Daily Archives: July 11, 2015

Drift & Die ~ Puddle of Mudd

“Drift And Die” Forgotten thoughts of yesterdays Through my eyes, I see the past Well I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know why I believe, I believe, I believe in the truth From inside Go away, go away, go away from me Leave me alone Ignorance spreads lies How much will money buy […]

here be dragons

As you know, I cannot resist blog awards and memes containing questions – and then I subvert them a little bit.

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Thanks for the dragon’s loyalty award, onlyiknowthetrueme. Here’s the history of the award in meticulous detail (lol).

Rules broken:

Display the Award Certificate on your website. The original graphic makes me want to barf, so (as usual) I fucked it up a bit lot. I never miss an opportunity to Tolkien-ify things.

Announce your win with a post and link to whoever presented your award. This is it.

Present 15 awards to deserving bloggers. 15!? Sweet Ganesha on a cornflake, that’s a lot of people who’ll say “er thanks, but stop pestering me with memes”. Easiest way to do this is to inflict bestow it on the top commenters here: one, two, three, four, five, six – stats only show six, so. I would, however, also like to present this award to See Sea (for remembering my shrink) and those of you who are as nerdy about Tolkien as I am – you know who you are, you lovely humans.

Drop them a comment to tip them off after you’ve linked them in the post. One word – pingback.

Post 7 interesting things about yourself. I’m doing 7 boring ones instead, it’s far easier.
i I wish I knew how many times I’ve read LOTR, somewhere  between ten and twenty, I suppose.
ii I’m trying to identify local birdcalls, it’s going as slowly as geology.
iii Noisy eaters turn me homicidal.
iv Green peppers make me burp.
v Old people walking hand in hand melt me completely.
vi The fact that teleportation only exists in sci-fi grieves me.
vii I’m frightened of happiness.

The featured image of this post, by the way, is by Queen Magrethe ii of Denmark. And so is this one…

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Mid Day Med/Mood Crash is getting EFFING OLD

Like frigging clockwork, my mood goes from perfectly ok to “sewer” level around 4 p.m. I didn’t have a bad day. The kid wasn’t bad, just extra yappy. I met a few goals. There’s no reason for the crash, no outer cause or trigger. It’s just been this way for three years now. My prior docs had no problem splitting the anti depressant dosage into two doses a day. New doc says it won’t matter, level in my blood will remain the same so once a day it is.

I’m thinking, um, NO. Obviously, he has no clue what it’s like to start out a little lethargic, kick your ass into gear,everything going along swimmingly, and then after getting a taste of stability and non suckiness…SPLAT. No explanation or trigger. Just fucking splat. THREE bloody years of this shit, working out the proper way to time the meds for optimal results, and now because of this one doctor, I’m not even in control of that. Taking 60mg later in the day doesn’t make a difference. I just don’t respond as well to a single 60mg dose as opposed to two 30mg doses. But because he knows it all…&^$$()((*!!!!!!

I’m still pondering the splitting the capsule but having gotten so many pills stuck on my tongue and in my throat where the cringing bitterness lasted for days…I fear it. And I am gonna talk to him next time I see him, even if I have to play the “Aw, shucks, humor the crazy lady with the split dose as a placebo effect.”

It is such major suckage. I was up at 8 today. I was groggy but not feeling horrid. I figured the early morning thunderburst would have canceled yard sales and mowing plans. But rather than get all stressed out by making plans yet flaking out…I went out on the premise of needing a bag of sugar…And we hit seven yard sales. Didn’t find a bunch or even have a bunch to spend, but…I went out in the dish and interacted. And at the yard sales, I wasn’t even all that bothered by other people.

Traffic on the other hand…Icky. By the time we stopped for sugar, my nerves were fraying and I was starting to see everyone as some sort of threat (fight or flight response doesn’t give a fuck about logic). Just backing out of the busy lot nearly sent me into anxiety meltdown. Home it was.  I managed an hour and forty five minutes out there before losing my shit. Yay. My kid made out like a bandit. I spent maybe forty cents on her. People were giving her stuff for free because she’s so cute. One lady even let her have a Lambie (from Doc McStuffins) that was marked four dollars and I didn’t have the cash so I told Spook no…And the woman gave it to her free. I should be so lucky if people would give me stuff for being cute. Oh, wait, I’m betting they did back when I was a cute kid. I can’t believe the only true memories I have of being age 5 was someone poisoning my dog with glass in his food and pissing my mom off by insisting the dog walk me to my first day of Kindergarten instead of her. Is it normal to have so little memory at that age? I mean, nowdays they’re saying kids remember from being months old. Is it the family Alzheimer’s gene making my childhood such a blank?

