Daily Archives: April 11, 2015

Kind, Gentle and Generous

Give Him the Moon

Earlier this year I set a goal to stay out of the hospital or a hospital program this spring.  Three out of the last five years, I’ve ended up there.  It’s a good thing, really, to know when to make that call.  Lots of folks with mental illness aren’t able to do that for themselves, so I feel lucky and proud of the work I do to hang onto a little insight during the worst of times.

However, the program I’ve used in the past was eliminated, like many of the behavioral health programs across the state, because psychiatrists fled Iowa like rats on a sinking ship (some problem with Medicare reimbursement).  If I needed serious help now, I’d have to drive across the state and admit myself into one of the few psych wards left.  I’d rather not, really.

I needed to change things up—not just my perspective, but what I do to manage this transition from winter to summer.  I found some new resources this year to help—Intensive Psychiatric Rehabilitation (IPR) and Integrated Health Services (IHS).  Both are new state programs trying to fill the gaps left by the psych docs.  Also, with my mom’s passing last summer, I now live frugally instead of crushed by poverty.  It’s a huge difference.

So, with this new net under me, I started to address the critical and disapproving voice in my head.  I started to wonder if my drive to do more and be more was actually another facet of that mean voice.  I watched how I withheld comfort, left no room for rest or rejuvenation, and squeaked by on the least.

I wondered how it might feel to do the opposite—to be kind and gentle in my self-appraisal, to be generous with my time and money.  I wondered how that voice might sound.  I wondered, for instance, what my grandma might say to me when rapid cycling ruined all my plans for the day.  Or what my friend, Lily, might say about me going to Ireland next year.

Whenever I started to hate on myself, or rail against the unfairness of living with bipolar disorder, or scold myself for going to Des Moines twice in one week, I tried to stop and conjure the people who love me.  Their kind and gentle voices filled my mind.  Their immediate generosity helped me breathe.

Over the course of the spring, I’ve tried to make those voices strong in my mind.  This is some of the hardest work I’ve ever done.  I’m steeped in self-violence.  Recognizing the lie in that voice when it slithers into my thoughts takes time.  Then, countering it with petal-soft, open-armed sweetness is like speaking a foreign language.  But, I’ve learned a few words.  And my vocabulary is growing.

Being kind, gentle and generous to myself doesn’t alter the course of my bipolarity.  Rapid cycling fogs my brain and leaves me exhausted.  Emotions flip and tumble like Olympians.  Chores overwhelm me.  But, today, I have hope that I can navigate the hard road through Spring.  In my mind, I’m holding a warm, gentle hand.  It fits perfectly in mine.  Because it is mine.


Blog For Mental Health ~ 2015

I pledge my commitment to the Blog For Mental Health 2015 Project.  I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others.  By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health.  I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma. I have already […]

Sometimes A Little is Too Much

Over the past month of my unintended absence from blogging (and life in general), it is becoming clearer to me what I need to do and have around me to stay somewhat sane.  In the forefront, stress of any kind must be kept to a bare minimum.

Stress.  Right.  Traumas from years ago are rearing their ugly head and the past year seems like it was fraught with tension and tears and angst.  I know that if I am going to survive, I am really going to have to remove myself from all that.  Even a little stress is too much.  Even a little stimulation is too much.

While in some ways the man I started dating last December has been very supportive, now is not a good time for me to be in a relationship.  We fight all the time, and while I would admit that a lot of it is my craziness, he has serious issues as well.  We are not good for each other.  Fight and make up, fight and make up, rinse and repeat.  I really can’t take it any longer.

I have been trying to head back to basics in the last few days.  Thinking about blogging (and then doing so), getting started in individual art therapy, taking meds like I am supposed to.  Going to my bazillion appointments.

Still not enough.  I have had numerous med adjustments.  I , continue to be suicidally depressed, am cycling through anger and irritability every few hours, chest crushing anxiety, crying spells several times daily.  I haven’t been able to work even a few hours here and there and I don’t know when I will be able.

