Daily Archives: November 14, 2015

Metamorphosis Mondays Q&A with Pieces of Bipolar: On Anorexia, Bipolar & Psychosis

Originally posted on my spanglish familia:
Welcome to Metamorphosis Mondays where the words gathered here on the screen are about change; coming of age; a ripening of sorts; choices—tall and…

it is in my heart…

That solemnly handing you a paper boat would make everything alright. It is in my mind I am alone and sometimes lonely, but very wary of new people and very nervous about more people. It is in my brain Books were the things that kept me enthralled, awake for whole nights. Books and I, we’ve […]

After Paris: An Owl, An Offering


 
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
—Adam Zagajewski
(Translated, from the Polish, by Clare Cavanagh.)

 

Yesterday, I watched a Great Horned Owl fly from the end of a creance line, her once fractured wing now strong enough to carry her across the soccer field.  A farmer found her over the summer with one end of a string knotted around her wing and the other end around a telephone wire.  Who knew how long she’d been dangling upside down like a broken, abandoned kite? 

Carol, the rehab center’s director, explained that the fracture was likely from the impact or her struggle to get free.  Weeks passed before Carol was certain the owl would survive since birds, like humans, experience shock after trauma (in animals called “capture myopathy”).  However, in birds and other animals (rabbits and deer), this can be fatal, rapidly burning up all available glycogen stores.  These animals can drop dead at the moment of trauma (e.g., trapped in a “humane” cage) or days and weeks later from systemic organ failure.             
This owl survived and was magnificent.  Ombré feathers moved from gray to brown to ruddy red to white, like a desert rock face changing with the light.  Feathered tufts, like flaming antennae, grew from each side of her head.  Her face was a great disc confined between dark parentheses.  And her eyes were big, yellow honey moons.  She swiveled her head, a perfect radar dish, and fixed her gaze on me.  Was she wondering if I was predator or prey?    

At the rehab center, Blake, a volunteer, had strapped jesses around the owl’s legs; the anklettes, more hipster leather bracelets than falconry equipment, were fastened to the one hundred and fifty foot long paracord.  Jess, another volunteer, cradled the owl--a strange, otherworldy infant--while Blake zigzagged the line on the ground to prevent it from spooling out too fast, and to control the owl’s flight speed.  The owl was a little like a ventriloquist’s dummy: body still, head wheeling back and forth, eyes wide open, and beak clacking in warning.  In the sky, two crows circled us, cawing in protest over the owl which they’d immediately spied from their perch in a nearby pine tree.  Great Horns make meals out of crows. “We’ll have to leave if they start divebombing her,” Jess said.         
When the crows finally scattered, Jess launched the owl: one hand on the bird’s back offering a steadying momentum, the other under its taloned feet, thrusting them forward.  The bird beat its broad wings in rapid succession, gaining altitude, and then opened them into a four foot extension.  Each beautiful, tough feather worked with the others, flapping and gliding, flapping and gliding. 

The leading, serrated edge of an owl’s flight feathers, or flutings, muffles the rush of air over the wings, allowing the owl stealth flight.  Birds die from feather trauma: a long, vertical barb runs down the center of a feather, and similar to a straw, sucks blood up to the smaller, horizontal barbs and hooklets; if the feather breaks and the wound doesn’t clot quickly, the bird can bleed out.  “It can take years to rehab a bird with trashed feathers,” Carol said.  Before, beyond a simple understanding of a feather’s general flight purpose, my curiosity had ended in aesthetic admiration of the white and gray seagull feathers I’d twirl between my fingers at the beach, or the shimmering blue jay feathers I’d find in my backyard. 

Beautiful and necessary.  Delicate and tough.        

The owl picked up speed; the line tensed and went taut.  The bird tumbled to the ground, startled out of her intention: clearly the line of maple trees across the field.  The crows swooped in again with their vociferous complaints.  The owl waited, feathers puffed, clacking loudly, necessarily hamstrung by the line.  In a few weeks though, the owl will be released back to home ground in Erie, back to instinct and chance without the safety and constraint of the line or meals of pre-butchered rat dusted in vitamin powder.  Before Blake launched her for a second run, I ruffled my fingers over her head, through the soft, bristle feathers.  The owl stared at me, blink! blink! and then turned away, eyes back on the blue sky.  She didn’t want to know me at all.  A reason for joy.