Meh. We had a wicked thunderstorm today. Lots of lightning. All I could think was, R is seeing dollar signs. Of course, he’s got so much work from last month’s lightning damage, he can’t get caught up. Raking in some money should give him a better attitude. He apparently is throwing some work the way of his friend who’s the computer hacker electronic genius. Paying him, mind you. Not me, though, never me. But whatever. The kid found a smartphone and rather than turning it in, he decided to play around on it and hack and tweak and modify…And the gps locator was on and they found him and now he’s in a bunch of shit. Whatever. I’ve always known I’m irrelevant for the most part even amongst those who claim to be my friends. Well, maybe not entirely relevant. R is less a “helper for the small things” and more “the guy who will pay two hundred bucks for car parts and fix my car himself for me.” I shouldn’t bitch. It’s just every time I point out a shiny aspect, suddenly words like “positive” come up and it makes me throw up a little, so I embrace my own bitchy and moan-iness a bit too much.

In a way, I’m like a superhero. Not that I have magical powers, I just always have to have a nemesis. Someone who I don’t necessarily dislike yet they drive me so bonkers and I am supposed to take it wordlessly while they complain incessantly about my irritating quirks. PLAY FAIR IN THE SANDBOX OR GET OUT. The old counselor told me I needed to change that aspect of my personality and mentality. As the kid whose toys were always taken away even though I played fair…Fuck it. Quid pro quo is the way to go. Had I adapted this view years ago I wouldn’t be such a resentful “give me a nemesis to rail against because they don’t play fair” type.

And contrary to what that sunshine spewing therapist said…I don’t think my quid pro quo mentality is a bad thing. If someone expects to call me at eleven o clock at night to whine about their issues, yet they get pissed because I sent them a text during the day at an inopportune moment…Uh huh, not cool. Or ya know, my hypocrite father who never calls before he shows up yet tells us never to show up without calling cos they have lives and may not be home. Um, hello? Assclown much? One of the first lessons I learned, as a kid, is that life isn’t at all fair. So any chance you get to take control and make it a little more balanced in your favor…why the hell not. Being a welcome mat doesn’t make you a good person.

I guess now that the storm has cleared up and the sun is trying to peek out, my mood is coming up a tiny bit. I still feel like someone put me through a blender, my entire body is aching and bruised. Thanks a lot, horrormones. Plus, I am feeling a bit raw in the nerve endings because as mentioned earlier, Spook has been good but man, she doesn’t pause for breath, she talks in run on sentences non stop, and it winds me just to hear it. And the “why, why, why” even after giving her answer after answer…I want to scream I DON’T KNOW, I AM A BRAINDEAD MORON WHO KNOWS NOTHING, STOP ASKING. Not mature but realistic.

Little on edge, as well, because I haven’t heard from my dad and his crew and it was after 5 last week when they crashed the door unannounced. That’s very unnerving for me, a little heads up, ffs. How can they expect a call first yet be so disrespectful (over the course of ten years when my anxiety metastasized to the point of needing a warning call) by not giving me the same consideration? Basic human courtesy, asshats. Plus, never knowing when they will appear usually means my supper plans are on hold because damn, every time I assume they won’t show…That;s when I’m in the middle of cooking or just sitting down to eat…And my assclown father expects me to drop everything to deal with him because his time is much more important and I can tend to my own stuff after he leaves.

I don’t think I ever stood a chance against being anything but a misanthrope, if you consider how utterly rude my own family is. Throw in how shitty the kids at school were then all the adults who shunned me for being bipolar…There was just no way I was gonna come out of that thinking people were awesome creatures. Truth is, a large number of them are monstrous. As evidenced by a repost  I read earlier talking about the desperation of people to meet standards of beauty to avoid cyber bullying.

“Kids will be kids.”

That is such utter bullshit. Those kids become adults who are still bullies. And what’s worse is, they enjoy it. These are people who supposedly have a higher moral compass than me because they don’t swear or drink or smoke and they go to church and have jobs and large networks of friends and walk on water and turn their own urine into wine…But they actually feel good about themselves for putting others down, as if it’s their right to pass judgment.

I’ll keep all my sins, thankyouverymuch, rather than ever become one of those monstrosities. When “love thy neighbor” is bastardized into “freely torment anyone who doesn’t fit your personal standard of beauty and normality“…Obviously, religion has failed a great many.

