Daily Archives: May 19, 2015

I find you offensive for finding me offensive

LIFE IS AN ASS TRASH CLOWN SHOEING PILE OF SHIT AND IF THAT IS TOO NEGATIVE AND JUDGEY SO BE IT.

Our kitten, Castiel, who reached three months and last week was flourishing…died. I have no idea why, he just started dropping the weight he had gained and he couldn’t keep food down then he stopped eating and omg, the sweet little kitty is gone…

Prior to that I was indulging myself with, “I really hope my earlier post doesn’t piss off people, I came off pretty looney in and I don’t want to be a people pleaser but there are people on wordpress I’ve grown to consider friends and I don’t want them to run screaming into the night because I get award for being the craziest of them all…”

Finding my kitten dead reminds me…I’m getting right back into the trap I always do, bonding with people, no matter how distantly or shallowly, then I get comfortable enough to REALLY say what’s on my mind (you didn’t think I was using filters? ha ha ha) and I remember…I’m not a people person. Cats are my friends. I never have to have anxiety about offending them. I mourn their loss more than I do human relatives. (And while my affect is dead and I can’t muster up a single tear, I am devastated inside even if it’s coated in ten layers of black gauze.) Castiel just had this gentle pumpkin face and when he looked up at me, I could melt into a puddle and…

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

So…Being that I am out of my mind and all, and even I know that now whether it’s Latuda-damage or whatever new malady the shrink picks for the week’s theme…I’m a train wreck and I simply cannot be worrying about offending people when I never set this blog up for anyone to read by myself and one other friend. ONE person I gave the link to, no self advertising at all. I purposely did it that way so I wouldn’t have to be anxious about speaking my mind and setting off a shit storm of offended comments from internet trolls or people who simply have a differing opinion or are very sensitive when I say I think Nirvana, and all grunge music, suck…

I can’t do that or be that anymore. It’s taken me a long time to realize…THAT is a personality trait. MINE. My own fault. I’ve never shied away from dressing how I want, listening to the music I like, voicing my opinions with those I know either agree or disagree but can handle the dissent…I do this to myself, no one else does. Much as I don’t want to offend people I really like…

I’m just going to go with the Eminem line. “I find you offensive for finding me offensive.”

Because if me speaking my mind, even if you don’t agree, causes some sort of rift…I’m not sure I want to associate with people who can’t have a mutual respect for the thoughts of others as well as their own if they differ. Frankly, if I were one of those people, I’d hate me. Hell, I hate me for worrying about such idiocy when normally it’s not a blip on my radar and I swear to sacred isporkacorns that Latuda has made me lose my fucking mind…And my kitten is dead yet so many useless beings continue to exist and that’s the second kitten I’ve lost this month and it is all just…

Massively sad.

 

R.I.P Castiel <3

(Postnote, I got an insert with my Trileptal listing the number to call the FDA about side effects and I think I just may do that because I was nowhere near this fucked up a month ago before that Latarda crap. No drug should be allowed to wreak this much havoc on your mind and no,I am not blaming my personality on it, but the way I’ve been thinking, reacting as of late…Yeah, that’s from the Latuda and it’s not going to get acknowledged until more of us who have had  a bad reaction report it to someone other than the dismissive doctors.)


Who to tell?

I told my Manager in work a few months ago, my thinking being that 1) I sort of owed it to them 2) I would then be covered by the Disability Rights Act 3) if I had to have time off work I wouldn’t have to lie that I had a bug, or a sore foot, or plague.

But it took months of prevaricating before I finally found the strength to tell my 12 year old son. It was a difficult job, but I’m glad I did so, and it’s made things easier for both of us. He obviously suspected something was (medically) wrong with me. ‘Is that why you get annoyed about little things sometimes?’ Yes, indeed it is.

Very few people other than Mental Healthcare professionals know about my illness, even after 35+ years. Less than half a dozen, I should think.

And that’s why this anonymous talking I do here sporadically is so important to me. It’s almost entirely one-sided of course. I don’t know or talk with, in the real world, anyone else with bipolar. I never get to discuss it with anyone other than my therapist. And the psychiatrist on those 2 occasions; not that I’d feel comfortable telling her much. (See previous post.)

So if you’re reading this, if you’re following these posts of mine, I thank you; honestly, from my heart. It helps to know you’re there. You don’t know me, I don’t know you. You’re what my favourite band – Mew – calls ‘Frengers': not quite friends but more than strangers.

Sometime I might disappear. Who knows. It’s my birthday tomorrow.


Yesterday was a Bust

Yesterday, I blew it. First of all, I had vertigo in the morning. The night before my son had complained of getting dizzy walking up the stairs and collapsed into bed. Monday morning I had to hold onto walls to…

Traffic Jam Of The Brain

moo

The mere act of driving my kid to school is a daunting task. Traffic. Cars everywhere. I can’t just drive for myself, I have to look out for cell phone wielding morons who aren’t paying attention. It sets off this response in me that makes me feel…Like I have a bullseye painted on me. I know it’s generalized anxiety, blah blah blah, mad cow disease, hypomania, yada yada…

It just gets old when you can’t go one single day without an episode of one facet of your disorders pummeling you, reminding you, “Hey, you’re not feeling too bad for now, but we’re here and we’re not going anywhere…”

For now…Yeah, okay works as a description. It’s been nice to not be obligated to my kid or anyone else and just putter about home today. I’m not going to get out pompoms and declare it awesome to be cleaning litter boxes and determining how to vacuum after breaking both my vacs last week but…For the moment I’m not spewing venom or contemplating throat punches on those who offend me by simply breathing. Rah rah for improvements.

