Daily Archives: July 11, 2013

Where’s My Funny Bone?

When I first started this blog I was a fucking mess.  I would cry for no reason, I became agoraphobic and could not leave the apartment.  I became unable to answer the phone, and I would confuse easily and even get lost if I was able to force myself out the door.    I had such a love for my blog, for my readers and for other bloggers out there.  I would write each word meticulously.  And there was one aspect that I made sure of…that I provided humor in my blog.  It was important for me to know that people had a chuckle or maybe even a laugh when they read my writing.

I had no problem writing in those days.  I couldn’t wait to get on the computer each day and start typing away at a post.  For long periods of time, this blog was my only way to contact the outside world.  I don’t know how I would have lasted without it.

As some of you may know I took a break for awhile.  I posted that I was going to take a “short” vacation, but would be back soon.  Several years later I finally came back and I’m glad I did.  But, sadly, I find it very hard to be humorous anymore.  I can still write humorously.  I can write humor in my speech class. I have a touch of humor in my upcoming sermon.  But, here on this blog I find it extremely difficult.  Is there some truth that people with mental illness are most creative when in the lowest depths of their disease?  People who know my passion for Van Gogh have asked me if I thought he would have been such a great artist if he wasn’t suffering from mental illness.  My answer to that question is “No.”  It is my belief that he would have most likely been an art dealer like his brother and other family members.  It was his pain that made him most human and therefore most creative.

But, come on, I’m no Van Gogh.  I was never that funny.  But, I’m beginning to think that’s still true for me.  Though I am far from being cured of bipolar disorder I am not in the midst of despair that I once was.  I no longer toy with the idea of killing myself on a daily basis.  I’m still a mess, I’m just not a fucking mess.

I want that back.  I want to bring back my humorous side.  I want to be able to express myself, make a connection with my readers and still be funny.  I’m glad I began writing this blog again.  I love it actually.  I just want to make it as fun for my readers as it is for me.  Maybe that’s going to take a little more effort than it use to.  I know, if I go off my meds I’ll probably be hilarious for a week or two before I end up back in lock down.  I don’t really think that’s a good option, though.  It’s hard to write a blog with crayons.

The Beginning of the End, Part 2

I stood in front of the giant mahogany desk, watching the man on the other side.  He was sitting down.  His mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying, due to the roaring in my ears.  I wrestled my consciousness back into my body just long enough to say, “Yes, I understand.”

The man smiled, stood up, reached over the vast expanse of desk and extended his hand.  I shook it.  It bit me, leaving two holes in the palm.  After it released my hand I put it behind my back, surreptitiously rubbing the bite.  He sat down, beaming.  I turned and walked carefully out of the office.  He shouted after me.

“Please have your accounts in by the end of the month!”

The jerk.  I always did.  Never missed. Struggling to get my physical and astral bodies aligned, I walked down the hill to my office.  Now the tears burned.  How would I tell Lorna, my nurse, and Della, my receptionist, that we had been eliminated?  Collectively discontinued?  Replaced by a newer, slicker model of practice than our old, warm, welcoming country doctor’s office?

It wasn’t just us: our little old struggling small-town hospital had finally caved in and accepted a buy-out by a looming juggernaut of a healthcare corporation.  Hell, my own mother was on the board of directors of our hospital, and even she had voted for the takeover, knowing she was signing the death warrent for my practice.  Her daughter’s practice.  Everyone’s practice, for the new corporate entity brought in its own doctors.

To their credit, they did offer me a position in their corporation, as a staff pediatrician in a city an hour and a half away.  I would be working under a director with whom I had already had some clashes over the care of my patients whom I had transferred to his hospital for a higher level of care than we could offer in East Bumfuck.  I had no choice but to decline, under the circumstances.

I was on medication at the time, but it was the wrong one, and couldn’t protect me from what was to come.  The stress of knowing that my practice was doomed threw me into a deep depression.  Added to that was the knowledge that I would not be able to start anew on my own: I had cashed out my retirement fund to start that practice.  Put all my eggs in one basket.

I did approach the juggernaut about actually buying my practice rather than stealing it, but they just out with a giant juggernaut belly-laugh and informed me that they’d take it for free, thank you very much.  So I was sitting high and dry.

Aside from my lifelong dream of being a country doctor, there was the issue of “not playing well with others” that had limited my tenure at all of my previous jobs to two years, before the powers-that-were and I started getting on each other’s nerves and throwing spitballs at each other.  From my perspective many years and medicines down the line, I can see that my hypomanic episodes might have had something to do with my feelings that I knew how to do things better than they did; or even if I did, I was unable to keep from running my mouth and offending the powers-that-were, and having an “I quit/you’re fired” moment, or a convenient lateral move to another practice.

So it was that I realized that my best chance for success was to be my own boss; and for two years it worked just fine, and was getting finer by the moment, until the juggernaut dropped a wrecking ball on my present and my future.

