Daily Archives: December 8, 2015

I can take a licking and keep on ticking!

My son the BRILLIANT skater!IMG_0160

Me before my accident, oy ve!

Well, first of all, I feel like a fool for not even thinking about wearing a helmet for my first time on the ice! Not very smart. I have a concussion, but luckily, the only effect is a giant headache :-(

I feel fine and the interestingly amazing thing about all this is that my anxiety completely disappeared! Whatever measures my brain took to overcome the concussion made short work of my anxiety! Wish we knew what they were and we could bottle them. Also, I stayed in bed ALL day long. And I didn’t feel guilty or bad or useless about it, like I do when I stay in bed because of depression/anxiety issues. It was as if this concussion, because it was a physical reason, it was a valid reason to stay in bed. God! Even I practice stigma and discrimination against the mentally ill, namely myself.

But really, the disappearance of anxiety, and the practice of accepting that I needed to stay in bed, well these were the two positive side effects of getting a concussion. Pretty amazing, sometimes good things really do come out of bad, out of your control events.

So I am fine, have not much anxiety at all, haven’t forgotten to speak, eat, or think. Occasionally I do search for words, probably as a result of the concussion. Hopefully that will desist, as words and communicating clearly are very important to me.

Ok, so you can officially call me a Timex watch, I can take a licking and keep on ticking. Hahaha.


ARAL vid 6

Too Sad For Therapy

I rescheduled therapy today. I probably really needed to go to therapy today. But it’s a 90 minute commute each way on public trans, and I couldn’t fucking stop crying and, though I’ve said in the past that my near total lack of shame has accommodated a great many bus cries, there’s a difference between a few tears sliding from under my sunglasses and outright, unstoppable bawling. So I didn’t go. Also I was having unusually severe IBS symptoms and, in truth, if it was just the IBS, I could’ve bit the bullet, taken extra Imodium and peppermint oil, donned a very loose sweater and gotten my ass to therapy. But I’dve been super fucking uncomfortable the whole time and clenching distractingly out of a worry that I’d poop on my doctor’s white couch*.

I cried yesterday too, but only for like 20 minutes after I WebMD’d the symptoms** of this mystery shoulder pain I’ve been having for a few days and concluded, via the Internet, that I was dying.

My appointment today was at 2:15, but it took until around 1:45 for me to stop weeping ‘n shit. I didn’t know how long it was gonna take, but I still can’t get to my doc’s office in half an hour, so I guess I really couldn’t have gone.

My husband and I like to play one of three games when it’s just the two of us: Scrabble, blackjack, and chess so, in the hopes that it’d make me feel better, we spent like an hour playing blackjack on our bed. It did help. Probably more than therapy would’ve because I’dve just cried the whole damn time and my doctor and I would have probably come to the conclusion that I’m sliding into another depression, which would’ve made be cry even more because of how fucking unfair it feels whenever I start to get depressed.

I think my depressive episodes come saddled with a twisted and customized version of the five stages of grief:

Denial: It’s just a shitty week, I’m fine. Not cutting or scratching, that’s proof, right? This isn’t happening again, it’s not.

Anger: I can’t do any of the things that were moving my goddamned life forward and everyone who thinks they can help me through this can just fuck off.

Bargaining: I wish I was just stupid. Like really fucking stupid. Really stupid people don’t get depressed, they get sad but not depressed. Can’t I have that? I want it.

Depression: I’m worthless, I’m subhuman, I can’t eat, I oversleep, I can’t have orgasms, I’m a pollutant and a cancer. All I do is take from everyone around me and I don’t have enough strength to fight through this to give anything back.

Acceptance: I’ll always be like this. Even if this goes away, it will come back. There’s nothing I can do about it.

Acceptance is probably the most dangerous stage ’cause it’s usually the point at which I feel the most suicidal. It’s also, arguably, a vital pivot point, simply because I tend to acknowledge that this particular depression could actually dissipate (even if I insist it’ll come back). Depending on how well I can convince myself of the transience of my episode, I could feel more motivated to work really hard*** to get back to regular.

