Daily Archives: February 2, 2016

I Got Sixteen Inches

Of snow. You dirty birds!!  What were you thinking??  Well that bastard Old Man Winter has come back to remind us what month it is, and what a bitch slap of a beginning to February!  I had an appointment today with Dr. Drugs – cancelled it.  When there’s over a foot of snow on my car I automagically get a pass from doing anything.  That’s just how it is!  The car ain’t movin’!  My ass moved, a little, for a walk to the grocery store, and I was disappointed to see that the main streets are clear.  The only reason my ass moved, is that this year I discovered something so incredible, so life-changing, it *almost* makes winter bearable!  That something is fleece-lined leggings.  I wear them every day!  I wear them under my pajamas!  I’m so sexy!  They are my second skin.  If there were a fleece-lined catsuit, complete with hood, I’d wear it.  Hmmm….. am I a good enough sewer (person who sews, not the place where you flush your shit to) to pull this off?  Probably not… But shit!  You don’t know me!  Why can’t I LIE???  Yeah, I’m gonna make me up six colors of fleece-lined hooded catsuits.  Stripes!!  Sequins!!!  Fur!!!!!  Everyone will be so jealous!  There.  That’s my story.

So, I will have to go for a makeup appointment tomorrow with Dr. Drugs.  I’m not doing that hot, I have the blahs in the worst way and am struggling to function.  But if I tell him that again, he might make some change to my medication that I don’t like.  So, I might just lie.  Am I the only one who lies to doctors?  It’s a delicate balance to strike, between “Oh I’m in the shits” and “Oh, please don’t hospitalize me”.  Isn’t the whole “Fake it ‘till you make it” strategy basically the same as lying?  Well I’m gonna Fake It ‘Till I Make It out of the appointment tomorrow.  Then I can go back home and hide in my bed.  For six more weeks.  Holy frijole I’m depressing MYSELF!  I gotta get back to being in the moment, like, yesterday!  (Get it?)  Ok.  I have today.  Today I ate right and took my medicine and sat in front of my light and exercised.  All the right things.  Now I’m connecting with you.  I will let tomorrow take care of itself.  See?  Fixed.

Filed under: Bipolar, Psychology Shmyshmology Tagged: Bipolar, Hope, Humor, Mental Illness, Psychology, Reader


I can’t keep up (or down) with my own moods at the moment. I’m everyone’s stereotypical notion of someone with bipolar. Ultradian what what mixed fucking cycling goddamn poxy thrice accursed days are upon me. You wouldn’t be able to stand being in the same room as me for long, I can’t stand it myself.

Stop with the self pity!

DSCN7034Me: I have a heavy burden, a very fragile one. With broken pieces, jagged pieces. I am tired, I’ve carried it all my life, World, can you help me bear it?

The World: No, I am busy, I am strong, I am shiny and new, I have no time for broken things. I have important things to do. Go on, go your own way, you are responsible for your self, don’t pretend to be weak, STOP with the self pity, go, go away, take care of it or not, I don’t care.

Me: Yes, silly of me to think I mattered. Self pity, is it self pity when the fear in you is so great that you are afraid you may not wake up tomorrow? But world, that is not your problem. I was born alone, I will die alone, and in between I will cope with my hell alone.

Maybe, hopefully, this is the lowest I will go, because, really, I cannot stand any more pain. Maybe this is the bottom and now I can only go up. At my weakest, I stand alone, and hope, and hope, and hope, for I have a most beloved son, whom I cannot leave alone.


Maybe I am just broken

img_6464This is a post by https://borderlinepersonalitydisorder99.wordpress.com

Just what I am feeling right now. Tired of trying to go on, always in pain, always a failure at everything I want to do, especially interpersonal relationships. Just very tired, and want to give up. Not asking for pity, please don’t feel any pity for me, just writing down my thoughts. Fight or Flight, where I too live. Need to find a new home. These words hit very close to home:

“Who says I need to be fixed?

I suppose I do, really. Dancing over the shatterings of glass left after a childhood of abuse has proved not only painful, but that is the only footing I have. I cannot just walk away, unfortunately.