After Paris: An Owl, An Offering


 
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
—Adam Zagajewski
(Translated, from the Polish, by Clare Cavanagh.)

 

Yesterday, I watched a Great Horned Owl fly from the end of a creance line, her once fractured wing now strong enough to carry her across the soccer field.  A farmer found her over the summer with one end of a string knotted around her wing and the other end around a telephone wire.  Who knew how long she’d been dangling upside down like a broken, abandoned kite? 

Carol, the rehab center’s director, explained that the fracture was likely from the impact or her struggle to get free.  Weeks passed before Carol was certain the owl would survive since birds, like humans, experience shock after trauma (in animals called “capture myopathy”).  However, in birds and other animals (rabbits and deer), this can be fatal, rapidly burning up all available glycogen stores.  These animals can drop dead at the moment of trauma (e.g., trapped in a “humane” cage) or days and weeks later from systemic organ failure.             
This owl survived and was magnificent.  Ombré feathers moved from gray to brown to ruddy red to white, like a desert rock face changing with the light.  Feathered tufts, like flaming antennae, grew from each side of her head.  Her face was a great disc confined between dark parentheses.  And her eyes were big, yellow honey moons.  She swiveled her head, a perfect radar dish, and fixed her gaze on me.  Was she wondering if I was predator or prey?    

At the rehab center, Blake, a volunteer, had strapped jesses around the owl’s legs; the anklettes, more hipster leather bracelets than falconry equipment, were fastened to the one hundred and fifty foot long paracord.  Jess, another volunteer, cradled the owl--a strange, otherworldy infant--while Blake zigzagged the line on the ground to prevent it from spooling out too fast, and to control the owl’s flight speed.  The owl was a little like a ventriloquist’s dummy: body still, head wheeling back and forth, eyes wide open, and beak clacking in warning.  In the sky, two crows circled us, cawing in protest over the owl which they’d immediately spied from their perch in a nearby pine tree.  Great Horns make meals out of crows. “We’ll have to leave if they start divebombing her,” Jess said.         
When the crows finally scattered, Jess launched the owl: one hand on the bird’s back offering a steadying momentum, the other under its taloned feet, thrusting them forward.  The bird beat its broad wings in rapid succession, gaining altitude, and then opened them into a four foot extension.  Each beautiful, tough feather worked with the others, flapping and gliding, flapping and gliding. 

The leading, serrated edge of an owl’s flight feathers, or flutings, muffles the rush of air over the wings, allowing the owl stealth flight.  Birds die from feather trauma: a long, vertical barb runs down the center of a feather, and similar to a straw, sucks blood up to the smaller, horizontal barbs and hooklets; if the feather breaks and the wound doesn’t clot quickly, the bird can bleed out.  “It can take years to rehab a bird with trashed feathers,” Carol said.  Before, beyond a simple understanding of a feather’s general flight purpose, my curiosity had ended in aesthetic admiration of the white and gray seagull feathers I’d twirl between my fingers at the beach, or the shimmering blue jay feathers I’d find in my backyard. 

Beautiful and necessary.  Delicate and tough.        

The owl picked up speed; the line tensed and went taut.  The bird tumbled to the ground, startled out of her intention: clearly the line of maple trees across the field.  The crows swooped in again with their vociferous complaints.  The owl waited, feathers puffed, clacking loudly, necessarily hamstrung by the line.  In a few weeks though, the owl will be released back to home ground in Erie, back to instinct and chance without the safety and constraint of the line or meals of pre-butchered rat dusted in vitamin powder.  Before Blake launched her for a second run, I ruffled my fingers over her head, through the soft, bristle feathers.  The owl stared at me, blink! blink! and then turned away, eyes back on the blue sky.  She didn’t want to know me at all.  A reason for joy.

After Paris: An Owl, An Offering


 
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
—Adam Zagajewski
(Translated, from the Polish, by Clare Cavanagh.)

 

Yesterday, I watched a Great Horned Owl fly from the end of a creance line, her once fractured wing now strong enough to carry her across the soccer field.  A farmer found her over the summer with one end of a string knotted around her wing and the other end around a telephone wire.  Who knew how long she’d been dangling upside down like a broken, abandoned kite? 

