Daily Archives: May 26, 2015


Just when I thought I was out of the proverbial woods, I realised that I am not (the woods turned out to be Fangorn Forest after Saruman did his thing). In fact, today was the most intense in terms of shifts. I think I had so many mood swings, that I broke the gearbox and conformed to all of the stereotypes of bipolar. Don’t tell the muggles!

Sunrise was stupendous, the coffee was excellent, the company was fantastic, the dogs were delightful, the… eh you know how it is. My mood soared, I got incredibly excited about fuckall. It was truly lovely.


Then the happy hypo updowngraded itself to a jittery, nasty and wired mania and I tremored home (on my tremorcycle), and crashed into the couch. I felt desolate, a few tears leaked out. All of a sudden I was on fire style angry and ground my teeth, wanting to pick a fight. I didn’t pick a fight, but probably simply because there wasn’t time.


Sad again, hypo again – no mania that time, because I was at home, where the pills are. I keep hoping this fucking mixed state is some sort of evil perimenopausal PMS invasion, but so far no good. I’ve never cycled so fast before and I didn’t even think about bipolar until the second or third shift. It started out so well. I guess I need to learn some more about warning signs and coping tools before I relax more and analyse less. By the time I slumped the evening meds and sang gratefully into bed, I was exasperated and unhappy, tired and wired.

Irrepressible, miserable, irascible… Lather, rinse and re-fucking-peat.

Fucking ratfucker, syphilitic and monstrous bipolar. 5 000 years ago it was first recorded. Five thousand fucking years and fuckall progress in its treatment. Oh yay progress, we won’t cut out part of your brain. There are times when I genuinely wish somebody would.

Here is a love letter to bipolar…

Laag hangende fokken ettersak van ‘n poes, donkie kont naaier, doosis en draadtrekker, lelike moer, gaan kak in jou poes, gat gaabaa saat sokkie skeel teef, gaan looi n plooi pielkop poephol, stinkgat, sluimsloot, drol, jy pis my af, idioot hoer, fokenwil voetsek !

And here is something way, way, waaay sweeter, not least because if I had the choice, I’d pick depression over a mixed ep in a heartbeat. This poem is so beautiful, that I had to keep rereading it to check that it really is about sadness…

‘Lost in the woods I snapped off a dark branch’
VI From: ‘Cien sonetos de amor’

Lost in the woods, I snapped off a dark branch
and, lifted its murmur, in thirst, to my lips:
perhaps the weeping voice of the rain,
a shattered bell, or a broken heart.

It came to me, something out of far distance,
deeply concealed, and hidden by Earth,
a cry, defeated by immense autumns,
by half-opened moistness of shadowy leaves.

But waking out of the wood’s dream there,
that hazel branch sang under my tongue,
and its vagrant perfume rose to my mind

as if suddenly roots I had long abandoned
searched me, the lost domains of childhood,
and held me, wounded by wandering fragrance.

(Pablo Neruda)


Give this song a chance, don’t switch it off till they get off the boat and on to the mic. Trust me, I have impeccable taste in morose music.

I feel better now, I did it because it’s after 1am and the drugs don’t work

Waiting Time

So my department head called today to confirm I wasn’t returning to teach this fall.  She said she was finding people to cover my classes and not to worry while I was off on surgery.  She wanted to know if I was returning in the spring, and I had to say I was not sure.

I’m very unsettled in this department.  I have applied to graduate school and have not yet gotten my official notice from the university that I have been accepted.  SO I do not know what to tell anyone about my future.  The head of the creative writing department that I have applied to says as far as he’s concerned, I’ve been accepted, but I’m leery of talking too much about it until the university sends me an official notice.  I don’t like being in a waiting place–it’s very frustrating and unnerving to me to not have  any idea what the future holds.

I will just have to wait on God and see what is going to happen.  Pray for me to have patience during this time and not try to force anything before its time.

