless information and skills. My daughter asked me just yesterday, “Mom, how do know everything?” My response, “Because I’m bipolar.” I realized I didn’t say sick, crazy, or just because, I said bipolar, It’s my superpower. It’s never going away and makes me the person I am today. 
So that doesn’t sound bad at all, does it? Let me share some demons. I’ll only share a few but you’ll get the point. When manic, I am reckless, sexy, and entertaining. I am a child with no rules. I do what makes me feel good. I don’t think about others emotions. I lash out at those who try to help. The racing thoughts and rapid speech are the first sign of  my mania. I will ramble my theories and musing, draw my thoughts on paper. I have visions and see things that aren’t real. The night sky is colorful, It’s absolutely beautiful with color. The moon hums to me. I refuse to sleep because I’m not tired. I have no need for sleep anymore. I’m delusional and will recount a story from a book as my own and truly believe the storytelling. I’m extremely compulsive in all areas. I am self-destructive physically. It’s never a happy ending, the cycle concludes with me crying for days, depressed, guilt ridden, hurt, embarrassed, suicidal, and no way to explain my behavior. Sometimes I feel like it wasn’t me, but this other person who ruined my reputation. If only I could stop this identity thief who used my body and mind. I am reminded by the scars and the scars I’ve caused others. I swear to give everything I’ve got to redeem my soul as I cry in bed begging to be normal.
Now here’s the catch, I miss my delusional mind. Yes, I miss the sensations and delusions. I was invincible, I had no fears or worries, no sadness in my world. I miss the colors of the night sky. I’ve never seen the Aurora Borealis, but it’s close to how I saw the night. Sometimes, the humming that radiated from the moon would cause it all to flow in perfect sync. On full moons, it was the strongest, hence I was a lunatic. Sometimes so strong it would draw me out of my house and keep me from self-destruction because I would sit out all night under the stars. I never understood why everyone wasn’t staring at the sky. I miss seeing such beauty. I gave up my colorful night to be normal. Sometimes I will try hard to see it and cry because my night was no longer colorful, It’s dark now, it’s normal. I gave it up to be a better mother. To be an example to my children and friends. I gave it up to save my life. My days are now colorful.
I’m a normal, sometimes a bit more extreme almost childish parent. We all like to win and screaming, “boo yah” to a group of kindergartens when winning a game is my normal and they love seeing me being one of the kids. I’m the cool fun mom who is coloring the wall. I’m goofy and tell the kids fantastic stories. I give the pets voices and narrate what the pets are thinking in those voices. I have an ongoing saga with the cat that even causes me to laugh aloud. My husband is my best friend and incredibly strong to have stuck around for 18 years caring for me. It’s not easy being a caregiver to someone who fights you daily at times. I have led charitable and professional organizations successfully. I am able to volunteer for organizations and even maintain a pretty impressive resume. I may be a pack rat and sometimes a complete disaster. I am flattered by the response to my blog and just knowing I’ve helped one person heals my scars. I hope if a story touches you that you share it so it helps someone else. It was medication and good doctors that helped me, also reading other blogs and seeing others surviving that really helped me. You’re not alone even when you feel there is no way anyone feels the way you do, I guarantee you there is a post not far down the feed to prove you wrong.

Synopsis: in case you have an attention disorder and can’t finish the whole story.

I am here today, I’m pretty damn cool and I am bipolar. 

 
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Unexpected outcomes

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Sometimes I just get this crazy obsession for a certain foods or spices. Today it was for Thai food, it’d been at least two weeks since I had had a meal from my favorite local spot. It was a hidden gem I’d run to and was always amazing. So excitingly, I load up the kids and we are on our way for the most delicious Thai food. I didn’t care if the kids were arguing or my 11 year old feels she is the enforcer and boss of my 6 year old.  Today, I was not going to scream “Stop” a million times. Today was my treat! Today would include delicious food porn on my blog, it will not be crazy!

As we arrived and parked, I made sure the rules were clear, “BE good, NO fighting, mommy needs to be fed!” Walking towards the door something was off and they appeared closed. From my side, my little man Peter says, “Mom, I’m pretty sure they are closed for good” And sure enough, a real estate sign, It was closed forever.  Then the kids had a brilliant idea, “Mom, let’s go to your favorite Korean restaurant.”