Just to put it out there because, meh, fuck it, I’m blogging for me, not to please the masses. If you want sunshine blown up your bloomers, this is the wrong place. I read something last night, I guess a blog by a professional therapist, and while he made some sense…To some extent it infuriated me. Yeah, we pay them to help us, NOT to slap us with moronic labels to “humor” our neuroses because we’re too weak to cope with reality. To have it implied is rude and infuriating. If that’s the opinion of a professional, then I think I’d rather have Hannibal Lecter. Least he’d give me the dignity of serving me with chianti and fava beans. I don’t think shrinks or therapists have any use for the people they supposedly trained to “help.” Sure as fuck no empathy or ability to listen without passing judgment. It’s disheartening to realize just how common that is with the  very community of professionals we count on to help us.

My only goal in life has been to please myself by doing what is right and important to me. I dress how I want. I say what I want. I listen to/watch/decorate how I want. My life has never been put on hold just to please others to any large extent. We all have our roles to play in certain situations (I mean, I wouldn’t for example like my brother in law, show up to a court hearing wearing a Marilyn Manson “God Of Fuck” t-shirt although outside court I would totally wear that.) My biggest problem has never been letting life pass me by because I’m trying to please others.

No, my life tends to pass me by because  no matter how hard I try, I can’t measure up to and perform like others as society dictates. Everyone can wear a different shoe size but we are all expected to be able to hold a job, maintain the same mood daily, never get nervous, tow the line. Well, do tell, how does one do all this when their brain is imbalanced and setting them  behind before they start? No one seems to want to address that part. Let’s puke up some sunshine and piss some rainbows, it will all be fine.

It’s not fine. There is nothing fine about being mentally ill. If our illness showed up on some blood test or scan or X Ray, no one would hold us to that same high standard because broken bones and infections and such can hinder one’s ability to function at a uniform pace. Mental illness has no such test therefore is treated like some “maybe it exists” theory. “You don’t work because you’re lazy, it’s not that you can’t work.” “You avoid crowds because it makes you uncomfortable, panic is just an excuse.”

THIS mentality is why I rant and rage. And some shit should piss you off. Complacency is the biggest flaw in humanity. “All it takes for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing.” And by acquiescing to the “rah rah, it’s all about your attitude” mentality…We are doing nothing and evil, in the form of stigma and damage to our own psyches, is winning.

Furthermore, my “negative” attitude as everyone sees it…Is actually my saving grace. When you expect the worst, you can only ever be pleasantly surprised. There is no lose there. Whereas if you are an optimist and yet keep getting proven wrong…That’s nothing but loss. So I hide behind the shield of “Everything sucks” and hope, just hope, to be proven wrong. Cautious optimism. It’s a shame how few people, especially the professionals, can grasp that concept. I getting your hopes up has resulted in so many disappointments that it’s crushed your spirit, perhaps that’s why my way works. I can only go up if I assume it will be the worst.

Now I will step down off my soapbox and talk softly. It will still sound hateful and ranty but apparently it’s part of hypomania. (What’s next, the doctor declares my desire to stab people with sporks a normal response to being smiled at due to hypomania?)

I’ve done little thus far. Watched The Night Shift and The Following. (No spoilers, but the suspense made me need a Xanax, how the fuck could Fox cancel such an awesome show????) My kitten Castiel was gaining weight and flourishing and now it seems he’s weak, skinny, and not eating. I am worried about the poor lil guy. He’s so very sweet.

My kid channeled Satan last night. It was milder than the really bad days, but wow, is she a gifted little troll. (I have no idea who she could have gotten that from.) R called to tell me that between his mistake and mine, it was actually a blessing and he repaired a TV for quite a profit. (His wife told him he had to be nicer to me and made him call me to say so, ha ha ha ha.) I finished Michael Palmer’s “The Society”. Managed care sparks the same cringe in me as the sight of maggots. Ick ick ick. I should be doing stuff. But the birds are chirping, the sun is shining, and while I’m not feeling suicidal or particularly hopeless…There is this blanket of  numb apathy, like I can see it all going on, I know the proper response is happiness and calm, but I can’t get to it. It’s behind ten layers of gauze and I peel and peel but still…Flat affect is part of hypomania. Blah blah blah. I should think it’d be called depression, not being able to feel happiness. If I wanted to be emotionally dead, I’d go back on Lithium.

