“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.” ~
David Foster Wallace
“Lennie hesitated, backed away, looked wildly at the brush line as though he contemplated running for his freedom. George said coldly, “You gonna give me that mouse or do I have to sock you?”
“Give you what, George?”
“You know God damn well what. I want that mouse.”
Lennie reluctantly reached into his pocket. His voice broke a little. “I don’t know why I can’t keep it. It ain’t nobody’s mouse. I didn’t steal it. I found it lyin’ right beside the road.”
George’s hand remained outstretched imperiously. Slowly, like a terrier who doesn’t want to bring a ball to its master, Lennie approached, drew back, approached again. George snapped his fingers sharply, and at the sound Lennie laid the mouse in his hand.”
~ John Steinbeck Of Mice and Men
Maybe I just don’t know how to say, “I’m sorry” it’s something I probably never learned and possibly why I over compensate in other areas and can’t fully explain my mental illness. When the mania is over and the depression starts to slithers its way into all the wounds where most people would receive light, it feels like your world is empty. Each wound is slowly filled with someone’s anger, someone’s hurt, someone’s disbelief. Those wounds sealed with darkness.
My extreme mania, so lucid. An experiment with medication, euphoria, psychosis, and the ability to do anything. Now, I find myself sealing wounds with darkness. Take away all the sickness, I’ve lost my closest friends. I trusted people who betrayed me, because I inadvertently betrayed them, endless cycle of the bipolar mind. You trust and love people and learn instead of helping they run, opening wounds. Others, stay building an invisible net catching me as I fall into darkness.
Now, in depression my mind can only remember the good and can’t think of how I ever hurt a soul. I’m reminded daily, but my mind is a blender on high. I gave until i couldn’t give anymore. Understanding, any hurt isn’t even comprehensible and only brings tears. Looking at the faces of my children when I returned home from the hospital reminded me where my priorities should’ve been and suicide was not the answer. Getting proper medication was important, everything else wasn’t important. Until you have experienced the bipolar mind it’s important to remember it’s all real, it’s amazing and deadly.
Each time like Lennie, from the quote above, he would pet them too hard often killing them. I love too deeply, I love too hard. I give my soul to causes, to people, to everything and disregard the people who truly love me…breaking them in the end. If you read the Steinbeck story, I’m not only Lennie, I’m George…I’m constantly protecting (him) myself and I want my story to end with us as one person again.
“”For the rabbits,” Lennie shouted.
“For the rabbits,” George repeated.
“And I get to tend the rabbits.”
“An’ you get to tend the rabbits.”
Lennie giggled with happiness. “An’ live on the fatta the lan’.”
Lennie turned his head.
“No, Lennie. Look down there acrost the river, like you can almost see the place.”
Lennie obeyed him. George looked down at the gun.””
~ John Steinbeck Of Mice and Men
I am my own story, I am my beginning, my climax, and my end. I just want to write happy endings for everyone. Sadly, in this world everyone can’t have happy endings, but I can survive my story. Tonight, I listen to my little guy who is seven play football in the house. I do not stop him, I hug him. I listen to my crazy cat break ornaments on the Christmas tree, I hug her a little harder. The dog constantly scratches next to me, I stay calm and hug her a little swiftly with my foot.
I’m happy I am alive.
So this morning I couldn’t bring myself to write in detail about this recent experience in the mental hospital, except for the very brief post. Every experience is different, every hospital is different, and even case is different. Go immediately if you need help, but I thought to myself in the two weeks what were top ten things I’d pack if given the chance. Here you go… enjoy!
Top 10 things I wish I packed (cause we all plan our breakdowns)
1. Slippers (no laces) Honestly, the rubber threaded socks are sexy, but provide zero support or protection from the random “mystery yellow water spot” that would appear just as you put on a clean pair in the common area. It’s like passing gas, no one ever knows or claims it.
