Monthly Archives: May 2015

The Miracle of Life

Lately I have been depressed as you know because my friend is dying. It’s taken most my energy to just get out of bed most days.  It’s getting a little better as I am trying to accept it. I can’t imagine what it will be like when she actually passes.

Yesterday I was reminded just how much a miracle life is. Really it was something so simple and you may even think it is dumb but it touched my heart. A little baby robin was sitting in this little pile of dirt just outside of our backdoor. We watched it as it kept flexing it’s wings and along came mama with a worm and fed her baby. I’d never seen this in real life. It just gave me an aww moment.

I should be reflecting on how for the most part my life is really good.

Losing your best and only friend should never have to happen though and I’m having a hard time with it. However I’m glad that I can still feel joy over the little things. It means there is hope.

Psychological Sludge

It’s one of *those* days. I’m not feeling much of anything except anxiety. Now that I have fulfilled my debt to R by meeting the dudes to pick up their TV, braved the dish, traffic from hell, pouring rain…I think I may be able to relax. Or at the very least breathe a little. Every movement feels like trudging uphill in sludge. Am I functioning? Yep. Am I feeling a damned bit of it? Nope. Pure auto pilot and pathological anxiety.

I can’t explain this sudden fear and anxiety when out in public. Oh, sure, I have my attitude toward the petri dish of humanity, it stresses me out, I don’t fare well under stress, et al. This is more than simple anxiety, this is almost a pathological fear. That “painted with a target and everyone has a gun” feeling. It just started in March, I’m not sure what triggered it. The doctor, of course, is very dismissive. You’d think when someone’s telling you all these symptoms and your diagnosis is “anxiety induced”, y0u might want to adjust their medication so their anxiety is better managed for the time. Nope. Just dismissal. And it’s fairly common with shrinks, they have great disdain for anxiety disorders, I think. Whereas anxiety medications are viewed as “masking” the condition, the truth is, for some of us, we need that mask just to start at the same point others normally do. Otherwise, our functionality is hindered severely.

And I was severely hindered in today’s traffic. One of the lights on the main drag was blinking, which meant eight ways of each car having to completely stop, then discerning whose turn it was go next from which direction. My kid in the back, yap yap yap, I felt like the walls were closing in on me. And trapped in traffic, door to door basically, it’s a logical feeling. I was so relieved to turn off onto a side street. Of course, my relief was short lived because my mini backseat driver let out a shriek of, “Watch out, Mommy!” For no reason other than a car was in front of us. Thank you, Spook, mommy needs help being more paranoid and nervous.

I had three bags to carry in and it felt like I was facing a marathon. Just the simple act of carrying three bags inside. Pathetic. And the house work? I can’t bring myself to face it.  Psychological sludge. One would think after a relatively slow paced week I’d be coping better and calmer. Ha. My brain has other ideas.

In a display of my evil side…I am feeling a bit of schadenfreude. There are events going on all over town and out of town and it’s pouring and ha ha ha, the dish dwellers and their normal people activities are ruined. I really am a bitch at times. Maybe because I envy their ability to live normal lives. Then again, crowded events aren’t my thing anyway so even if I were functional, it’s doubtful I’d be at those events.


Cripes, it’s like living with Sheldon from Big Bang Theory minus the OCD knock on the door.

Okay. Dish time done. I need to chill. It would probably help to take a half dose Xanax since I haven’t had any since last night. I try to do without as long as I can simply because of all the stigma and addiction bullshit attached to Xanax. And I don’t get it because I’ve seen people just as hooked on Ativan or Klonopin. Leave it to a bunch of fucktards to taint what is a very good medication for some people who need it. I know it helps me, yet the guilt and stigma attached…Sad that I’d be looked on more favorably if I were just a constant drinker.


May Round Up

random pages

Ugh. I’m not sure if I’m happy or not with May.

Considering I was hospitalized fairly recently, I guess I am doing pretty good. I am sleeping well, taking my meds regularly, and getting along with life. But ick…part of me does not feel like I am making it.

So I’m looking at my template and trying to see how  I did for the month. Let’s start off with

EXERCISE: This was not good, as usual. I met with a personal trainer for two sessions. (Out of desperation…) I really liked her, but she is $40 a session. That’s pretty ridiculous. But that’s what I need. Someone to stand over me and make me exercise. However, I can think of better things to do with $40. I exercised  exactly TWICE during May. I want to bump this up to six times during June.

