Daily Archives: July 4, 2014

Happy 4th of July!


Happy 4th of July, my fellow American fuckers!  These are just a few of the pics that I took last night, yes, one night early, at my Mom & Dad’s house.  They live next to a  golf course and they have a HUGE to-do for the Fourth.


I had ECT yesterday and spent the day sleeping off the anesthetic.  BUT!  I was awake for this!  Pretty gorge, huh?

DSC_0046Hope you’re enjoying an outstanding holiday weekend.  I am chasing after my bloodwork I had done on Wednesday so that I could get my damned Clozaril.  If the lab doesn’t fax it to the pharmacy, I am shit outta luck and no doubt looking at a relapse if I have to go three days without.  Crossing my fingers that it gets faxed.  Have I mentioned what a ROYAL PAIN IN THE ASS it is to be on Clozaril???

Best wishes, BPOF

Filed under: Bipolar, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar ECT, Photography is sweet, Psychology Shmyshmology Tagged: Bipolar, Clozaril Is A Pain In The Ass, Mental Illness, Psychology, Reader

Independence Day

Now that the dust has settled from yesterday’s decision to stop looking for nursing jobs, I’m starting to feel a sense of not only relief, but freedom. Thus, it seems fitting on this Independence Day to issue my personal declaration of independence.

I declare my independence from the expectation that I will always do the same thing because it’s what I’ve always done. Of course I’m terrified of pursuing a completely different line of work, but I’ve come to realize that there is more than one way to make a living and even more importantly, find satisfaction in life. I’m taking this giant leap of faith into the unknown, and since I don’t do the unknown well, this is a major opportunity to grow, even though it’s painful and costly right now.

I declare my independence from other peoples’ demands. I was not put here on this earth to cater to someone’s every whim, or be abused when I don’t do it perfectly. This is another reason I’m getting out of nursing…..there is the expectation that nurses must take whatever patients, families, doctors, and managers dish out, even up to and including physical violence. I didn’t get to this point in life or go through the things I’ve been through to be somebody’s punching bag, either figuratively or literally. Forget it!

I declare my independence from stereotypes. Just because I’m older and overweight doesn’t make me less intelligent. And having a mental illness doesn’t mean I should be denied employment or deprived of my Second Amendment rights. Don’t even get me started on this one. Grrrrrr.

I declare my independence from worrying about what people think of me. I didn’t live this long to allow the popular viewpoint to dictate how I think, vote, or do business. I don’t feel any particular need to force my values on others; I merely request the same courtesy in return.

I also declare my independence from conformity. I have always been the odd man out, even when I was young and wanted nothing more than to fit in with the other kids. Now I acknowledge the fact that I am an equine of a different hue, and that’s OK. I’ve got plenty of companionship on the journey because I’ve collected a batch of friends who also can’t be fit into a box. And we actually LIKE it that way.  

Happy 4th of July!

On the Inside

I saw this pass-along the other day and felt compelled to, well, pass it along.


It reminded me of a lot of things. Things I try not to remember.

Not all scars show. Some of mine do. The one where kids threw a rock at me, requiring seven stitches in my forehead. The ones where I cut myself. (I’ll write more about that later.)

Others don’t. I’ve often described my relationship with Rex as a train wreck. People wonder why I haven’t gotten over it, all these years later. It was the sort of train wreck in which you lose pieces of yourself, some of them irreplaceable. These scars aren’t the visible kind.

Not all wounds heal. Especially the wounds that happen when you’re too young to know how to treat them. Cutting words. Emotional bruises. Neglect. Loneliness. There are no bandages that can cover them, no ointments that can soothe them, no miracle cures.

Not all illness can be seen. If we’re high-functioning or have learned enough coping mechanisms, others may not notice. But bipolar disorder – and other mental illnesses – are, if not immediately visible, lurking just below the surface. And ready to break through at any time.

Not all pain is obvious. But it can leak out, especially around the eyes.

Remember this before passing judgment on another. But judgment-passing is practically an Olympic sport these days, along with shaming.

Scars. Wounds. Illness. Pain. These are things that those of us with mental disorders know all too well. What if our conditions are chemical imbalances in our brains? The consequences of having them, the misunderstandings they cause, the messages we receive, the behaviors we can’t understand or control or mimic, the friends we lose, the opportunities and joys we miss out on, are very real. And don’t let anyone tell you different.

Our disorders may be in our brains, but they’re not all in our heads.

But you knew that, didn’t you?

Social terror

Happy July 4th.

We have two cookouts to attend. Neither Becca nor I are really jazzed because of that monster known as social anxiety.

My mom’s I can deal with. The one at R’s…is always such a crowd and while I’ve met most of the people before…They make me uncomfortable. They pretty much act like I don’t exist, which is fine, unless it’s because they are looking down on me. i don’t much like elitist snobs and half the people associated with this cookout are just that. And most of them are R and Mrs’ R’s children.