They don’t always go down like this, but right now, I’m oscillating between blaming the fallout of my hormonal IUD removal coupled with my lack of proper sleep the last few days and fearing that this an actual depressive episode rapidly hurdling over the horizon. Today, I’m probably leaning toward the latter. Or maybe not. I really haven’t been sleeping properly for like the last 5 or 6 nights. I get up and night a lot and have trouble getting comfy. Exhaustion and depression can both make me cry a fuck ton. Both leave me fatigued. Both make me irritable.

So, in short: I guess I have no idea what the fuck is going on. Except yes I do. I mean, I’m pretty damn sure I do. The best I can hope for is to land on that unsteady target where I’m just depressed enough to spin it into something cool, and not lose my motivation completely, but it’s not like I can arrange that shit. I could be staring down months and months of near-lifelessness and my mother’s infuriating commentary on how much weight I’ve accidentally lost (she doesn’t seem to be 100% convinced of the “accidentally” part, she thinks I should try harder). I could be going into a mental and social hibernation indefinitely. Again.

So, my doctor let me reschedule our appointment for tomorrow afternoon after I told her about my IBS symptoms. The rescheduling was a massive relief at first, until I realized I might be just as bad or worse tomorrow. I guess the best I can do at this point is to expect that in case it happens. Preparedness…

-LB

*I don’t have anal incontinence, so this really wasn’t likely at all, but my Pride and my Vanity have convened and are in agreement that you should know: I don’t have anal incontinence.

**Don’t do this. You know better. I know better. You type in “fatigue” and come away, definitely, definitely with stage IV esophageal cancer, even if you know you’ve been getting poor quality sleep lately and don’t drink or smoke.

***Depression is hard fucking work. You have to try to keep your life together but you’re probably pretty hobbled. So, it’s basically like having gravity turned up while you struggle to lift the same amount you were lifting comfortably a week ago.

Tagged: blackjack, crying, cycling, depression, grief, IBS, poop, self-harm, sleep, suicide, therapy

Too Sad For Therapy

I rescheduled therapy today. I probably really needed to go to therapy today. But it’s a 90 minute commute each way on public trans, and I couldn’t fucking stop crying and, though I’ve said in the past that my near total lack of shame has accommodated a great many bus cries, there’s a difference between a few tears sliding from under my sunglasses and outright, unstoppable bawling. So I didn’t go. Also I was having unusually severe IBS symptoms and, in truth, if it was just the IBS, I could’ve bit the bullet, taken extra Imodium and peppermint oil, donned a very loose sweater and gotten my ass to therapy. But I’dve been super fucking uncomfortable the whole time and clenching distractingly out of a worry that I’d poop on my doctor’s white couch*.

I cried yesterday too, but only for like 20 minutes after I WebMD’d the symptoms** of this mystery shoulder pain I’ve been having for a few days and concluded, via the Internet, that I was dying.

My appointment today was at 2:15, but it took until around 1:45 for me to stop weeping ‘n shit. I didn’t know how long it was gonna take, but I still can’t get to my doc’s office in half an hour, so I guess I really couldn’t have gone.

My husband and I like to play one of three games when it’s just the two of us: Scrabble, blackjack, and chess so, in the hopes that it’d make me feel better, we spent like an hour playing blackjack on our bed. It did help. Probably more than therapy would’ve because I’dve just cried the whole damn time and my doctor and I would have probably come to the conclusion that I’m sliding into another depression, which would’ve made be cry even more because of how fucking unfair it feels whenever I start to get depressed.

I think my depressive episodes come saddled with a twisted and customized version of the five stages of grief:

Denial: It’s just a shitty week, I’m fine. Not cutting or scratching, that’s proof, right? This isn’t happening again, it’s not.

Anger: I can’t do any of the things that were moving my goddamned life forward and everyone who thinks they can help me through this can just fuck off.

Bargaining: I wish I was just stupid. Like really fucking stupid. Really stupid people don’t get depressed, they get sad but not depressed. Can’t I have that? I want it.

Depression: I’m worthless, I’m subhuman, I can’t eat, I oversleep, I can’t have orgasms, I’m a pollutant and a cancer. All I do is take from everyone around me and I don’t have enough strength to fight through this to give anything back.

Acceptance: I’ll always be like this. Even if this goes away, it will come back. There’s nothing I can do about it.