(Sidenote, and it’s not really conscious on my part, but I’ve noticed after any post involving my religious views, too much swearing, or being “negative”, I lose several followers. It almost makes me giggle. I mean, seriously. Drop me if I bore you or annoy you but if you’re not grown up enough to accept that not everyone shares your personal view…Make like a tree and leave. ) (On another side note, maybe I need to take my own advice and stop tirading about all the positive messages out there? Hmm…Nah. It ain’t personal to any single person. It’s just sickening to me. Honestly, I can’t stand mayo but I’m not calling you the devil because you like it. Just for the love of fuck, don’t put it in my food or I will spew your direction. Mayo is ick ick ick. Like optimism. ICK.)

Okay, this has to stop. I had a direction to go with this post and it wasn’t going to long and, damn it, if the incessant spawn yapping hasn’t gotten me all clusterfucked. I bet ahlf the words I wrote were what she was saying and not what I meant to write. Unfortunately, editing is for those who can’t write. I can’t be arsed.

Still pissed off about how I went from doing so well (even got that lawn mowed finally and showered again!) to this “is it bedtime yet” thing. And bitch of it is, night after night, it happens and by bedtime…I’m tapped out but my brain won’t shut up so it takes hours to get to slep and I can’t stay asleep.

Like being bipolar wasn’t enough explanation for my grumpiness, I think I just explained it even more.

 


image from: @BipolarUs

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From: @BipolarUs


Sex and My Elderly, Bipolar Mind

sex sort of

Last weekend I was on vacation (yes, again!), and spent some time by the pool. I noticed at least three people reading the book Grey by E. L. James. For those of you on another planet, this book is in the group of the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy. It’s an extra book the author has floated in.

So of course I had to download the book to see what all of these young suntanned people were reading.

These books are novels which contain a lot of sex. I mean a LOT! The trilogy is told from the point of view of the heroine and the Grey is told from the man’s point of view. I’ll let you guess which one is loaded with more sex talk and which one is more romantic. If you don’t care for the words “f***” or “baby”, Grey is not for you. But if you like a good old-fashioned sex story with whips, chains, and graphic sex, this is your novel.

Actually, I wasn’t that shocked. The author has sort of taken bondage, etc. and made it vanilla enough for the general public. They made a movie out of this thing and I’m sure there will be sequels.

This is not a book review. I just wanted to share a little about sex and how I process it. Because I think it is a little different when you are bipolar.

As an aside, have you noted some weird things on Viagra and Cialis commercials? First, they spend a lot of time on the beach just strolling along. Second, the woman usually looks quite a bit younger than the man. Weird, huh? Okay, well back to my sex story.

My mother had me when she was 18. So the first thing I learned about sex was “don’t do it, you’ll get pregnant and ruin your life.” Now this was a mixed message. After all, did I ruin my mom’s life? I think not…she did that all by herself.

When I was in high school, I didn’t have a lot of opportunities for sex. I was thought of as a “goody-goody” and no one approached me. (No one approached me for drugs either and this was around 1976.) I think our school was too poor for drugs…I don’t know. I do know that there was a lot of talk about the girls who had sex. Some of these were even my friends who had sex with their regular boyfriends. This sort of made me mad and wary. I mean, gee, did guys have to blab everything? I thought the whole thing was embarrassing.

On the other hand, I was extremely depressed during much of high school. I’m sure my moping around did not encourage a sex line. But I did have my manic times. I would get “crushes” on guys and stalk them all around school and drive by their houses. Fortunately, looking back, none of these guys liked me.

College was different. I was chased by an assortment of guys, but no one really interested me. I finally got bored with the whole sex thing and decided to “do it” with this good natured guy I met through friends. I don’t think I was manic, but the next part sure was. I decided that since I had sex with this guy, I had to MARRY him. I was 19 and boy was this ever a bad idea.

I whipped together a quick but nice wedding and off we went. I knew as we were pulling away from the church I had made a mistake. So sex had a big influence here…a bad one.

Fast forward four years. We are separated and I am manic. I start hitting on everyone…my best friend’s husband (I know he thought I was nuts), a guy where I worked, a girl where I worked (didn’t want sex but wanted her to “like” me), and my dentist. I also chased my boss around even though he had six kids and was grossly overweight. (I was pretty good looking at this time). The guy I worked with took the bait. He was sorry as I made his life hell.

So the divorce was final and I never saw my ex again. Good riddance. He was seriously the most boring guy on the planet and not just in bed.