“Yes!” That will do, so on the interstate we go, if you’re not familiar with Northern Virginia traffic consider yourself blessed. I-95 is hell going south or north on any given day, but I’m determined to eat out and now it’s just painful listening to the kids argue. “MOM!, make her give me to poop emoji pillow back.” “MOM! I didn’t touch him” and so on until we reach the exit.  As we pull into the parking lot to my favorite Korean restaurant something isn’t right and this time I spot the sign immediately, closed and another real estate sign. I lay me head on the wheel, quietly I say “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

Apparently, not quite enough. Out of my Peter 6 year old mouth, “Mom, Chuck E Cheese now serves beer and wine” Did my kid just tell me the germ factory served alcohol? How did I not know they served alcohol? Heck, I know where I’ll have my next birthday, maybe even my 40th in many, many years to come, I’ve been 29-35 for several years. I could only laugh that my kids thought that I would get them pizza or the fact they knew Chucky Cheese was near the Korean restaurant. My kids had manipulated me into going to Chucky E Cheese with the suggestion they now serve alcohol.

Yes, I’m that mom drinking a beer at Chuck E Cheese getting her Chuck E Cheese photo ID’s made, playing games with no mercy before noon. Before you judge me, I drank one beer and kicked little kid ass for over an hour. I may have cheated and swiped some tickets from the little people. Just the ones who didn’t pay attention, life lesson kids, pay attention to the crazy lady. But overall, I got a squirt gun, sticky slappy hand thing, some silly puddy, and woopie cushion. All these these things are part of the plan for manic black cat of darkness revenge. You can use you imagination, but two can at play “sniper” cat, the game of surprise attack cat! It only cost me a little over $100 to eat and play games…..totally worth it for the entire family!

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The mysterious case of the blood spots

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  I’ve spent the better part of my day trying to figure out a mystery just to remember i’m “nuts.” As I walked down my staircase I noticed spots on the carpet. There were a couple big ones and more tiny like a splatter or drip of a reddish brown color. Immediately, I go into “Who’s bleeding?” mode. Kids were at school so if one of them had hide an injury from me they did a great job. So then I check the dog and no sign of anything. So I went in search of the crazy cat. She probably ran into the wall and busted her nose. In my head, I was convinced the cat had hurt herself in a manic rage. Fun part was finding where she chose to hide from me. I found her safe and sound chewing up my phone charger. She wasn’t hurt but I wanted to hurt her. So now it’s a a real mystery. Who was bleeding at the foot of my staircase?

Now my mind is different than that of a normal person. Now, I’m getting paranoid, in my head I ask, “Is one of my kids having nose bleeds and hiding it from me? Oh my god, is it an undiagnosed brain tumor?” Racing thoughts continue, “Was someone in the house, got hurt and ran before being caught?” Just as I was convinced someone was hurt, or worse dying the kids come through the door. I rush them both with the third degree interrogation. No injuries, no bleeding whatsoever. Then out of my daughter’s mouth, “Mom, that’s spilled red wine! I know what blood looks like and that’s wine.”

Three thoughts on myself crossed my mind immediately. First, “you are batshit crazy” second, “did you really see spots and assume blood, death, and cancer?” Lastly, I remembered last night deciding I’d relax and escape the living room couch, lay in bed and read…..and yes with a glass of beautiful red wine. What I forgot is the stumble from the sniper attack to my feet. The the black cat of the darkness, Trubul had lunged at me and unknowingly in the dark the spill occured.

Mystery solved, touche cat. “Why the hell didn’t you remind me earlier when I asked you cat!?!??” Guess you were too busy trying to kill yourself chewing wires.

  

The “Eeyore Effect” and the slow depression

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  To slowly slip into depression is worst than the episodes that can be linked to a trigger. But no trigger this time, slowly feeling it is like waiting for the unknown. Panic and anxiety start to sink in for fear of the unknown. Some people notice right away, others just realize they haven’t seen you, some miss the life of the party, and surprisingly very few ask, “Are you okay?”

I become what I recognize as delusional now, because I know it’s not true.  I call this the “Eeyore effect.” Eeyore is a character in the Winnie-the-Pooh books if you lived a sheltered childhood under a rock you may not know he is a gloomy, depressed, pessimistic old grey stuffed donkey. I certainly know depression is coming when Eeyore shows up. I tell myself I have no friends, no one cares and does anything really matter? Unlike Eeyore, I hurt those who do care and the angry  outburst become common. I cling to those who make me happy hoping to pull myself out before it happens. Eventually being clingy and needy will take a toll on the sane and they don’t want to sink with you so the abandon ship. Then you realize I am clinically  depressed.