My doctor wants me to do ECT, since this bipolar has been so treatment resistant.  I am looking into it and think I will do it as soon as I get medical clearance.  Because really, this shit has to end somewhere. Somehow.


Filed under: Daily Tagged: anxiety, Bipolar, breaking up, building structure, depression, disability

The Black Wolf Blogger Award

   First I would Like to thank TheSecretKeeper for the nomination. Although, I had stopped taking awards for my writing is somewhere between journal and clinical stuff (and things I have learned along the merry little way), I feel honored for this one (being a new award) as well as all that came before it. […]

Story Construct Dialog Mind

Yesterday I went to my mother’s–formerly my parents’, but since my father’s death she has erased every trace of him, except the works of art that she either likes or keeps for their value, I don’t know which–to take a shower.  I avoid going there now, if she is at home.  There is always some kind of unpleasantness, because she resents the fact that I avoid her.

On Thursday she had forwarded me an email from a former student of my father’s.  It turns out that unbeknownst to me, the professional organization of ceramic artists of which he was a founding member had, at their annual meeting not long ago, given a touching memorial presentation dedicated to my father’s life.

The email contained a series of photos of the memorial, with a transcript of the speech.

I was flabbergasted that I had not been invited.  I would have turned myself into a pretzel to get there.

So I asked my mother why we had not been invited.

“Your memory!  Your memory is so terrible!” she shouted.  This has become a refrain that I hear every time she forgets to tell me something.  “My memory.”  Always “My memory.”

I confronted her.  I told her she was gaslighting me, trying to pass off anything she hadn’t told me as “my memory,” so that hopefully (her hope) I would believe that it was in fact “my memory,” that I am “losing it,” that the only truth is her truth and that I am a helpless, powerless imbecile with a bad memory.

I suggested that perhaps this was her story about me, and it might not be entirely accurate.  This sent her off on a tirade about how she and my father had always given me everything, etc.;  which somehow did not seem to be connected with my memory, but with a memory of her own.  And I know which one.

So I asked her why she thought I had left home at the age of 16.

My purpose was not to drag out old arguments, but to engage in meaningful dialogue which might lead to a discussion of how memory works, and how we sometimes make constructs out of our memories, especially painful ones, or ones we’d rather forget.

“Because we wouldn’t let you smoke pot in your room!  And every time I took you to buy clothes and nothing fit (because I was a bit chubby at puberty), you wouldn’t get anything until you lost weight!”

I don’t know what my weight had to do with my running away, since she never noticed I had become anorexic as a result of her calling me “Fat Ass” and teasing me about needing a girdle, but that is another story.  And the pot–frankly, mother, I didn’t give a damn whether she did or did not approve, although I dreaded my father’s lectures on the inevitable downfall of the Pothead.  As for her explosions of expletives, they were just more of the same.

Stories.

We all have stories, especially those crafted by memories of childhood events: “I was up in the tree and this boy pushed me out and I broke my arm.”  So every time this boy’s memory comes up, so does the story about the episode of the tree.  That is a normal story, filed away in our mind, solid in our neural net.

And then there are constructs, where memories trigger not only a picture of what happened, but also a fixed theory of why they happened.  These are often accompanied by some sort of positive or negative judgement:

“Oh, So-And-So.  She was an out-of-control drunk.  She used to get pissing drunk and slash her husband’s paintings with a knife.  That’s why he left her, you know.”

I know that if I mention So-And-So, or her husband, or even their children, I will get exactly the very same barrage quoted above, verbatim, as if from a factory package, from episode to episode.

Likewise if I try to engage in dialogue about events of my childhood, I am shouted down by her yelling me her constructs.  If I ask permission to add my own perception, my childhood neural memory snapshot of what happened, I am scolded that that is intrinsically not true.  Only her construct is true, and my story has no truth in it, and is of no value.  It is only made up in defiance of authority.

She often asks me why I never tell her anything.  So this time I venture out on a limb and say, “If you want to know why I never tell you anything, this is why.”