I met my current husband while manic. After my divorce, I had the idea I should get married again and FAST! This time I hit on two guys at a different job, the mailman (don’t ask), a neighbor (he was single), and an old friend from high school. The old friend from high school became the victim this time. But I met my husband and he was willing to put up with the mania. He had no idea about bipolar, but I think he thought I was exciting. I had a good job at that time and was making good money.

I crashed the same day the Challenger did. (I remember sitting in a doc’s office watching it on TV.)

I’ve been married thirty years and have stayed with my husband. But when “manic”, I develop crushes on people, male or female. This always kills friendships, causes job loss, and endless grief. And these poor victims of my mania don’t deserve it. Neither does my husband, although he doesn’t usually know what is going on.

So there you have my sex story. No whips or chains. No novels about it. No movies, either.

BTW, since this is a bipolar blog, I forgot the depressive side. That’s okay, as I forget about sex then too. If it’s not the depression, it’s the meds. Sigh.

Back to my sexy novel I go. Yeah, baby!

Encourage One Another

Encourage One Another
  
One of the most important reasons for my blogging is to encourage one another. It’s a quintessential motive for my stabilize my recovery. Without it, I suffer social and emotion isolation. Social isolation “refers to complete or near complete to people and society.” This is particularly detrimental for someone who is an extrovert by nature. The risk factors are many but, social adversity stands out most to me. Emotion isolation is the feeling of being separate from others. The two may go hand in hand. If I am separate from others than I am completely isolated from others.  

Michael Bond’s article on “How extreme isolation warps the mind”, identifies that “isolation is physically bad for us…Loneliness infers with a whole range of everyday functioning.” Such illnesses like “high blood pressure, stress hormones, even leading to Alzheimer, dementia, and verbal reasoning.”Initially I enjoyed the isolation of the hassle and stress of everyday social living. It brought me such freedom to not put on the masks we play among the working society. Than the love for isolation has become a daily routine making heading back out there more and more difficult.  

My medication regimen makes it difficult for me to drive and I could never put myself or others at such a risk of recklessness. I do attempt every effort to keeping myself busy. All of which, are my myself, Instead, I rely of social networking in attempt to encourage others and to educate by living through my own transgressions. It is never easy to shed my experiences in public but, if I don’t, I won’’t find the support and encouragement from others like myself.

My interventions are basic and not entirely accomplished. I aam working on a trusting relationship established between my husband and I. You may think that this is common place among partners but, not all significant others are felt to be trustworthy. Some interpersonal relationships remain superficial in conversations to avoid conflict or fear of admitting their struggles, particularly when it comes to mental illness. I still suffer from a fear to bring my husband into my therapy sessions. I fear that our sessions will take a drastic turn once my husband verbalizes his perceptions. Even though I do my very best to provide my therapist an accurate view from both sides I fear the “lectures” I receive at home. I guess, my most trusting relationship is my therapist. He’s the one person whom I can shed my dirty laundry without judgement. Don’t be mistaken by only receiving encouragement and support for my actions, I do have my share of a firm redirection.

  
The obvious thing for my social intervention would be  

-To get back out there and form new relationships.

-Preserve my own integrity.

-Don’t take anything personally.

-Accept myself.

I’m sure there are other worthy interventions but, these are the most important to me.Have I accomplished these terms? Heck, no but, I am aware of my goals and will try to incorporate them as apart of my character.

My therapists repeats that “1/3rd of my social circle will not like me. 1/3rd will be ambivalent and 1/3rd will like me no matter what. Adhere to those who like me as they are the ones who will support and encourage me in my recovery.
They are my brownstone charm worth encouraging one another.

  
 

The week from hell. Again.

A horrible, horrible week that hasn’t ended yet. Starting from a 2+ week bout of hypomania, anxiety and OCD – this is long for me, I only know ultra rapid cycling – last Sunday morning I crashed back down in an instant. It only took a minute. No, less than that; seconds. Flick of a switch, a chemical canal that burst its banks and which o’erleaps itself.

I don’t really know everything I think and do during highs. My default position, as my therapist keeps letting me tell him, is depressed. I’ve had that all my adult life, thirty-five years or so, I at least understand it and it isn’t much of a threat to me. Well, nit physically. No, what’s dangerous, what IS a threat to me, is the mixed state that sits between the high and the low. It inhabits a few rungs of the ladder, though I usually tread them coming down, rather than going up. I think.

So last Sunday, after that sudden crash which came with absolutely no signs, no warnings, there was a space of time – maybe 2-3 hours? – where anything might have happened.

