Daily Archives: March 20, 2015

Sharing a house with four little dogs who bark at everything that moves and eliminate wherever they please takes some getting used to. Actually, it’s five dogs when you count my Zinnie, and six if you count the bird that barks just as well (and just as often) as the dogs do.

Then there’s the snake, an ugly green thing that does nothing but ooze around the twigs in its cage and eye its soon-to-be dinner, a little grey mouse I’ve come to feel very sorry for. He keeps scurrying around his glass prison, trying to find an escape hatch, but I don’t think he quite realizes the danger he’s in; every now and again he runs up the branch where the snake is and sniffs at it. This brings the critter out of its lazy sleep and causes it to strike out. It obviously isn’t hungry yet or the mouse would’ve been devoured….and as I watch the little guy race around the enclosure, I find myself rooting for him.

For their part, the mini-pins are very affectionate, even the one I have to inject twice a day with insulin. Good thing I’m fast with a needle or I’d have been bitten multiple times, but she always forgives me quickly and two minutes later she’s nuzzling me with her long nose.

The Pomeranians, on the other hand, are rather snooty, although they too love cuddles and will lick you to death if you let them. They bullied my dog Zinnie from the start—probably because she came too close to their new puppies—but seem to have lightened up a bit, because she’s no longer hiding under the desk near my feet or under the blankets on the big sectional sofa.

In the meantime, my son Ethan has been calling on a regular basis to see how things are going here. He won’t be able to once the ship sails, which will be the end of all phone contact for eight days. I can’t even imagine being out of range for that long…..but then, I can’t imagine being on an eight-day cruise either, even though it’s on my bucket list along with seeing the birthplace of Jesus and staying at one of those little stick houses in the shallow ocean water in Bora Bora. (Actually, I just want to live there.) Next life: straighter hair, better metabolism, more money…..and of course, no bipolar. Woo-hoo!

My two favourite typos ever are …

Kudus to … I can’t remember who the kudus were going to, but she meant kudos. And it’s not a simple oops I got a vowel wrong because here in South Africa, we get kudos for having kudus. And here is a kudu.

It’s the Greater Kudu (the Lesser one hangs out in East Africa, feeling inadequate) and to give you an idea of how big an antelope it is, males can weigh up to 270kg. They taste good too.

May your sole be at peace. This one arrived in my life by email today, and it was rendered even more delightful by the fact that the writer was shitting all over me (local town board bs politics). I replied politely, dealing with the crap at hand and signed off, you do know that a sole is a fish, right?

It just wouldn’t have been as amusing using the bottom of feet and shoes definition.

Originally posted on Kitt O'Malley:
Walker Karraa, PhD My friend & colleague, Dr. Walker Karraa, is studying the stigma surrounding postpartum bipolar disorder. If you fit her research criteria and are interested in participating, please do so. Her book Transformed by Postpartum…

No, I haven’t completely lost my shit as the title might imply. Just some good humored mocking of Dr. Seuss. You read the same book to your kid fifty times, it has this insidious way of creeping under your skin. Besides…it’s funny.

As predicted…my little hypochondriac made a miraculous recovery yesterday. No vomiting, full appetite, full of energy. I can’t believe the school is always sending her home then threatening me with truancy charges. I’m from a hardcore family of hillbillies. We didn’t go to doctors unless we were bleeding, on fire, or required to by law. So you threw up once? Oh, wait, she didn’t throw up, she coughed up phlegm and called it puking. Geesh. Kids today are wussies.
Mother of the year, ain’t I?
We all are a product of our upbringing. I just want to reverse the mentality all my mother’s babysitting put into the child’s head. She gets a hangnail and says, “Gramma says you should take me to the hospital.”
Uh huh.
Knife in the skull? Hospital.
Gas bubbles in the tummy? Suck it up.
I’m not without empathy or compassion, I’m just…not an enabler. Especially after this morning when I was playing music I like and she claimed it was giving her a headache and upsetting her stomach. But if it was that bloody Frozen theme, oh, she liked that.
Malingerer.

Yesterday was a low mood day but…The anxiety wasn’t as bad. And I know why. My kid was home, I had no dealings with the petri dish, I could just breathe. For whatever reason, I am more dysfunctional outside my bubble. Of course, this sounds behavioral and a suck it up issue, but it’s really not. I’ve adapted as much as I can. The pathology remains the same.