“Alone” ~ Edgar Allan Poe

“Alone” ~ Edgar Allan Poe From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were ~ I have not seen As others saw ~ I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same […]

Desert Song

Originally posted on Dean J. Baker – Poetry, and prose poems:
? ? ? ? ? ? Your favorite songs from former lives play on and on, during these times I cannot or touch or tamper with anybody’s music Do not imagine what could have been, or that we could stop the disc: daylight will…

I Don’t Know What To Do

I am so sad all the time. Even when I am stoned I still get flits of grief that make themselves through. I don’t know how to deal with any of this. The person I would normally talk to is the one dying.

I’ve worked on her painting, I’ve written her a hand written letter. I’ve cried numerous tears. It hurts so much. What do you do when you are losing the second closest person in your life.

Every time my phone rings I’m terrified that her husband is calling to tell me she has passed. I can’t even begin to imagine how he feels or even how my BFF feels if she is even aware of what is going on. I kind of hope she doesn’t. The dementia may be a bit of a blessing in this case. I don’t know if that is though.

This is going to hurt for a long time.

Mental Illness Kindle Book

There is a mental health book on Kindle right now discussing a woman’s tale of mental illness. Here is more information:

P.s. This is totally late! I’ve been trying and trying to post this all weekend but to no avail! Please still go check out the book and support Mental Health!

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. To spread awareness and support, we are running a promotion beginning today, Wednesday May 20th, through 12 Midnight on Sunday, May 24th. The memoir, Forever Different, will be available for a free Kindle download and $1.00 per download will be donated to the International BiPolar Foundation.

Forever Different is the uncut, raw and gripping story of one woman’s personal life struggle with the extreme highs and lows of Bipolar I Disorder. This memoir is self published and the book was responsible for her journey to found her own publishing company, Christine F. Anderson Publishing & Media.  

The free Kindle download is available here:  Forever Different Kindle Edition

For more information about the author, please visit: ChristineFAnderson.com

For more information about Christine F. Anderson Publishing & Media, please visit: PublishWithCFA.com

To Learn More About BiPolar Disorder, please visit: IBPF.org

The Best Medicine

Fish BoyBy now, we all know laughter carries strong, powerful juju.  It stimulates the pleasure center of the brain, reduces mental tension, and increases energy.  Since laughter stimulates both sides of the brain, it stirs creativity, problem-solving, and helps us focus.

A good guffaw can be especially helpful for those who suffer from mental illness and some brain-related illnesses.  Physiologically, laughter impacts the limbic system, which are parts of the brain effected by depression, Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, and schizophrenia.  Proponents of laughter as therapy claim that choosing to laugh helps to break the cycle of psychological negativity.  It doesn’t change our outer circumstances, but helps us become more flexible in viewing them differently.

For me, a good laugh, one that gets me braying like a donkey, is like brain Draino.  I can feel the crust and emotional hairballs blasted out by a rip-roaring belly laugh.  And cackling with someone else only adds to the mental benefit.  It’s a way to connect.  I feel closer, safer, more attracted to the people who enjoy the same kind of humor I do. (I get you, and we’re hilarious!).

One of the highlights of my week is watching TV at my friends’ house where we egg each other on until I either snort my Mountain Dew or lose urine (Hey, every medicine has side effects).  When I go home, I almost always feel better than when I got there.

Some days it’s hard to summon a chuckle.  That’s when I rely on the Pinterest board I created for such an emergency.  I fill it with little videos and memes that guarantee me a laugh.  A good dose of Braying Like A Donkey can turn a bad day around.  And isn’t that what drugs are for?

Here’s a little sample from my medicine chest.

Does A Mental Health Diagnosis Do Us Any Favors?

“She’s a member of the prozac club…”  Yeah, that’s a lawyer’s way of discrediting witnesses.

Guess what? You’ve just shrunk your jury pool to elementary school children and Scientologists because a large percentage of the population has been on in the past, or is currently on, a med like prozac. It’s not a sin, it’s not incompetence. I am pretty resentful that so much as taking an anti depressant warrants such labeling, as if anyone who could “catch” depression is somehow inept.


