Daily Archives: February 24, 2014

I’m Becoming a Statistic

I fight and have fought, hard, not to become a statistic because of my BiPolar disorder, family history, sexual orientation and socioeconomic background. Right now, it seems that I am anyway.

Over a long past due conversation, my relationship ended yesterday and my girlfriend is moving out, after only being here for 4 months. (Dating almost 2 years) I am now that mid 30’s something lesbian going through yet another breakup which will more than likely trigger a depressive episode. I’m not the typical lesbian in terms of getting involved quickly with woman but the end result seems to be the same. The abruptness of this one came as quite a shock to me however, even though I knew there were issues. Some issues just cannot be overcome…

I don’t know how to keep things like this from further reinforcing my reluctance to get close to, or bond to people, despite my want to. I feel both lonely and like being alone and suppose I’m still in a bit of shock.








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Unhealthy Place

I hate all you little shits that put out "I'm sick" vids and ruined any chance of Iggy's original on youshittube.
I fuckin hate you shitass brats.

Healthy Place:

"With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts." ~ Eleanor Roosevelt

Supposedly, Eleanor Rigby Roosevelt baby...

I got up with my alarm at 6am this morning, back on my set schedule, my thang that I keep up with each week. Most of the time I wake up earlier, but this time not, which is odd. I did, however, wake up many times during the night, as usual. I got up, switched to auto-pilot and made coffee for two. I wasn't thinking about how I felt about my spouse or how he felt about me, nor did I start to worry yet about how he was going to feel about me today.

I pulled my big girl pants on and I decided that whole stay-in-bed-depressed thing wasn't for me. I didn't cry. There wasn't much tv available on my phone or kindle. I couldn't concentrate enough to read. I couldn't sleep enough of the day/night away, and it made me sore all over, and feel guilty for laying around doing nothing. That last bit was an abusive guilt trip present from my father. Thanks, asshole.

We are almost talking to each other, the spouse and myself. He is going out for lunch with an ex-work mate. He has never gone to lunch with me that I can remember. He must have, but it was a very rare occasion. Long time ago, maybe when we lived in a studio. My memory has been destroyed by mental illness, or the drugs, or both. PTSD sure wiped out a lot of shit, but not some of the worst, but that's another horror story I won't get into here and now. So I'm waiting for my spouse to talk to me again and mention the taxes. Doing them over, separate, whatever, I just feel horrible about it all, and scared that I'll be slapped with a bill for back taxes that I can't pay. Well, if they can't squeeze blood from this stone, and since this is a community property state, they'll have to squeeze the blood from the other stone, no? I don't know.

I really hate taxes and their vague instructions, my fucked up cognitive issues, the fact that the spouse won't attempt to do them (I don't blame him), and hate hate hate fed forms. I probably said that before. They scare the fuck out of me for no good reason. Well, with the IRS there is a good reason. Last year they called and said we fucked up, and then they said they lost all of our stuff, then we turned what few bits and pieces we had back in. Then they told us all was ok, and that they needed nothing. WHAT THE FUCK?! So I'm terrified this time, especially if we end up doing it separately. I'll be fucked in the worst way.

I'm too fucked up to attempt my "quests" today on SuperBetter, and that makes me feel shitty. Too anxious and achey to exercise, plus fucking Dallas is on instead of my beloved Supernatural. I hope TNT isn't making a habit of it. At least I got over my headache from the moment I got up. I feel guilty and lazy, of course. I don't want to be totally unproductive today, and just graze in the kitchen. My willful side says JUST ATTEMPT TO DO THE TAXES! Separately. But I know better. That would cause an unbearable amount of stress. Even thinking about it is a no no. Bitch, don't go there. No treadmill today. No load of laundry today... How am I going to force myself to take a shower today without doing the treadmill?

I vow to pay more attention to when I am actually hungry before I eat or drink anything. Even water. I've been given topomax to kill the sugar cravings from seroquel, even though I've only put on a little weight, compared to all the horror stories I've read/heard. I feel bad for them and me. It doesn't make sense. Well, it doesn't matter if I get back to a size 0, I'll still find something disgusting about my body to hate and hide. I'm an idiot. I'm too old to be a size 0. Get it in your head, head. As if I bother to diet. Whatever that means these days anyway.