Acceptance is probably the most dangerous stage ’cause it’s usually the point at which I feel the most suicidal. It’s also, arguably, a vital pivot point, simply because I tend to acknowledge that this particular depression could actually dissipate (even if I insist it’ll come back). Depending on how well I can convince myself of the transience of my episode, I could feel more motivated to work really hard*** to get back to regular.

They don’t always go down like this, but right now, I’m oscillating between blaming the fallout of my hormonal IUD removal coupled with my lack of proper sleep the last few days and fearing that this an actual depressive episode rapidly hurdling over the horizon. Today, I’m probably leaning toward the latter. Or maybe not. I really haven’t been sleeping properly for like the last 5 or 6 nights. I get up and night a lot and have trouble getting comfy. Exhaustion and depression can both make me cry a fuck ton. Both leave me fatigued. Both make me irritable.

So, in short: I guess I have no idea what the fuck is going on. Except yes I do. I mean, I’m pretty damn sure I do. The best I can hope for is to land on that unsteady target where I’m just depressed enough to spin it into something cool, and not lose my motivation completely, but it’s not like I can arrange that shit. I could be staring down months and months of near-lifelessness and my mother’s infuriating commentary on how much weight I’ve accidentally lost (she doesn’t seem to be 100% convinced of the “accidentally” part, she thinks I should try harder). I could be going into a mental and social hibernation indefinitely. Again.

So, my doctor let me reschedule our appointment for tomorrow afternoon after I told her about my IBS symptoms. The rescheduling was a massive relief at first, until I realized I might be just as bad or worse tomorrow. I guess the best I can do at this point is to expect that in case it happens. Preparedness…

-LB

*I don’t have anal incontinence, so this really wasn’t likely at all, but my Pride and my Vanity have convened and are in agreement that you should know: I don’t have anal incontinence.

**Don’t do this. You know better. I know better. You type in “fatigue” and come away, definitely, definitely with stage IV esophageal cancer, even if you know you’ve been getting poor quality sleep lately and don’t drink or smoke.

***Depression is hard fucking work. You have to try to keep your life together but you’re probably pretty hobbled. So, it’s basically like having gravity turned up while you struggle to lift the same amount you were lifting comfortably a week ago.

Tagged: blackjack, crying, cycling, depression, grief, IBS, poop, self-harm, sleep, suicide, therapy

Too Sad For Therapy

I rescheduled therapy today. I probably really needed to go to therapy today. But it’s a 90 minute commute each way on public trans, and I couldn’t fucking stop crying and, though I’ve said in the past that my near total lack of shame has accommodated a great many bus cries, there’s a difference between a few tears sliding from under my sunglasses and outright, unstoppable bawling. So I didn’t go. Also I was having unusually severe IBS symptoms and, in truth, if it was just the IBS, I could’ve bit the bullet, taken extra Imodium and peppermint oil, donned a very loose sweater and gotten my ass to therapy. But I’dve been super fucking uncomfortable the whole time and clenching distractingly out of a worry that I’d poop on my doctor’s white couch*.

I cried yesterday too, but only for like 20 minutes after I WebMD’d the symptoms** of this mystery shoulder pain I’ve been having for a few days and concluded, via the Internet, that I was dying.

My appointment today was at 2:15, but it took until around 1:45 for me to stop weeping ‘n shit. I didn’t know how long it was gonna take, but I still can’t get to my doc’s office in half an hour, so I guess I really couldn’t have gone.

My husband and I like to play one of three games when it’s just the two of us: Scrabble, blackjack, and chess so, in the hopes that it’d make me feel better, we spent like an hour playing blackjack on our bed. It did help. Probably more than therapy would’ve because I’dve just cried the whole damn time and my doctor and I would have probably come to the conclusion that I’m sliding into another depression, which would’ve made be cry even more because of how fucking unfair it feels whenever I start to get depressed.

I think my depressive episodes come saddled with a twisted and customized version of the five stages of grief:

Denial: It’s just a shitty week, I’m fine. Not cutting or scratching, that’s proof, right? This isn’t happening again, it’s not.

Anger: I can’t do any of the things that were moving my goddamned life forward and everyone who thinks they can help me through this can just fuck off.