2. Sweatpants. The good old Hanes or fruit of loom are perfect. It’s freezing and you’ll get sick of the paper suit, trust me. I played like I was Sully on Xfiles for about 2 seconds until it wasn’t funny, no paper blue suit!
3. Sweatshirts/t-shirts . See above
4. Small Blanket and pillow. Yes, they told me 3-5 days, but apparently I needed to be dug out of the rabbit hole, never assume. This helped me more than anything.
5. Personal toiletries. Obviously, they had to approve each item but my own soap and hair products were amazing. Plus, my toothbrush was awesome. Trust me, this was a very short list but each helped me live and I learn my roommates enjoyed just as much…
6. Adult coloring books (obvious reasons)
7. Assorted fine point sharpies for coloring, they will keep these and let you use them under supervision…..completely worth feeling like a child.
8. GUM. You’ll have to ask, but I was at the point I was going to pretend to be a smoker to get the smoker’s gum.
9. Small notebook or journal with phone numbers. You’d be surprised when you get phone privileges but no memorized numbers.
10. Chapstick…because everything and everyone will chap your ass so at least be prepared to pucker up.
“Which of my feelings are real? Which of the me’s is me? The wild, impulsive, chaotic, energetic, and crazy one? Or the shy, withdrawn, desperate, suicidal, doomed, and tired one? Probably a bit of both, hopefully much that is neither.”
Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness
Consistently trying to mimic emotions of others everyday in itself is hard, trying to be happy when you are sad and and stop the acceleration of happiness is exhausting. I cherish the moments when I can completely be myself, drown in the things I love with joy. I wish I could be consistent and a “trigger” is just a word for a simple release mechanism.
I have to pause before the hamster falls off the wheel and rewind a bit. Lately, I can’t figure out if I’m okay, about to be manic, or about to face the black dog (depression). It’s a typical meme you’ll find on the Internet. Basically, if you don’t like my mood now, wait a few minutes. I haven’t written as much on my blog in the last few weeks, mostly just unable to focus. I have emails I desperately need and want to reply too regarding how I handle having bipolar and mental illnesses or blog in general. Many praising how I am shifting such a horrible illnesses into a superpower. It’s hard to tell someone with bipolar, PTSD, depression or anxiety what works for me, because I am constantly trying to pinpoint the answer myself. Ithe is ever changing. I never post trigger warnings on my blog because no single person has the same triggers. Yes, we probably all share many of the same. But mine can be anything from hearing a baby cry in a bathroom echoing off the walls to someone asking me, “Do I know you?” to trigger a response.
So today, I was completely fine, enjoying a day with the family. We had chosen to go see a movie and walk around the mall prior. Today is Memorial day, for our family everyday is memorial day like many of our friends. We never forget those who gave all, so today was like no other except it reminds the rest of the world to pause for the day. It’s a trigger, I am reminded of my husband’s deployments, nearly losing him in the Pentagon on September 11th and those who did not come home on those days or those deployments. So for my family they are remembered everyday. So today a movie and the mall sounded perfect.
While shopping, I get a call from my credit card telling me of possible fraudulent charges. Instantly a trigger, “Did I do something and spend thousands online? Did I charge away to ASPCA (The American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) late at night watching those emotional commercials involving animal cruelty? Or to an organization for wounded warriors that pulled at my heartstrings?” These things ran instantly through my head. I knew it was none of those things, but what if? What if it happened and I didn’t remember. The thoughts of other things ran through my head. As I listened, I learned that it was simply we hadn’t used our credit card and when my husband bought the kids a snack with the card just minutes before, it triggered the alert from the card company (Bravo to Chase Bank for diligently). This in turn triggered me.
It was obvious to everyone, the day was over. I was rigid, emotionless, angry, irritated, and every muscle remained tense. It was no one’s fault. I just hated myself, reminded of who I was like Kryptonite to Superman. I was wounded. I saw the disappointment on everyone’s face as we left the mall for the car. Everyone knew the day with Mom was over.