Carol, the rehab center’s director, explained that the fracture was likely from the impact or her struggle to get free.  Weeks passed before Carol was certain the owl would survive since birds, like humans, experience shock after trauma (in animals called “capture myopathy”).  However, in birds and other animals (rabbits and deer), this can be fatal, rapidly burning up all available glycogen stores.  These animals can drop dead at the moment of trauma (e.g., trapped in a “humane” cage) or days and weeks later from systemic organ failure.             
This owl survived and was magnificent.  Ombré feathers moved from gray to brown to ruddy red to white, like a desert rock face changing with the light.  Feathered tufts, like flaming antennae, grew from each side of her head.  Her face was a great disc confined between dark parentheses.  And her eyes were big, yellow honey moons.  She swiveled her head, a perfect radar dish, and fixed her gaze on me.  Was she wondering if I was predator or prey?    

At the rehab center, Blake, a volunteer, had strapped jesses around the owl’s legs; the anklettes, more hipster leather bracelets than falconry equipment, were fastened to the one hundred and fifty foot long paracord.  Jess, another volunteer, cradled the owl--a strange, otherworldy infant--while Blake zigzagged the line on the ground to prevent it from spooling out too fast, and to control the owl’s flight speed.  The owl was a little like a ventriloquist’s dummy: body still, head wheeling back and forth, eyes wide open, and beak clacking in warning.  In the sky, two crows circled us, cawing in protest over the owl which they’d immediately spied from their perch in a nearby pine tree.  Great Horns make meals out of crows. “We’ll have to leave if they start divebombing her,” Jess said.         
When the crows finally scattered, Jess launched the owl: one hand on the bird’s back offering a steadying momentum, the other under its taloned feet, thrusting them forward.  The bird beat its broad wings in rapid succession, gaining altitude, and then opened them into a four foot extension.  Each beautiful, tough feather worked with the others, flapping and gliding, flapping and gliding. 

The leading, serrated edge of an owl’s flight feathers, or flutings, muffles the rush of air over the wings, allowing the owl stealth flight.  Birds die from feather trauma: a long, vertical barb runs down the center of a feather, and similar to a straw, sucks blood up to the smaller, horizontal barbs and hooklets; if the feather breaks and the wound doesn’t clot quickly, the bird can bleed out.  “It can take years to rehab a bird with trashed feathers,” Carol said.  Before, beyond a simple understanding of a feather’s general flight purpose, my curiosity had ended in aesthetic admiration of the white and gray seagull feathers I’d twirl between my fingers at the beach, or the shimmering blue jay feathers I’d find in my backyard. 

Beautiful and necessary.  Delicate and tough.        

The owl picked up speed; the line tensed and went taut.  The bird tumbled to the ground, startled out of her intention: clearly the line of maple trees across the field.  The crows swooped in again with their vociferous complaints.  The owl waited, feathers puffed, clacking loudly, necessarily hamstrung by the line.  In a few weeks though, the owl will be released back to home ground in Erie, back to instinct and chance without the safety and constraint of the line or meals of pre-butchered rat dusted in vitamin powder.  Before Blake launched her for a second run, I ruffled my fingers over her head, through the soft, bristle feathers.  The owl stared at me, blink! blink! and then turned away, eyes back on the blue sky.  She didn’t want to know me at all.  A reason for joy.

Eh

A big scary thing happened in Paris yesterday. Everyone seems to have their two cents about it, but I so far don’t see the need to. If I do, it’ll be in the appropriate venue (which I really should think up something to write on but like… *waves hands* nothing spooning). I will say that I had a friend at Petit Cambodge, but that she is fine and safe and we are all grateful to know that.


I think that I can tentatively report that the Seroquel split seems to have evened itself out. I don’t remember being foggy this morning, though I was still complaining about it yesterday. Mainly though, I’m just glad that my sleep seems to have gone back to normal. Messing around with Seroquel definitely makes for broken sleep for who the hell knows how long, as my time off of it when pregnant showed me. I figured it would even out fairly quickly since I was taking the same amount, so… yay for that. Well, outside of baby-induced waking; she’s unrepentantly declared herself a co-sleeper and flops like a fish, and pretty much anyone is going to wake up when headbutted in the jaw.

Whups, forgot to take my meds this morning. No wonder I wasn’t drowsy. ¬¬ Just took the lot and will skip Seroquel tomorrow morning, ’cause that seems to make the most sense to me.