Bargaining: I wish I was just stupid. Like really fucking stupid. Really stupid people don’t get depressed, they get sad but not depressed. Can’t I have that? I want it.

Depression: I’m worthless, I’m subhuman, I can’t eat, I oversleep, I can’t have orgasms, I’m a pollutant and a cancer. All I do is take from everyone around me and I don’t have enough strength to fight through this to give anything back.

Acceptance: I’ll always be like this. Even if this goes away, it will come back. There’s nothing I can do about it.

Acceptance is probably the most dangerous stage ’cause it’s usually the point at which I feel the most suicidal. It’s also, arguably, a vital pivot point, simply because I tend to acknowledge that this particular depression could actually dissipate (even if I insist it’ll come back). Depending on how well I can convince myself of the transience of my episode, I could feel more motivated to work really hard*** to get back to regular.

They don’t always go down like this, but right now, I’m oscillating between blaming the fallout of my hormonal IUD removal coupled with my lack of proper sleep the last few days and fearing that this an actual depressive episode rapidly hurdling over the horizon. Today, I’m probably leaning toward the latter. Or maybe not. I really haven’t been sleeping properly for like the last 5 or 6 nights. I get up and night a lot and have trouble getting comfy. Exhaustion and depression can both make me cry a fuck ton. Both leave me fatigued. Both make me irritable.

So, in short: I guess I have no idea what the fuck is going on. Except yes I do. I mean, I’m pretty damn sure I do. The best I can hope for is to land on that unsteady target where I’m just depressed enough to spin it into something cool, and not lose my motivation completely, but it’s not like I can arrange that shit. I could be staring down months and months of near-lifelessness and my mother’s infuriating commentary on how much weight I’ve accidentally lost (she doesn’t seem to be 100% convinced of the “accidentally” part, she thinks I should try harder). I could be going into a mental and social hibernation indefinitely. Again.

So, my doctor let me reschedule our appointment for tomorrow afternoon after I told her about my IBS symptoms. The rescheduling was a massive relief at first, until I realized I might be just as bad or worse tomorrow. I guess the best I can do at this point is to expect that in case it happens. Preparedness…

-LB

*I don’t have anal incontinence, so this really wasn’t likely at all, but my Pride and my Vanity have convened and are in agreement that you should know: I don’t have anal incontinence.

**Don’t do this. You know better. I know better. You type in “fatigue” and come away, definitely, definitely with stage IV esophageal cancer, even if you know you’ve been getting poor quality sleep lately and don’t drink or smoke.

***Depression is hard fucking work. You have to try to keep your life together but you’re probably pretty hobbled. So, it’s basically like having gravity turned up while you struggle to lift the same amount you were lifting comfortably a week ago.

Tagged: blackjack, crying, cycling, depression, grief, IBS, poop, self-harm, sleep, suicide, therapy

As always, self-doubt

unstoppablePlease note, I am not advocating that people go off their meds, and I do not plan to be off them for long. To reiterate – in my case, I’ve been on ineffective medications for so long that I felt that at this point they were either masking or worsening my symptoms. This is the only way my psychiatrist and I know how to figure that out. This is being done with the guidance and approval of my psychiatrist.

Tonight is my last dosage of psychiatric medication until mid-January. Confidence and fear stumble over each other, fighting for power. I’ve put a great deal of thought into my self-care planning; but I keep second-guessing myself – will it be enough? Deep down, I believe it will be. There is no choice other than the clear-cut one of the necessity for it to be so. I want my life to be better and refuse to allow this lifelong battle to have a bad ending, or to end this soon for that matter. I have set up my Healing Touch treatments, registered for yoga classes, discussed when-all-else-fails plans that are not medication related.

It has taken me years to learn to recognize a manic episode creeping up on me; although sometimes they’re just plain sneaky and are disguised as a burst of energy. On the other hand, depression seems to be more difficult for me to recognize in the beginning, especially during a mixed episode (note: according to this link, the term “mixed episode” is no longer commonly used in the psychiatric world…really?). Depression reminds me of waking up to a foggy morning, but the sun never comes out and the fog never goes away. It seems to slowly creep in, and envelope my brain. But I have figured out these signs, I’m ever watchful for them.