On a side note…It’s amazing how someone will just use you and blow you off until you call them on their bullshit. Then suddenly they’re all about shifting blame onto you and insisting you don’t know them, you don’t understand them, you’re wrong.
Is denial the same thing as lying? I mean, if you truly don’t know you’re being an asshole, does that mean your denial of it is a lie or just plain old lack of self awareness?
And how is not offensive and assholish when someone only calls you when they are drunk and everyone else is busy?
I don’t see how I perceived that wrong. It’s asshole behaviors.
I stand by my assessment, although I’m not convinced it’s an entire write off. I mean, if an insult can get someone so riled up, well, it’s kind of entertaining. LIke a cat batting a mouse around but never killing it.
I’m a troll that way.

I am due at the shop. My adoration for a bag of catfood. Those cats are lucky I love them so much because I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than be someone’s errand wench simply because they don’t like to be alone and all the cool people are busy. Cripes. Is this the best I can do for friends?
Oh, well. As long someone is useful to me, I can suck it up.
Sounds harsh, I know.

I got to thinking earlier how harsh I must come across. And I wasn’t always like that. I was always mouthy, rebellious, and sarcastic. But I wasn’t venomous and harsh. (Well outside the bipolar stuff, that shit’s vicious as fuck.) I guess so many years of being mistreated (yeah, yeah, boo hoo, call a whaaambulance) and all the mental shit..It just takes a toll on you. It depletes your spirit.
I don’t have spirit anymore.
I have a “fuck you” determination to survive even if it’s futile, because you know, none of us get out of life alive.
Anyway…I don’t always mean to be harsh. Hell, half the time, I’m not even aware I am being harsh. That’s where it’s handy to have non passive aggressive friends who are willing to speak up and call you on your bullshit.
Of course, much as I need that, those around me seem to be offended when I take that approach.
Wussies.
You think calling me a bitch is gonna piss me off?
I AM a bitch.
I am going to be a lot more vindictive if you bottle it up, then go double barrel on me with the resentment. Speak the fuck up or shut the fuck up.

Truth be told, much as I never wanted to be harsh…I quite like who I’ve become compared to that welcome mat I used to be.

Oh. I finally forced myself into a shower last night. And it was harder than you can possibly imagine. Such a simple basic necessity (and one I generally enjoy) and yet it took every ounce of self bullying and will power I had to pull it off. It was like climbing a mountain, I almost did a victory dance. That is not normal. But it is a norm of sorts with mental illness.

I finally heard back from Dr. Chihuahua’s office. They’re increasing my Prozac to sixty a day, split into 3 20 mg doses. Maybe that will help. I’m nervous about seeing the new doc next month. Face to face, eye contact, knowing they will closely scrutinize and pick apart any gesture that indicates you’re not being truthful…I mean, seriously, with my anxiety, I could fail a polygraph on my own name I get so physically responsive. It’s unnerving but at the same time..I think it’s what I need. And maybe he’s good. His wife is my kid’s pediatrician. She’s pretty cool with my kid so…I’ll give this guy the benefit of the doubt. Until he proves me wrong. Though maybe I should check his credentials, make sure he didn’t graduate from the University of Bofas And Sofas.
Okay, I’m wearing the joke out. It just makes me snicker, and few things do during the black depression. I take what I can get, even if it annoys others.
Fuck ‘em, I have enough friends.

Now…I have received my text beckoning me to go lick some shoes in exchange for cat good so I should probably run a brush thru my hair, scrape the moss of my fangs, and go fake good cheer.

Thank God I am a woman. I learned how to fake things well early on, like about the time I started getting interested in men.
(Too harsh? Meh.)

So today I have my first session of NAMI training,.  I am excited but nervous.  I’ve spoken openly about bipolar disorder but usually hidden behind a magazine cover or a microphone, never getting up in front of people and talking about it.   My early experiences talking to people did not go so well (witness what I’ve written earlier on the blog).  But now I feel very confident that I can get the message cross that you can learn to live with this disease and that it doesn’t have to ruin your life.  So pray for me to learn all I can these next few days.