Prior to being diagnosed with any mental health problem, I was just considered “weird” “awkward” or “eccentric.” And I was actually okay with that, figuring that my dysfunctional life had lead me to that place of dysfunction. Deep down, though, I always knew *something* was off in my brain. It didn’t matter how much I bullied myself, or how much I changed my behavior. The cycles were the same. Up, down, briefly stable, to the moon high, and back into the gutter low. Always anxious, always panicking even without a trigger. Something was wrong with me that wasn’t my fault.

But then came the counselors. I turned down meds. I talked until I was blue in the face. Still, the cycles remained the same. So I acquiesced to medication. The cycles remained the same, except the depression were worse and the manic episodes longer and more severe.

That happens when you give straight anti depressants to a bipolar patient.

Fast forward to 2006 when I was finally diagnosed as bipolar and given mood stabilizers. Suddenly, I wasn’t spending money like water on shit I didn’t need and I had no desire to. I wasn’t goofy happy for no reason, taking chances, making impulsive decisions. I was no longer screaming mad and throwing things, nor was I bawling and hiding in closets. It felt like, wow, this makes a difference.

Except…It’s never cured the depressions. I’m to the point where I’ve tried 3/4 of the anti depressants in the pharmacy. First gen, second gen, SSRI, SNRI, MAOI. The doctors look at me with revulsion, I’ve tried so many, as if I chose for them to work briefly and quit or not work at all or give heinous side effects. I am a pain in their side because I don’t fit inside their neat little box of “it works for a million other people, the problem is you.”

They don’t consider a complex multiple diagnosis. Nor do they consider all the meds they have you on for said disorders and how they might or might not combine for best results. They only care of there’s a chance for a dangerous interaction. For all they know, giving Zoloft to someone with a hormonal imbalance may make them more depressed. They don’t know, yet they still seem to place blame and responsibility on the patient.

So here I am, 13 years on disability, still jumping through hoops trying to prove I am indeed disabled, while med after med fails and counseling does absolutely no good because my biggest problem isn’t my personality. It’s what my mind state is that affects my personality. If I am in a depression, it stands to reason I am not going to be shiny happy people. If I am manic, then I’m going to be intrepid and limitless only to come down and fail once again. That’s not my personality. But back when I didn’t know what mental illness was and it could be blamed on my personality..At least I had some sense of control and dignity. I wasn’t a member of the Prozac club, my very intelligence being questioned and tainted. I was just “the weird girl.” And frankly, society’s so cruel, being the weird girl is a lot better than being the bipolar chick. People believe in weirdness. You’d be surprised by how few believe in mental illness.

I guess, if the shoe were on the other foot, I’d think the same way. Anyone who’s tried over 20 medications and only ever had good results with four…Obviously, they’re just looking for a pill to fix them. It’s to the point where I feel responsible for making my doctors happy by lying and saying the meds work when they don’t. That’s sad. I don’t want to fail anyone, not myself, not my kid, not my doctor. And yet, time after time, there it is. I arm myself with research, information, the experience of others, I provide journal entries to give a peek inside my daily mind…And still, I am made to feel like somehow it’s my fault for not responding to what a million others do. And face it, if that were how it worked, they wouldn’t need dozens of different formulas for the medications. (My old shrink said the only one that should be on the formulary at all was Zoloft and that shit made me suicidally depressed.) I feel like it’s a losing battle. I’m not looking for a cure in a pill, I just want to feel better, enjoy the things I used to, and make it STICK.

Did a diagnosis do me any favors?

I’m not sure it did, from a self esteem point of view. Yeah, I have the diagnosis and it explains much of my dysfunction. But I’m still viewed as “a member of the prozac club”, like somehow having imbalanced brain chemicals is some sort of mental hindrance to intelligence. I have no doubts that I am fairly smart. I was in gifted classes in school, honor roll,et al. I’m not dumb.