“Why?  Because I’m telling you the truth and you don’t want to hear it?” She challenges, in a childish “nah-nah-na-boo-boo” voice.

“Because,” I try to keep my voice even and fail, end up shouting, “Because every time I try to share something with you it gets thrown right back in my face.”  I didn’t start crying.

“That is not true,” she counters, icy voice.

“It is true.  Next time it happens I will point it out.”  Psychology 101.

“You just do that!”  Conversation over.  If you can call that a conversation.

I change the subject.  She is angry about that.  Fuck her.

I engage her in a project that needs doing.  It takes up several hours.  Then, at last, I spend a blissful half hour in the shower, grateful for the new water well–previously it was spring water and one had to take 5 minute showers–and the on-demand hot water heater.

Refreshed and not caring, I descended the spiral staircase into the lower living space.  She was waiting for me.

“You know,” she said sheepishly, “the reason I didn’t tell you about the memorial is that the organization expected us to pay our own way, including the $500, $600 admission fee.”

“Oh,” I said, ignoring the fact that my memory had just been restored, “That’s horrible!  What nerve!  I can’t believe they would do such a thing!”

As I gathered my things and exited, she looked at me wistfully and said, “Good Shabbos.”  It was Friday night.  When Dad was alive, I always made them dinner on Friday nights.  I tried to do it a couple of times with just my mother, but found it too awkward, since there was nothing to say.  So I stopped.

“Oh,” I lied.  “I thought it was Thursday.  Guess I lost a day.  Good Shabbos to you!”

I got in my car and drove back to my little house on wheels, tears burning my vision.


Selective Ignorance

I still remember the day Robin Williams died. And R said, “He was so funny, he had everything to live for, why would he do something so stupid as to kill himself?”
Like depression wasn’t a “good enough” reason.
And I just marveled, How can someone be as intelligent as R and yet say something so asinine?
But maybe it’s more ignorance than anything. Unless your mind is open to empathizing (his is not on the mental health issue) you will view it as trivial.
Those who live it…It’s not trivial at all. It’s hard. It takes bravery and tenacity and more strength than anyone can fathom.
Depression kills. Maybe in the form of suicide but the mental illness is what drives you to it. Misfiring neurons or imbalanced chemicals put you in that dark place where you cannot escape. It tells you things are futile. That you are useless. That nothing will get better. And you fight it for awhile. Until it’s poisoned your entire system and you start to believe it, bit by bit.
Depression, and mental illness on a whole, does kill. It’s like being complicit in a murder if it happens during a robbery even if you didn’t pull the trigger. Depression is often complicit when someone takes their own life.
Until society wakes up and realizes this, it will just be more apathy or flat out disdain for the mentally ill and those who do eventually succumb in the form of suicide.
You cannot possibly grasp just how dark a mind has to be to get to that point. Mental illness is a cancer that metastasizes and spreads and sometimes…people just can’t beat it.

The selective ignorance the masses cling to, as if there’s no way to educate themselves thus making their (wrong)perception correct and acceptable…
Those are the demons we have to fight and they suck just as much as any mental illness demons.

Mental health is inexact in the science. It is difficult on all those involved. But the best way to cope, and be supportive, is to LEARN about the illness at hand. Once you recognize similar behaviors say, in borderline personality disorder or unipolar depression, you will figure out that it’s not personal. Your loved one is not trying to hurt you. It’s not that they don’t care or are selfish.
They have an illness.
Physical illness limits the body.
Mental illness limits the mind’s ability to perform optimally.
Ignorance is choice.

People need to choose to learn.
Because some of the most talented and brilliant minds over centuries have belonged to people with some sort of mental issue and if you dismiss someone for this without regard to how amazing they are…
You may be helping to stamp out the spirit of the next great writer or artist or the guy who cures cancer.
You don’t abandon someone with diabetes or cancer. You learn, you help, you support.
Those with mental illness only ask for the same.


