Daily Archives: April 15, 2015

Despite Being Depressed

I am getting out of bed and not just sitting there in regret and despair. I want to, don’t get me wrong but I’m not going to let myself do that to me. Know what I mean?

I’m writing my blog which is something that I haven’t felt motivated to do. I’m getting dressed instead of sitting around in my jammies all day. I’m still cooking meals every day and working on my weight loss. I’m getting involved in things to do with hubby. I am just not letting the depression control me. At least not completely.

I am sleeping until almost noon every day because I’d rather be in a dream world than the real world. I’m working on it though. I hope to be getting back up at 10am soon. Hopefully.

Food Insecurity and….Foodies?

Look, I’m not out to harsh anybody’s Foodie buzz, but I gotta say that the first time I heard the relatively newly-coined term, “Foodie,” was from someone who had lost his multi-million-dollar mansion in Palm Springs in the financial crash.  He ended up being my neighbor in Loafer’s Glory, North Carolina.

I made his acquaintance because of the siren scent of steak-au-poivre wafting from his backyard grill.

If your house was on fire (and I fervently hope it never is!), what would you rush to save?  The contents of your safe?  Family photos (BTW, this takes #1 on most surveys)?  Your pets?  Your children?

How about your ultra-heavy-duty-gourmet backyard grill?


This guy, who is incredibly creative but not very bright, forgot to make a few payments on his gigantic mortgage.  He came home from his self-owned business one day to find other people moving into his house.

He also found his assets frozen, so hiring a lawyer was not on the table.

He grabbed his grill, threw it in the back of the minivan that he bought with the fire-sale proceeds of his Mercedes, and fled for the hills of Western North Carolina, where a former client had a house for rent cheap.

And what was he grilling on his precious grill?  Tube steaks?  Nope.  Porterhouse.  I priced them the other day, just for fun, as I was perusing the non-Kosher meat case.  Over $20 a pound, for a Porterhouse steak.  Mind you, these were the grass-fed kind, but that was the only kind this guy would eat.

His menu was worthy of any fine restaurant.  I won’t go into detail because I am feeling lousy today, on antibiotics, and my stomach really isn’t into food at all, but since I have to write this article I will give you the gist of the thing.

I met my first Foodie on my first date with my first husband.

We were both medical students.  We both worked, and had comparable poverty-level incomes.  Let’s start there.

I won’t go into how we met.  That is fodder for another post.  I won’t even go into the fact that he had a steady girlfriend at the time, who wasn’t me.  I found out about her about the time we proposed moving in together.

The important part is that he asked me to come by his place and pick him up for our theatre date.

As I mounted the stairs to his second-floor apartment, I began to salivate.  Something delicious was cooking.  My stomach growled.  I hadn’t thought about eating before this date.  I was too nervous.  And something had happened in the anatomy lab that had put me off food for quite a while.

I wondered who could be cooking this mouth-watering meal.

Meal.  I hadn’t heard that word in so long, I had forgotten all about it.  The word, and the meal, too.

At that point in time, I had never had an actual meal in a restaurant except for a few memorable special occasions.  My idea of restaurant fare was a cup of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, if I was feeling flush; or just the soup, if I wasn’t.  Or more likely, a cup of coffee and a donut.  But an actual meal, with a salad followed by a main course, and maybe dessert?

Less than ten times in my life, certainly.

As I approached my new date’s door the aromas intensified to knee-weakening levels.  I knocked.

The sound of a chair scraping back, footsteps, and the door opened.  He was wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin.

“Come in, welcome, I was just finishing up dinner.”

Veal in white wine sauce, green beans–the skinny, tender rich-people kind, not the hefty, tough Kentucky Wonder pole beans I was raised on–little potatoes drowning in butter and rosemary….and he never offered me a bite, let alone a plate.  I was dazzled and puzzled all at the same time.  And hoping the noises emanating from my now convulsing stomach would not give me away.

Wow.  A man who cooked entire gourmet meals, just for himself!  (And didn’t invite his new date to partake…but having been raised to never ask for anything, that part escaped me for a few years, like, ten.)

I had just made the acquaintance of a Foodie.

The term hadn’t been coined yet, but I noticed after a while that his priorities differed from mine in certain key ways.

For instance, on our first anniversary we made Duck With Forty Cloves of Garlic, a recipe that involved hours of tedium to prepare and mere minutes to eat.  The menu was extensive.  And since it was, after all, our first anniversary, it included a moderately expensive bottle of champaigne.