10617024_897156300361687_1585807753_nMainly, I’ve just been balled up knitting and gaming and trying to keep my head busy. Busy heads have less room to wallow in depression, yes yes. I also really want to colour-draw something with my pretties, but I have no inspiration. Maybe I just need to start throwing some lines down and see what comes of it, and then frame with lines or something. I don’t know. It would probably be a good brain-draining thing though. At least the gaming and the mild Instagram addiction gives me some sort of creative outlet at least. Or maybe I just need to pull down my colouring book, which is a proper super-thick dollar store acquisition from the days before all these new-fangled adult colouring books. Really, I will have my two cents on that — colouring is fun, you don’t need a for adults one. :p I’ve never got this whole rush to be soooooo grown up as to shun fun things like colouring and pillow forts, but anyways.


 

Aaaand as my brain has apparently booped out, I guess I’ll wrap this up. tl;dr still here somewhere. Dord. Still waiting to find out when my next appointment is, but at this rate I’m guessing I’ll be lucky to be seen before February unless there’s an emergency. I love the NHS, I do, but man, f this government for destroying it to sell to their richie buddies and making it harder for people to get care they need.

Hope y’all are doing well out there.

<3

 

Aujourd’hui, hier, et demain, je suis une Parisienne

Paris ParisParis Paris


Timey Wimey

As I’ve said before, I don’t have cable. So I’d heard nothing about the situation in Paris until I opened Zoe’s current post in my email. What a tragic mess. Things like that shake my faith of anything bigger out there. It confuses me as to, fate, choice, combination of all, or born for that exact ending. Seriously, we are taught the butterfly effect, time lines, etc, where (fictionally) time travel could change any series of events in the future by doing any little thing. It boggles my mind. Often, I’ve thought, “If this God thing is for real, then he basically put these people on Earth with a destiny to die horribly.” At the same time, free will is involved, too. And the basic evil and corruption of man. IDK, it’s a sad situation and I feel for all the families involved, so if this post comes off as vapid in light of that event, it is unintentional.

Yesterday was okay.I had a serious case of ping pong ball brain. So many thoughts racing all at once, distracting me, causing me to lapse off into thought about mostly inane stuff. Like being on a game show in the money booth and trying to go against the grain and grab as money as can. I couldn’t grasp a single thought because there were just too many all at once. Cyclone brain. Not even Xanax calmed it.

To my surprise…I sacrificed, willingly, my kid free time last night by having my long time friend with benefits over. We watched Cube 2. For me to reach out for company rather than selfishly wallow in mommy mommy mommy free time…Maybe that six day flubola gave me brain damage. Seeking company is so not me…Of course, had I been knee deep in writing, it wouldn’t have happened. Kid free time to binge write for hours is sacred. Not writing…I’m all kinds of wonky. It wasn’t an exciting night. I mean, he’s decent enough, but we are so vastly different in personality and interests there’s not much to discuss. He’s as interesting as watching paint dry. Nearly 40 and unemployed and plays video games 24-7. We use each other basically and I am good with that. I’m a mom and I’m 42 and I still like to get my freak on, sue me. Least I shield Spook from that part of my life. Unless I plan on keeping the guy around, I see no reason for her get attached and then be abandoned.

This morning I got a text from R. His car broke down and he needed a jump start. (All his cool friends and family are out of town so of course, contact me.) It turned into two hours cos he had to replace a belt, which I had to go fetch at Auto Joke, er Zone. Traffic had me reeling. Too much all at once, my brain can’t process it. Kinda like today’s graphics heavy video games, I just can’t. It overwhelms my brain like a strobe light. That’s how driving and dish time are for me which is why I try to avoid. I hadn’t wanted to be running about at 9 a.m. today but you do for your friends, blah blah. He put gas in the car and bought me a pack of smokes as a thank you, so I can’t bitch too much. I think wifey must be putting out for him regularly, he’s been far too nice to me lately. Just as soon as I let my guard down and think, maybe he’s changing his asshole ways…He’ll go full asshole all over again. It’s a cycle with him, a bit like bipolar, he just doesn’t recognize it in himself. Whatevs. I’m feeling mellow these days.

Flubola really took me down hard. I dropped Spook off yesterday and said something to the extent of, “That six days curled up in bed kicked my ass.” And almost simultaneously mom and sis said, “But you’ve never been sick more than a day in your life!” IKR. Six fucking days and it was getting to the point of an outpatient trip. Then panic and paranoia set in, oh no, I’m bleeding internally, my liver is shot due to one Mangorita too many, blah blah. Scumbag brain does that shit to me. I even had my purse packed with my phone charger and all in event they kept me…Of course, because of panic and general hatred of hospitals, I kept saying, “I’ll give it one more day to see if it clears up.” And it did, so I am glad I didn’t go out there and get a mark on my medical file labeling me histrionic.