I’m Not On Actual Drugs

I’m all hyped up and restless I don’t really know what to do with myself right now (except for this, obviously). I overslept so I should be really tired ’cause that’s usually what happens. We took one of our cats to the animal hospital today. She’s having surgery on her leg to alleviate the super painful bone-on-bone situation that’s the result of a badly healed broken femur. She’s gonna be there overnight so we had time to arrange what I’m calling her “apartment” because she needs to be kept in a large dog crate for a little while while she’s healing so she doesn’t move around too much. They’re actually cutting out a hunk of bone and letting the tendons and muscles grow into the space where the bone was. It sounds really grisly, but apparently this is a really common procedure. It’s like the wisdom teeth pulling of cat surgery but with a longer recovery time.

So my husband went out to the suburbs to play hockey with the dudes he plays hockey with. I immediately got busy setting up this gigantic dog crate and arranging it and filling it with all the comforts of home and I got it all done pretty quickly and without injuring myself which is kind of a miracle or something because the crate weighs a ton and I made plentiful use of the box cutter my friend accidentally left here last week. I wouldn’t call my pace frenetic, but it was certainly swifter than I typically operate. It looks great. I wish I was an opiate-loaded cat lounging in the super comfy space I made for Artie.

Then I started cleaning which is something I almost never do and that seemed to speed me up even more. My body feels like it’s vibrating. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, it’s just that this is a sensation I tend to experience when I’m really, really angry or I’ve just had a panic attack. I took some Klonopin. Not more than I usually take. Maybe I should take more than I usually take. I mean, this is the exact feeling it’s supposed to alleviate. Well, this and some other things. I don’t feel particularly happy. I’ve been listening to that new Mountain Goats album on repeat. It’s not especially long or anything, so I’ve gotten through it like maybe 4 times. The last couple times I turned it off before the last track, “Hair Match” because it’s really vivid and disturbing and if you don’t know what a hair match is, look it up at your peril ’cause a rough watch.

NAP is coming over in a few minutes. That’s probably a good thing. I was invited to hang out with some friends tonight but I need to mellow out seriously because right now I don’t think I’m quite fit for conversation. Everything feels like a rockslide. (Everything feels like a rockslide?) I keep biting my lips like a tic or something. This is a habit I formed when I used to take speedy drugs a lot, specifically cocaine and Adderall. Adderall is like the most joyless drug ever invented. “Flat affect” is usually listed as a side-effect and it definitely happens to me. I think my wiring got a sorta tangled because when I’m feeling a little hypomanic (which is probably what’s going on with me right now) I do some of the things I habitually did when I was high, specifically the lip biting and tapping my foot. I think my brain thinks I’m on drugs. Or my brain makes its own drugs? I mean it does. Everyone’s does.

Ruh roh. I just saw a cop knock on my neighbors’ door. No one answered. He’s leaving. If it’s that same deal with the dude who used to live in my house that the police are still looking for, I’d rather not answer the door while I’m on brain drugs ’cause I suspect I look like I’m on actual drugs.

Boy, this post sure is meandering. Meandering feels like the wrong word. Too leisurely. I’m…centrifuging? Y’know what’s making this worse? This song:

I keep telling my husband that I’m gonna leave him for Thao one day. I say shit like that a lot. I’m starting to suspect that it’s not very nice of me to do that. He doesn’t usually say shit like that to me. I feel like this should be tit for tat, but it’s not. Very frequently I wonder what it’s like to be singlemindedly in love with just one person. I love the fuck out of my husband, but like, married, not buried ‘n shit, y’know? I’ve only ever cheated on one person in my entire life and it was when I was 15 and I got drunk for the first time and I made out with this older chick…like on a table or something. Then, later that night, after lying about where we were staying, my friend and I crashed at some guy’s house and I got felt up on a couch by this other dude. He’s a really nice dude, but when you’re 15, letting another guy get his hands on your tits is a pretty big deal. So I dumped my then-boyfriend out of guilt. I’m not super worried about cheating on my husband with a woman I’ve never met who lives on the other side of the country and might be straight anyway. OH MY GOD I AM OVERTHINKING THIS LIKE FOR REAL. Laura.