The air was filled with the electric excitement of anticipation.  I couldn’t wait for the food to be over and the real meal to begin–and end–in the bedroom.

As it turned out, he enjoyed his meal at the table so much, and ate so much duck, and drank so much champagne, that he literally fell asleep with his face in his plate.

I’m sure there are other men in this world who prefer food over sex, but I have never personally met another one.

Here in West Bumfuck, North Carolina (a step up from Loafer’s Glory), there are so many hungry people that the food assistance programs are stretched to their limits to try to keep the most vulnerable populations–children, pregnant women, and the elderly–from outright starving.

The people of these mountains have been proudly hard-working, and self-reliant, for almost three centuries.  When they first emigrated from England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales in the 18th Century, they disappeared into the hollows and coves.  They learned to grow corn, sorghum, beans, greens, chickens, pigs, milk-cows, and children.  The latter grew up relatively healthy except for occasional waves of measles, diphtheria, whooping cough, smallpox–giving rise to whole “baby sections” of the old cemeteries.

Things that could not be grown or made–gunpowder, saltpeter for preserving pig meat, salt, pepper, and tobacco–was got by twice-or-thrice yearly excursions over the mountain trails to the settled towns of Tennessee, leading mules laden with sorghum molasses, sourwood honey, dried beans, hams, and other tradable products, work of their hands and sweat of their brows.  And thus life continued until the coming of the roads in the early-to-mid-20th century.

With the roads came the mills and the mines, and with the new days of wages the “furriners” introduced the mountaineers to things that suddenly became coveted necessities–like ready-made clothing and shoes, printed calico fabric instead of natural-dyed homespun, patent medicines instead of the herbal remedies passed down the generations of settlers, and general stores full of all sorts of things that only people with paying jobs could afford.

But the paying jobs weren’t nine-to-five.  They were more like five-to-nine.  And there wasn’t time to raise a big garden and take care of things on the farm.  And the children had to go to school instead of minding the livestock.  So the family farm, and all its bounty, foundered in the wake of sudden prosperity.

Then came the Tobacco Allotment system.  Every family who owned land was guaranteed, by the US government, that if they planted a certain proportion of their land in tobacco, it would be sold at a predetermined price at the tobacco markets in Raleigh, Salem, and Winston, North Carolina.  Now you know where the cigarette names came from.

Tobacco became the chief sustaining cash crop for those who still clung to the old ways–raising a big garden, canning, preserving, “stirring off” a batch of apple butter in the fall–and tending their tobacco allotments all summer.  It was a poisonous job, not only because of the nicotine they absorbed through their skin (and mouths, and lungs, as they became addicted to the plentiful supply), but also because the pesticides required to fend off diseases peculiar to tobacco are particularly poisonous to people as well as to bugs.

I started coming to this mountain country in the 1970’s, seeking out the old ‘uns, the men and women already up in their 80’s, who remembered and still played the music of the pre-Bluegrass era.  I will put some of mine on one of these blogs sooner or later.

My parents eventually settled here, so I had more reasons to come down from the North during breaks.  The first thing I noticed, driving down from the Midwest, was the disappearance of the tobacco fields.  Then the textile mills stood empty with their windows gaping dark mouths.  Then the feldspar mines started laying off people, especially the mid-level engineers.

Where did it all go?


In the place of the jobs and tobacco came first marijuana, a cash crop that grew well and fed families.  Then came the spotter planes and helicopters droning at night, looking for the characteristic heat signature of the marijuana patches, hidden in the hollers, just as its predecessor, the moonshine still, had been.  The crops were sprayed with Agent Orange and their growers, if caught, were hauled off to fill the penitentiaries, leaving their families in poverty and want once again.

Now we’ve got a new cash crop: meth.  It’s easy to make, I hear, and easier to sell.  I hear it brings in enough money to keep a family out of poverty, but there’s a hitch: the meth makers get hooked on their own product.  And the only thing a meth addict wants is more meth.  They will do anything for it, including prostituting their own children.  Including taking the food out of their children’s mouths.

See, the school teachers here noticed that more and more children were coming to school haggard, skinny, dirty, wretched…and their test scores were plummeting.  They were hungry.  They couldn’t learn.

They didn’t have the dollar it now costs for a school lunch, or the fifty cents for school breakfast.

Their parents were trading their food stamps for materials to make meth, and they weren’t hungry because meth takes away your appetite.  So there was no food in the house, and the parents didn’t care.

The community wanted to do something to help these children, so they started the “Backpack Program.”