My spouse laid a peck good-bye on me on his way out. I'm surprised. I guess that's his way of saying "I'm not hating you right now and I realize you felt like shit yesterday. I didn't know what to do or didn't want to bother you since you were in the bedroom in bed all day/night, and didn't come out, even for the zombies (The Walking Dead) and tea".

Ok, so now I don't even know how to begin to try to talk to him again, especially about the taxes. My daughter needs income info from us, so there's pressure on to get this shit done. Pressure is NOT a good thing for me. Stress is NOT a good thing. Math and forms are not good things for me either. I don't want to end up having a fucking breakdown doing the taxes, but I want my daughter (my love of loves of LOVE) to have her info asap. I don't want this to end up putting me back in the hospital, either, but shit, man, it's so fucking awful!

Fucking IRS. FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU and the horse you rode in on.

Time for more meds that are well needed. The shit goes on...

Standing Stagnant

I am sorry I have been so silent lately…

There has been nothing on my mind to write. Literally, all my drive has slipped away from me. I feel like, everyday, I’m slipping deeper and deeper into something I have no clue how to explain.

Writing out my feelings and problems has always helped me in the past, but now, I feel like writing it makes it just another problem that I haven’t solved, but put into words.

I have no action plan, no script for anything I am doing.

I have started a new job, which is great, B U T, I semi-kinda-don’t like it. It’s not professional, and I am not making any connections, money, or learning anything new. It is in my degree field, but its the lowest of the low. I will have to work at it if I am to making anything come from this job. I don’t know if I want to do that..

…I don’t know what I want to do.

Or need to do

Or can do.

I’m feeling really hopeless.

Filed under: depressed, Ranting

Job Search Crazy Times

I haven’t been keeping up because I’ve been trying to get a job. Big deal, you might say, but unless …

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Job Search Crazy Times

I haven’t been keeping up because I’ve been trying to get a job. Big deal, you might say, but unless …

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The Sweetest Taboo

Yeah, that’s right……let’s talk about sex.

Not that I’m sharing any personal details, of course. I’ve always been very private about that, and besides, my KIDS read this thing sometimes. These are people who, despite being full-grown and capable of reproduction themselves, do not believe their father and I should even have a sex life, let alone enjoy it. As far as they’re concerned, we only “did it” (whisper, giggle, blush) in order to create them, and that was it—anything beyond that and their default position is ”eeewwwwww!”

But sexuality is a normal, healthy part of life, and adult children’s disgust notwithstanding, it should remain so throughout the lifespan. There’s nothing wrong with being a lusty lady or gentleman. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying the sensual delights of a long afternoon in bed with the one you love (or the one you’re with at the moment). There’s also nothing wrong with appreciating the human body in all of its amazing angles and curves. (Why else do you think I watched every single minute of every single episode of Spartacus throughout its three seasons on the air? It sure wasn’t for the dialogue.)

Unfortunately for the person who lives with bipolar, it’s when the natural desire for intimate relations coincides with our “high” cycles that things really get dicey. Although not every BP experiences it, the hypersexuality that often occurs during bouts of hypomania or mania is common enough that it probably contributes to the 90% divorce rate of all marriages in which one or both partners have the illness.

Not all of us have affairs or act indiscriminately in our private lives. But it’s impossible to discount the feelings that overtake us at times, and it’s incredibly difficult to get our minds out of the gutter when we’re walking down the hall at work feeling like a steaming hot bundle of sexual energy. RAWR.

And I’m not kidding when I say it gets crazy—even your basic, mild-mannered housewife type can turn into a tigress when she’s manic. An ordinarily wonderful husband and father who loves his family may spend money they don’t have on motel rooms and prostitutes. Unattached people or those with no access to a sexual partner might pleasure themselves compulsively anytime and anywhere the mood strikes them. Anything to scratch that deep-seated itch for sex, sex, and more sex—the hotter and faster, the better.