In the Koran there’s a passage I’ve always known (it’s not my religion; I’m a nominal buddhist): ‘Does there not pass over a man a space of time when his life is a blank?’ I’d always assumed this was in sleep, in dreams. But I was told by an Imam on a Kashmir houseboat that it refers to the time one spends in the womb.

Last Sunday, I spent a few hours living in a blank of a different kind.

I’m generally (but not always) only suicidal when in a mixed state. As it’s been pointed out many times, it’s then when you’re depressed enough to want to die but high enough to think it’s a great idea and to have the capacity to make it happen. Hell, yeah!

2-3 hours.. longer than usual, for me.

I’m not going to describe that time in any more detail now. It was tough. I don’t need to tell YOU that.

And out of the mixed into the low. Usually this is moderate. There’ll be a high along soon to ensure I don’t climb too far down the ladder. But I kept walking last Sunday. Three rungs from the ground (I know that place, I can handle that place).. but then two.. one.

One?! I haven’t been one rung from the ground for some years. OK, it’ll go away soon.

It didn’t go away soon. Sunday – always by far my worse day – I went to bed. Monday, I didn’t get up for a while. Ditto Tuesday. Wednesday. I didn’t go to work; I’ll deal with the fallout of that on Monday.

I ate a meal sometime last Saturday. I ate a meal yesterday. I grazed for five days, not much. And I slept a lot; which considering I have had chronic insomnia for a couple of decades (those damn highs in the night!) were sort of a plus point of the whole experience.
But it’s a week later, almost, and I’m still in that place. This is highly unusual for me. Therapy yesterday was awful; traumatic. Breakdown, bottom-rung.

I’m being stubborn – or as my psychiatrist puts it, I have too strong a work ethic – and have refused to start meds. Surely I won’t be able to go to work, hold down a good job (I have a professional position), be a single parent, drive, write, think, on meds? I have no idea; no-one’s talked to me about it. I don’t speak to anyone other than my therapist about these matters.

I was offered Quetiapine, which appears to have every side effect known to humankind attached to its use. I was offered Lithium, which seems to have fewer but potentially more serious side effects. I’ve decided to go back to her and admit defeat. I can’t do this anymore, I really can’t. I’ll say yes to Lithium and wave goodbye to my kidneys.


Diary of a Crazy Future Old Lady

I used to be a pretty girl. Not saying I’m not now but smack in the middle of middle age,  as much as I hate to admit it,  girl no […]

Diary of a Crazy Future Old Lady

I used to be a pretty girl. Not saying I’m not now but smack in the middle of middle age,  as much as I hate to admit it,  girl no […]

outtakes of a walking mistake, anthony paull

(scheduled post)

I’m not sure a middle aged bipolar butch dyke is the best person to review YA fiction (this is my first go at it), but since I review everything I can find that has bipolar and other mental illness themes, I’m doing it anyway.

You can find the other books I’ve reviewed here.

And here’s the blurb:

Outtakes of A Walking Mistake chronicles the romantic entanglements of an ‘out’ gay 16 yr. old boy named Tyler Morris, who auditions for a student film to win the heart of Billy Greske, the school’s celebrity thespian. The plan seems promising until Tyler’s bipolar best friend Jenny offers love advice and a local skater takes interest in Tyler as well. Furthering complications, Tyler’s estranged mother, a clairvoyant circus clown, returns home to win back the love of her family.

 

wpid-12809599.jpgIt’s a fun sounding theme, typos aside, the author writes well, but the character development fails the plot and the stereotypes are irksome from the start.

“This is not my life. My life exists in film, scattered across the cutting room floor. But that’s not important. That’s the future. My best friend is a bipolar basket case. That’s important. Well, the term basket case might be a tad severe. She takes the proper pills…sometimes, but I digress.”

Tyler is the (gay) protagonist, his bipolar best friend is Jen, who reckons she’s not bipolar, just “bipolar curious”, her meds are a small, white pill that she calls Ralph.

Well. It’s witty, but it’s trying a little too hard. The stereotypes are glaring, jarring and frequently downright offensive. The author seems well intentioned enough, but since the novel clearly isn’t satire, it just doesn’t work and what’s more, if anyone out there reads and believes the stereotypes, another unconsciously ableist homophobe will have been created, or at least reaffirmed. To get away with that sort of wit, there needs to be an element of awareness, where the reader knows clearly, for example, that the jibes are tongue in cheek.

Tyler is a camp little queen, Jen is a promiscuous drunk (they’re both 17 by the way). There was no further depth to either character and as a consequence, I didn’t find anything to like about them. As a result, I didn’t like the book. At all. I just alternated between bored and irritated all the way through.

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