Each Friday afternoon, the children get their school backpacks (donated, of course) stuffed full of nutritious food, to tide them over for the weekend.  These kids learn pretty quickly how to hide the food, even though they know it will buy them a beating, because otherwise their parents will trade the food for meth.  But at least the kids get to eat, even if they do come to school on what’s called “Black-and-Blue Monday.”

I didn’t really intend to go off on this tangent about the community where I currently live and can’t wait to leave, but there you go.  It’s where I live, and it’s what I see.  I don’t need to read USA Today to get an eyeful of the hunger situation.

According to the US Department of Agriculture, about 15% of Americans are “food insecure,” which literally means they don’t know where their next meal is coming from.

As a pediatrician practicing in this community, I have known whole families who subsisted on dry cereal, the sugary kind you can get in large bags in salvage food stores.  Without the milk, because milk was beyond their reach.  Not even the powdered kind that I grew up on, the watery blue lumpy liquid that I despised and was forced to drink, for my own good.

Lacking the most basic nutrients, the mothers were anemic.  The children were anemic.  The fathers worked two or three low-paying jobs, and were hollow-eyed and anemic.

So here we sit, a country that produces enough food to feed the entire world several times over every year–and one in six people are starving.

But not the Foodies.

Foodies, I have not written this article for the purpose of dumping on you, shaming you, or making you feel bad. You’ve earned your right to enjoy what you enjoy. It’s not like you’re harming anybody or taking food out of anybody’s mouth.

I’ve written it to highlight the truly unbelievable dichotomy between the haves and have-nots that is developing into something resembling a Dickens novel: “Please, Sir, may I have a little more?”

What would happen if, for every Porterhouse we grilled, we put aside 10% of the cost of the meat, to donate to a food assistance program?

How about doing like the religious Jews I lived with in Israel, who fasted one day a week and gave the money they would have spent on food for that day to one of the many food kitchens?  If that’s too radical, why not just donate the equivalent of the money you spend on what you eat for one day each week?

Foodies, and everybody else–when you’re in the grocery store, why not pick up a few cans of vegetables to bring to your local food bank, a bag or two of dried beans, some rice, dried potatoes–staples that will keep and not go bad–a few cans of canned chicken, Pork-n-Beans, stuff that you would probably never eat, but would fill some child’s hungry belly with protein and vitamins so they can grow and their brains can grow and learn and maybe even go to college and get a job and become…Foodies?

Potato Power?

I had another odd reminder of just how backwards my everything is wired today.

With chronic fatigue, making food happen is a chore. So what did I do first thing this morning? Poured some vinegar on some chips that had sat out overnight and ate those. And then I kept thinking about potato wedges and how those would be nice, so I made some for lunch… and inhaled the entire lot. Sat there, still felt a little hungry, but like… mainly good. And somehow, I ended up bopping around and getting little chores done, and feeling a bit clearer headed, and well. Considering that potatoes are supposed to be less than ideal due to high glycemic index or whatever, I’m slightly amused that I feel so well. I’d mainly gone with it because potatoes are one of the few things that don’t make me queasy right off; even toast makes me queasy. Anyways, I might have to repeat testing tomorrow, because delicious (and yanno, science).

I’ll add here that I am not looking for any dietary advice — most of what works for me to make me feel halfway decent is completely opposite of current ‘wisdom’. ;D

It could also be that the antidepressant dose is finally starting to settle in and do its work. I’ve noticed that the dizziness has been lifting slightly, which is yay. I hate being dizzy and have dealt with it as a default thing for too much of my freaking life. Having it come back was more stressful than I can express, even if it’s likely just a short term thing. Plus yanno, it’s no fun to have anxiety spiking out of the blue (preaching to the choir on that one, obvs). I have to wonder how I made it so long without diagnosis or treatment… smoking lots of Marlboro Reds, I guess. Sigh — even after six years smoke-free, my chest still clenches in desire for my beloved cowboy killers. I’m glad I quit, but still — in my pre-diagnosis days, it was probably the best thing I did for keeping sane.

Past that, it was very warm today… if by warm, one means high 60s. I guess I have acclimatized, considering I used to happily bask in the 100+ degrees of my native Texas. Not in a sunbathing way, just — I liked it as I passed from one air-conditioned place of safety to the next. Air conditioning isn’t a thing in British homes, but unlike our previous residence, we can get a proper breeze moving through here, and that’s lovely.

Hope everyone is doing well.