The physiological effects of the detox will probably go on for another five days after I take this last dose (at least that’s what my psych says). If I keep that in mind, when I feel physically crappy I can remind myself it’s temporary. Then a week after that’s over, I’ll be with my daughter and grandsons for a week. By the time I get home, my most triggering three months of the year will be just about over and it will be a little over two weeks before my next psych visit. Breaking it down into these smaller spans of time makes it all easier to cope with. Baby steps got me to this point…one month at a time, one week at a time, one day at a time, one hour at a time…one second at a time. Yes, I will get through this.

Tagged: bipolar disorder, depression, medications-psychiatric, self-doubt, strength

O Christmas Tree

One of my Christmas traditions is to start nagging mom as soon as the presents are wrapped for her to let us open them.  Sometimes she has caved and opened presents on Christmas Eve, or let me have one or two early.  Typically this nagging starts the weekend after Thanksgiving, but we’re a bit behind this […]

Between the Pedal and the Ground

It is very rare that I fall off my bicycle. But when I do it is invariably full of meaning. Veterans of this blog will be familiar with the tumble I took in the autumn of 2010. If not, you can read about it here:

https://puncturerepairkit.wordpress.com/2010/11/10/tarmac/

The first time I fell off I was riding the 60 mile London to Brighton charity bike ride known as the Capital to Coast in 2001 – a ride I did 10 times between then and 2012. It became a sort of Ride of Recovery for me. I stopped because it lost its challenge. So, back on that first ride I was whizzing down a lovely straight descent in the countryside 9 miles in and failed to register the fact that the yellow – clad steward standing by the hedge at the side of the road indicating a left turn was doing so for my benefit. Too late I caught on to what he was doing. Instead of slowing down, passing the turning and cycling back to where he had been indicating, I swung left where he was standing and came clattering down onto a grassy verge with all the dignity of, well, an over – enthusiastic novice. The pain in my left arm was excruciating. The steward – with commendable calm – called the St John’s ambulance, who minutes later, on inspection of the elbow in question, declared that since I hadn’t broken the skin I should be alright to continue with the ride. He should know, right? Somehow, I completed the ride. From that point I was in such pain I was unable to change gears with my left hand. A visit to the Accident and Emergency Department the following morning confirmed the obvious – I had broken the radial bone in my elbow. I can still clearly recall the glowing sense of achievement at the knowledge that I had ridden 51 miles with – what I always refer to as – a broken arm. Never a prouder moment did I have on that route again.

Image result for cyclist falling off

I put that one down to a mixture of inexperience (those ride stewards wave their arms around for a reason) and sheer enthusiasm.

But recently I have been reflecting on a phrase I came across recently (in Graeme Greene’s classic gangster novel set in my home town in the 1930s, Brighton Rock.) In it, the main protagonist, a 17 year old gangster called Pinkie, reflects upon what would happen to his soul if he was to die suddenly with no chance of a death bed conversion. Greene puts the words of the 16th century historian William Camden into the mouth of this unlikely philosopher: ‘Betwixt the stirrup and the ground, mercy I asked, mercy I found.’  What grips me about this phrase is the possibility – everywhere it seems – of sudden death robbing us of …. something. Absolution? If not from a deity then from family, friends, people we ( O.K.,I) may have wronged. That there will be no time to put my affairs in order.

It is the prospect of not dying on one’s own terms (peacefully, heroically) that grips. Perhaps that is an element in the suicidal mind: I cannot control anything – my thoughts, my feelings, other people’s thoughts and feelings about me, things that happen to me, seemingly unbreakable mental dynamics. The desperate, the cool – headed, realisation that the options for change have run out. It is as if the person (you? Me?) wrests back control from these narrow, plunging straits of despair by taking decisive action to put an end – once and for all – to …. the pain, the sorrow, the guilt, the regret, the shame. And once that is finally accomplished, once revenge is (yours? Mine?) we will feel alright at last. But all that blots out one awkward, tiresome, insistent question: in taking this life, do (you? Me?) enter a new life, an existence full of promise, possibility, acceptance, hope and sheer relief? Or is it only here, with this tired heart and these slack lungs, that we can find that damp, grimy possibility that something else is possible?