Why do so many of us become hypersexual when we’re manic? There are probably as many reasons as there are theories, but I think it has a lot to do with the fact that ALL of our senses become much more acute during mania. We thrill to musical notes we’ve never heard before in a song we’ve listened to hundreds of times before. We have a heightened appreciation of the olfactory and visual delights of a flower garden, the exquisite taste of a well-seasoned filet mignon, the whisper of a soft bedsheet across a naked thigh. So the question should probably be: why wouldn’t we get horny?

Still, it’s not very convenient to try to carry on with our everyday lives when the sweet madness threatens to overwhelm us. Hypersexuality can make us look bad and drive us to indiscretions we wouldn’t even THINK of when we’re in our right minds, like the local guy who got his penis stuck in a Jacuzzi water jet a couple of months ago. The story was even on the TV news, and of course the fact that he “suffered from bipolar disorder” and was “apparently exhibiting some symptoms of mania at the time” was broadcast to the entire southern half of the state. Nice.

These are but a few of the perils that can befall us when the brain chemistry gets to percolating. I’m sure glad the only “issue” I have is dreaming about what I’d like to do to Shemar Moore…..and I don’t have to be manic to enjoy that little fantasy!

Sorry, kids. ;-)






Narcissism and Slavery

As the festival of Passover approaches, it’s a tradition among some of us, Jews and non-Jews alike, to start thinking about the Passover story as an allegorical reference to how we limit ourselves, and how we can use our inner resources to liberate ourselves.  We think about our Inner Pharaoh, and what we need to do to get free of him.

The Hebrew word for Egypt is “Mitzrayim.”  The word can be broken down into its roots: “Mi” = “from,” “tzr” or “tzar”=narrow place, tight squeeze, trouble, “yim”=masculine plural ending.  So you could say that our own personal Mitzrayim is the narrow, tight places in which we find ourselves.  Our challenge during the spring season of new growth and opening is to do just that: to split the Red Sea, to walk through scary tight places in order to remember who we are, and to grow past our narrow-minded presuppositions, to give birth to our newly liberated selves.

The other day at the nursing home my mother commanded (not asked–commanded) me to appear before her, at her house, at seven PM.  She refused to give me any details, just “be there.”  So I showed up at 7:30, since I had something to do prior and she had not asked me if that was a convenient time.  Did it give me pleasure to know that she would be annoyed?  Perhaps, yet I also know that annoying her will eventually come back to haunt me.  Sometimes it’s worth it.

I got there, and she is sitting in Dad’s recliner, which instantly puts me on guard.  There is this thing in Jewish culture where a person’s chair is part of their personal sacred space, and intentionally sitting in someone else’s place is considered an act of disrespect.  So I am on guard anyway, and this just confirms that I better stay there.

As I perched on the arm of the couch, not wanting to sit in HER place (and besides, it gives me the creeps), she pronounced clearly and with authority:  “I am NOT asking your permission.”  

“OK,” I said, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Then she tells me in great detail of her plans to bring Dad home from the nursing home, how she and I will care for him with the help of whatever aides she can find; that she’s located a couple of them and they only charge $14 an hour, and besides, we would only need them for showering….on and on.  Apparently she has not taken into consideration that it takes two young strong people to get him from the bed to the wheelchair, to the toilet, to diaper and dress him…and he’s been discharged from Physical Therapy because he’s not made progress….and his meals are now put through a blender so that he doesn’t choke, which had been one of my big concerns even before the nursing home.

And She Who Must Be Obeyed is NOT asking my permission.  That means I don’t even have to bother voicing my concerns, because they’ve already been summarily dismissed.

I decide that I don’t have to have a “dog in that fight,” as they say here in the mountains.  I keep my mouth shut.  Poor Dad will be the one who suffers, and I hate that, but since “my permission” has not been asked, I won’t ask a lot of permission to be out of the country when I need to be.

And I’ll need to be, because that scenario is so excruciatingly painful to me that I will have to give myself a lot of space, knowing that injuring myself in order to try to further Mom’s follies is not going to help Dad, in the long run.

A few days later, I am told that “we” are taking Dad to the dentist.  The aides at the nursing home will help us get him in the car.  Who will get him out?  Oh, they have a wheelchair at the dentist.  She already checked that out, Stupid.  