Mentally Chill: A Blog About Mental Health and Stigma: Becoming a True Mental Health Advocate

I’m proud to count Hufsa Ahmad (aka for those in the know, Hufsa the Great) among my friends. Hufsa is a young social worker with lived experience overcoming mental health stigma and adversity. Check out her blog Mentally-Chill.com. Friday we both attended NAMI…

bipolar linkdump: the mostly orly snarky edition

I’m suffering from irritabipolar disorder, it’s a form of manic depression that the DSM continues to ignore. It can be alleviated, if not cured, by massive applications of cash and lesbians to the afflicted area i.e. me. It’s a very elite version, so I’m even more special than I was yesterday. Fortunately, people tend to find me amusing when I’m pissy. And I only ever smack people once with a fish for saying so.


10 Celebrities Living with Bipolar Disorder – 5 of them in the quotes below.
Jean Claude van Damme, “I’m not perfect … I’m an extreme bipolar, and I’m taking medication for this.”
Ben Stiller, “I have not been an easygoing guy. I think it’s called bipolar manic depression. I’ve got a rich history of that in my family.”
Mary Lambert, “I’m clinically bipolar, I have a lot of insecurities — there’s a lot that I’m constantly going through. [Talking about it] allows us to connect to each other in ways we wouldn’t.”
Demi Lovato, “Bipolar depression really got my life off track. But today I’m proud to say I am living proof that someone can live, love, and be well with bipolar disorder when they get the education, support, and treatment they need…I want to shine a light on the people out there who, like me, are learning to live well with mental illness by getting the right diagnosis and finding the right treatment plan. I want to be the most informed and powerful advocate I can be and to help people find the courage to seek help.”
Catherine Zeta Jones, “[Bipolar] is something I have been dealing with for a long time…I never wanted to be as open about it as I was. I have a British stiff-upper-lip mentality – it wasn’t something I wanted to shout from the rooftops. But when it did come to light, I know I’m not the only person who suffers with it or has to deal with it on a day-to-day basis. So if I’ve helped anybody by discussing bipolar or depression, that’s great.”


Brian Wilson, Then there are the voices in his head that torment him – “auditory hallucinations,” he calls them. “Yeah,” he says, “I’ve been suffering with them for like, 30 years. I tend to hear voices, you know, but I can’t discern what they’re saying. I just hear a lot of rattle-y voices.”

Remember kids, the words of celebrities are no more valuable than your words, they’re just heard by a lot more people. That does not necessarily make them true or relevant. Comsume with caution. May contain traces of nuts.

It’s a matter of a pinion, said the pigeon

And now for the latest Lubitz theories, Lynne Curry: Fallout from a suicidal pilot and Mental illness needs support, not scrutiny, after crash.
Coast Hotel Psychiatry  “No psychiatrist is available so when she becomes a danger to herself or to others, take her to the hospital emergency room.
Insanity is not a capital crime, If you commit a serious-enough offense, it doesn’t matter in the eyes of the law if you have a diagnosed mental illness and you weren’t able to control your actions. You’ll be executed regardless. America: land of the (kind of) free.

Dating someone with bipolar – tricky to live with, mindblowingly astonishingly exquisitely amazingly good in bed. (blahpolar, 2015)

Dating someone with bipolar, a Reddit thread about the issues, which stands out due to the poster’s lack of hysterical invective. I’d just like to mention to all the billions of applications for my hand in marriage out there* that I have never ended a relationship randomly.
On much the same subject, Lynyrd McCormick’s bipolar love song will either make you laugh or become homicidal. Depends how you feel about amusing country music that calls you crazy. Brb buying a gun.


As for me, I’m not crazy, I’m just a little unwell (right now you can’t tell).

IRS in the USA? your disorder might save your ass.
Through the lens of time, After a 10-year struggle with manic depression, French photographer Yann Layma has returned with his first Chinese photo album Yesterday’s China, continuing his love affair with the country.
Nicole Kidman’s ‘Grace of Monaco’ Will Be In Good Company On Lifetime, So Zip It, Haters.
Sarah Jessica Parker plays Callie Cain, a single mother struggling to cope with manic depression while raising her five children

Search & Research


No Substitute: A good night’s sleep is good medicine.
Lithium Linked to Thyroid Dysfunction, but Only in Women Daniel M. Keller, PhD European Psychiatric Association (EPA) 23rd Congress. Medscape, so (free) login required.
Looking for Bipolar II Women for MRI Study (McLean Hospital) BOSTON Do you suffer from Type II Bipolar Disorder? If you do and are a woman between the ages of 18 and 45, you may be eligible for a research study at McLean Hospital. The study involves a 2 hour interview and an MRI scan of your brain. You will be paid up to $200 for participating in the study. If you are interested, contact Dr. Brad Reich through Craig’s List or at 617-855-2935.
Bipolar symptoms for men and women are not the same, for example, In general, men with bipolar disorder first present with symptoms of mania. Women more often show symptoms of depression.