I thought I might take some early morning hikes with my husband. Something on a smooth path. This would also kill my goal of doing something with him that he likes.

GETTING OUT OF THE HOUSE: I got out of the house 21 days this month. This is a HUGE improvement over April. I think this is due to the Abilify. It’s pretty impressive for me to get up off the couch, be showered and dressed and go somewhere. This is probably my shining star activity for May.

DRINKING WATER: I start out fine on this and just dwindle off. My Jenny Craig consultant mentioned yesterday I should drink like 72 ounces or some wild amount like that. I am settling for four big glasses a day.I am averaging two right now. IF I quit drinking soda and tea, I can drink all this water.

COOKING: I’ve been cooking or arranging dinner every night. It’s getting hot and we’re having company and going on some trips till June 20th. So cooking will be off and on. It’s going to be every man for himself some nights.

BEST FRIEND: This has been going really well. We have plans to see each other three times (this is tentative) during the summer. We’ve been texting and calling. I think our relationship is fairly healed from my mania. (From my perspective at least.) I think I am taking this off my template. It’s going fine.

READING DEVOTIONAL: Did this 21 days out of 30. I’m going to crank it up to 25 or so and use a harder devotional. I want to read a Bible passage from my devotional every day.

JENNY CRAIG FOOD PLAN: Oh God! I had 5 “perfect” days this month. I need to stop eating other stuff. If I stick with the Jenny food, I am not starving. One big hindrance this month will be the travel and guests. We eat out more of course. I am going to try to: only order water to drink, avoid bread, tortilla chips, etc, and take home half of my food. I can also order from the “light” menu. This won’t be perfect. I like my wine with a meal out.

SHOWERING: A victory here! I’ve been showering every three days with no problem. I think about what I am doing the next morning and make sure I shower and my hair is clean for the morning. This is much better.

CANCELLING: I cancelled a lot again. Six times during the month. Just got up some days and could not do it. But I made up the activity with the friend quickly. I’d like to really stop the cancelling. It gets old.

WEIGHT: I was supposed to lose 4 pounds this month…one per week. I actually wound up gaining a pound. I was so embarrassed about this I thought about lying to you guys, but then I thought that was sort of defeating the purpose and was stupid. This all ties together…if I drink my water, stay on the food plan and exercise I will lose the weight. Duh. I am weighing myself and recording every day.


I went to church twice. That won’t be much better this month with all the travel.

I saw EIGHT friends. Most of this was eating out, so that helps explain that extra pound. But I was proud of myself for getting out.

I went to my bipolar group twice. I am taking a break from this. Really depressing and I want to look forward. Have mixed feelings here.

Went to women’s group three times. This is a good and supportive group. I checked my friend list three times and contacted people as needed.


I saw my pdoc and therapist once. I am still up in the air about my therapist and Medicare, etc. It cracks me up that she is 65 and on Medicare but she does not take it as insurance. Go figure.

I got a massage, got a bone density scan, and saw the dentist.


I’m taking off the best friend contact goal.

I’m adding in doing something alone with each child once a month.

Things are changing mentally for me. I need some excitement and “sparkle” in my life. My husband is very content to go along with life and putter around the house and work part time. He’s happily semi-retired.

I was forced to retire. I’m bored. I need to find something to do that I WANT to do, not just something that fills time. Part of me wants to help others, but part just wants to be hypomanic. I’m only 56 in a few weeks, not dead. I didn’t have a midlife crisis…maybe this is it.

Oops…almost forgot. I have a goal for the blog! I’d like to hit 1000 followers by the end of June. It’s a good round number. I need to get out there in the blogging world and meet people.

love to all-


Disturbing Sleep

I went off the sleeping pills/Melatonin because they overly sedated me and gave me very weird, sometimes frightening, dreams. Well, I am still off of them and prior to Latarda, my dreams had been fairly tame. I figured it would go away after the system rid itself of that toxin. But I started the trileptal and the bizarre dreams are still there. I woke up so many times last night, due to weird dreams. Maybe not as weird as the ones I had as a kid where the mustachioed meat counter guy from the grocery store was chasing me around my aunt’s sewing room with a knife…Still…A  bucket of what the fuck.