So what is the cure for the “Eeyore effect?” I’ve found doing the one thing that is the hardest for me is key, talk to my doctor. Yes, hardest thing in the world is admitting I’m depressed to my doctor. I fear yet another medication. I fear the side effects new medications. I fear she’ll think I’m just lazy. I fear she will tell me it’s normal. But for the cure to the Eeyore effect, the key is talking about my fear to the doctor and family. Being brutally honest about yourself and your moods and behavior. Sadly having bipolar once I do slip it’s dangerous so Eeyore has to be balanced quickly.

The stigma of medication and mental illness is the only thing I wish we could cure. It’s okay to admit you’re sick. Antidepressants are OKAY! If it was your heart or maybe diabetes, you’d take the medication needed to make you feel better. I just heard my friend yell that at me in my head. It took me years for family and friends to convince me it was okay. Now I help others, talk, listen and I’m open about my illness. You’d be surprised how helpful it is for you to be yourself and they understand you can’t just snap out of it when you become Eeyore.

On the other hand, the “Tigger effect” is hard for me to talk about and deserves it’s own post for all its scandal, excitement, and embarrassment. You’d think depression would be harder to talk about but writing about something you miss because of medication is hard.

Feeling the sting of human behavior

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I’m not sure if many of you have read or been told the story of the scorpion and the turtle or frog in some stories.  I’ve heard the story in various ways with the cast of animals swapped in and out, but generally it’s a classic for reflection on human behavior and inherent vicious natures that cannot change. We all feel the sting, and living with my condition I feel I’m constantly both characters. Nevertheless, I wanted to share and pass along the story. It’s a story that’s been heavy on my mind as i’ve read through the diversity of the blogs here on wordpress. So here you go, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

A scorpion, being a very poor swimmer, asked a turtle to carry him on his back across a river. “Are you Scorpion mad?” exclaimed the turtle. “You’ll sting me while I’m swimming and I’ll drown.”

“My dear turtle,” laughed the scorpion, “if I were to sting you, you would drown and I would go down with you. Now where is the logic in that?”

“You’re right!” cried the turtle. “Hop on!” The scorpion climbed aboard and halfway across the river gave the turtle a mighty sting. As they both sank to the bottom, the turtle resignedly said:

“Do you mind if I ask you something? You said there’d be no logic in your stinging me. Why did you do it?”

“It has nothing to do with logic,” the drowning scorpion sadly replied. “It’s just my character.”
[Braude, 1965]

My love affair with Uncle deadly

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First, I should never watch “The Muppets” and go directly to bed. My dream of my life with the muppets last night was awesome. I’ll spare you the bulk of the lunacy but, I finally kill Mrs. Piggy. She messed with Kermit for the last time. I got away with the murder only with the help of Uncle deadly, you know the blue, reptilian-looking creature, also known as “the Phantom of the Muppet Show”and current costume guy and assistant to Mrs Piggy. 

Always my favorite muppet and now we were partners in crime (Insert Maniacal laugh). We dumped the pig at a local Smithfield farm. In my dream, Uncle deadly wanted to cook and serve up a pork feast to all the muppets. I remember thinking how messed up that was and suggested Smithfield processing. Well that’s not the crazy part….Uncle Deadly and I run away together. I fall madly in love with the evil muppet. Fast forward to a beach, like the one in movie “Cocktail” with Tom Cruise.  He’s slinging drinks behind a beach bar and I’m really sexy, sipping on a fruity drink with a big floppy hat. 

Today may be a little crazy… 

 

The Cat talked tonight

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The cat talked tonight and I am certain  she’s schizophrenic and thinks people and inanimate objects talk to her.

She came into my life over a year ago shortly after I swore I’d never own a cat. Little did I know this black siren would play my children and enter our family on a bet. We were visiting family in Kentucky and as usual in the country you’ll encounter the barn cats and stray dogs. They honestly balance things for children in the Appalachia. Many of my best friends and confidences were animals. It taught me about unconditional love, trust, and loyalty. You’ll never find friendship like that of animals or someone who gives you and expects nothing but love in return.

So the black siren came as we visited Mam-maw (grandmother) just over a year ago. The kids had played with the cutest litter of stray barn kittens.  Something I was happy they got to enjoy, something I cherished from my childhood in Kentucky.