But hey I still have my anger issues so I guess I’m only dead inside to the positive. I am going to pick up the Trileptal today and hope for the best. I always go into a new med with side effect dread and yet that sliver of hope that this could be “the one” to make it all come together. One thing I am going to head off before it starts is the seasonal. Around August shrink and I are going to start discussing a preemptive strike. And telling me to buy a lamp because it’s the only thing that helps seasonal is absolute idiocy. I’ve tried it. The light isn’t the problem as I actually prefer night time. But it is going to be addressed ahead of time, unlike last year when I was doing okay so the shrink at the time scheduled my for five months later and refused to discuss the seasonal because “you’re doing ok now, let’s not bring on problems that aren’t already there.” Within three months, I was meeting the emergency on call guy.

Not this year. NOPE. I defer to their judgment and get screwed every time. Only one it reflects poorly on is me, the doctors don’t get critiqued when meds fail or your cycle shifts.

Now…this traffic jam called my thoughts needs to be sorted out so I can pick a direction to go and accomplish something. Or maybe today I just say fuck it. I feel so flat, indifferent, apathetic, that it doesn’t really matter what I do. It’s not going to inject me with emotion that simply isn’t there. My happy bone is broken. My sad bone, as well. Apparently only the angry bone  is still working.

Angry bone. That just sounds so wrong.


pablo and the pacific

There is a book called On the Blue Shore of Silence, which is a collection of Pablo Neruda’s poems about the sea. (I don’t own it.)  The thing with Mister Neruda, is that even if poems are not about the sea, they’ve almost all got saltwater in their veins anyway. Strangely and/or sensibly, he was afraid of the ocean and called himself  ‘a sailor of the land’. Well, I think standing at the edge of the sea and loving it is as honourable as being immersed in it or afloat on it.

(scheduled post)

I’ve posted two or three of these before, but tough (as they say in the classics) titty. Thank you ||Poem Hunter|| for the poems online and the pdf too.

The Sea

I need the sea because it teaches me,
I don’t know if I learn music or awareness,
if it’s a single wave or its vast existence,
or only its harsh voice or its shining
suggestion of fishes and ships.
The fact is that until I fall asleep,
in some magnetic way I move in
the university of the waves.

It’s not simply the shells crunched
as if some shivering planet
were giving signs of its gradual death;
no, I reconstruct the day out of a fragment,
the stalactite from a sliver of salt,
and the great god out of a spoonful.

What it taught me before, I keep. It’s air
ceaseless wind, water and sand.

It seems a small thing for a young man,
to have come here to live with his own fire;
nevertheless, the pulse that rose
and fell in its abyss,
the cracking of the blue cold,
the gradual wearing away of the star,
the soft unfolding of the wave
squandering snow with its foam,
the quiet power out there, sure
as a stone shrine in the depths,
replaced my world in which were growing
stubborn sorrow, gathering oblivion,
and my life changed suddenly:
as I became part of its pure movement.

Ode to the Sea

Here on the island
the sea
and so much sea
overflowing,
relentless,
it says yes, then no,
then no, no, no,
then yes, in blue,
in foam, with gallops,
it says no, again no.
It cannot stay still,
my name is sea, it repeats
while slamming against rocks
but unable to convince rocks,
then
with seven green tongues
of seven green dogs,
of seven green tigers,
of seven green seas,
it smothers rocks, kisses rocks,
drenches rocks
and slamming its chest,
repeats its name.
O sea, you declare yourself,
O comrade ocean,
don’t waste time and water,
don’t beat yourself up,
help us,
we are lowly
fishermen,
men of the shore,
we’re cold and hungry
and you’re the enemy,
don’t slam so hard,
don’t scream like that,
open your green trunk
and give all of us
on our hands
your silver gifts:
fish every day.

Here in each house,
we all crave it
whether it’s of silver,
crystal or moonlight,
spawn for the poor
kitchens on earth.
Don’t hoard it,
you miser,
coldly rushing like
wet lightning
beneath your waves.
Come, now,
open yourself
and leave it
near our hands,
help us, ocean,
deep green father,
end one day
our earthly poverty.
Let us
harvest your lives’
endless plantation,
your wheat and eggs,
your oxes, your metals,
the wet splendor
and submerged fruits.

Father sea, we know already
what you are called, all
the seagulls circulate
your name on the beaches:
now, behave yourself,
don’t shake you mane,
don’t threaten anyone,
don’t smash against the sky
your beautiful teeth,
ignore for a moment
your glorious history,
give to every man,
to every
woman and to every child,
a fish large or small
every day.
Go out to every street
in the world
and distribute fish
and then
scream,
scream
so all the working poor
could hear you,
so they could say,
sticking their heads
into the mine:
“Here comes the old man sea
to distribute fish.”
And they’ll go back down
into the darkness,
smiling, and on the streets
and in the forests,
men and the earth
will smile
an oceanic smile.
But
if you don’t want it,
if you don’t care for it,
then wait,
wait for us,
we must worry, first
we must try to solve
and straighten out
human affairs,
the biggest problems first,
then all the others,
and then
we’ll enter you,
we’ll chop the waves
with a knife made of fire,
on an electric horse
leaping over foam,
singing
we’ll sink
until we touch the bottom
of your guts,
an atomic thread
will guard your shank,
we’ll plant
in your deep garden
trees
of cement and steel,
we’ll tie
your hands and feet,
on your skin man will walk,
spitting,
yanking in bunches,
building armatures,
mounting and taming you
to dominate your spirit.
All this will occur
when us men
have straighten out
our problem,
the big,
the big problem.
We’ll slowly
solve everything:
we’ll force you, sea,
we’ll force you, earth
perform miracles,
because in our very selves,
in the struggle,
is fish, is bread,
is the miracle.