Once home it took hours to stop my muscles from being so tense. Release myself from the fear and tension that had occurred in my head. I sat on the couch and didn’t move. Shortly, I fell asleep from exhaustion. Once I woke, my body ached, I was tired, not sleepy but drained. Dinner was prepared for me, the kids and Dad went to a neighborhood cookout. The day was savaged for them, but I felt like I’d spent the day in the gym. In a fog, reflecting how real it all felt.
I wanted to share that regardless of how awesome and healthy I look or appear I’m not immune to triggers. I am not perfectly super bipolar all the time. What makes me great is also what makes me horrible. A trigger to me is what I imagine and compare to the weaknesses of superheroes.
As I sat down to write tonight I was reminded of, Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness. I flipped to the highlighted quote you see at the beginning of this post. It perfectly described me. It is me yesterday, today and tomorrow. The battle never ends, but like all superheroes I will survive to fight another day.
“She is free in her wildness, she is a wanderess, a drop of free water. She knows nothing of borders and cares nothing for rules or customs. ‘Time’ for her isn’t something to fight against. Her life flows clean, with passion, like fresh water.” – Roman Payne
I love growing older. As I age, each year I notice subtle changes in my body and appearance. I’ve grown to love myself even at my darkest. I complain about my weight, wrinkles, and body like any other woman. Unlike most women I feel more complete each year. My crows feet draw attention to my eyes and adds character. The weathered experienced look, as if I’ve lived too much; In reality, I lived too much, laughed too much, lost too much, and cried too much. I wish they were caused solely by laughter. People tell me I’m beautiful now and it very flattering. But, let me tell you about about my beauty.
I grew up being the ugly duckling. It’s hard growing up with boys, I had two brothers and my neighbor, all boys that I also considered my brothers. As you might imagine at critical times in the developmental years they weren’t as free with compliments. It’s possibly another reason I love Roman Payne’s, The Wanderess, “She is free in her wildness, she is a wanderess, a drop of free water. She knows nothing of borders and cares nothing for rules or customs.” That was me, but I was always alone. My brothers did the usual, you’re ugly, you’re fat, or my favorite was “Bertha butt” since I have always had a nice round butt and thighs. Looking back at pictures, I had a beautiful body. I’ve always had the pinup body, but as a kid in my head I was ugly and fat. I don’t hold it against them now, but in my youth it hurt me deeply and it changed the way I dressed and covered body.
I would quickly get very dark skin from my mother’s American Indian heritage and straight black hair. It would reflect blue like a raven in the light. I found myself lightening, getting perms to curl, and doing various things to make it look like the other kids. I never told anyone, I just begged for a perm, curls, or some sort of chemical treatment to change it so I wouldn’t be teased. I wanted to look trendy, like other girls. Those things lightened my hair to a dark brown all because the straight black was just unnatural and I was teased. I was teased about my skin, my hair, my curves. I worked hard to change my appearance. I wanted to be pretty, but made myself uglier in the process of fitting in with the girls.
So I always stayed active, involved, but withdrawn. So it may be surprising to some to learn how incredibly ugly I felt thought my childhood years, even in my various uniforms which made me like the others. I never appreciated myself.
It wasn’t until I turned 20, I lived in Japan for several years. It was the different culture, that changed my view on aging. Aging is beautiful, I regret not being myself as a kid, it was learning I was beautiful not only on the outside, but the inside in a foreign country. It was at the end of my time in Japan bipolar slammed into me like a freight train. It possibly aged me ten more year in a single moment. But I did not fight it, I embraced it. I because free, happier, I was pretty and back in the United States. I had found myself, but I also found my superpower and did not know one thing about controlling my mind.
Aging for me, has been like being reborn each year. I feel unrecompensed with each passing year. Closer to something, closer to completely understanding myself and I welcome my birthday’s. With age, I’ve learned I’m attractive, intelligent, funny, intellectual, sexual, compassionate, complex, and introspective. Because of the experiences of my past, I honestly appreciate each and every compliment and even the negative compliments. It’s made me able to be modest and a more compassionate person. Modesty is rare in today’s society. It’s also recently made me brutally honest. That is what this birthday is going to celebrate. Being honest, telling my stories, and sharing my experiences.