I don’t like this.  I’m just getting over an episode of seriously-bad-back caused by catching Dad as he was on his way to the pavement, after taking him to another appointment.  Mom had, in her trademark style, strode around to the driver’s seat, leaving me to somehow get Dad into the back seat.  He collapsed, and I was holding him up calling for help, when one of the familiar Viet Nam Veteran street people came and helped me get him into the car.  I gave him all the cash I had, and I wish there had been more.  But it was too late for my back.

So I told her my back won’t take it, and she sneers at me and says that hers will.

There is a county transport service that has wheelchair accessible vans.  I told this to my mother, who immediately denied it.  Then she called about it, and wonder of wonders!  Of course it was her idea now; but at least.

“You will be there at 12:30 to meet the van.  You will ride in the van with Dad to the dentist.  His appointment is at one.  My appointment is at two.  So you have to ride in the van with Dad.  DON’T BE LATE!!!”

OK.  I will be there at 12:30, and I will go into the appointment, because Dad has been hallucinating lately and I worry about the dentist’s chair and all the noises, and his trouble swallowing, and the fact that he will not be able to hold the little saliva sucker thing that you now have to hold yourself.

Isn’t it funny how it really is the straw that breaks the camel’s back?  Here’s mine (my latest, anyway):

Friday afternoon, my mother shows up at my door with my mail.  She knows I don’t want her picking up my mail (we don’t have mail delivery here, so we have to go to the post office for it), but she had some excuse this time.

After an uncomfortable moment standing at the door, I decide to show her dinner in progress.  I always cook them a kosher meal for Friday Nights, and I bring it wherever they happen to be.  Nowadays I’m bringing it to the nursing home.  So I thought I would show her the kosher chicken rolling around in the kosher rotisserie, the pans of veggies, the potatoes…..oh, I do it all the time!

“See, Mommy, see what I did?  It’s for YOU, Mommy!  I picked these flowers for YOU!  I cooked this food for YOU!  Aren’t you happy with me now?  Won’t this make you love me and stop saying those horrible things to me?”  Says the little girl Laura, tears brimming but not falling, for that would make her laugh: “You need to grow a thicker skin.”

My kitchen is very tiny.  Very tiny indeed.  In fact, with my mother in it, I found I suddenly could not breathe.

“Let’s move into a bigger space.  I’m feeling claustrophobic,” I said.

Her little malevolent eyes glitter.

“Claustrophobic, eh?  What DON’T you have?  I think you’re a hypochondriac.

“Hypochondriac?” I repeat, shocked.

“Yes, hypochondriac.” She says emphatically.

I see her to the door, slam it, and collapse in a heap of raging tears.  As soon as her car leaves the driveway I start screaming.  I beg G-d’s forgiveness as I curse my mother, bringing down all of Hell’s fires on her head, into her belly, wishing her as painful a death as she engineered for her own mother…..and then I stop suddenly, realizing what has happened, that I have absorbed the poison from the wicked Queen’s apple, and if I continue in this manner I will, G-d forbid, become my own hateful mother.  My own personal Pharaoh.

So I have been praying for some enlightenment, some clarity, some “how-to” that will get me through this piece of time surrounding my father’s death.  My very own Mitzrayim: stuck in the narrows, whichever way I turn.  Face-to-face with Pharaoh, a smirk and a sneer and a twisting of the guts.

Here is some really good advice on learning to open one’s mouth from The Invisible Scar, a blog dedicated to healing for Adult Children of Narcisists (ACON).

But I am not ready to deal with the backlash that always comes with opening my mouth.  I am mortally afraid that if my mother escalates (a certainty) or lays hands on me (a distinct possibility), that I might “lose it” and do something violent, G-d forbid.

So I am keeping my mouth tightly closed, which I know is part of the Narcissist’s Weapon Arsenal.  I don’t want to emulate her, I don’t want to BE her–and I know that’s a danger here.  But right now I can’t deal with another knife wound.  Figuratively, that is.