I dragged my tail home from the office that bitter January day, to find a Registered Mail notice in the mailbox.  Whoopee, I though, maybe Publisher’s Clearinghouse has finally come through and I’ll be able to buy back my horse farm and open another practice in Horse Heaven Acres.  I stuck it in my parka pocket and drove up the icy dirt road to my single-wide trailer.

I had been planning to live in that trailer while I built my log home on my 14 acres, but that didn’t look too likely any more.  I set my face grim and parked in the dirt turn-around. Joyous clamor roused me from my sour reverie: the two German Shepherds, the ancient yellow Lab, and the young Great Pyrenees leaped and bounced off the wire mesh of the dog lot.  I opened the door and let them out, and they cut all kinds of comic capers, each coming over to slobber on me again and again until I was good and slimy and cheered up.  I trod carefully up the icy steps to the deck and let them in.  The trailer was full of dog.  I shut the storm door, noting that the deck was covered with goat shit again.  Damn goats.  They were always trying to get into the house.  What did they think was in there?

I fed the dogs.  I fed me.  Then I settled into my recliner to have a good cry and sink into a suicidal depression.  I stayed that way until time to take the nighttime knock-out drops, did so, and fell into an unsettled nightmarish half-sleep.

The phone rang.  It was a mother whose baby had a fever.  I asked the usual questions.  It didn’t seem bad, but I gave her the guidelines.  If it got to a certain point, she was to take the child to the emergency department at what was still our small-town hospital.  If it didn’t get that far, I would see her first thing in the morning at the office.  At least I still had the office, for another four months until the wrecking ball came down for the last time. To Be Continued…..


Ever find yourself in that proverbial catch 22 position where you are damned if you do, damned if you don’t?

Kind of where I am right now.

Having been called passive aggressive, I have acted in kind (petty,perhaps, but whatever) and avoided all contact with R for the last 24 plus hours. Because no matter what I say to him it’s not going to be the right thing. My wording will be wrong, my tone will be wrong, it will just be wrong if it is anything other than reciting a haiku about why the sun shines out of his ass and why busted stuff is my life.

Never gonna happen.

So I fall into old patterns where if I can’t make a choice, I do nothing. It’s never smart, it never works out well, yet here I am. Because I can’t respond the way he will deem acceptable, I am not responding at all.

He sent me a text this morning. Said, “Hope you are having a wonderful day.”

That’s two references in two days with the word “wonderful”, which is not a word he ever uses except sarcastically.

But playing devil’s advocate I thought, maybe he’s sincere. Stranger things have happened right?

Still…I make no move. Because I can’t figure out what move to make that would make things work where neither of us feels like we’re being mistreated or screwed over.

I stand behind my feelings. I’m me, it’s wrong, I tried to express concern it was wrong. I am moody, it is wrong. I tried to use humor, it was flippant. And every time I have called him on it, he has deflected by saying, “I can’t win with you.”

Deflection sucks.

I spent my day surrounded by 7 kids, only one who was mine. One of the new hangers on actually hugged me and told me she loved me. Makes me wonder if these kids are just that starved for any kind of adult attention and interaction. Her sister said she never wanted to go home because she was having too much fun here.

How can I function so well with kids and yet be such a failure with everyone else?

The newbie kitten can’t do much but drag itself around with the broken leg. Which is grueling to watch, so I have it in a basket and have been hand feeding and watering it, keeping it cool and comfy.

It was not a bad day. But it was a day of tortured contemplation, a mixture of emotions, and wayyy too much stimulation for my brain. Now my back hurts and I am tired but my mind was stop trying to figure out a graceful way to make this situation with R work. My dad heard I was told not to go in today and asked, “What’d you do to piss him off?”

I admit I am extremely flawed,  but this thing where I am the only one who does something to piss off and alienate others is bullshit. I mean, he could have asked if I wanted a day off or if I was pissed at R. Why is the assumption always that I’ve done something wrong? And since when is having feelings that get hurt doing something wrong?

I know I am in the right on this. Perhaps I’ve been a little passive aggressive histrionic but I’ve put up with being taken for granted for over a year now. I don’t need this shit. I have a family to make me feel crappy about myself.  You cannot call it a friendship if the only contact you have with a person involves your business.

The social contact is always instigated by his wife. Which perhaps says all there is to be said.

But I can’t afford to burn the bridge with R.

I also can’t sell myself out and keep feeling this tormented daily.

I know one thing for sure: The atonement is done. I have more than served my penance with R for my past misdeeds of mood swings and erratic emotion. I owe him nothing.

It still leaves me with a headache, exhausted, and no clue what I can do that isn’t going to be wrong.

I suppose this is how I made The Donor feel.

Karma is a bitch.

In all fairness though, the Donor told me from day one his first wife had beaten him down and scarred him, so I can’t take blame or credit for that. But yeah, I guess a completely different belief system and being reminded of it every day…I probably did make him feel bad about himself. Though still not sure how you can walk out on three kids and feel good about yourself.


One thing about it…Everything you do, even unintentionally, comes back to bite you on the ass.

I really do feel like queen of the damned, minus the cool vampires.