Daily Archives: August 7, 2015

Don’t Dream It’s Over (My Postpartum Progress Update)

    The decision could have gone either way and frankly I was prepared for the worst: To be ignored… To be shunned… To have my deepest concerns minimized… Some of you who read My Perinatal Mood and Anxiety Disorder … Continue reading

Productive Day So Far

Very interesting meeting with a writer acquaintance today.  She’s written books, including a memoir similar to what I’ve done here on the blog.  She had read my MSS for me and told me today she loved it.  She had some tactical suggestions for it to make it more marketable but said she thought the tone was great and the story was strong and was generally very complimentary of the entire thing.  SO that was a nice feeling.  Now to see where to put her suggestions into place.

Taught my homeschool class today.  Almost didn’t finish on time–i think someone was waiting on us that had gotten there early.  Two very nice and engaged girls were my students, and I’m hoping for a good semester of work out of them.

A little bit discombobulated today–an alarm notifying the alarm monitoring company that there was something wrong with the fire alarm tripped off last night and kept tripping off–and the alarm company called us about every hour or so to let us know that it was still tripping off. from 10:30 p.m. last night until 6:15 a.m. this morning   Hopefully it’s been settled by now and won’t happen again tonight.

.So we will see what happens the rest of the day.  Hope everyone has a great weekend!

Live! From An Implausible Afterlife!

Yeah, fuck it, I don’t have a fully formed post in me today. But I’ve been missing. Kinda. Sorta. I’m not dead. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m not dead. I posed a hypothetical to a philosophy buddy of mine (never do this) where I asked, What if when we die, we don’t know we’re dead, we just keep on trucking like normal, but, over time, things get incrementally better and better in ways too small to feel implausible, into infinity, each day getting slightly better than the one before but not so much that we legitimately wonder if we’re actually dead and in heaven?

Which is just bananas, let’s be serious. But wouldn’t that be kinda cool? I think so. But not grounded in reason, as are not most (all) conceptions of a human afterlife. Feel welcome to disagree, but, after having given it like a decade of thought, the notion that human consciousness survives the death of the body strikes me as wishful thinking in the best cases and a manipulative threat in the worst (Hell). But I’m an atheist, and I will see your Pascal’s Wager and raise you a Russell’s Teapot every time, up unto the point where doing so is illogical, but that has yet to happen, not to me, at least. When I die, I’ll be dead. Like, I’m pretty sure I’ll be dead after I die. But I can’t prove that so much as ponder it deeply, so I welcome any arguments to the contrary. I like to be proven wrong when I’m wrong, but only when there’s actual proof (see: necessary truth and my further abuse of Wikipedia’s watery philosophy articles today).

ANYway, you can close your textbooks ’cause I mostly came here to tack up the following stray thoughts in a lazy, disorganized manner because I’m fucking depressed and my motivation’s in the can, and words, more words, larger words, showoff words, curse words, edited words, reedited words, precisely selected words, words I don’t mean, words I do mean but not as much as I’m making it seem, words I mean more than I’m making it seem, and then close with a curtsy.


– The Welbutrin dosage increase is fucking with my already fucked appetite and it is SUCH A GODDAMNED PAIN IN THE ASS. I want my protein pills, Bowie. Will supply own helmet. Don’t let me down, dude. I’m hungry.

– I started journaling again. It seemed like a good idea. Plus the journal I bought is really pretty and accommodates my stupid, gigantic handwriting nicely. But the best thing is that it’s intended to be completely private, so I don’t need to edit anything or spellcheck anything and I can write down the things I probably won’t ever say to anyone but which do weigh on me uncomfortably enough. You guys, I’m totally cheating on you.

– I’ve been having panic attacks and then getting mad at my Klonopin for making me feel better – erm…mad at my Klonopin because I sorta need it to make me feel better. Which, I mean, that just further underscores the reality that I probably can’t have a real life without my meds which makes me even more depressed. There are like a dozen reasons why we bipolar folk are hard to medicate. This is one of them, for me anyways.

– I’m pretty busy being a bigger pothead than usual, but I semi-promised my psychiatrist that I’d stop getting stoned so much once I ran out of weed, so it’s gonna be a few minutes.

– My aforementioned stoniness is not helping my aforementioned appetite problem as much as I’d like it too. So, the only logical step here is to smoke more weed? Uh…

– I’ve gotten even better at rationalizing my vices and I was already really good at that. Depression will absolutely do that to you. I feel a twinge. I shouldn’t walk on this leg, I really shouldn’t. I did plenty of standing and walking and bathing and speaking yesterday, better nurse this mystery twinge. I taught my husband how to use the French press. The coffee I’ll badger him into making me will not be as good as if I’d made it myself. Sub-par coffee is the second or third worst thing human beings do to each other, now I’m doubly wounded. Go on without me, just go. I’ll make sure to turn myself periodically to avoid bedsores.

– I recently bought body lotion that’s supposed to smell like a mojito, so it’s probably good that I don’t drive.