I suppose my hands can be fixed, but if I don’t use them to realign the pieces of my soul I will always be broken. “

Borderline Personality Disorder

Maybe it is time that I just accept that I am broken, that I can’t be fixed. I have tried for so long to put myself back together maybe it is time I just accepted ‘me’ the way I am and carried on with my broken and painful parts.

I have carried this pain for so long, blistered and sliced my fingers trying desperately to put the fractured parts of my soul back together maybe I should just give up. My coping mechanisms have gotten me this far, maybe I should carry on with them. Who says I need to be fixed?

I suppose I do, really. Dancing over the shatterings of glass left after a childhood of abuse has proved only painful, but that is the only footing I have. I cannot just walk away, unfortunately.

I suppose my hands can be fixed, but if I don’t use them…

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A List Of Ten Things You Can Do To Beat Bipolar

What? You were expecting me to give you a list of unicorns? Ha ha ha. How about YOU give me a list on how to beat this bitch bipolar and her sister anxiety? It had best not include spewage like “exercise” or “have a positive attitude” or “lean on your family.” On second thought, keep your list. It’s all bullshit anyway.

So on the topic of bullshit…It is rainy, gray, windy, and cold today. I could sit under a thousand “happy lights” and it wouldn’t improve my mood. Of course, after yesterday, a low mood and exhaustion is to be expected.

My kid was behaving  beautifully for the first three hours after she got home. I honestly thought I’d have this sparkling “I love being mommy, this kid is perfect!” post to spew. Nope.

World War Three started…because I told her I would staple her papers together the next time I went down the hall where the stapler is. From there, it was like a bomb detonated. She stomped, she cried, she screamed, she said she would sue me for being violent (even though all I did was hold my hand up to protect myself when she tried to slap me.) She sobbed and stomped and moaned for over an hour. Over a staple. Over me not doing it the instant she wanted it done.

Once again, I found myself scrambling for the sound recording function. I want people to hear and see this shit I have to deal with. I am not making it up, I am not instigating it. This child just goes off the deep end. And I don’t feed it, I tell her she can stay in her room and make herself sick crying but when she chooses to calm down she can come out and we will talk calmly.

Which instigates another half hour of her screaming.

I leave her in her room, going to check every few minutes if she’s quieted down. I offer her food. I tell her I’d like to talk to her about how her behavior is unacceptable. (And yes, my paranoid ass has been taping my side as well because I am busting my ass here and it’s like bloodying my head against a concrete wall.)

Eventually she came out, apologized, and the night proceeded quietly.

Oh, that is until bedtime when she started having another fit because I told her I’d be back to cuddle and tuck her in after I went to the bathroom. Having to wait three minutes sparked her again.

To say I was relieved when she went to sleep is an understatement.

I wanted to be all tough and grrrl power and do something I enjoy since I spent much of yesterday washing laundry and cleaning floors…But alas, I couldn’t work up the energy because I constantly hear the ticking clock reminding me I gotta do it all over again tomorrow so I best rest up. I took my sleeping pill before eight. Only to have R text twenty minutes later and ask if I wanted Mangoritas…It’s like, geesh, his wife’s back to work, all his cool friends are busy, and he wants me to listen to him vent…Nope.

I made up for being anti social that way by offering to bring him Sloppy Joe’s for lunch today.

Truth be told, I despise Restoril. It doesn’t kick in fast, doesn’t keep me down, and makes me ten kinds of disoriented. This morning I shut the alarm off, swearing it was Saturday because my brain was in a fog. I am soooo looking forward to tomorrow and check day so I can some melatonin. Least it doesn’t take four hours to kick in or leave me feeling psychotically confused.