Wait a sec, I gotta pee.

I recognize that you likely did not wait a sec for me to pee and just kept reading, but if you did wait for me…thanks? It was a really satisfying pee. Like just in case you’re concerned about that shit. In which case, thanks again, I guess.

So NAP is here and and we’re gonna hang and, as the Fates would have it, sing along to Biz Markie because that’s what shuffle landed on, so I’m gonna stop typing things I will, in all likelihood regret having shared with you all sometime within the next 24 hours. Or not. I can’t always predict what I’ll regret and what I won’t. It’s what keeps things spicy.

-LB

Tagged: anxiety, bipolar disorder, bisexuality, cat, drugs, friends, hypomania, LGBT, meds, Mountain Goats, music, ping pong balls, sexuality, Thao

You Are Not an “Aspiring Writer.” You’re Already a Writer.

A book rests on a tabletop, the pages open to reveal its contents.

Maybe you’ll be published in this book. Or maybe not. You’re still a writer.

This week, I’m serving up some real talk and I might swear a lot. But I say all of this with love, I promise.

Maybe one of my most frequently asked questions is about the advice I would give aspiring writers or bloggers – especially those who are, like me, marginalized in some sense, be it queer, trans, bipolar, etc.

I have a lot to say about this; I could probably write a book on it. But the first piece of advice I want to tell you is really simple and oh so important: Stop calling yourself an aspiring writing. Start calling yourself a writer.

I used to think that I could only call myself a writer if I were published in some major work, like a book or a magazine, or I couldn’t call myself a writer unless it was my profession. Nowadays? I think that idea is bullshit.

What I didn’t realize at first was that I was feeding into a dangerous idea: that only those who have access to the education, opportunities, and privileges that writers need to succeed in a capitalist society can claim “writer” as an identity or label.

I was upholding a power dynamic. Namely, that a privileged minority of writers are the only “real writers.”

And the reality is, folks who are marginalized are exceedingly less likely to get published or have access to the opportunities they need to become established. We already know that MFA programs, for example, have a huge issue with diversity. We know that most marginalized writers are pigeonholed and are often considered too niche to be acceptable for the mainstream. We know that publishers have prejudice of their own.

Being a “real writer” is much more difficult when you don’t have access to the connections and resources you need to get there, and the system is set up to advantage some and disadvantage others.

In other words, the ways that we measure someone’s success or authenticity as a writer is plagued with inequities. Many folks who are disadvantaged are less likely to call themselves writers in the first place because they are using a standard that is steeped in power and privilege – power and privilege that they simply don’t have access to.

There is a serious problem with reserving the identity “writer” for privileged folks. Creating a hierarchy of writers means that we are reinforcing the idea that some peoples’ contributions – more often than not, privileged writers – are inherently better or more valuable than others.

And honestly, I say fuck that noise. If you are writing and you’re passionate about the craft, call yourself a writer. Claim that identity with gusto. Claim that identity because it’s a part of who you are and what you do.

Reject the idea that the only writers worth valuing are the ones who have attained a certain level of commercial success. Embrace the idea that being a writer is about being empowered through the written word, not replicating systems of power.

Listen: You’re already a writer. If you love the feeling you get when you put words together in evocative or beautiful ways, you are already a writer. If you write once a month, once a week, every day; if you write on the bus, in the library, at your desk, in a shelter; if you write for yourself, for an audience, for a column; no matter where you write, how you write, and who you write for, you are a writer in all of the ways that count.

This advice applies to everyone, but especially to folks for whom getting visibility for your work has been an uphill battle, because when people think of a “real writer,” you weren’t what they had in mind.

For the black writer who was told to “tone down” the racial politics in their YA novel, for the transgender writer who was told that “ze” and “hir” pronouns were too confusing for poetry, for the disabled writer who was asked for inspiration porn instead of a memoir, for the working class writer who was told that poverty was too depressing for a mainstream audience, for the Arab-American who was told that her pro-Palestinian views were “too much,” for the queer woman who was told the world wasn’t ready for a butch lesbian protagonist.