– I told my psychiatrist that I’ve been having problems feeling secure in my identity, or that I feel like I jettisoned my identity five or six years ago and have been basically a nobody for several years. She recommended that I read Oliver Sacks ’cause she says that he discusses ideas of personal identity a lot in his work. Anyone wanna back her up on this? I’ve had him recommended to me before but that was when I was still on lithium and couldn’t read very well because of it.

– I wanted to jump rope today. Jump roping is fucking hard. I have to do it for 5 minutes at the beginning of each of my MMA classes, so I thought I’d do it at home some so I wouldn’t tire out so easily in class. I’m not gonna jump rope today. My belly hurts. And I’m sad. And twinge. There’s always tomorrow. Unless I am dead.

Words, curtsy, shut up, bed.


Tagged: afterlife, atheism, Bertrand Russell, bipolar disorder, Blaise Pascal, Bowie, death, depression, identity, marijuana, meds, MMA, music, Oliver Sacks, philosophy, theology, writing

Dear Depression…

Dear Depression,

Could you give me an estimated time/date when you might release me from this stranglehold? It has been months and months, medication after medication, and I am feeling drained and defeated. You have not let me up for more than a couple of gasps of air in weeks. What have I done to deserve this? You and I know each other well and you have rarely been this cruel before. What has changed?

I miss enjoying things. This dread that fills my bone marrow is not simply limited to icky hard parts of life. It is all encompassing, robbing me of even the things I find pleasurable. I’m tired of the fake smiles, the pretending to give a damn about social niceties, the constant battle to do the simplest things like bathe and get dressed. I’m tired of being a shambling zombie. It’s like being lost at sea on an inflatable raft. I can see nothing but water all around me. Day after day, I float but get nowhere. Yet I also don’t die. I exist in miserable perpetuity.

One of the hardest parts is watching those around me, my beloved brethren in the fight against mental demons, as they improve and they see the beauty and joy in life that I cannot. I have alienated so many by being depressed to an extent it becomes contagious to those around me. I try hard to keep my sarcastic biting humor, to mock my own darkness, to not let you consume every cell in my body. I TRY. Every day, trying gets harder and harder. I need results, no matter how minute. I need to know the effort is for something. Just a flicker, a tiny sign, the ability to feel true joy in that which normally nourishes my soul.

I am not your simpering slave, depression. You muck up everything, you make me exhausted, you sometimes make me want to cry. Don’t think for a moment that I am giving up or giving in. You don’t win, you won’t win. I will keep fighting you until I draw my last breath. I may not entirely succeed, just know I will fight you to the death. You will be medicated into submission even if I have to snort Comet and inject Windex. You think I am joking in my dramatics. It’s meant to make a point. You have taken so much, yet I do not concede defeat. I am not a delicate flower. I have survived this long with you devouring my will to live and I have survived because I am tougher, stronger, than you could ever be.

You may cause me to waver. I may feel weak, run down, and ready to give up. Your lies and distortions do their job well. You knock me down. I get back up. We do this dance daily, hourly. You stomp on my toes. You dip me, drop me on my back, I hit my head. I get back up. You may have me in a deathgrip right now, but I’m not even close to giving up my fight to beat you. If I can’t beat you, I will somehow manage to quash you down, tuck you into the closet of my mind and let you gather cobwebs. It may be brief and you will rear your ugly head again but…If we have to live together like this, there’s going to be some compromise.

Big talk from a depressed person, right? You do mock me and do it well. I just want a bit of joy back in my life. I don’t need to be happy fun ball. I don’t expect a rose garden. Life is hard. Bad things happen. Things go wrong. Some things should depress me. My desires are very basic, very humble. LET ME UP FOR SOME AIR. I’ve come to accept that you and I are a package deal. But ten months of depression is unreasonable. I’m willing to accept your inevitable appearance during the seasonal months. All I am asking is that you let me have back the three to four months of stability and joy I was once allowed.

In closing…I may be down, but I am not out. Some days the fight in me might taper off. I will be back to fight again. I remember joy and as long as I remember that it is possible…You will never win because I will never give up. Still…if you could see fit to respond to this current med regime, even if only briefly, well, that would make me happy fun ball for a brief time. That’s good enough for me. I’m not greedy. No, that would be you, so insistent on hanging around for so long without so much as a breather break. You’re not happy with messing up my life in brief jaunts. You’re greedy and you want the misery extended as long as possible.

I just want out of the darkness for a bit, so get with the program, would you?


Not your victim, just your host brain…

Who Am I Really?