I do, however, have a disability, and it’s not simply being a member of the “prozac club”. If your body is sick, people tell you to take the time to heal and they make concessions for whatever is hindering you from keeping up with the able bodied.

If your mind is sick, somehow you’re just irrelevant and lazy. Never mind that the brain is the epicenter that runs every response in our bodies, physical and emotional.

Can you imagine if a computer had a virus that affected every aspect of its functionality? Oh, no, must remove it, must fix it, can’t run a computer if it’s corrupted.

The human brain is a computer. Mental illness is the virus. We’re not running properly and our meds are our anti virus program. Except no matter how much you update, there’s always some little asshole creating a new virus to infect your brain.

In some ways, I am grateful for my mental health diagnosis. I know it’s not just me being some loser. And mood stabilizers stave off the worst parts like the crying and screaming and doing impulsive self harming things.

In other ways…It’s like having a biohazard label stuck to my forehead for the rest of my life.

I blame society, and its collective ignorance and lack of compassion, for that.

Punishing people for seeking help with an illness is abhorrent.


We are in the midst of a hellacious thunderstorm. Had to close the windows, the rain’s coming down so hard. Which of course means I am now baking in the humidity. Fortunately, it waited until after I’d ventured into the dish for spawn drop off. Unfortunately, today is supposed to be school fun day and as it was to be outdoors…The poor kids are out of luck. That makes me sad for them. They earned a fun day. I guess by afternoon it could dry up but the mud, oh, the mud…Meh.

I am having this issue with being out in public at this time. Yesterday was…an excerpt from what I wrote but never posted.

I had to run a quick errand in the dish today, took no more than ten minutes including drive time…But I felt like I was psychologically naked and vulnerable and there was no reason to feel that way. It almost felt like having a target painted on me and everyone is armed with guns. Which is at odds with how I feel sometimes, which hovers between apathy and a get it done mentality, or the “ten feet tall and bulletproof” mentality. I’m hoping this simpering thing is just hormonal. I don’t like feeling weak. I should have stopped and put gas in the car as it’s nearing the orange mark. But I felt so freaked out and vulnerable, I said fuck it, I’ll do it later. Now I worry I might run out of gas, which is pretty much my norm, I get near the 1/4 mark and start feeling scared of that. I just…couldn’t manage to push myself any more on this day.

While out this morning, I bribed myself into finally stopping to put gas in the car. Of course, that didn’t fare well because the bribe was a bag of this beef jerky I love…Idgets phased it out and now all there is are the pricy brand name ass trash kinds I can’t stand. FUCK. Instead I got a fountain Dr. Pepper (first soda in two days) and a bag of Italian recipe Gardettos. Damn it, I liked that tender cuts beef jerky. Assholes. Still feeling like a target but that could have been the bright yellow shirt I slept in and wore out cos it’s comfortable even if it makes me look like a parade float. (Yesterday, I wore clothes I hadn’t slept in, even a bra, not because I care, but because ouch, chafing.) I got back in time to put trash by the curb and then it began pouring. Of course, it seems like it’s done now, which is going to amp the humidity to stifling levels. UGGH. No happy fucking medium in the midwest.

The way I am starting to view my life is, at the start of the week, I have this elaborate design of dominoes all lined up. They’re in the shape of a pegacorn and it’s beautiful and there’s this bratty little kid called mental illness just salivating at the chance to tip the first one over and set off a chain reaction. I just never know when it’s coming. Could be car troubles, loud noise, my kid having a fit, a call from family…Or all that might not even work up a breeze and the dominoes all remain standing in their lovely pattern. It’s a precarious place to live, never knowing if things will remain in tact or if one tiny thing will set off a chain reaction and bring it all crashing down. Makes you afraid to move. Long as the pattern remains and all dominoes are standing, you might stand a chance. If that first domino goes, for whatever reason…Downward spiral.