I know I am harping on the woe is me flubola thing, but it was such an anomaly. I had my gallbladder out, was walking the nurse an hour after I woke. I had every tooth in my head yanked, ate beef jerky the next day with my new dentures. (And don’t be judgey assholes, my sister got her dentures when she was 24, bad dental genes, cos mom’s insurance got bilked to high hell for all the work we had done, to no avail. So yeah, making fun of people with dentures…not cool, dudes. It was that or die of system poisoning from the infection.) I was doing high kicks an hour after giving birth when the epidual wore off. For some flu bug or whatever to kick me down for six days, it was just, what the fuck.

So the other night, R was here for Arrow and he got a call from his wife, informing him their granddaughter (master’s degree’s kid) was sick. And, I still cannot believe this, his wife told him “Ursula (thus the psychologist shall be known) posted on Facebook two hours ago they were taking L to the hospital.”  Ummmm….Your kid is sick and you take time to post it to Facebook? What is that. So he called Ursula,all worried and offended she didn’t call him, and she starts in on him about how she was preoccupied with her daughter’s well being and didn’t think to call and blah blah blah. Oh, you can post it to Facebook for every jackhole to see but a call to the grandfather is too much? God, I have less and less use for that woman by the day. If that is what society demands to be a “good person” I will stay evil. The digital generation just eludes my understanding. I love my computers but damn, I don’t feel the need to be constantly connected and broadcasting every mundane detail. I don’t get it, it’s like mass narcissism.

Maybe I’m judgey. Some people, and there are really not many, are just too big of asshole for me to even cut some slack. Especially Ursula and her sister sitting right in front of me, knowing I live in a trailer park, and talking about some girl they know being skanky “because she lives in a trailer park.”  I don’t abide. Not fucking cool. Some people just suck.

Okay…Rant over. Gotta go fetch my spawn, I’m sure she’s worn her grandmother to a frazzle with the chatter. Now it’s my turn to take Uzi fire. The five day Thanksgiving break is gonna kill me. The Christmas break will have me in the rubber Ramada. I love my kid but oh, I want to put one of these things in her mouth. Someone should really make these happen outside Photoshop. Even for some adults.

paci volume


We Need To Put The NFL To Work Against ISIS

The National Football League is a no-brainer to go route out ISIS. They are smart, strong, capable, close-knit teams of warriors who know how to take orders.  They have many and varied skills and could find and kill ISIS soldiers in a New York Minute.  The competition is the same:  Broncos vs. The Chiefs in who can kill the most ISIS fighters.  I can see Peyton Manning lobbing a hand grenade for 75 yards, completely obliterating an ISIS stronghold.  The Orange Crush busting through their makeshift landmines and Aqib Talib poking eyes out left and right.

As far as other teams, Tom Brady might lob a pop can filled with sand that would surely land on an ISIS fighter’s head and give him quite a goose egg. Then the Offensive Line could move in in a moment of weakness and kick the shit out of him.  Teams would engage in hand-to-hand combat and pants the ISIS fighters to show how many they took down.  Each pair of pants would result in a score for that team.

The Superbowl would be held in Syria, with opposing teams fighting to take Tikrit back from ISIS. Both teams, wearing their uniforms but with AK-47’s slung over their backs, shooting to kill, or if they felt like it, killing to shoot.  Either is an option in the NFL.  The winner of the Superbowl would become honorary Heads of State in Tikrit, bringing peace and good fortune to all.

This may sound like a longshot but we’ve got to engage in some creative thinking where ISIS is concerned, something our world leaders have failed to do. Let’s get this message of NFL ass-kicking out there and see what can be done!  ISIS must be defeated at all costs!!  WE ARE WITH YOU, FRANCE!!  VIVE LA NFL!!  VIVE LA FRANCE!!


Filed under: Bipolar Disorder, Psychology Shmyshmology Tagged: Aqib Talib, Bipolar, Denver Broncos, Hope, Humor, Mental Illness, NFL VS ISIS, Orange Crush, Psychology, Reader

Saturday spam silliness

Bob the catSometimes spam comments make my day. It’s almost like reading pornographic poetry (I’ve edited just slightly, mostly punctuation):

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Tagged: silliness, spam