First, I dreamt of this enormous douchebag guy I went to school with. The one who tormented from me sixth grade on, telling me I should take drugs so I’d have an excuse to be weird, telling me I should do the world a favor and kill myself, oh, and then that scene in the high school gym when he offered me a dollar for a blow job because I “look like a hooker.” Yeah, pretty much the bane of my teenage existence. The one reason I vowed to never kill myself, I’d never give that prick the satisfaction. So WHY THE FUCK WAS HE IN MY DREAMS? It wasn’t sex dream, it was more like “getting to know your tormentor and realize he’s actually very damaged and decent under it all.” Again, WTF?

Then I had a dream I ran into a girl I went to school with when I was in elementary years. I haven’t seen that girl since I was ten, yet there I was having a dream where I bumped into her. I remembered her only because of her unique name. Thariscia. If dreams are some sort of subconscious thing, what is this telling me? It sure as hell isn’t “I missed an awesome childhood.” I know sometimes a dream is just a dream, means nothing, but to go from barely dreaming and having no memory to such vivid dreams I do remember…And yeah, I even had a pleasant dream the other night about hanging out with a gorgeous guy with eyeliner. It was very brief. The weirdo dreams…are long. I don’t even know.

So…First day of kid being out of school for summer. I was up by seven. Stupid bladder is more demanding than the child. I did not want to get up, my entire body ached and I was still so groggy…Maybe because I was awake until almost two a.m. Even when exhausted, I have trouble falling asleep. My gums hurt already from the teeth gnashing, which while I buy it’s a sign of anxiety, I find it fucking convenient I didn’t have it even on Latarda, it only started after the Trileptal. I am so sick of this doctor and his “there aren’t many side effects” or “there is no withdrawal.” He’s just so damned nice, it’s hard to question him, and yet the pharmacy inserts contradict everything he says. If the pharma company admits these side effects exist, the pharmacist knows, the patients know…It’s just wrong that a doctor would be so dismissive.

Starting to feel a little overwhelmed with the kid yapping and the kittens climbing me. I know inevitably my dad will darken my doorstep with a call or visit at some point. (The man makes me want to kill myself, sometimes. He’s just so gloom and doom and critical. But it’s a mystery how I got those same traits.) Oh, the teeth gnashing is driving me crazy.

Oh, I just remembered another whacko dream I had. I was at Dollar Tree and they were selling dentures on the shelf. WTF, seriously. Maybe because I’m gonna grind my teeth down and need replacements?

I have this strong desire to write yet I am still blocked. I know my stress would be lessened if I could just escape into my world of fiction. Yet…Forcing it doesn’t work. I’m trying to read a Jonathan Kellerman book but my heart and head aren’t quite in it. It’s gonna be a looong summer.

And I just remembered I’m on call today so at some point I am gonna have to put on actual clothes. Fuck. I like jammies. Good morning, pretzel gut says. I swear my innards are braided.

Breathe. Picture the STOP sign. I actually spent a bit of time the other night trying to get to sleep with the STOP sign method. Making up what the letters stand for.

Serenity. Tranquility. Offer. Peace. Stop Thinking Of Problems. I do the same thing with license plate letters.

I am coming off the Prozac, so it’s gonna be a bumpy week. In the event the shrink is right and there’s no withdrawal…It will be the first time ever for me and I will alert the world record books.


Where Am I Going, And Why Am I In This Handbasket?

Originally posted on bpnurse:

I’m just kidding….other than this upcoming surgery thing, life’s treating me pretty well these days. But the question that keeps coming back as I adjust to being on Social Security is this: now that I’ve been freed from the stresses involved with trying to obtain (and keep) gainful employment, what does the rest of my life look like?

I’m only 56, after all. If statistics are to be believed, I should have at least another 25 years ahead of me, and even if not, I’m still far too young to sit around waiting to die. There are things I can and should be doing to contribute to society; I just haven’t figured out yet what they are. To be honest, I really never expected to retire—I’d pretty much assumed I’d be working until I keeled over at the nurses’ station one night as I signed off on some chart. But that was not the way whoever is in charge of these things decided it was to be, and now…

View original 397 more words

shocktails and screams

Press play and read slowly, it’s four songs long.

It was a day like any other day, 24 hours long and ending in y.

What’ll it be?
A mixed state, and make it crappy.
Coming right up. And down. And up, but not all the way up, down but not all the way down. And up and down. And sideways, at an incredible speed. Would you like a straw? It’s the last one.
I’ll take the last straw and a pack of Camels.
On the rocks, no question about that.
On the rocks, polar style.
Do I need to buy polar?
It’s on the house. And the garden, the street and everywhere else. Can I interest you in a packet of nuts?
Only if they’re roasted.
They’re always toasted.
I know that feel.