It may appear, it’s been a beautiful ride, but my history and mileage learning to control the speed of my superpower, called Bipolar, with a bit of all the other crap included many training wreaks. Mental illness isn’t something you shouldn’t be ashamed of and I hope if you’re reading this, no matter your age don’t be ashamed for a second.
“’Time’ for her isn’t something to fight against. Her life flows clean, with passion, like fresh water.” – Roman Payne
“Mental labels don’t define who I am, time and aging only gets me closer to those I love, will love, and have loved” ~ S.L. Cato
“The cigar is something that commands respect. It is made for all the senses and all the pleasures; for the nose,the palate,the fingers, the eyes… a good cigar contains promise of a totally pleasurable experience” – Zino Davidoff
*Dirty Bipolar or other symptom I am blessed to endure. #2 Obsessions and follow on to #1
Cigars are like people there are no two alike. No matter your mood, there is a cigar that will fit it, satisfy a craving. The varieties are endless and ever changing; thin, tiny to wide, thick. Sometime the obsession of holding the various shapes, body, lengths provides some insight into the person’s mood. Size matters greatly, Freud said that “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” But I do have my preferences. Cigars generate camaraderie, conversation, and community. But like people, cigars can be very delicate and requires lots of love and attention. My humidor has become a complete obsession. Sometime when neglected a extraordinary cigar will dry, peel, and burn poorly. Just like people, they come in every shape, size, color, and personalities all requiring just as much work. They deserve my obsession.
In the opening quote, a good cigar for me with scotch is a completely pleasurable experience. Finding the perfect cigar to go with my whiskey is an obsession. I can’t possibly smoke them all to find my perfect combination. Much like a perfect marriage. There is no perfect combination.
The sense of smelling various cigars is a pleasure for the nose. The complexity of the smells when surrounded with different cigars excite my senses. It’s like cologne or perfume as you pass someone, instantly you want to stop them and ask, “what are you wearing?” I like the temptation of so many complex choices surrounding me. The smell of certain cigars, can instantly force memories that were long forgotten.
The palate of course require my scotch. The pair are like perfectly entwined lovers. The oaky favors, the full body smoke from the draw, and occasional sight taste of peat from the scotch. I am satisfied.
Cigars require to be touched, appreciated, smelled before even cutting or being smoked.
The way you hold the cigar demands your attention. Your fingers have to be engaged. The feel of the wrapper can become an obsession. You want it in your hand, even if it’s unlit.
And to the eyes, each one is different. I am constantly looking for the most beautiful, knowing that my favorite isn’t the most desirable. I’m drawn to the beautiful ones, but my favorites are the ordinary. They are smooth, with slight hints of coffee, aged, and complex. They require nothing more than my care. Rarely, do a venture to the bold flavored cigars for fear of obsession.
So I find myself not addicted, but obsessed. It’s only an occasional vice. Sometimes I can’t control my obsessions. But, now I choose my obsessions very carefully.
“Show me a man without vice and I’ll show you a man without virtue.” – Abraham Lincoln
I was a very internal kid regarding emotions. My love of the hunt, survival, and outdoors encompassed my childhood. Appalachia is a special place full of magic. Nature is my therapy.
Sometimes it’s easy for me to forget the past but brief moments flash back. Those moments flood back, I’m catching lighting bugs as a child in a mason jar. Catching June bugs in summer. The humidity is in the air and a storm is brewing. Storms in the mountains shake the earth. Suddenly a lighting bolt strikes, I cried. It knew something bad had happened and my salvation hurt. My oak tree was struck by lighting in my front yard and I felt it’s pain. I think I can remember feeling it dying that night. It lived, but suffered, struggled, and eventually it was cut down. The strike was the death sentence, but the final euthanizing came by chainsaw. I watched it come down with tears. It was the end of something I’d known my whole life. Like watching an animal euthanized.