Now to be fair, because I’ve noted a comment here and there where some seem to think I am picking on my child and not letting her simply be a kid…To her credit yesterday, I told her we were going to start cleaning out her room. And all I had to do was give her trash bags and set her loose to decide what she wanted to keep and what she didn’t want. She filled three big trash bags, not a single fit. She is NOT the devil child even if I joke about it. But something in her rapid outbursts from happy to raging just makes me think ADD or early onset bipolar. Something comes over her, it can’t be reasoned with, and since so many have written me off due to my “fits”…I guess I am keeping an open mind rather than just assuming she’s “bad”. I used to tell the donor there are no bad kids, there are only kids who behave badly. He told me I was full of shit. In light of current studies showing psychopathy being diagnosed in small children, maybe he’s right. But MY kid gets the benefit of the doubt even if at the end most days, I want to crawl in the claws and curse my uterus for serving its purpose.

On another note…Well meaning or not, my mom and sister stopped by yesterday, letting me know exactly where I stand. They brought Spook a Happy Meal because apparently I am depriving her by spending money on actual things we have to have. And then, “Here’s half a breaded tenderloin mom ate, she didn’t like it.”

Yep. I get the half eaten food that apparently doesn’t taste good.

Awesome! Except I thought it tasted fine and I was grateful. JUst found it curious they bring Spook an entire meal but I get discards. Not much different than when dad takes the kid out, they never invite me along, never bring me anything back. I may as well not as exist.

Most of the time, I like not being in everyone’s face, being in the background. I just often wish my family were more subtle in the ways they let me know I am subpar.

Not sure if I mentioned it with all my ranting about mommy issues…Friday when I was beckoned to the shop, it was because R have me an Acer laptop, 2012 model, that a customer brought in, refused to shell out twenty bucks for the repair, and left it over the 30 days policy. I toyed with it the other night, I like Windows 7, but it’s so full of malware and viruses, it’s gonna take forever to get it workable. (67 threats detected on quick scan alone.) But the point is, when people point out all the computers I have…THIS is how I’ve gotten them. Freebies. Self fixer uppers. Would I love a decked out Alienware? Hells,yeah. Will life go on without it? Hells yeah.

Has anyone ever used Splat hair dye? I recently did “crimson obsession” streaks in my black hair and I looove them. That shit is messy and stains everything, though. Proof being two weeks later, Chaos is still sporting a glop that fell on her.


My ever creative child sat out on the step yesterday. Rather than play with weeble wobbles, little people, Barbies… This is the motley crew she assembled.

frankenolafpandaYep. Kung Fu Panda, Frankenstein, and Olaf all holding hands. Talk about a messed up threesome.

Oh, and on a final note…Sass, be prepared to die of shock….Rather than spring twenty extra bucks for a color I like…I, gasp, settled on a hot pink camera.


Ok, I’ll humor y’all. Ten things to cure bipolar.

10. Lobotomy

9.) dying

8.) drinking. a lot

7. snorting sea monkeys (Comet will do in a pinch)

6.) Drinking bleach

5.) throttling dish dwellers.

4.) riding a pegacorn naked through the barbwire dildo forest

3.) huffing purring cats

2.) Load up on meds and sleep 3/4 of the time


****This list is intended only for sarcastic purposes, please do not do any of the above except for #1*****



Joy After Anorexia: The Marie Kondo Method

I came across an old pair of my really skinny jeans during my annual New Year’s closet cleanse, inspired by Marie Kondo’s advice that I only hold on to things that bring me joy.  I fondled my shirts, sweaters, skirts, dresses, and pants and waited for the fuzzy spark.  Brown, wide-legged corduroys circa 2002?  Black dress pants always covered in white fuzz?  Cheap Fair Isle sweater, my labor of love, requiring me to pluck hundreds of pills before wearing it anywhere other than bed?  I dropped them all in the “toss” pile. 

Then I found the jeans, bought in a sleek boutique in Bucharest, Romania in 2008 where my family and I lived for several months.  I didn’t speak Romanian or know my size so the salesclerk riffled through the impeccably folded stacks until she found the right pair, the smallest, most impossible size I’d ever been and only because I was anorexic, running miles and miles every day and measuring out my allowed calories.  But I felt smug, deluded joy holding the jeans at the cash register.  My hands burned with joy.  I no longer worried if clothes were too tight, no longer felt anxiety as I buttoned pants at my concave waist, no longer felt like a lumbering giant as my BMI indicated I could pass for a European runway model.  My body, which always felt unwieldy, was under my control: I was the unenlightened despot demanding to the death.

