Daily Archives: July 21, 2013

Optimist, pessimist, realist

Is “optimist” a synonym for denial?

Went to R’s last night. (He was cooking, which I kind of foresaw when she called and said, “Oh, I will cook up something.” She’d have him poop for her if it were possible, I swear, and he’d do it.)

Anyway, he greeted me with, “What’s the good word?”

And I replied, without rancor or self pity, “I don’t have one.”

Which just opened the can of worms for I got the  catty hissing sound and the pessimist thing thrown at me.

And I was just like, “Dude, someone came into my home and stole my shit, I think I am entitled to some pessimism.” Even if it wasn’t my goal. I could have said the same damn thing if Kenny had asked what the good word was and he would have chuckled at my response.

I swear optimist means denial. Seriously, are we never entitled to get bummed about bad shit that happens? Must we constantly take a pile of shit and delude ourselves into thinking it’s a rainbow and a puppy all rolled into one that smells of roses? I get thinking positive, but invalidating someone who something crappy happened to is just being a dick.

What pisses me off the most is that I have listened to his “woe is me” ranting every time something crappy has befallen him. This not playing fair thing makes me feel like a child on the playground. There was always that one kid who played with your stuff, ate your food, but wouldn’t reciprocate and if you stood up to them, they walked off in a huff.

THAT is R. You cater to him, he totally walks away from you if you burden him with anything you have going on.


After that, he pretty much acted like I was non existent and I spent the evening playing with his grand daughter and my kid and talking to his wife. Who made the kids play outside to avoid a mess in 90 degree heat with no breeze. I was soaked in sweat within five minutes, meanwhile everyone around me is barely glistening with a drop. THEN the bugs began to bite me. Again, no one else seemed too bothered. I, on the other hand, was left with two dozen raised red lumps that itch like a mofo because I have had a serious histamine allergy since I was a child.

I made nice. I ate their food, Philly cheese steak, which it was all I could do to choke down. Then when R asked how it was I stuck my foot in my mouth and said, “It was okay.” Thing is, though, if you tell someone you like something you don’t, you’re pretty much stuck with it for life. Besides which, I TOLD him weeks ago when he got a philly cheese stake for lunch I didn’t care for them. Of course he said, “You haven’t had mine yet, you’ll love it.”:

Just like the donor and his al fredo sauce. What part of “I hate white sauce” is unclear? I don’t give a fuck if Wolfgang Puck makes it, if I don’t like it, I don’t like it.

And this is why I abhor eating at other people’s houses. It puts you in this fawkward position (fucking awkward) where you want to be polite and thankful they have offered you ameal, but if it’s something you didn’t like to begin with  then do you tell the truth or give platitudes and get stuck eating it for life?

Damnit. I don’[t want to hurt anyone’s feelings but fuck is it that hard to listen? Tis why if I cook something and someone doesn’t like it, I want to know. Then I won’t obligation-feed them that again. Big difference between, “I’m not a fan of this food” and “OHMIGOD CALL POISON CONTROL THIS IS FUCKING NASTY GRRRAGHHHHGAGGGG.”

Am I the only person on the planet in favor of honesty?

The whole time I was there, listening to banalities, sweating and itching, all I could think is ‘THIS SUCKS, I WANNA GO HOME.

And home we went at 8pm. Enough was enough.

Damiana then showed up and asked if she could spend the night. I said sure, I was depressed and stressed anyway. It’s just so rude, my mom was very adamant with us about never ever inviting yourself anywhere, you were to be invited. This girl would help herself to my kidney if she needed it. Spook fell asleep at 10, and I could hear on the monitor all night long this girl telling my kid to wake up. They demanded a snack at 2 am. At 4 am, Damiana wanted to get up and talk to me. She wore my kid down, poor thing is taking a nap at noon. I found the potty chair in the room, and since my kid won’t use it because she is “scared” the fact it had pee in it told me Damiana did it then left it sitting on the bed to spill and stink.She decided to help herself to one of my kid’s outfits then she “dressed” my kid in a t-shirt, removing her wet Pull up so she was naked from the bottom down, and stuffing the dirty pull up into the bedding.

I’m not the pillar of tidiness or anything but that’;s just nasty.

I sent her home. She came back. At that point I got bitchy and made it clear for her to go home and NOT come back.

We’re doing the family thing here for my brother’s birthday, already went and got the pizzas.

Now I am itching and stressing and wondering what about my place my sister will find to go tell my mom about being so disgusting because she is an ocd clean freak.

All this and I am still supposed to be optimistic 24-7 and never let it get me down?

Yet the people around me can get pissed and upset while I listen to them bitch and moan.


And I am surrounded by children trapped in adult bodies. I am not perfect by any means but I am fair, at least.

Back to itching my red bumps which are the size of nickels. Allergies suck.

Why a public blog for something so private?

In an effort to connect to others who struggle with BiPolar Disorder, specifically Rapid Cycling BP, I created this anonymous blog as a platform. (I’d still love to connect even if you don’t rapid cycle with your BPD)  I made this decision at 3:00am this morning when after a down cycle lasting 2 days, I couldn’t sleep. (Isn’t that when many of our decisions are made? In the throws of insomnia?) I chose to remain anonymous to allow myself a certain level of freedom I wouldn’t otherwise have, as many people in my life are not aware of my BPD, OCD, or anxiety, nor do I want them to. Not because of shame…but because of the stigma attached to having a mental illness. Too many negative repercussions personally and professionally.  You know what it’s like…even Dr’s view you differently as they review the long list of meds you may be on and suddenly every illness is because you’re BP. Fuck that. I can be an absolute mess sometimes, I have a mental illness but I am still an intelligent woman, who just has to work harder than some to maintain a semblance of sanity and life in general.