The Wide Ocean

Ocean, if you were to give, a measure, a ferment, a fruit
of your gifts and destructions, into my hand,
I would choose your far-off repose, your contour of steel,
your vigilant spaces of air and darkness,
and the power of your white tongue,
that shatters and overthrows columns,
breaking them down to your proper purity.

Not the final breaker, heavy with brine,
that thunders onshore, and creates
the silence of sand, that encircles the world,
but the inner spaces of force,
the naked power of the waters,
the immoveable solitude, brimming with lives.
It is Time perhaps, or the vessel filled
with all motion, pure Oneness,
that death cannot touch, the visceral green
of consuming totality.

Only a salt kiss remains of the drowned arm,
that lifts a spray: a humid scent,
of the damp flower, is left,
from the bodies of men. Your energies
form, in a trickle that is not spent,
form, in retreat into silence.

The falling wave,
arch of identity, shattering feathers,
is only spume when it clears,
and returns to its source, unconsumed.

Your whole force heads for its origin.
The husks that your load threshes,
are only the crushed, plundered, deliveries,
that your act of abundance expelled,
all those that take life from your branches.

Your form extends beyond breakers,
vibrant, and rhythmic, like the chest, cloaking
a single being, and its breathings,
that lift into the content of light,
plains raised above waves,
forming the naked surface of earth.

You fill your true self with your substance.
You overflow curve with silence.

The vessel trembles with your salt and sweetness,
the universal cavern of waters,
and nothing is lost from you, as it is
from the desolate crater, or the bay of a hill,
those empty heights, signs, scars,
guarding the wounded air.

Your petals throbbing against the Earth,
trembling your submarine harvests,
your menace thickening the smooth swell,
with pulsations and swarming of schools,
and only the thread of the net raises
the dead lightning of fish-scale,
one wounded millimetre, in the space
of your crystal completeness.

In the wave-strike over unquiet stones’

IX From: ‘Cien sonetos de amor’

In the wave-strike over unquiet stones
the brightness bursts and bears the rose
and the ring of water contracts to a cluster
to one drop of azure brine that falls.

O magnolia radiance breaking in spume,
magnetic voyager whose death flowers
and returns, eternal, to being and nothingness:
shattered brine, dazzling leap of the ocean.

Merged, you and I, my love, seal the silence
while the sea destroys its continual forms,
collapses its turrets of wildness and whiteness,

because in the weft of those unseen garments
of headlong water, and perpetual sand,
we bear the sole, relentless tenderness.

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Night Sea

Night sea, statue of white and green
I love you: sleep with me. I travelled all
the roads, calcined and dying,
nature grew with me, Man
overcame his ashes, prepared himself
for rest, surrounded by the Earth.

Night fell so that your eyes
could not see his miserable slumber:
needing nearness, he opened his arms
protected by beings and walls,

and fell into the sleep of silence, sinking
with his roots into the funereal earth.
I, night ocean, to your open form,
to your expanse that Aldebaran guards,
to the wet mouth of your song
came with the love that builds me.

I saw you, night of the sea, when you were born
beaten into infinite nacre:
I watched the starry threads woven,
and the electricity at your waist,
and the blue motion of the sounds
that hound your devoured sweetness.

Love me without love, flagrant wife.

Love me with space, with the river
of your breathing, with the increase
of all your overflowing diamonds:
love me without respite from your aspect,
grant me the honesty of your breakers.
Beautiful, you are, beloved night, beautiful:
you keep the tempest like a bee
slumbering among your agitated stamens,
dream and water tremble in the hollows
of your breasts, harassed by slopes.

Nocturnal love, I followed what you raised,
your eternity, the trembling tower
that assumes the stars, the measure
of your wavering, the villages
that the spume raises on your flanks:
I am fastened to your throat
and to the lips that you bruise on the sand.

Who are you? Night of the seas, tell me
whether your heights of hair cover
all solitude, whether it is infinite
this space of blood and prairies.
Tell me who you are, full of boats,
full of moons the wind crushes,
mistress of all metals, rose
of the depths, rose drenched
by the harsh weather of naked love.

Earth’s tunic, green statue,
grant me a wave like a bell,
grant me a wave of furious orange blossom,
the crowd of bonfires, the boats
of the sky’s capital, the water where I sail
the crowds of celestial fire. I want one
moment of expansiveness, and more than
all dreams, your remoteness:
all the purples you measure, your grave
pensive, constellated system:
all your hair touched
by darkness, and the dawn you prepare.

I want to contain your simultaneous brow,
unfurling it within me, to be born
on all your shores, to go now
with all the secrets breathed,
with your shadow lines kept safe
in me like blood or flags,
carrying these secret measures
to the sea of every day, to the battles
in every gateway – loves and threats –
that live slumbering.

But then

I will enter the city with as many eyes
as you, and I will bear the garment
with which you invested me, and may I be moved
to the furthest reaches of measureless water:
by purity and rage against every deathliness,
remoteness that cannot be exhausted, music
for those who slumber and those who wake.