The dominoes almost went flying down yesterday after dad brought my kid home. From yesterday’s unposted rubbish:

Dad brought my kid home. Thus started The Lecture. She was an angel for them (never mind how much sugar they plied her with, she didn’t get aggressive and act up for them so it must just be me making shit up) and they did this and that and she played at the park and with other kids and…Maybe it’s just the pms thing making me super sensitive but that alone about made me burst into tears. I get it, I am a failure as a mother.
Then came the other lecture, about “for what you pay to live here you could have a nice house.” Yeah, a two bedroom where I’d have to pay trash and water thus saving fuck all for less room. Just to impress him. I live check to check, I couldn’t even come up with half a security deposit. My credit is shit.  And I asked him what the hell I am supposed to do. Brilliant sage had no answer for that, just more than condemnation, somehow voicing that I am providing an unfit life for my kid. I’m not blowing it out of proportion, he does this a few times a month. Never with an answer, just the lecture to make me feel shitty even though I am doing the best I can.
They even insulted my ability to groom my kid’s hair and said they’d take her for a proper summer haircut. And my anger was boiling up and I just muttered, “Yeah, priorities, looking good is all that matters.”
God if I could perfect the burst-into-flames look, he’d be cremains by now.
That’s my family. Not a nice word from any of them about how well I’ve done. Just lectures about what I am not getting right. And my kid starts in on me right through the door. I want ice cream. I want cookies. Poppy let me have them. I say after supper, it starts a pouting fit. She demanded to play on Neopets, I told her not until she asked nicely.
Even without my mental disorders, I have enough on my plate to want to crawl into a closet and cover my ears while sobbing. My family is the bane of my existence, the destroyers of my self esteem, the ones quick to judge me and point out all I do wrong yet never ever tell me if I did something well.
I got hit by this notion, hey, one day I could just save up money and me and Spook can take off, go anywhere else. And it smashed into me, I can’t do fuck all. Second I do, The Donor will catch wind of it and suddenly decide he’s interested in seeing her and I’ll be charged with taking her out of state.
Trapped. By mental illness, by my family, by my right not to take my kid where we might flourish. Not that I’m gonna win the lottery, it was just this fleeting “I could…” But no, I can’t.
Yet I still keep going. And get no credit from those who are supposed to love me unconditionally. I can barely stand to be around my family. And that’s when I’m not hormonal and in crampy back aching pain. They are toxic.
And yeah, yeah, they love me in their own way and mean well.
Good intentions do fuck all to repair the damage they do to my self esteem every time they see me. No matter how hard they’ve seen me struggle with my mental stuff, they still think it’s a lazy personality and I choose not to snap out of it. I. want. to. be. an. orphan.

It haunted me the whole evening, that twenty minute visit that made me feel like the world’s biggest failure. He was on about “What if one of your meth head neighbors blow the whole place up?” (Already been in a building that caught fire, had to move, bfd.) Then he said, “well, what are you gonna do if they decide to just shut the whole trailer park down?” Um…That could happen with any place I live. Even if I owned a home, the powers that be could come along and decide to build a highway through my property. My dad is just a fucking gloom monger, not to mention plain cruel. Like I don’t run through worst case scenarios on a daily basis. Like I need his fucking help.

And part of me knows exactly where this is going, he does it a couple of times a year. There’s probably a property open or about to be open in their armpit little town and they want me to move over there. To save money, of course. Which if I paid two hundred in rent, fifty, for water, fifty for trash, then needed ten bucks in gas every time I needed to run to town for groceries…Not saved a fucking thing. It’s because they want to see her more. And he manipulates me, never hears what I have to say. I’m 42, I wish he’d leave me the fuck alone. I’ve told him as much, which results in him bringing up every cent he’s ever spent on me, like I am indebted to kiss his ass forever. Mom is the same. Which is why I resent them doing anything for me, it’s gonna cost even more in the end.

Of course, the hormonal thing is making me wayy more sensitive than I normally am. The desire to claw out eyeballs will pass. I hope.