Solitude today is torture and pleasure, my mind never stops. Solitude is necessary for my survival. A storm brings me peace and closure because of that single memory. I crave summer storms, because of the energy I feel for all living thing. I wanted 10 kids, I’m sure my oak wanted a forest. I’d like to think that my oak has bloomed and reborn many times.
I still have a leaf from the tree, but wish I had a kept a seed, an acorn.
The oak and I have both ended our lineage with different stories. I just wasn’t struck by lighting, but touch by fire and fate.
Marilyn lived a very troubled life and struggled with mental illness. When she was young her mother was even institutionalized as a paranoid schizophrenic. Marilyn constantly feared the eventual diagnoses of her own mental health. Marilyn was extremely intelligent and was said to have an IQ of 168. She had many marriages her first at age 16 to an young sweetheart later to Joe DiMaggio and Arthur Miller. After reading a great biography and there’s many of them written, but one particularly, “Marilyn: The Passion and the Paradox” by Lois Banner is a great one. In death Marilyn has been idolized; posters, shirts, art, truly a icon. She also very popular figure in tattoos. One particular story is of Megan Fox and her former Marilyn tattoo. She idolized her success, her image, her pose, and the face that Marilyn shown the world. What I found interesting was once Megan did research and learned about Marilyn as a person, her background, her history her tragedies. Megan made the choice to remove the tattoo of Marilyn to avoid possible”negative energy”. Megan is quoted in US weekly referring to the tattoo, “she (Marilyn) was a disturbed negative person, she was disturbed, bipolar. I do not want to attract this kind of negative energy in my life ” Well, I’m sorry Megan that’s a shitty answer and even a slap in the face to those who suffer from mental disorders. I could write much more on her, but she does not deserve my time nor money for any movies she may appear.
This quote is you Megan:
“I’ve never fooled anyone. I’ve let people fool themselves. They didn’t bother to find out who and what I was. Instead they would invent a character for me. I wouldn’t argue with them. They were obviously loving somebody I wasn’t.” ― Marilyn Monroe
So on to some of my favorite Monroe musings and quotes.
“This life is what you make it. No matter what, you’re going to mess up sometimes, it’s a universal truth. But the good part is you get to decide how you’re going to mess it up. Girls will be your friends – they’ll act like it anyway. But just remember, some come, some go. The ones that stay with you through everything – they’re your true best friends. Don’t let go of them. Also remember, sisters make the best friends in the world. As for lovers, well, they’ll come and go too. And baby, I hate to say it, most of them – actually pretty much all of them are going to break your heart, but you can’t give up because if you give up, you’ll never find your soulmate. You’ll never find that half who makes you whole and that goes for everything. Just because you fail once, doesn’t mean you’re gonna fail at everything. Keep trying, hold on, and always, always, always believe in yourself, because if you don’t, then who will, sweetie? So keep your head high, keep your chin up, and most importantly, keep smiling, because life’s a beautiful thing and there’s so much to smile about.”
“She was a girl who knew how to be happy even when she was sad” ― Marilyn Monroe
***edited to add some fun stuff I alway enjoyed and to say F*ck you Megan Fox.
1. Marilyn’s hero was Abraham Lincoln. She read everything she could find about him.
2. She loved Clark Gable so much she cried for days when he passed. She saw him as a father figure and would imagine him as her father.
3. She was rumored to have had a intimate relationship with Einstein who she openly talked about her attraction to him.
I could go on and on, but she was an extremely intelligent lady who hated being the labeled the Hollywood dumb blonde.
Best day ever! It’s like finding money in the dryer or a jean pocket, but the joy keeps going and you are constantly being uplifted. Yesterday was one of those days. No anxiety or panic, no sadness, no flashbacks, no racing thoughts, no tears, nothing over the top. Just a blank canvas day, that ended up a beautiful picture.