It is Born

Here I came to the very edge
where nothing at all needs saying,
everything is absorbed through weather and the sea,
and the moon swam back,
its rays all silvered,
and time and again the darkness would be broken
by the crash of a wave,
and every day on the balcony of the sea,
wings open, fire is born,
and everything is blue again like morning.

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The First Sea

I discovered the sea. From Carahue
the river Cautín flowed to its estuary
and, in the paddleboats,
dreams and another life began to possess me,
leaving questions in my eyelashes.
A frail child, a bird,
a solitary student or a shadowy fish,
I stood alone in the prow,
aloof
from joy, while
the world of the little ship,
unaware of me,
unwound the thread
of the accordions.
The passing visitors
of summer and the water
were eating and singing.
I, in the prow, small, hardly human,
lost,
still without mind or voice
or joy,
transfixed by the movement of the water
flowing between the receding mountains—
mine alone were those solitary places,
mine alone that elemental pathway,
mine alone the universe.
Rapture of the rivers,
banks of thicket and fragrance,
sudden boulders, burnt-out trees,
and land, ample and lonely.
Child of those rivers,
I kept on
traveling the earth
along the same river edges
toward the same sea-foam
and when the sea of that time
crashed down like a broken tower,
rose curling in its rage,
I broke free of my roots.
My country grew in size.
My world of wood split open.
The prison of the forests
opened a green door,
letting in the wave in all its thunder,
and, with the shock of the sea,
my life widened out into space.

Soliloquy in the Waves

Yes, but here I am alone.
A wave
builds up,
perhaps it says its name, I don’t understand,
it mutters, humps in its load
of movement and foam
and withdraws. Who
can I ask what it said to me?
Who among the waves can I name?
And I wait.
Once again the clearness approached,
the soft numbers rose in foam
and I didn’t know what to call them.
So they whispered away,
seeped into the mouth of the sand.
Time obliterated all lips
with the patience
of shadow and
the orange kiss
of summer.
I stayed alone,
unable to respond to what the world
was obviously offering me,
listening to
that richness spreading itself,
the mysterious grapes
of salt, love unknown,
and in the fading day
only a rumor remained,
further away each time,
until everything that was able to
changed itself into silence.

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Forget About Me

Among the things the sea throws up,
let us hunt for the most petrified,
violet claws of crabs,
little skulls of dead fish,
smooth syllables of wood,
small countries of mother-of-pearl;
let us look for what the sea undid
insistently, carelessly,
what it broke up and abandoned,
and left behind for us.

Petals crimped up,
cotton from the tidewash,
useless sea-jewels,
and sweet bones of birds
still in the poise of flight.

The sea washed up its tidewrack,
the air played with the sea-things;
when there was sun, it embraced them,
and time lives close to the sea,
counting and touching what exists.

I know all the algae,
the white eyes of the sand,
the tiny merchandise
of the tides in autumn,
and I walk with the plump pelican,
building its soaking nests,
sponges that worship the wind,
shelves of undersea shadow,
but nothing more moving
than the vestiges of shipwrecks—
the smooth abandoned beams
gnawed by the waves
and disdained by death.

Let us look for secret things
somewhere in the world,
on the blue shore of silence
or where the storm has passed,
rampaging like a train.
There the faint signs are left,
coins of time and water,
debris, celestial ash
and the irreplaceable rapture
of sharing in the labor
of solitude and the sand.

The Old Women Of The Ocean

To the solemn sea the old women come
With their shawls knotted around their necks
With their fragile feet cracking.

They sit down alone on the shore
Without moving their eyes or their hands
Without changing the clouds or the silence.

The obscene sea breaks and claws
Rushes downhill trumpeting
Shakes its bull’s beard.

The gentle old ladies seated
As if in a transparent boat
They look at the terrorist waves.

Where will they go and where have they been?
They come from every corner
They come from our own lives.

Now they have the ocean
The cold and burning emptiness
The solitude full of flames.

They come from all the pasts
From houses which were fragrant
From burnt-up evenings.

They look, or don’t look, at the sea
With their walking sticks they draw signs in the sand
And the sea erases their calligraphy.

The old women get up and go away
With their fragile bird feet
While the waves flood in
Traveling naked in the wind.

Leaning into the afternoons

Leaning into the afternoons,
I cast my sad nets towards your oceanic eyes.
There, in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames;
its arms turning like a drowning man΄s.
I send out red signals across your absent eyes
that wave like the sea, or the beach by a lighthouse.
You keep only darkness my distant female;
from your regard sometimes, the coast of dread emerges.

Leaning into the afternoons,
I fling my sad nets to that sea that is thrashed
by your oceanic eyes.
The birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.
The night, gallops on its shadowy mare,
Shedding blue tassels over the land.

Ode to Hope

Oceanic dawn
at the center
of my life,
waves like grapes,
the sky’s solitude,
you fill me
and flood
the complete sea,
the undiminished sky,
tempo
and space,
sea foam’s white
battalions,
the orange earth,
the sun’s
fiery waist
in agony,
so many
gifts and talents,
birds soaring into their dreams,
and the sea, the sea,
suspended
aroma,
chorus of rich, resonant salt,
and meanwhile,
we men,
touch the water,
struggling,
and hoping,
we touch the sea,
hoping.