It occurred to me between Spook staying with my mom then with my dad, I spent maybe seven hours with my kid the whole three day weekend. That’s wrong. I feel like a slacker. And it’s not like it made me any less stressed, truthfully, it just gave me new ones. Still, I can’t keep her from her grandparents and I can’t keep her glued to my side just so I feel like I am being a responsible mom. I just don’t like feeling as if I shunted her off to avoid being responsible. I know it’s my own distorted thought but knowing my family, even if the sleepovers were their idea, they probably castigate me, saying, “She doesn’t even want to be with her kid.” My counselors always thought I was embellishing or dramatizing. Then I took my mom along once (though it was for my sister cos I never mattered enough for her to be bothered) and the counselor pulled me aside later and told me my family is indeed toxic and I should limit my exposure to them for my own good. Sad considering she spent less than an hour in my mom’s presence. try a lifetime with her and my dad both chiseling away while mental illness eats your brain too.

Spook said something last night about me never smiling and always sounding mad. Made me feel like shit. The off affect is not in my control, I sound the same no matter what I say even when trying to speak softly and lovingly. I told my kid, I know I’m not fun mommy right now, hell, I’m not even pleasant mommy these days. But I do love her and it’s not on purpose that I am so wonky, I am trying to get better. I can’t compete with the fun grandparents with the money to take her places or the grandmother who lets her bills go and does without food so she can buy the fun gifts. I don’t want to compete with them because I don’t think they’re right. Maybe it’s the grandparents right to spoil grandchildren but to completely usurp me over and over and put me down in front of my kid…
Vile creatures I am tied to only by fucking happenstance DNA. I doubt my kid understands but I am TRYING.

Storm is over. I should do something housework-y. Instead I think I am just gonna breathe and not tempt the dominoes.



I think I may have come to the end of this stuff for a while; I’ve run out of funny.

monologue about being a lesbian in a asylum
Hmmm. Here is the post that brought that particular seeker here, which, having reread it, does seem like the monologue of an insane lesbian without asylum, or indeed an asylum. I googled to see where my arb post ranked – last on page one of the results, and all irrelevant to the search term. Ha. The rest were basically plays and asylum seekers; the first being tragically bad, and the second genuinely tragic.

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Под процентом выплат в интернет казино онлайн следует понимать определенную часть от суммы относительно всей величины ставок игрока. Данная сумма будет возвращена в виде выигрыша. Более высоким процент становится, когда делаются более высокие ставки. Тем не менее, это отмечается не в каждом
Когда происходит проигрыш три раза сразу, не стоит рисковать далее. Возможно, сегодня не тот день, чтобы выиграть. При проигрыше очень важно взять паузу, пусть даже и небольшую. В таком случае рекомендуется встать из-за стола с компьютером, за которым происходит игра, и заняться другими делами, то есть сменить вид деятельности. Также полезно будет отправиться на свежий воздух, чтобы мысли пришли в правильный порядок, а эмоции улеглись. Такой подход позволит избежать приятия неправильных решений и справиться с желанием сразу отыграться, которое нередко становится причиной увеличения потерь.
В общей сложности, можно провести параллель между бетом и бейсболом. Подающий игрок, выступающей в высшем дивизионе, как правило, совершая подачу со скоростью 95 миль в час, задаёт ловящему кэтчеру более сложную задачу, бросая мяч меньшей скоростью, к примеру 65 миль в час. Делайте тоже самое, когда совершаете ставку. Всё время варьируйте тактику, блефуя и совершая беты различной величины, тогда Ваши оппоненты никогда не смогут «прочитать» вас и вашу руку.
Gambling is shite. Two words – house wins.

Your information is very digestible. I enjoy your style of writing. Your points are clear and reasonable and I agree with a lot of your ideas. You have a lot of interesting views. Thank you.
That’s very kind of you, thanks for eating it.

These big time crooks are out wreck havoc among Gotham City and its millions of
innocent citizens.
This is not the batblog.

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