He shakes it (shakes it baby, real good) and pushes it and a small, square napkin across the scarred bar counter. The ice shifts and clicks and I stare into my drink, and think. That’s what bars are for, right? This bar isn’t a dive, it’s a plummet. It’s a fall from grace with a tearstained face. It’s called Where the Sun Don’t Shine and I’m a regular. The barman has nicotine stained fingers, a lined face and a thousand yard stare; so do I. I leave the straw sealed in its wrapper, pick up the glass and shake it some more, without even trying. I sip, then I tip it and my head back, and swallow the lot. I’ve never been a spitter. I wrestle the intractable bag of nuts open and stare at them too, push them away from me. I peer into the gloom, I’m the only customer. I’m always the only customer. I pay the bartender, emptying my pockets in the process, and I leave him a tip. “You’re looking a little etiolated, some sunshine wouldn’t do you any harm.” He gives me one of those oh not another lunatic looks and I walk away.


It was a night like any other night, polluted by light and hawking up the dregs of the day into this gutter and that (Great Expectorations).

One shot mixed like that, with expert violence, will make you drunk, no matter who you are. And it goes something like this.

This tastes fantastic and I love this place. Let’s crank up the jukebox, I want to dance and oh look, shiny!
I can’t handle it, this drink is overwhelming. I can’t cope, I don’t know what to do and here I am, alone in this gloomy place.
It’s all gone horribly wrong, all of it. They should change the name of this bar to Desolation Row. Oh god I can’t stop the tears, they’re deep and now they’re here and I don’t know what to do. I just don’t want to be alive any more. Make it stop.
Oh fuck this, that barman is full of shit. All those snide and barbed remark aimed right at me. Bastard! Come here and say that to my face, my fists are so ready to kiss your fugly mug, you fucker!
I hate myself, wtf am I being such an asshole for, I don’t deserve to live and these tears will never dry up. Never. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to punch you so hard, let me pay for all the damage and buy you a pony.
It’s all sparkly now, let’s dance.
Let’s fight.
Let’s fuck.
Let’s sob.
No sleep till September!
Please, please leave me alone.


Drink a mixed state and you can’t tell the hangover from the glass full of hell that caused it. You’re a block of ice, rattled and melting into it. You’re fucked from the moment you walked into that bar and disordered the drink. And you think you’ve paid for it, but your pockets keep emptying and you can’t forget it, even though your memory is eroded more and more. The hangover cures are all expensive and they’re all hit and miss. They’re shit and piss, lit and bliss, they’re kiss and hiss.

It was a night that jarred, I slept because the meds worked, but it was fitful and full of night terrors and night sweats. I felt too drugged, but the pain didn’t vanish.

Baby, did you forget to take your meds?
The drugs don’t work, they just make it worse and I want to see your face again.
Tea and thorazine?
Is that all there is?

Is that a conversation, or the saddest playlist in the world? If it’s not sad enough, here –

Icky..Okay…Um…Maybe…Good…I dunno

It’s been a day without much event, yet my moods have run the gamut. (Skipping mania, of course, because that might make me feel something positive and that absolutely cannot happen.) I was icky and down this morning. Anxious. Then okay. Followed by more anxiousness (Dr appointment, three hours outside my bubble, panic alert).

Upon returning home, two minutes in the door…A call from my dad set off my stress, anger, and resentment. Then a four hour stretch of “not so bad, almost good.”It was less good mood and more a sigh of relief, school’s out, it’s the weekend, I’m broke but am beholden only to being a mom to kid and cats, I can breathe…Kid channeling satan lite. It was…manageable. She even ate what I cooked for supper without a battle.

Toward seven p.m. I was leaning towards shower and crypt but then  R called and reminded I owed him…Blah, blah, so I have to meet a customer at the shop tomorrow for them to pick up their TV. Maybe twenty minutes out of my life, whatever. I reminded him, you told my dad you’d change the oil in my car and he’s gnawing on my ass…So he said bring it over now. Not my idea of fun, and yet after my dad yelling at me because I didn’t drop everything and drive to his armpit town because oh, I didn’t have enough gas in the car to get there and somehow that makes me an ungrateful pain in his ass…R is the lesser evil. I never thought I’d say that.