And the waves tell the firm coast:
‘Everything will be fulfilled

Ode to Salt

This salt
in the salt cellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won’t
believe me
but
it sings
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
sings
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.
I shivered in those
solitudes
when I heard
the voice
of
the salt
in the desert.
Near Antofagasta
the nitrous
pampa
resounds:
a
broken
v oice,
a mournful
song.

In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.
And then on every table
in the world,
salt,
we see your piquant
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food.
Preserver
of the ancient
holds of ships,
discoverer
on
the high seas,
earliest
sailor
of the unknown, shifting
byways of the foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
the tongue receives a kiss
from ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your ocean essence;
the smallest,
miniature
wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us
more than domestic whiteness;
in it, we taste infinitude.

Erte

Erte

Poet’s Obligations

To whoever is not listening to the sea
this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or harsh prison cell;
to him I come, and, without speaking or looking,
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a great fragment of thunder sets in motion
the rumble of the planet and the foam,
the raucous rivers of the ocean flood,
the star vibrates swiftly in its corona,
and the sea is beating, dying and continuing.

So, drawn on by my destiny,
I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
the sea’s lamenting in my awareness,
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the autumn’s castigation,
I may be there with an errant wave,
I may move, passing through windows,
and hearing me, eyes will glance upward
saying ‘How can I reach the sea?’
And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing,
the grey cry of the sea-birds on the coast.

So, through me, freedom and the sea
will make their answer to the shuttered heart.

Sonnet IX-There Where the Waves Shatter

There where the waves shatter on the restless rocks
the clear light bursts and enacts its rose,
and the sea-circle shrinks to a cluster of buds,
to one drop of blue salt, falling.

O bright magnolia bursting in the foam,
magnetic transient whose death blooms
and vanishes–being, nothingness–forever:
broken salt, dazzling lurch of the sea.

You & I, Love, together we ratify the silence,
while the sea destroys its perpetual statues,
collapses its towers of wild speed and whiteness:

because in the weavings of those invisible fabrics,
galloping water, incessant sand,
we make the only permanent tenderness.

Sonnet Xxxiv (You Are The Daughter Of The Sea)

You are the daughter of the sea, oregano’s first cousin.
Swimmer, your body is pure as the water;
cook, your blood is quick as the soil.
Everything you do is full of flowers, rich with the earth.

Your eyes go out toward the water, and the waves rise;
your hands go out to the earth and the seeds swell;
you know the deep essence of water and the earth,
conjoined in you like a formula for clay.

Naiad: cut your body into turquoise pieces,
they will bloom resurrected in the kitchen.
This is how you become everything that lives.

And so at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms
that push back the shadows so that you can rest-
vegetables, seaweed, herbs: the foam of your dreams.

Walking a quiet line

i have been totally silent lately. May is such a hectic month for me that I really can’t sit down and type without falling asleep. 

No worries! I will back with even more cool stuff and entries filled with mental health ideas, issues, and my life.

My mental health life has been really good. My medicine was still been working, I’m getting enough sleep at nights, and I’m losing weight. Things are become alright.
How about you friends???


Slowing Down

I’m noticing that as life is finally slowing down, so am I.  I want to spend more time sleeping.  That’s usually not a good sign of things to come with me,.  I’m out of school so I don’t have the pressure of going to class in the mornings anymore, tempting me to sleep in every day.  I’ve been doing it, justifying myself with the fact that we’ve been so busy I need it.  But I think it’s starting to get beyond that.  Once the kids get out of school, I’ll be able to sleep a little later than I do waking up to see them off to school.  But I don’t need to get into the habit of sleeping my life away again.

I have scheduled a date for my hysterectomy.  It’s going to be July 14, after we come back from dance competition.  I am just about tired of dealing with this bleeding after almost a year of it, so I am just going to have it done and deal with whatever the consequences are.  I’m only removing the uterus, so hopefully my hormone functions will continue as normal and nto affect the bipolar.  That’s the plan at this point.

I need to tell my school I won’t be returning in the fall because I won’t be recovered enough by then to teach, according to the doctor’s discussion.  I don’t know about after that.  We will have to see.

Hope everyone is having a good week.  Blessings!


Laura A. Lord’s Of Roots and Wreckage

In Of Roots and Wreckage, Laura A. Lord moves us with the imagery that has come to define her poetry. Whether looking into the brutal truths of where one calls home to moments of reveling in the joy and pain…

bpnurse 2015-05-19 02:45:09

“You look so beautiful! And you’re not manic!”

Such was the enthusiastic reception I got this afternoon from Dr. Awesomesauce as I sat down for our first appointment in three months. Damn, I didn’t realize how much I’d missed him, but I’ve been so stable I haven’t needed him—-as it should be! I think this is the first time he’s ever really seen what my “normal” looks like, and he was so pleased that he clapped his hands together like a child and complimented me again on how great I looked and how I presented myself. I guess he really did think I was a bit manic during the last couple of visits (even though I certainly didn’t). Which made me instantly grateful for the fact that I can actually be happy without being off my rocker!