I am employed full time, self sufficient and do some freelance work as well. Most people in my life are unaware of my struggles, some family knows I “struggle with some depression” but I am very selective about who knows what. I tend to withdraw when I feel various “episodes” coming on and have a confidant or two who really know why I’m being a hermit. I don’t have much of a support system and realize I do need one, even if this means connecting with others through the magic of the internet.

Who else am I?

I am creative.  I love photography.  I love animals.  I love most things vintage.  I am in my mid 30′s.  I am a lesbian.  I am liberal minded but have conservative friends too.  I work hard but am probably considered “the working poor.” Music soothes me so.  I am eccentric and eclectic.

Get a Grip

Cerebral efforts are not stronger than the shadows…but I try to maintain a grip none the less.

By special request ..whivh I pretty much ignored but had fun anyways… PMAO

Posted from the teeny tiny keyboard of Samsung Galaxy S3. Tagged: killer wabbit sort of, photo fun, Pouring My Art Out, this is dumb, what? I'm smiling

Crunching the Numbers

Later on today I’m going to cycle down to the beach and meet up with some people for a picnic and then cycle with a friend over to his place and hang out. I’m going to take my mountain bike since we are going to cycle off-road from the beach to my friend’s place – a gentle meandering route, not at all challenging. And yet since I made this arrangement earlier in the week I cannot stop thinking about the fact that a) my mountain bike does not have a bike computer, so I won’t be able to see the information I am used to seeing on my road bike, such as speed and how many miles I have covered – and b) most of the way there and back will be on tarmac.

Why do I fret so?

To say that I’m obsessed with how many miles I cycle every day/week/month would be an exaggeration, but only by half a wheel length. On my mountain bike I don’t know any of that stuff. It doesn’t really matter that I know how long the distances are on this particular ride. I can’t see the progress I’m making on any trip in black and white, perched there on the handlebars in ever-changing digits. With the bike computer I can see the difference my pedalling is making. I can see if I am sweeping down a hill on the South Downs as fast a car; I can see that I am steadily increasing my speed as I climb up the hill to my home.

Here’s the thing: all those numbers that I can see shifting in front of me show me that I am in control, I am the one who affects the numbers regardless of if I am going faster or slower, longer or shorter distances. And that feels good. My moods are not so easily tamed, however. If I am making progress how can I be sure? Regular readers will be aware of the  cost of my determination, earlier this year, to reach the landmark of completing 2 consecutive years at work without having taken a single day off sick. Shortly after having reached this landmark I almost came to a grinding halt, and had to accept that mental health recovery is not an endurance sport. I became obsessed with the numbers: 13 months, 18 months, another 6 weeks until….. until what?

How else could I measure how I was doing? It’s not exactly like standing on the scales is it? Writing a journal is one of the ways that people can explore what is going on , and chart their progress, explore what’s effective, and what doesn’t help. This isn’t something new. One of the first people to use this strategy to chart his mood, reflect on what helped, and what caused him problems was – as unlikely as it may seem – the Roman Emperor  Marcus Aurelius (121 – 180 C.E.) He is known – and still revered today - as one of the leading Philosophers of the Stoic School. I have written about what this approach has to offer mental health recovery before, so I won’t explore that here. You can read about this further in my blog archives by searching for Stoicism and/or Marcus Aurelius.

I have been thinking about writing a journal on and off for a while. What has been stopping me? You guessed it – I thought I was already writing one with this blog. It’s taken me until now to realise that writing this blog has been what has stopped me from writing one. I am writing about my feelings, right? I am forever banging on about recovery and ways to achieve this. I am well aware that there is a strong didactic thread to my musings. I realise that, as relevant as that may be, it isn’t really aimed at me. Sure, I disclose some of my most personal and painful experiences in these pages, but it’s for your benefit – or didn’t you get that?

So where does all this leave me, then? Sitting uncomfortably, actually. I just worked out what I need to do, and have spotted – oh horror! – where I have been going wrong all this time. This doesn’t mean that I will be calling time on this blog. But it does mean that I need to call time on my own attitude to my  recovery.

Easy, right?

There’s still the small matter of how I have to cycle my mountain bike for several miles on tarmac before hitting the off-road tracks when I go and visit my friend later. Why has this been playing on my mind? I’m not used to riding very far on tarmac before feeling the gravel, tree roots and mud under my knobbly tyres. Because the handlebars on my mountain bike are different from what I am used to on my road bike  -  I am forced to sit differently, in a relatively unfamiliar posture than what I am used to  – the one I am riding most of the time.  I realise now that by thinking so much about this I am becoming over – sensitive to my environment, in terms of the wheels and their suitability for the tarmac I am used to riding on different tyres.

Over sensitivity, now there’s a thing. I cannot deny that this is a feature of Bi Polar Disorder that spikes so much of my experience. An innocent remark, a glance, the slightest change in the weather. It’s all personal. It plays on my mind, round and round and round, like one of those skin – suit clad track cyclists with the funny pointy helmets.

It’s time I started to learn to enjoy the sound of the gravel crunching under my tyres.

No poetry this time – but I can tell you that this edition is 965 words long.