My blank canvas didn’t involve winning the lottery or anything of grandeur. It simply involved waking up to two beautiful kids who let mom sleep, started the house chores, and my oldest made breakfast without burning the house down. When I finally woke up, a bit foggy forgetting the kids were even home on spring break. I walk downstairs and head directly for the coffee pot. From the other room two little heads pop up, “Hi Mom! Good morning!” I yawn and think to myself how awesome of them to let me sleep and go on autopilot. Then almost as if they planned the timing together they asked, “Mom, is today the day you have your friends teach us to play Disc Golf?” I responded with my normal noncommittal, “We’ll see, mommy needs her coffee first.” This is a protective response from me when I don’t want to let them down. Two reasons, I needed to make sure I wasn’t dreaming and second I knew this activity required a commitment from friends to teach them to play. I hate when I let down my kids, but to have someone else let them down physically hurts.
Bit of a backtrack, I decided months ago I needed to take back up a hobby such as golf. I was really good at one time and really remember it being fun and therapeutic. Then, I ran across Disc golf, I was immediately intrigued. Disc golf is where you throw a flying disc at a target like chained basket, the fun is scored like golf and based on precision and accuracy on a 18 basket courses. Win, win for me, no hauling balls or golf clubs, just a bag of various discs. I loved it instantly and quickly became obsessed with the concept and game. This was going to be my new sport. I shall master it and shared this with my kids. Who watched Vine and YouTube videos that a friend had sent, over and over. They wanted to learn too!
Back to best day ever, “We’ll see” I tell the kids and I sent text to my friend. He’s, a disc golf junkie and jumped at the opportunity to teach the kids and myself. We meet at the park, I knew instantly his passion and obsession with the sport made him the perfect guy. Plus, he was a bit of a kid himself so the kids loved him and the sport.
Peter couldn’t figure out if he was left or right handed thrower. This took some time since he is ambidextrous. Eventually, he threw it, just somehow backwards each time. When advised to run into it and throw, Peter literally ran 25ft forward then threw. Peter, always the one to look for the cheat.
Turns out Rowan was really good! She was a natural. Not only did she throw really well, she was noticed by some of the local disc golf players in the league who encouraged her to join the league and play in a tournament next month. They said she probably win. That was really cool and a huge encouragement for her. She sometimes needs encouragement and this came from one of the best female players locally.
As for the mad woman, well I threw, but kept getting my butt kicked by my daughter and dodging Peters crazy Ivins. Try to not scare our new friend with our multiple personalities. Not only did we learn to play. My daughter found something she loves. Peter was still frolicking tossing, then came home to tell stories to his friend about how he plays disc golf like a boss. I found my new hobby and made great friendships.
In retrospect today, I had a day without let downs, a day away from society. It was therapeutic. It was the perfect day. I was again, a new “normal” for the day.
See, it’s not always crazy.
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.
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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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.”
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 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….
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!
Everyone has four people inside them inside them.
1. The person your co-workers/neighbors know; you see this person day to day. Wave hello, share pleasantries, you share a common bond of existence. It’s work, business, and existence.
2. The second is the person your family and childhood friends know. They grew up with you. They know you on a deeper level. They know that girl/guy who they went to church, school, or summer camp. Lived in the same county or city. You probably went to high school together. They know the base that made you.
3. Then the person your friends knows…the person your friends open up too, professional friends, college friends, good neighbors. Those you open up too and trust. You probably hang out, drink occasionally, and feel comfortable. They are you day to day. In the now friends.
4. Then late at night when no one is around, the person that only you know.
Everyone’s forth person is a little dark, sometimes that fourth person gets out of control. That can be natural. But, if the fourth person is completely different than the other three, than that fourth person is a monster.
And if that forth person doesn’t correspond with one of the first three you’re a monster. You’re embarrassed, you’re ashamed, you’re scared the fourth person could define you, it scary.
I briefly lost faith that Santa, in my head was the guy above in the picture, the weird mall Santa, the bell ringer at walmart.