Of course, I had to tell him that I got Social Security and I thanked him for the thoroughness of his documentation. He didn’t really want to take credit for it, but he was impressed with the fact that I never even had to see one of their psychiatrists, and was more than glad things had worked out for me. The only thing that worries him is if I can be careful with money now that I have some again; I reassured him that we are sitting on a pretty decent-sized chunk of the original settlement and are saving up to get a place of our own at some point going forward.

“Good for you,” he said, grinning ear-to-ear. “But if you start buying yellow toucan shirts again, you give that bank card to your hubby!”

So now that nothing’s broke, we are now going to try fixing it: e.g., we’re going down a little on the Geodon to see if we can wean me down, if not off, some of these meds. I had the choice between trying a lower dose of either that or the Zyprexa, which I swear is the glue that holds me together. Maybe someday, particularly if the Geodon titration goes well, I can try decreasing that too…..but we’re not going there yet. My tolerance for med decreases is historically poor; still, we’ve got to start trying because we’re running out of options for PRNs if something goes sideways and I need something extra to either get me off the moon or bring my out of a depression. Makes sense to me, although I am definitely a little nervous about changing anything when my mood is as stable as it’s ever going to get.

Anyway, I’ll be starting that in a couple of weeks once I get through the rest of my current prescription, and then I see him four weeks after that (assuming all is well). In the meantime, I’m happy, he’s happy, my family’s happy, and life is good.


Boarding The Trileptal Train

I called the shrink office last night declaring that I’m done with Latuda cos it was causing suicidal thoughts. They finally got back with me around noon. Then the nurse said she’d call back. They asked me to come in at three. So I did.

He said there is no withdrawal from Latuda and none of the things happening to me have anything to do with that though the suicidal thoughts could be linked to it. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. That stuff is frigging toxic. (And I am beginning to wonder if my brain will ever return to pre Latarda norm.)

I try to explain I am still depressed but of course, my anxiety is skyrocketing (my blood pressure was on the high side of normal, and I usually am in or below normal range, so HELLO, CAN YOU PROFESSIONALS SAY PANIC ATTACK???) and he says… “You’re not depressed, you’re hypomanic.” Um…ANXIETY, DUMBASS. I was not amused at all. I told him from the first appointment, I panic when facing new people and having appointments sets off the anxiety anyway. I thought he would then  realize I was jittery and fidgeting and acting bizarre because I was nervous and freaking out. NOPE. He thinks it’s hypomania. And maybe he’s right (about hypomania, not the Latarda). I thought hypomania just meant excess functional energy. Apparently, it comes with anxiety, more energy, irritability, cognitive dysfunction, and an angry or empty affect. HUH?

Then he went on to comment on all the meds that haven’t worked for me, (basically implying that it’s somehow my fault). I tried to broach how I was misdiagnosed for so many years and was given nothing but anti depressants, which without a mood stabilizer would have made it worse and could have over years affected their effectiveness. (Affect the effect? Bizarre.) He just seemed to bulldoze right over me, driving the hypomania into the ground. I don’t agree because I don’t enjoy much of anything anymore and I don’t think that level of anhedonia spells out anything but severe depression. And the hypomania could be from the Latarda, it made me so bloody anxious I thought bugs were crawling on my skin. But the doctor rules all, and I’m too tapped out to put up too much of a fight.

So trileptal it is. Never had it. But dual mood stabilizer therapy worked before (though it was Lamictal and Lithium and I won’t take the Lithium anymore) so what the hell. Though it irked me a bit that she said the script wouldn’t be called in until almost five and my pharmacy closes very early so I can’t pick it up til tomorrow. Thought the  point was to get started ASAP. It felt like a rather rushed apathetic visit, I was unimpressed. But then my affect is all wrong and I am irritable so what do I know. I DID ask him about POSSIBLE side effects because he just kept saying “excessive thirst. I told him, Look, I live alone with a 5 year old, I need to know what COULD happen so those I’m around can let me know if I am going off the rails. I don’t always know. (Frankly until people started commenting “get off the Latuda” I thought it was all in my head.)

So…One more ride on the New Medigoround. Lovely. I will keep an open mind but the Latuda tainted me big time. I don’t care what they say. I’ve read enough accounts of others’ experiences on blogs and forums to discern that it ain’t just me this shit is happening to. The doctors are wrong. It sounds arrogant but Latuda is relatively new so it may just be a case of limited information or unreported side effects. Back in the mid nineties, I was on Effexor and the doctor yanked me off cold turkey because back then,they didn’t realize SSRIs caused such awful withdrawal. I spent two weeks with auditory and visual hallucinations, anxiety, paranoia, didn’t leave my bedroom except to go pee…It was living hell and my normal doctor kept telling me it was normal. After I got to the point where I was sleeping with a butcher knife under my pillow out of terror of being attacked, I called the on call emergency doctor. He said, “You never quit these medications, you have to taper off or this happens.” WTF? Now it’s common knowledge but how many of us did it take going through that hell before they acknowledged it? Latuda isn’t any different, even if its a different drug class.ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww (Ha ha, kitty Brimstone just walked across the laptop, I’m gonna leave that cos it describes my thoughts on Latarda.)