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.

One year in every ten

I manage it –

 

A sort of walking miracle, my skin

Bright as a Nazi lampshade,

My right foot

 

A paperweight,

My face a featureless, fine

Jew linen.

 

Peel off the napkin

O my enemy.

Do I terrify? –

 

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?

The sour breath

Will vanish in a day.

 

Soon, soon the flesh

The grave cave ate will be

At home on me.

 

And I a smiling woman.

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.

 

This is Number Three.

What a trash

To annihilate each decade.

 

What a million filaments.

The peanut-crunching crowd

Shoves in to see

 

Them unwrap me hand and foot –

The big strip tease.

Gentlemen, ladies

 

These are my hands

My knees.

I may be skin and bone,

 

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

The first time it happened I was ten.

It was an accident.

 

The second time I meant

To last it out and not come back at all.

I rocked shut

 

As a seashell.

They had to call and call

And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

 

Dying

Is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well.

 

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I’ve a call.

 

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.

It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.

It’s the theatrical

 

Comeback in broad day

To the same place, the same face, the same brute

Amused shout:

 

‘A miracle!’

That knocks me out.

There is a charge

 

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

For the hearing of my heart –

It really goes.

 

And there is a charge, a very large charge

For a word or a touch

Or a bit of blood

 

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

So, so, Herr Doktor.

So, Herr Enemy.

 

I am your opus,

I am your valuable,

The pure gold baby

 

That melts to a shriek.

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

 

Ash, ash —

You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there –

 

A cake of soap,

A wedding ring,

A gold filling.

 

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Beware

Beware.

 

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Plath (1932 – 1963)

 

 

 


Between the Pedal and the Ground

It is very rare that I fall off my bicycle. But when I do it is invariably full of meaning. Veterans of this blog will be familiar with the tumble I took in the autumn of 2010. If not, you can read about it here:

https://puncturerepairkit.wordpress.com/2010/11/10/tarmac/

The first time I fell off I was riding the 60 mile London to Brighton charity bike ride known as the Capital to Coast in 2001 – a ride I did 10 times between then and 2012. It became a sort of Ride of Recovery for me. I stopped because it lost its challenge. So, back on that first ride I was whizzing down a lovely straight descent in the countryside 9 miles in and failed to register the fact that the yellow – clad steward standing by the hedge at the side of the road indicating a left turn was doing so for my benefit. Too late I caught on to what he was doing. Instead of slowing down, passing the turning and cycling back to where he had been indicating, I swung left where he was standing and came clattering down onto a grassy verge with all the dignity of, well, an over – enthusiastic novice. The pain in my left arm was excruciating. The steward – with commendable calm – called the St John’s ambulance, who minutes later, on inspection of the elbow in question, declared that since I hadn’t broken the skin I should be alright to continue with the ride. He should know, right? Somehow, I completed the ride. From that point I was in such pain I was unable to change gears with my left hand. A visit to the Accident and Emergency Department the following morning confirmed the obvious – I had broken the radial bone in my elbow. I can still clearly recall the glowing sense of achievement at the knowledge that I had ridden 51 miles with – what I always refer to as – a broken arm. Never a prouder moment did I have on that route again.

Image result for cyclist falling off

I put that one down to a mixture of inexperience (those ride stewards wave their arms around for a reason) and sheer enthusiasm.

But recently I have been reflecting on a phrase I came across recently (in Graeme Greene’s classic gangster novel set in my home town in the 1930s, Brighton Rock.) In it, the main protagonist, a 17 year old gangster called Pinkie, reflects upon what would happen to his soul if he was to die suddenly with no chance of a death bed conversion. Greene puts the words of the 16th century historian William Camden into the mouth of this unlikely philosopher: ‘Betwixt the stirrup and the ground, mercy I asked, mercy I found.’  What grips me about this phrase is the possibility – everywhere it seems – of sudden death robbing us of …. something. Absolution? If not from a deity then from family, friends, people we ( O.K.,I) may have wronged. That there will be no time to put my affairs in order.