The {Stigm{A}rmy Education Troops (an orly owl free zone)

Removing the stigma of bipolar disorder Kyle Kixmiller and Nancy Lacy Kixmiller were married for several years while Kyle battled bipolar disorder and alcoholism. He died on Tuesday, March 17, 2015, at 52 years old.
Targeting Teenage Depression By Karen Swartz, M.D. Baltimore, MD, USA
Courage To Come Back: Mental Health recipient stamps out stigma. Andrea Paquette is the founder of bipolarbabe.com, VANCOUVER – She may playfully refer to herself the “bipolar babe,” but her life has been anything but fun and games.
‘Your life is in your hands’ Madison Dorling, 21, a third-year St. Lawrence student in the BAA Behavioural Psychology Bachelor Degree program, spoke for the first time, publicly about her bipolar disorder diagnosis.
Bipolar disorder training for Adults with Bipolar Disorder, their Family Caregivers, and the General Public Our next webinar will be aired live on June 10, 2015 at 7PM ET / 4PM PT, Presented by Gary Sachs, M.D.
How Nic Newling beat the black dog: Can young people who suffer bipolar disorder ever recover?
Joe Pantoliano Set for NO KIDDING! ME TOO!! Documentary Event at Ridgefield Playhouse, 5/13
“This empowering film sheds light on the fact that nearly 100 million Americans suffer in isolation. Candid, often humorous discussions with Pantoliano and his family on their struggle with his own clinical depression, as well as the compelling stories of six other people from all walks of life, all affected differently by mental illness, including a brain surgeon with bipolar disorder and three high school students managing bipolar disorder and clinical depression, are part of the film. Each frankly discusses the struggle before diagnosis, with attempts at self-medication and other destructive behavior, as well as the hope and encouragement they discover when managing their own recovery and finally realizing they are not alone. The result is an inspiring vision of a society that “stomps the stigma”, as those impacted by mental illness are surprised to find millions of others like themselves, saying, “No Kidding! Me Too!!”


Georgia veteran shot dead by police needed more help from VA, Bridget Anderson says Anthony Hill, who was shot dead by police in Atlanta in March, did not receive proper medical care for bipolar disorder.

Make it stop!

Continuing planet earth’s bipolarity, we have bipolar weather, gaming, economics, politics, music, electronics, engineering, … we know all about those, but this is a new one to me. Monthly Prescribing Reference
Bipolar FRF Tx for Acne in Japanese Deemed Safe, Effective. Now even the medical field is using it. Soon people will think we blow hot and cold, can’t manage money, can’t handle leadership, enjoy music, are into electric shocks and have shitty skin.

Wait …

Oh dear …


Remind me why bipolar is a disorder instead of simply an adjective? We need a name change, guys. I know I keep saying it, but we do.

Breaking news: water is wet


This fucks me off a metric fucktonne of a fuckload. You guys know I get pissy about being called crazy; this week my ire and my eyebrows are raised at Time Mag, that allegedly respectable blah blah blah they’re a shower of idiots for this one. Yes, Science Shows Creative People Are More Likely to Be Crazy. Beyond my personal issues with the word; how many times are all of the faculties of academia required to trot that info out, before we can all just respectfully accept it and move the fucking fuck forwards? Bipolar and ADHD feature in the article and I suspect you’ll agree that it can all be filed under,  “No shit, Sherlock!”

Dear scientists,

Thanks for the recurring opinions, evidence, proof and theories about our creativity. Now how about you give us all arts grants and then piss off and hunt for a freaking cure?



The Genius-Insanity Gene: Why The Smartest People Are A Little Bit Crazy . The way I see it, if you want to be successful in ANY walk of life, you gotta be a little bit f*cked up too. I mean, all the “good ones” are.

Dear scientists,

My previous email refers; simply include the word ‘intelligence’.

Yours unfunded,


Facebook can worsen as well as improve mental health conditions – yeah thanks … we actually knew that before you did. Knobhead.


*I really am joking, try the bipolar dating site instead. I have zero idea what it’s like. I’m just working the lesbo angle for SEO purposes, I figure I’ll get 746582 visitors looking for lesbian porn.