Recovery from my eating disorder has been long, agonizing, and often shameful.  Five inpatient treatment programs over three years.  While adult women over thirty comprise one-third of all eating disorder treatment admissions, there is still a bias in understanding this illness—it is assumed that it is a “young” woman’s illness, that older woman (i.e., women who no longer shop at Abercrombie) and men don’t equally stand in front of the mirror pinching what is “excess,” don’t equally starve themselves or purge their necessary meals, don’t equally die.
This is not a post about dying, but about joy because when I stood in the closet holding those really skinny jeans, I didn’t feel joy anymore or even longing’s shadow (i.e., please, God, let me wake up and be that weightless again).  Only relief: I could toss them because my joy was no longer about being weak (anorexia is exhausting, devours muscle, shrinks the brain, and damages the heart and all other organs), my joy comes from being strong.  Once upon a time, my daughter used to flinch when I hugged her because my bones hurt, and both of my kids sent drawings to hang on my hospital room walls as reminders to come home, and I was terrified of being bigger in body and heart.

What changed?  I started eating when I was hungry (the stomach churns and growls for a reason) and when I felt like it (yes, I’ll have that piece of chocolate).  I stopped counting calories, clothing sizes, laps, miles, and pounds.  I used to weigh myself ten times a day; now, I don’t own a scale.  I started CrossFit and stopped running to the ruminative mantra, “Less is more, less is more, less is more.”  CrossFit teaches me to love my tired, broken, but capable body, to see myself as a woman getting stronger, to eat more than I thought possible because that fuel allows my body to do what was once impossible.  At the weight that almost killed me, I could barely lift myself out of bed; now, I lift hundreds of pounds each week (though not all in one rep).  Working out with a group and running with friends keeps me honest and visible.  No more solitary Bataan Death Runs.  


If only all of my insecurities and secret moments of self-loathing could be tossed with the same sangfroid with which I finally disposed of the jeans.  But that is not exactly the whole truth.  I’ve been hiding those jeans at the bottom of my bigger-sized stack in the closet out of a dangerous nostalgia.  They were like an old movie reel spinning out a long-ago childhood scene: Look at how cute I was.  Look at how small I was.  Look at how happy I was.  I’ve been holding on to a similar reel: standing in that boutique with jeans that promised joy as long as I stayed at that size forever.  Consigning the jeans to the “toss” pile was a long-needed act of rebellion.  Never again.  Last night, I saw a picture of myself at CrossFit on a friend’s Facebook page: I am mid-deadlift and my growing muscles strain at the weight.  My expression is one of intensity and fear.  Will I die?  Not anymore.  I’m certain that after I set the bar on the ground, as always, my muscles trembled with the righteous fatigue of joy.  

the therapist’s couch

I’ve never had therapy in anything other than an armchair. You? If you have, I demand a description of the couch in minute detail. I’m not sure whether to feel cheated or not.

Feeling fabulous, finally!

Not many people know this, so I thought I’d share my great news.  I’m feeling fabulous!!  No more hyper happiness or irritability sitting between my clenched jaws- in fact I laugh more than anything else now. No deathly depression either. No flashes or ideas of killing myself creeping in the corners of my mind. No, […]

Well Adjusted or Damaged

FSCN3419For some of us, life is fun and games, lightness and happiness, do you know how lucky you are? Very! For some of us, life is a burden, heavy and dismal. Why are some blessed and some cursed? What determines which one you are? Some people are so lucky to be well adjusted and happy, while others struggle and deal with the heartbreakingly intense emotions of failure, and profound sadness. The crazy thing is that it can be as simple as  all chance, your parents were sane and didn’t abuse the hell out of you, you are also sane and well adjusted. You were not as lucky, your parents were insane and subjected you to unspeakable abuse, well you are damaged. Is there truly a way to heal yourself? I will see. I am sure going to give it my all.