I was 8 years old and decided I’d catch Santa in the act of coming down the chimney and delivering our presents. My older brother who was 10 and my younger brother 6 at the time were already in bed asleep. And that’s when I had a BRILLIANT idea! Who needs to catch Santa in the act when you can manipulate the entire situation?
It was GENUIS, I woke up early and ensured everything Santa had brought….well the good stuff, was moved to my stocking. It was fail proof, who’s going to question Santa? I’ll have a whole year to get off the naughty list. So I executed my plan and went back to bed knowing it’ll be the best Christmas EVER.
Morning came and everyone jumped up to rush to the fireplace. I smiled ear to ear delighted in how smooth my plan was has executed. As we checked our stocking, I was shocked I got everything. Simply shocked and delighted with my new things. My brothers both immediately shocked and couldn’t believe Santa gave me everything started to scream for Mom. I smiled and reminded them, I was the favorite and had been very good this year. Better luck next year, suckers!
Then enters Mom, barely awake and at a loss for words. Then Dad came into the room, I immediately knew I was in deep shit from the look in his eyes. As mom, created an excuse for Santa’s mistake. I was taken and reminded what it feels like to have a leather belt taken to my butt. To this day on Christmas morning I can feel the sting of the belt. You don’t mess with Santa at any age. Pretty sure that was the last year he gave me what I wanted other than socks, shoes, or necessities.
For the record, I’m good now and ran into him on vacation at Disney world a couple years ago. This was the real Santa, not all his helpers, but good old Saint Nick from the Noth pole and the Macy’s Christmas parade. Turns out I’m permanently on the naughty list, but he did find it to be the best con ever.
Lesson: You just don’t mess with Santa, even his helpers.
Disconnecting from Facebook tops the list of things you should give up or at least set a timer and only allow yourself an alloted time. It’s been liberating and I was once an addict.
So let’s talk a bit about Facebook. I had been on Facebook from the very beginning when you had to have a email address from a college email system before it became the creature it is today.
At first, it was really great because no one really had a cellphone and smartphones didn’t exist. The only picture was my student ID pic which for some reason was the best picture I had ever taken for an ID card. Everyone would use it to rate and hook up with each other, much like tender today. It was also great for networking. As the years passed it grew in popularity and literally crushed MySpace. It opened up to everyone.
Now It gets interesting, you know those people who would never give you the time of day, the handsome jocks, old boyfriends, old girlfriends, the popular people, well they all loved me now and wanted to be my friend. At first, I became the ultimate stalker. The whores have now found Jesus, the jocks were now bald and fat, and surprisingly the average and geeky guys were sexy as hell. Honestly, I never dated a single person in High School. No one ever asked me out and I never went to dances or even prom. I was a tomboy, I enjoyed guns, hunting, outdoors. I played on the golf team, track team, softball, peddle briefly with volleyball, JROTC and all the academic or social clubs. I just wanted to stay busy because I was certain no one liked me. So back on track, I was popular on Facebook. I had thousands of friends.
It hit me about a year ago watching certain behaviors and analyzing what I noticed on other people’s accounts. ASS FISH, yes ass fish, the ones who circle around and eat the shit of other fish. Those who are repeatedly commenting on narcissistic people’s post. It was at first entertainment, but soon it became sad. The increase of the selfie or I love me post and again ass fish circled.
The sad thing is reality is not what you make of it, reality just is…. I spent so much time trying to compete with people who are competing with themselves developing lies to overcome their own sad existence. Throughout life they become so caught up in their destinations they forget to enjoy their day to day experiences. I am reminded of the story of the Yankee tourist who complained to the old hillbilly about how the tourist attraction was not worth the time. The hillbilly looked at him and told him the attraction was the drive not the destination.
I’m sure I’ll rejoin facebook one day, but right now I’m enjoying the drive.