My moods are so willy nilly. One day I like someone, two days later they’re like nails on a chalkboard. They want to label it borderline these days and I dispute it to the death. It all revolves around my frame of mind. And that hinges on the bipolar cycles, the seasonal affective, the level of anxiety and paranoia, whether I’m hormonal…Jebus, I gotta win the fricking mental health lottery just to have a stable day. Tell me that’s my personality and you deserve to be stabbed in the eye with the sacred spork AND throat punched. I pretty much slapped a patent on a sarcastic barb and walking away to avoid confrontation but yeah, it’s my personality making me hostile and argumentative and stabby sporky.

I was okay for the first few minutes at R’s. Then when his wife basically said hi and went to the next door neighbor’s I got a whiff that perhaps something was rotten in the state of Denmark. I asked him if I’d offended her and he said, “No, but she’s pissed off I’m changing you oil and not hers.” Um…I didn’t demand it be done this night. He deemed it so. Yet I’m in the middle of their drama, getting the evil eye. Bloody hell. When Mrs R returned, my kid was acting up (mildly) and of course, by the rules bossy professor woman has to butt in. Okay, it was in my defense and chastising my kid for being disrespectful to me, but honestly…Today really was satan lite for Spook, I can manage that. The bigger deal made of it by others, the more I suffer for it later. Just…let it go, kids are defiant little brats. I can handle a little defiance.

Needless to say, the oil has been changed in the car, I finally showered, the child is asleep, and the humidity is breaking so it’s cooling off. The doctor wanted to increase the Trileptal but I told him it’s been six months, the Prozac isnt working, I’m tired of living life like I am wearing three pairs of Latex gloves on my emotions. He said something to the extent of, “What do you want to try, you’ve tried everything.” Helpful. Factual, but not my fault, ffs. I told him I want to try to Cymbalta again. It’s an SNRI, rather than SSRI, so maybe the change will actually accomplish something. So he dropped the Lamictal to 200, kept the Trileptal at 3o0, and I am going to taper off Prozac (over three days, he claims it basically tapers itself off and there is no withdrawal, omg, what the fuck is he smoking, that is a LIE.) I am going to start the Cymbalta. Except I can’t buy my meds until Wednesday. The plus side to the Cymbalta is it actually helped with my knee pain in addition to boosting  my energy and mood. Who knows, I may just need a different chemical formula every so often. God knows what 12 years of straight anti depressants did to further fuck up my brain and its response to the compounds.

I didn’t walk out feeling optimistic, but when I told him I was facing three months with a noisy hyper kid and I am already on the edge…He signed off on a letter asking a local Y to grant my kid a scholarship for their summer camp so I might be able to focus on getting better while keeping her entertained. Of course, I now have to go out to the Y with this letter and convince them my kid is just as worthy as every other kid who needs a scholarship…It’s something that he at least recognized I’m walking a ledge here and kind of need help to avoid going over. I’m trying to find the silver lining here. Hopefully it’s not mercury.

All in all, in spite of the mood gamut..,One of the less awful days. Though I do feel shitty when I see how others who are in a more dire place mentally than I am and they’re still working, going out, shopping, et al…None of that is within my capability, not even the fun stuff. I’m just…dead inside. Even my anger is coated in gauze. But it is what it is and I am me, and I’ve done things differently my whole life so maybe my lack of interest in everything is just a subconscious way of protecting myself at a volatile time.

I am so full of shit.

BUT it’s 10:34 p.m. and I have yet to cryptify myself or truly crash into dark space. This is subject to change at any time. I get stressed when there is no trigger, my mood lifts and crashes for no reason…I am random, my mind is random, life is fucking random. I mean, why do I get this stupid disorder and yet stupid fucks like Charles Manson get groupies to follow their stark raving assholeness? Not that I want a bunch of mindless worshipers, just saying…He’s batshit and evil and he gets a fan club. I have a legit illness and I get…

Yeah, I get THIS. I have much to be grateful for but there is never going to be a day when I say something idiotic like, “Well, at least I don’t have it as bad as Joe Schmoe.” It’s not battle of the psychological torment. Mental illness is nothing to be thankful for, nor is it to be belittled. To do so is to belittle yourself and your battles, which makes you as bad as the scientologist-minded muggles that think mental illness is fiction.

I am grateful for a not awful day. I am thankful for my daughter. (One of the teachers told me today that Spook is one of the nicest kids she’s ever taught, which I think speaks volumes as to me doing right raising her for polite society). I am thankful for my fur children. I am thankful for all my used freebie computers. I am thankful for sporks and beef  jerky and menthol smokes.

I am not thankful to have mental illnesses.