You are already a writer, whether you’re read by millions or only a few, whether a publisher picks your work up or throws it in the trash, whether you self-publish or keep it in your journal, whether the world is ready for you or not.

You are a writer, and that label belongs to you, because you write and that alone is enough.

It took me a long, long time to find the courage to put my words out into the world. I thought that people like me – people with disabilities and people who were unapologetically queer as fuck – didn’t get published, didn’t get to be “real writers.” At least, not without compromising who they are. I missed out because I spent more time worrying that I wasn’t enough than embracing my passions and taking risks.

Since starting this blog, I’ve been fortunate enough to find platforms and opportunities that didn’t ask me to compromise on who I am. I started pursuing an MFA with colleagues and mentors who never once told me that my writing was “too radical” or “too much.” And now, I actually write for a living, something I didn’t think was possible for “people like me.”

Stop “aspiring” to write, and claim the damn label, because it’s yours to take. I hope, not just for your sake but for all our sakes, that you can stop hoping and doubting and questioning, and start being the commanding, confident writer that you are destined to be – because the world needs your voice.

It starts with trusting yourself, and treating yourself with the respect and honor that you deserve.

Because holy hell, in a world where folks who are different find themselves silenced and pushed out of view, your voice is more necessary than ever before. I really need you. Folks of color, trans folks, queer folks, disabled folks, poor folks – we need you.

And I’m not living in a fantasy land, and neither are you. I know that you will face unfair obstacles and you will be turned down at a rate which is unthinkable, discouraging, and infuriating. People will tell you that you’re pushing too hard, you’re being too loud, and that no one will ever read something so “out there.”

But I need you to keep trying, because your voice matters. What you have to say is so important – dare I say, more important than the published writers in their ivory towers.

So my advice, dear writers (yes, writers!): Take pride in the work that you do and the gift that you have.  Your worth is not dependent upon your publishing history or page views.

Don’t allow bullshit hierarchies to undermine your brilliance.

The label is yours. Say it with me now:

I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer.

Sam Dylan Finch is a queer activist and feminist writer, based in the SF Bay. He is the founder of Let’s Queer Things Up!, his blog and labor of love. With a passion for impacting change through personal narrative, Sam writes about his struggles and triumphs as genderqueer and bipolar with the hopes of teaching others about his identity and community. When he isn’t writing, he’s probably eating takeout and dancing to Taylor Swift.

Connect with SDF: Website ; Facebook ; Twitter ; Tumblr


the let us brain linkdump

A linkdump of links (obviously) about neurological disorders – mostly bipolar.

Smartphone data as electronic biomarker of illness activity in bipolar disorder (free registration required)

Middlesex University student’s gadget could help people with bipolar disorder – the “Aware” wristband. (I hope they’ve fixed their glaring typos by now)

Mental Health Apps (Natasha Tracy) Take a survey about what apps you want here. I did it, it’s quick and you can win a Starbucks voucher. Kinda ironic considering …

Starbucks: Would a depressed manager be given extra time off during depressive episodes? I doubt it. Would a bipolar barista receive extra breaks throughout her shift when the pressure of a large crowd creates hallucinations and anxiety? I doubt it.
Bipolar Barista: check ‘yes’ for disability

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Bipolar disorder by its very nature is dynamic. It is easy to be caught up in the bipolar pattern of symptoms and to find oneself chasing symptoms and the constant changes in the condition rather than proactively managing the illness. In this process of developing a systematic proactive management plan, I believe we can also teach our patients how to proactively manage their symptoms and their concerns.
A Guide to Managing Bipolar Disorder

I think it’s worthwhile registering on Medscape; it’s aimed at the medical etc profession mostly, but who cares.