Update: I recently return to Facebook to create a blogger page. I wanted to have a place I could communicate with my readers. I still strongly advise the breaks. It was wonderful. So with that said if you are on Fakebook please like and share my page. http://www.facebook.com/itsnotcrazytoday
“I have so many different personalities in me and I still feel lonely.”, Tori Amos
So many people are affected with mental illness and rarely share, which hurts us as a population. As the quote above states “I have so many different personalities in me and I still feel lonely.” It a true representation of many affected or dealing with someone fighting, coping, or dealing with those personalities. We are all lonely. Starving for affection, attention, acknowledgment.
So many people need to be accepted even those who have been accepted.
Makes you think a bit about how money and success influences happiness. You truly do not need money or success to be happy. You only need yourself. I still hold on to true love…..so you need yourself and true love 😉
I can be hot and cold….so true love is reality, but it burns a delicate flame like a candle. I want to keep it in a box for fear of a draft. But it’s really impossible to protect a flame from the elements. So I have to burn hot and pray those who love me protect their flame from my draft. In return, I hope they shelter the light I provide and the flames aren’t extinguished, but passed on candle to candle.
Sometimes as I have my coffee I start to ponder random thoughts and immediately hear the statement “did you take you meds” in my head. A statement, I’ve come to strongly dislike but accept. It’s one thing to battle my bipolar disorder as silently as possible but every day I hear that statement. I say something overly funny, “did you take your meds?” I say something brilliant, “did you take your meds?” I make a statement about my feelings, “did you take your med?” I decided I’m going to buy a zoo…..”did you take your meds?” Yes…yes…YES….well probably forgot not buying the zoo. But I hate people asking me when I’m not up or down. It’s like even in a normal state I can’t be normal. I know I have to take meds for the rest of my life.
Over the last year, it’s been a struggle to find a perfect cocktail, but without hesitation I take whatever they give me now to make everyone happy around me. I’m not “play with my shit nuts” off meds, I’m just extreme one direction or the other. My extreme up can be very self destructive, self gratifying, hyposexual, and I have super powers. Yes, super powers! I don’t have to sleep anymore, I can do what takes a normal human a week in a day. I can sing and I’ll probably tell you about that marathon I never ran or my mountain ski trip I never took. People love me, people want to do stuff with me because I’m fun and outgoing. I can shop like no other and give very charitably. During my extremes I loose touch with reality. I am an over exaggeration of myself.
Now the dark side “the down”. So it’s true, what goes up must come down. And it happens for me like a switch. No one likes to talk about suicide or suicidal thoughts. Heck, I don’t even like saying it out loud to my doctor. I’ll just ignore or nod when she ask if I’ve been suicidal. So the “down” usually happens and feels like I’ve got the flu so I nap and become very introverted. I am sick, sick of my weight caused by meds, sick of being self destructive, embarrassed. Embarrassed is an understandment. I have to answer for all my actions that happened during my extremes and mania. I have to hear the stories, be the punchline of the joke, “and then it was awesome, she did (insert funny destruction)…..” Then look my children and husband in the face at the hurt and disappointed. I’m convinced the world hates me. I have no one, no friends. I convince myself I am only hurting those around me. That’s when that dark monster within convinces me everyone would be better off without me in this world. It’s selfish, but when you are down it’s actually pretty selfless. Your mind convinces you you’re saving everyone from the pain. It’s dark and I don’t want to really even talk about the bottom, but there is a bottom and it’s has a trap door called suicide.
So did I take my meds today, yes! Is it always effective, no! Is it worth it, yes. I like my normal self. I realize I have purpose. I remember I’m a great balance between my extremes. The friends who were there during my extremes are usually the first to leave your side. I mean, I’m not super crazy fun and buying them stuff, footing the bill to be loved. I don’t need those people and in the end those are usually the trigger.
I have probably a couple of the greatest friends in the world. I may not see them for years at a time but they are the ones to call and talk to me after or before doctor appointment. They are the ones who ask, “did you take you meds?” That’s when it really clicks, they are not asking to remind me I’m crazy but because they like the normal me.
Yes, I took my meds today.