The kids begged and begged for us to take one home. Of course, selfishly I wanted a black cat, always loved them because they shared a stigma. I said if a little black kitten comes tonight we’ll take her home tomorrow.  Within minutes, we see this lone black kitten running to the door. “Dammit”, I thought, but honestly I was probably as thrilled as the kids. She was perfect! Absolutely the perfect cat. I agreed, but said we will name her Trubul like trouble, because I’m certain she’ll be nothing but trouble.

Fast forward, she is trying to kill me. Trubul has now been with the family long enough to execute plans. She’s no longer pet, but captive. I am her captor. She is living out the “Unbreakable” story (she watched the movie with me, I saw her snap). She would guard her catnip mouses, plan sniper attacks, plot her escape.

I only knew the cat was as crazy as me when I saw her talking to herself. Yes, talking to herself. She would meow something and in another tone meow back. It would continue, she would fight her alter ego for the one mouse not hidden under a couch. Everyday I accepted my cat was a schizophrenic bipolar cat.

Tonight she turned on me. In retrospect, it was when I tried to meditate, but she turned (see previous post). I was the enemy and we had a battle.

Without it being an “offense worthy of commitment” the cat has the upper hand. I’ll never have a rabbit to chase down a hole, because Trubul will kill it and probably lay it on my pillow, like a horse head from the godfather movie. She runs the house, she has the love, she controls the dog……to be continued CAT……to be continued….

Meditation, play by play fail

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So I was told meditation is amazing to slow your mind, ease your worries, and soothe your soul. So hello google and youtube, I’m now a subject matter expert. Kids are in school and I need to learn to self soothe. Let’s do this!

Step 1: Sit or lie comfortably

I sit my pretty little butt down trying to not think. Then I start thinking, “did it say how I should sit or lie?”, “Is the door locked”, “I really need to be doing laundry” “I guess I could just masturbate”

Step 2: Close your eyes

Eye are closed, success! Eyes are closed! “Why is it so hard to keep my eyeballs from straining?” Suddenly dog jumps on me, “Stupid dog, go away I am f*cking meditating”

Step 3: Make no effort to control breath; simply breathe naturally.

I’m now laying, not sitting anymore eyes closed and thinking “Is this natural breathing?” “Why am I over thinking breathing?” “Keep your eyes closed and stop thinking….why the hell is the cat now rubbing and purring on me, ugh. Did you forget you hate me cat!?!?”  “Stop thinking about sex” “Focus!”

Step 4: Focus your attention, blah blah blah. Breathing more blah blah blah. Body movement and more breathing ramblings. This is basically the meditate step.

Cats gone, dog is in the floor. All is peaceful, I just might do this meditate thing. Eyes closed, I hear the sounds of regurgitation from the dog. I think, “meditate, ignore dog. Breathe naturally”. As I hear the dog move around room, obviously puking, the doorbell rings. At that moment, dog forgets about puking to run barking like a rabid dog to kill the door.

I open my eyes to see that the dog decided to walk around to puke, disgusting. Checked outside, no one is there. I clean up after the dog. Cat runs a sniper attack on my head as I clean and the phone is ringing. Yay, it’s the school nurse, I have a sick kid. I laughed as she talked and just told her I’d be there to pick him up soon.

My conclusion, meditation and the bipolar mind is nearly impossible. But you know what is soothing, involves bed, and eyes rolling back in your head. Yep, sex!

“Just don’t write about me”

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Blogging is an excellent outlet and surprisingly I enjoy writing about my lunacy. I love reading the comments it’s very therapeutic. Over the last week or so as word spread “the nut” was writing a blog, the common thread was “that’s awesome”, “Just don’t write about me”. It seemed people loved living the story with me, but somehow embarrassed for me to tell the stories. Guess what? I’m going to tell all my stories (*insert maniacal laugh). 

You can’t choose to ride the roller coaster and say you only walked by the ride. People tend to really enjoy a good shit show. I’m not a mean girl, so don’t start sweating. If I blog about you, you’re probably not going to notice, unless….. you’re a narcissist then all my post are about you and you’re ugly.

So let my story telling begin. I hope to help someone out there relate, understand a friend or family member who may suffer from mental illness. I am flattered by my following and really love to hear your thoughts. Who knows, you just might end up in my stories.