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DSM 5 Should Not Expand Bipolar ii (Psychology Today)

A while back, a doctor diagnosed me with a type of bipolar disorder instead of something else I had thought I had, and I sat there blankly. She was worried I was going to panic and bolt, because apparently that’s common with the diagnosis. Instead, though, I was thinking the thought that probably everyone on this site will recognize which was time to learn a lot about this by reading a lot of books.
Buy Borrow Bypass – books about bipolar disorder

I liked the intro, but the rest is brief and predictable. There are only five books and you guys know/have read/own all of them. Included for the last sentence of the quote, which was my reaction too. Give him a click though – it’ll show that there’s significant interest in the subject.

If you’re living with a mental illness, you’re in good company. Disease doesn’t discriminate; One in four people suffer from mental illness, and yet the stigma still remains. Surviving Mental Illness Through Humor contains stories of hope, despair, and hilarity by writers who are walking the mental health journey, as they discuss their experiences with Depression, Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Anorexia, Agoraphobia, Panic Disorder and more.
Book: Surviving Mental Illness Through Humour

“You’d be surprised how many other people have run naked down the street during a psychotic episode.” (Victoria Maxwell)
The Power of Storytelling

ROYAL OAK – Set to a thrilling pop-rock score, Pulitzer Prize-winning “Next to Normal” offers an intimate portrait of a family dealing with bipolar disorder that is at once devastating, honest, heartbreaking – and unexpectedly humorous. The musical runs April 17 through May 3 on the 2nd Stage at the Baldwin Theatre, 415 S. Lafayette, in downtown Royal Oak.
Prize-Winning Musical Packs Emotional Punch

If my mother saw I wrote this it would kill her, so in case you ever do, mom I love you. I wouldn’t trade you for the world. Every choice I have made I have tried to do with the best interest of both of us. Every experience I have had through this has made me stronger and made me who I am today, but I want it to be easier for my kids.
My mom has bipolar disorder & I’m terrified that I do too (Catherine Brooks)

Know what I like about that title? It’s both honest and very sensible. The article is too – and as it comes from someone with a lifetime of experience observing bipolar, her opinions are definitely worth listening to.

Waiting 14 years for a diagnosis – one Burton woman shares the story of her battle with the mental  health system – Bipolar ii

Adam Lanza: Mom shares challenges in meeting son’s mental health issues

Old folk singing fart writes fuckwitted lyrics: Bipolar Baby. World doesn’t give a shit.

Life Lines: For an artist with amnesia, the world takes place through her pencil. (An interesting longread and an even more interesting person.) Illustrator and pilot, Lonnie Sue Johnson suffered a virus which affected her hippocampus. {on WordPress}

“Her whistle-while-you-multitask disposition is intact, if not intensified; she is a very American amnesiac.”

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After

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The blah, bitch, grumble section

If the market was a patient in a doctor’s office looking for an explanation of the recent up-one-minute, down-the-next behavior, bipolar disorder would be the most likely diagnosis. Also known as manic-depressive illness, bipolar disorder is a brain disorder that causes unusual shifts in mood, energy, and activity levels. Oh, and according to the National Institute of Mental Health, symptoms of bipolar disorder are severe.
Any of that sound familiar when thinking about the price action seen in the stock market over the past five months or so?
State of the Markets: a Severe Case of Bipolar Disorder

It is no secret that the weather, economies and governments are often described as bipolar (and not in the literal and practical way it’s used in the field of electronics), but the above is the most nosehaircurlingly annoying example I’ve seen so far. All those psuccessful psychopaths running around the stock markets … grumble.

Here is a Bipolar Mind Original Mix by Jhon Rojo, Pasquale Perrini. Unlike the first item in my bitchlist, when it comes to music, I feel that some latitude is in order. If it’s good, we claim it; if not, we kick its ass back to stigmaville. No idea what this one’s like; I couldn’t get it to play so I stalked off in a huff.

Disclaimer: it’s impossible to get a true picture of anyone’s point of view and thus apply it to other situations or hypotheses, unless we know the full diagnosis, treatment and circumstances of the bipolar person/s under discussion.

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Bookworm

I always take on things in life in an academic way. I always want to read a book about something,...

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