Last time, his daughter was trying to indicate someone was scuzzy and a bad person and said, “Come on, what do you expect, she (the girl referenced) lives in a trailer park.”

Yeah. I live in a trailer park. No taking offense there.

It’s weird because R and his wife are for the most part down to earth and really cool people. But their kids…Adult kids are the worst. Overachievers who simply don’t understand why everyone isn’t like them.

I’m dreading it. My kid is psyched. She loves to socialize. I’m trying to psych myself into some sort of illness to get out of it.

I mentioned social anxiety to my dad and he said, “You need to grow up, little girl, that’s just what life is.”

Rather than blow up, I repeated the snark I threw at Becca when she found board game Life there: “I’m already playing life and I don’t like it.”

So I got a dad spewing speech on how he doesn’t like a lot of things, suck it up, blah blah blah. It was a JOKE.

But the whole social anxiety issue, he’s an ass about. Even my brother, his beloved golden child, has the problem and takes pills for it. My dad’s denial is iron clad. He views all mental issues as just that, mental. As in personality and weak character. Laziness.

He really didn’t help.

I’m sure after a couple of cocktails at R’s house I will manage to calm down. Right now I can’t focus on writing, reading, playing games. The anxiety is just ass encompassing. And I keep thinking, how do I get out of this…

Where’s an ebola infected monkey when you need one?

Yeah, I need to put on the big girl panties and deal with it, I know.

If mental issues accepted logic and sell bullying…I wouldn’t have any. Just doesn’t work that way.

4 year old is kicking my ass

Day started out okay. Paid bills.

I ordered a laptop. Hours later, I was informed it was canceled due to be out of stock. My bank is gonna keep the money on hold two weeks, though. Joy, fucking, joy.

As the day wore on, my mood continued to go down, and my anxiety progressively went up until I was in hostile irate territory.

My kid is pushing me severely. Nothing I do is right or good enough. She tells me how to play with her, how to hug her, how to do everything. I am so tired of being critiqued and my self esteem so depleted I want to wave the white flag. ENOUGH. MERCY. UNCLE.

I try so hard, I really do. And Becca is my witness. I just have an impossible Uzi child. She insinuates herself into everything, even the guys doing repair work next door can’t work without her yelling at them through the windows. She is so…domineering. Which may be a glimpse into how others see me, but again…Becca can attest to me asking her opinion and input, I don’t bulldoze unless it’s the only way to get these things done because those around me have no opinion or say “I don’t care.”

My kid, on the other hands, says, “Please ponies with me” so I do and she has to give me a script to read from and tell me what my pony should do and say and…I’m being an infant, aren’t I?

I’m just so bloody frustrated. And my self confidence is eroded to nil between the Uzi child and my own mental bullshit. I just want to crawl into a closet and hide.

Especially with what I am faced with tomorrow. TWO cookouts, one with a ton of unfamiliar people, one with my insane family. I already don’t want to deal either way. My stomach has been flip flopping with anxiety. I am filled with trepidation.

I am knee deep in a Mango-Rita and it’s not really helping quell my social anxiety. I know the spiel, “go, have a good time, it won’t be as bad as you think”. But with R’s elder daughter there and all her psychoanalyzing everyone and saying it’s all just behavioral, mental illness doesn’t exist.

There’s not enough booze on the planet to make me want to deal with her bullshit. And my family…Geesh, I’m dying to get more lectures about how hard my sister works (30 hours a week) and she’s so tired and…GAHHHH.

Paxil helping with social anxiety is bullshit. It’s done fuck all for me. And it’s really this mixture of  “I don’t want to stay home and be bored and I don’t want to deny Becca the curiosity of a JUly 4th celebration” but damn it…I don’t wanna go. To either place. I am feeling weak and fragile and I don’t wanna go. It sounds childish and bratty but it is what it is. No doubt I will suck it up and go and then spend two or three days reeling and recovering while replaying every moment in my head so my self esteem can be shredded even more….

It drives me fucking nuts how one minutes I am fine, the next I feel like my brain is trying to claw its way of my skull. I’m sure it’s one more personality disorder that is all my fault but truth be told…I feel my sanity slipping away from me. My short term memory, my mental dyslexia, my iirritability…

It’s just all a careening train going off the tracks and bipolar is the conductor and my kid is right there, cheering it all on, pushing, shoving, poking me with a stick. Irrational or not, it’s how I feel. I am scared. My grandmother has Alzheimer’s and I just feel like my mind is out of my control no matter how hard I try, what if this is the downward spiral for me due to junk dna?

I sound nuts. I know I sound nuts.

But I am being honest. Brutally so.

Now…since everything is shit anyway…Bex says raw potatoes are poisonous so I am gonna go slice up another one and eat it. Maybe since everything with me is abnormal and opposite it won’t kill but will make me better.

Purple magical unicorn land.

Still…Like Mulder, I want to believe.