It is the prospect of not dying on one’s own terms (peacefully, heroically) that grips. Perhaps that is an element in the suicidal mind: I cannot control anything – my thoughts, my feelings, other people’s thoughts and feelings about me, things that happen to me, seemingly unbreakable mental dynamics. The desperate, the cool – headed, realisation that the options for change have run out. It is as if the person (you? Me?) wrests back control from these narrow, plunging straits of despair by taking decisive action to put an end – once and for all – to …. the pain, the sorrow, the guilt, the regret, the shame. And once that is finally accomplished, once revenge is (yours? Mine?) we will feel alright at last. But all that blots out one awkward, tiresome, insistent question: in taking this life, do (you? Me?) enter a new life, an existence full of promise, possibility, acceptance, hope and sheer relief? Or is it only here, with this tired heart and these slack lungs, that we can find that damp, grimy possibility that something else is possible?

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.

One year in every ten

I manage it –

 

A sort of walking miracle, my skin

Bright as a Nazi lampshade,

My right foot

 

A paperweight,

My face a featureless, fine

Jew linen.

 

Peel off the napkin

O my enemy.

Do I terrify? –

 

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?

The sour breath

Will vanish in a day.

 

Soon, soon the flesh

The grave cave ate will be

At home on me.

 

And I a smiling woman.

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.

 

This is Number Three.

What a trash

To annihilate each decade.

 

What a million filaments.

The peanut-crunching crowd

Shoves in to see

 

Them unwrap me hand and foot –

The big strip tease.

Gentlemen, ladies

 

These are my hands

My knees.

I may be skin and bone,

 

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

The first time it happened I was ten.

It was an accident.

 

The second time I meant

To last it out and not come back at all.

I rocked shut

 

As a seashell.

They had to call and call

And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

 

Dying

Is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well.

 

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I’ve a call.

 

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.

It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.

It’s the theatrical

 

Comeback in broad day

To the same place, the same face, the same brute

Amused shout:

 

‘A miracle!’

That knocks me out.

There is a charge

 

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

For the hearing of my heart –

It really goes.

 

And there is a charge, a very large charge

For a word or a touch

Or a bit of blood

 

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

So, so, Herr Doktor.

So, Herr Enemy.

 

I am your opus,

I am your valuable,

The pure gold baby

 

That melts to a shriek.

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

 

Ash, ash —

You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there –

 

A cake of soap,

A wedding ring,

A gold filling.

 

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Beware

Beware.

 

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Plath (1932 – 1963)

 

 

 


This One Is For The Cat Lovers

zombie-cat


I Love You Costco!!! Newsflash For The Uninsured!

Well many of you know that I lost my health insurance as of 11/30/15 and this has created quite the crisis when it comes to filling prescriptions.  I don’t care about doctor appointments, I cancelled them all (except for therapy, my lovely therapist just charges me a copay and doesn’t bill insurance because she’s AWESOME).  SO!  I have started putting in some refill requests for prescriptions to Walgreens, who I have used for forever, and the thirty-day supplies for drugs are ranging from around forty bucks for one, to over a hundred dollars for several of my generic drugs!!!  SO!  I came to the conclusion that I needed to do a little price-shopping here, and who did I call first?  Costco.  My favorite store.  The prices I got from them absolutely ASTOUNDED me.  Heads up, uninsured people!!!  You need to join Costco!!!!!  The savings for my prescriptions ranged from a low of 73% to a high of 92%!  Yes you read that right, 92% savings!!!  Oh how I am happy I made that call!!  Walgreens would go ahead and bankrupt me with their crazy-high markups on generic drugs, but my friend Costco is going to keep me in the black this month.  What. A. Relief!!!

High note #2:  I did find health insurance, which begins January 1 and will be a HUGE savings from what I was paying COBRA.  I don’t know what in the HELL the Republicans’ problem is with the Affordable Care Act, but it is definitely saving my life.  I am certain that, with all of my issues, I would not even be able to find coverage if it were not for the ACA.  Again I am very grateful.  Some great weights have been lifted off my shoulders, thank you Jeebus!!!

 


Filed under: Bipolar, Psychology Shmyshmology Tagged: Affordable Care Act Rocks, Bipolar Disorder, Costco Rocks, Hope, Mental Illness, Prescriptions For Bipolar, Psychology, Reader