Tomorrow, at the one o’clock meeting (DON’T BE LATE), my dad’s fate will be decided: does he stay in the nursing home until he dies, or do we bring him home to die, however long that takes ( he estimates two years, and I believe him).  Although I have been told I do not have a voice in this decision, I damn well do, and I will use it.  I plan to make my case very clearly that there is no way that he could possibly get the care he needs at home.

Feeding, changing his diaper and his bed three or four times a day, dressing him, getting him showered, all without any assistance from him, because he is so debilitated……these things cannot be done by an angry 87 year old harpy, and aside from feeding him, my arthritic body barely allows me to hold his head up to drink from a cup.

My voice says NO.  We CANNOT bring Dad home.  I WILL NOT see his last days sullied by that screaming harpy cursing him for being an old, debilitated man.  I will make that clear, in an unemotional, measured way: that is MY way, MY voice, because my voice has been crushed since I came out of the incubator at one month of age.

I did make contact with a regional Veterans’ Administration representative–my Dad is a WWII combat veteran–who is doing his best to get funding to pay for either nursing home or home care.  She, my mother, had been telling me with that “you stupid idiot, you should know better” tone of voice, that the VA would never give them money.   Well, guess what: they will be getting around $2000/month in Veterans’ Benefits–”For Dad and me,” she emphasized, as if I would want a single cent from them!  And of course she takes credit for the VA angle.  But at least it will take the financial incentive to take him home off–otherwise she would have to “spend down” her own money before Medicaid would pick up the nursing home tab.

Speaking of money, before Dad had his last fall, the one that landed him in the nursing home, I had been caring for him two days a week, plus making dinner for them (my own money, and let me tell you, kosher meat is not cheap) on Friday nights.  The county Social Services worker told my mom that there was money available to pay me for my work as a caregiver.  My mother turned it down on the grounds that a child should not be paid for taking care of a parent.  Thank G-d I have money to live on now, but I am furiously saving for the day that that source of funds dries up, when I turn 65, in 4 1/2 years.  That money would have come in right handy, to stash away for the desperate times that will follow the cessation of my private disability funds.

It is a terrible thing to say, but I am looking forward to the day that I am free from this elephant sitting on my heart.  I know what that will mean.  He is not yet ready to go; he needs to rectify some issues inside himself.  I don’t want to rush that.  But one thing I have learned in my chaotic life is patience.  I once heard that the best way to victory over an abusive parent is to outlive them.  I don’t know if I will outlive my mother, but in a way my death preceding hers would also be a victory.  I just don’t want to see her sneering face on the “other side.”

And since I have a feeling that that would be a very effective form of Hell, I had better be careful not to “become my enemy.”

Somehow I must do the work necessary to face down my Inner Pharaoh and in doing so, lose the fear that has kept me in slavery for 60 1/2 years.

Advantages and Disadvantages to Depot Injections, for me, personally

Well, I’m on a depot injection, here are my personal advantages and disadvantages.


  • I see my GP every 2 weeks, so if something goes wrong with something else, I’m right there. His office is pretty close, and it gets me out of the house at least.
  • I don’t have to take a pill every night, worry about half lives, losing the pills, my doc has them.
  • Less side effects.
  • I’m not scared of or bothered by needles.
  • It works, and it works fast.
  • If something goes wrong, I see my GP soon, no waiting on appointments, I can just call and get in.
  • No wondering if I took that med or not every day.
  • One less prescription to worry about with the rest.
  • One less pill to count out in my pill box.
  • Immediately after the shot I feel a lot calmer and relaxed
  • I feel more cared for
  • KILLS my symtpoms. FAST.



  • It is a shot, and sometimes they hurt (though so far, it hasn’t)
  • A bit of anxiety the day of the shot. Usually gone by the time I take morning meds.
  • If I were to get side effects, it would take 2-3 weeks for them to go away
  • Dropping my pants for my GP (lol)
  • People think you’re really sick if you bring up “injection”
  • People think you’re forced into it, that you have no choice (this was my choice)
  • Having to be at a doc’s office every 2 weeks for a shot.
  • The pharmacy sometimes has to order it in, not always in stock, pain in the ass (pun intended)