I left my kid at mom’s for the hour I was at the dr. By the time I picked her up, she’d acquired an injury playing with one of the bum roommates’ kids and the drama was worthy of an Oscar. She can spit on people and shut their hand in the door without blinking but she gets hurt by accident and it’s a tragedy. No empathy. I got to hear about what an angel she was and my mom preaching, “I don’t know why you have so much trouble with her, what did you do to make her not like you?” Oh…Say the word know, set boundaries, dole out consequences…That’ll make a kid resent you and act out. Whereas saying yes to every whim they have results in no tantrums and adoration.

We returned home to cops across the street. It’s so common I barely noticed. Then the neighbor lady came to ask if I’d seen her cat, it’s been missing 5 days. I haven’t. She informed me some squatters had been running a meth lab in the vacant trailer across the street and could have blown us all up. She was the one who called in suspicious behavior in an empty trailer and the meth lab equipment was found. STELLAR. Least this time it wasn’t residents, I cant be blamed for raising my kid in a meth zone if it was being done under the radar by squatters. (But I mentioned it to my mom on  the phone and she tried to blame it on me, saying I was raising my kid in an unfit neighborhood. Ha, they’ve had a murder and a shooting on their street in the last year, the hypocrite.) Besides, I’m doing the best I can and aside from theft and noise, I’ve had no problems here. I could live next to a meth lab in the pricy subdivisions.

Then the crazy woman says, “I asked her if you had a boyfriend and she says yeah, R.” She also thinks her daddy works at the brain store and boy cats can have babies. Jebus, is it anyone’s business? I have no inclination to socialize (thank you sex drive lowering meds) and I especially have no intention of bringing around a parade of men who stick around a week or two then split. Not because I give a damn, but because my kid latches onto people and then I never hear the end of it. I won’t do it to her or myself. I should have just said, “I have a girlfriend, actually.” My mom’s always had this weird view that gay men are ok but gay women are “lezzis.” CRAZY BIATCH.

So I had 8 plus hours in the dish today. It was daunting. I actually did something sorta brave. I returned to the very same convenience store that so set me off yesterday. And I was okay, right up til all those beeps started going off for gas pump authorization. That was when fight or flight kicked in. (Apparently the hypomania combined with ADD result in uber sensitivity to sound, so shrink says.) So the theory that I avoid  that which triggers me is crap. I keep trying, gotta get me an e for effort.

I did my time at the shop. Mrs R popped in and that made it more tolerable. Mostly I got to disassemble a couple of projection screen tvs with a hammer and follow R around like a puppy while he bounced from topic to topic. He did express gratitude for my friendship. (And the after I left, he texted to tell me I fucked two things up today and he was going to kick my ass.) Cripes. Ya think being off kilter with the meds might earn me some slack, especially from a long time friend. Ha. That’s about as feasible as my family being supportive and nice.

But alas, my servitude earned my cats nommy kibble so it was quid pro quo. I reiterate, they should worship me for what I am willing to put myself through just to feed their asses.

Since getting home, I put on jammies at 4pm, ate a breakfast scramble bowl for supper, and that’s about it. Tapped out doesn’t begin to cover it. I don’t think the problem is whether I can do dish dwelling. I think the price of doing it, especially more than in small stretches, is what makes me have the breakdowns. I can do, I just can’t maintain long term and it sets into motion the chain of dominoes that fall. My kid hasn’t stopped talking in hours, my brain feels like it’s been hit with Uzi fire. And I know, I complain a lot and probably give off this “I shouldn’t be a mom, I’m too grumpy and picky” vibe but…What the doctor said about sensitivity to noise makes sense. Even the music I love I have to play at a low  volume and it’s not because I’m too old, it just makes me come undone. And I guess that’s the big thing, person with my issues having an extroverted talkative child that never runs down leaves me in constant “melting down, must vent” mode. Not a day passes that I regret having Spook or am unaware how lucky I am to have her. But if the music I love sets me off, it makes sense any loud noise, especially incessant noise like hers, would make me crack up.

Now…I am going to work on getting her calmed down and put her to bed then I will contemplate whether to shower and fight the urge or just say I served my time today and deserve to batcave early. Not like I’ll get to sleep before 11 even if I do go to bed now. Again, that’s just anxiety and mania, and the doctor seems half offended I won’t take sleep meds. I should think he’d be bright enough to draw the conclusion, “If she really wasn’t trying, she’d want to sleep 10 to 12 hours a day.” Been there, done that, and it was unhealthier than not sleeping much. It’s so easy, when depressed, to get sucked into that vortex of sleep where you can hide and not think and not have to face the monsters that are mental illness. Too damn easy. I won’t go back to that place. And I can’t afford to because if I were as looped out on Trazadone and Seroquel as I used to be, my kid could murder me in my sleep, I’d never know, it’s like coma territory for me.

So…Pardon me for not having the shiny happy people thing going on but at least I tell the truth about how I am feeling, distorted, negative, manic, or what not. I shall leave on this note. ALL HAIL OUR LORD AND MASTER FOAMY.