You have just wasted time that you will never get back.

LINK: Bipolar disorder in the workplace presents challenges, but they can be overcome

Bipolar disorder in the workplace presents challenges, but they can be overcome

Great article about mental illness and the workplace

Can’t be Real

Most of the time I feel like I don’t actually have any mental health issues and I have been fooling...

The post Can’t be Real appeared first on Pretending to be What We Are.

Bipolarsaurus and Picnic Attacks

Yeah, I don’t have a classier title. It’s funny though. Next time panic strikes, I am just going to think of red checkered tablecloths and picnic baskets. Picnic attack. I wonder if it will help.


So I am still binge watching Nurse Jackie. And all this sobriety/sponsor talk has me wondering…
Why do people with mental illness not have a sponsor?
Ya know, someone we can call when things get really shitty and the darkness seeps in or the mania is knocking.
It would be super helpful to have a lifeline like that, maybe pull you back from the edge.
Not to compare addiction with mental illness, each are their own entity, but both are just as destructive to yourself and those around you. Heading off a self destructive manic episode or suicidal depression are just as worthy of support as someone not taking their next drink or pill or whatever.
So why not have a mental health “sponsor”?
Of course, that word would need to be replaced, I don’t like that word, it makes me think of high paid athletes and network TV. Sponsor this, idgets.
I don’t think it’s such a bad idea.
Especially if you’re in a situation like mine. Small town, little mental health education or support. Hell, the nearest NAMI meeting happens once a month fifty miles away and I can’t afford to drive that far.
Who do I call when I’m on that mental health ledge?
I have no one.
And there are so many of us in that same boat. Even those with a fully supportive system of family and friends reach a point where they’d really like to lean on someone who’s worn that particular pair of toe pinching pain inducing shoes called mental illness.

Once upon a time back when dinosaurs roamed the earth…Ok, it was the early 2000s when MSN had free chat rooms…I found this entire group of people who had depression, bipolar, borderline, panic, all the the classics…And we’d go into this virtual room with our internet handles and sometimes we’d talk seriously. Sometimes we’d all just snark around. And there were of course the one on one message chats.
It was a lifeline for many years. I loved that “room” and those people.

And then it all went to shit and Facebook destroyed everything and texting and Tweeting became the thing and not to sound like an old person…GET OFF MY LAWN. I want my support system back.
I have voiced this only to be met with, “No one wants to chat with a keyboard, they want face time.”
Yeah, Skype can bite me. I will never own an Apple product.
Besides, I hate video and loathe voice chat simply because my kid never stops talking and balancing that with ambient noise of neighbors having domestic disputes is too stressful. Typing puts me in control.
Egad, I sound like my dad promoted CB radios over all technology.

I know I can never go back, things change, progress, blah blah blah.

I still love the idea of creating a network, be it using a phone, text, IM, skype, two tin cans…so none of us ever have to face the dark periods on our own again. It’s not a cure but it’s a buoy in the water when you’re drowning.
I want that.
I want to be that for someone.
The professionals can only do so much. We can only do so much.
But if we were to stand together and lean on each other…We would be that much stronger and more likely not to regress.

Unfortunately, I’m just the idea girl, I know fuck all about follow through. If I did, I’d have done created “meal in a pill” and shut people up about “morbid obesity epidemic”.
That and the “cures stupid” supplement.
A ghoul can dream.

Mary Jane

Another blessing in my life is my friend Mary Jane.  She and I worked together at Social Security Disability and stayed friends after that–I’d say we’ve been friends now for almost twenty years.  She is one person I can say anything to, and she can receive it without being shocked.  She knows all my secrets and has kept them faithfully all these years.  She understands mental health; she is in recovery as well.  She is able to reassure me that things will get better and pinpoint when there is something going on that I need to pay attention to.

She got me started collecting purses and loves to shop for exotic items.  We both love to write and have been able to share in successes in that field as well as many other areas in common.  Her life has been touched by more grief than most people can stand (she lost her only child several years ago) but has no let it keep her down. I like to think we are an encouragement to each other and we love to get together for lunch and talk about our lives.  She loves my girls and says she prays for all of us as we navigate these interesting transition years to the empty nest.  Mary Jane is a true friend and I am glad she is in my life.

LINK: Bipolar disorder in the workplace presents challenges, but they can be overcome

Bipolar disorder in the workplace presents challenges, but they can be overcome

Great article about mental illness and the workplace