They can go fuck themselves. I typed that with a smile. Does that count as a positive attitude?

A Hospital Chaplain Reflects on Poetry and Dying


What I call chaos theory might be what you call god, either way, I like this man and the words he writes and the poetry he quotes, very much. It’s a realistic and compassionate article and he avoids clichés the way I avoid cauliflower.

“I’ve found the lines about cursing God, “Shame on Him,” to be true. My supervisor had told us—me and my fellow chaplain interns—that we might find it appropriate to tell a patient that it’s all right to be angry at God. It takes me a while to say this to someone because a lot of my patients believe that to question God is to curse her very nature. They believe it’s God’s will for them to suffer. Some refuse pain-alleviating medication because they believe God wills them to suffer like Christ. “Sometimes, God sucks,” I eventually tell one woman around midnight before she goes into surgery the next morning for a cancer.”


Originally posted on Longreads Blog:

A few weeks later, my friend sends me a copy of Dunn’s poem “A Coldness.” The speaker says about his sick brother, “From then on he was delusional, / the cancer making him / stupid, insistently so, and lost. / I wanted him to die. / And I wished his wife / would say A shame / instead of God?s will. Or if God / had such a will, Shame on Him.”

I’ve found the lines about cursing God, “Shame on Him,” to be true. My supervisor had told us—me and my fellow chaplain interns—that we might find it appropriate to tell a patient that it’s all right to be angry at God. It takes me a while to say this to someone because a lot of my patients believe that to question God is to curse her very nature. They believe it’s God’s will for them to suffer. Some…

View original 55 more words

Love, Empty Nest Syndrome, and From kind of a meltdown to Almost back to normal

DSCN5836 - Version 2 DSCN5837

At least Fluff still lives at home. And a picnic below.

DSCN5840 - Version 2 DSCN5842

I still miss my Aral tons. I really think we were meant to live as family units all our lives. This nuclear family bs is just that bs!

Anyway, I sort of had a meltdown, crying all the way here from Buffalo, and this morning was no cake and ice cream walk either.

They say love is what a mother feels for her newborn, I mean the emotion of love is based totally on what a mother feels when she sees her newborn. Romantic love is just that feeling transferred to your romantic partner. So of course, when a mother is separated from her child, she is going to experience heartbreak, elementary my dear Watson. The first time I felt that awful, sickening heartbreak was when Aral went to college. I didn’t get out of bed for a week, could not stop crying for the Kohinoor diamond, and just felt in the pit of my stomach that nothing was ever going to right again. Not ever. And I know other moms who felt the same way as me. Just today, at a picnic I was at, a friend who is a mom said she is planning on buying three lots of land adjacent to each other, to build three houses, one for herself and her husband, one for her son, and one for her daughter, so they cal always live close to one another and never be separated. Yesterday, on the plane, the woman seated next to me and I were talking, and she said that when her first son went to college, she basically went to bed for four days and couldn’t even talk to her son for weeks because her emotions were so raw, that she was afraid she was going to upset him. Another friend used the exact same phrase as I did, “Nothing will ever be ok again” when her daughter went off to college.

This is what we women have to go through. Maybe mine is a little more extreme because I have a mood disorder, but not much more extreme. Or more likely, at this extremely stressful time, all moms “develop” mood disorders, temporarily. These are extremely powerful emotions, maybe the most powerful emotion in the world, the love of a mother for her child. It is a survival of the species thing, if mothers didn’t love and adore their children, they would not take care of them, if they didn’t take care of them, the babies would not survive, and if they babies didn’t survive, the human race would die out. Therefore, this love a mother feels for her child has to be so powerful that it leads to the survival of the human species. And when that bond is broken, then the strength of the pain is proportional to the strength of the powerful love. Therefore we have empty nest syndrome. Awful, awful, awful, heartbreaking, most horrible feeling in the world. I sort of go through that every time I leave Aral in Buffalo after my visit. If love is a drug, and as I have hypothesized, maternal love is the most powerful of loves, then we mothers experience the most powerful of withdrawal symptoms when our babies leave the nest. Aaaah! So not fair. And so awful.

Well anyway, I am getting over my Aral withdrawals, and becoming a person again instead of a human water (tear) producing system.

I have to learn my lines! My play practice is in a day, and I have to learn my lines. I’m taking today off for empty nest, and tomorrow, back to business and learning lines.

On The Way to Disaster

0211.jpgIn response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “On the Way.”