Mystic Bipolar Crazy Bitch in permanent marker font on forehead of selfie showing eyes & forehead

Who am I really?
Mystic bipolar
Crazy bitch
Compassionate healer
Mental health advocate
Creative, passionate, intelligent
Wife and mother
Living purposefully
That purpose unfolds daily
As I parent my son
As I write, as I blog
As I connect with others
As I share mental health resources
As I dip my toe into volunteer work
Honestly, though, I’m a diva
Who belongs on stage
Preaching her message
For all to hear

Filed under: About Mental Health, Bipolar Disorder, Discrimination, Mental Health Advocacy, Poetry, Stigma, Vocation, Writing Tagged: #BeReal, image, labels, poem, self image, self worth

Hatchling Anniversary Blahs

My spawn turned six today. I bestowed her gifts upon her, and she seems very happy. Not like it matters ‘cos I’ve already been informed nothing I do can measure up to Grandma. I know what Grandma doesn’t. Kids are fickle and usually happy with a few trinkets versus an all out spectacle that costs an ass ton of money and is forgotten a week later. Let my mother spend all the money. Right now, Spook has her Frozen microphone I got her and is plugging it into everything with input/output so she can sing along to whatever is playing. She’s happy. Tis all that matters.

***Immodest mommy pats self on back for keeping a kid alive for six years without a single broken bone, stitch,or emergency room visit***

I served five hours in the dish yesterday. Just took Spook with me to the shop, expecting to drop off that power supply, maybe fetch lunch. We were still there at 4p.m. and she was bored and having tantrums. What I learned is…for all my impatience, I am still way more tolerant than R. She really wears him down quick. Oh, well. Got lunch, smokes, and he even brought Mangoritas last night. My reward for not being an oblivious asshole. He had me check his email and I caught a few abnormalities. Like anime action figures being ordered and requested for delivery to Indonesia or some shit. He’d  gotten hacked and some kid was having a blast buying anime and blu tooth stuff. It happened a week ago. I am broke and certainly no financial wizard but even I monitor my bank card balance and on line activity. Jeebus. But I got rewarded with Mangorita for ya know, having eyeballs and paying attention. Yay me.

Mrs R went off on a warpath when she found out what my mom did with time of Spook’s party today cos she is out of town babysitting the grandson and can’t get back in time and I’m just like…It’s MY MOTHER, logic doesn’t apply. I wanted to do it at seven-ish so my dad and stepmonster could be there. (Ya know, an extra shield against mom.) It’s all so much ass trash. But I am determined to paste on the civilized face and “have fun” for my kid’s sake. Though if it’s crowded and there’s no skiball, it’s gonna suck big time. Yeah, yeah, I have a bad attitude. Meet my mother, you’ll understand. In town, I can just get in the car and leave. Today I am gonna be fifty miles from home, in their car, at their mercy. *ponders location of nearest liquor store to Chuck E Cheese*

R got me watching amusement park ride videos. He meant to show me how dangerous they are and how many people get hurt and die. Cos he’s scared of heights and all. I found it invigorating, I’ve always loved the big rides. Fuck the merry go round. Get my ass on the biggest baddest roller coaster they’ve got. Back when I could handle crowds and had money, anyway. Haven’t been on a coaster in a decade. But I got to watching those videos and some of the coasters are BAMFs. I fear people killing me more than the rides. Seen a Black Friday sale? Now that’s fucking dangerous and terrifying.

Somehow I ended up watching documentaries on Michael Jackson’s death. Damn youtube and its suggestions. Say what you will about the man, he was talented and his kids loved him very much. You could have a worse legacy.

I am pondering the shower and clothes thing. Spook is dying to wear one of her new Frozen dresses but they are white and pastel and she is a stain magnet with six hours to spare before we leave. NOOOOO. Not to be a bitch, but NOOO. She can put one on right before we leave. Til then, grungewear. I am not looking forward to this. Well,watching her face light up is good. I just wish I could FEEL something positive. This depression just won’t fucking let go. And my expectations are realistic, I’m not expecting magical joy and unicorns farting skittles. I just don’t want to feel that nagging anxiety and darkness in my bone marrow anymore. So odd that last year at this time I was doing okay, the doctor even set my appointment up for three months ahead cos I was semi stable. It lasted a month, seasonal hit, and down the rabbit hole ever since. Damnit.

To my credit, even if on auto pilot, I haven’t shriveled up and stopped living. I shamble through like a zombie half the time, but I’m shambling. Now…to procure some Kevlar that stands up verbal bullets. Gotta protect against the momster.




Unpredictable we are.

Originally posted on broken fingernails:

sadness(Sung to the tune of “Unforgettable” with apologies to Irving Gordon, and apologies to my readers for being unable to rhyme)

Bipolar is,
Tho’ low or high.

Like a song about a rollercoaster,
How the thought of you does things to me.
Never before
Has something been more…

In every way,
And forever more
That’s how I’ll stay.

Finally, after one of the worst and longest bouts of depression I’ve had in years, the good old standard MAOI, but in a different form, has started working again. It appears I had built up a tolerance to my “miracle drug” I started taking a few years ago when I had become SSRI-resistant. Taking into consideration the length of time I’d been away from SSRIs, my psych was hoping that a new class of drugs would work. But alas, some made me worse, some made me…

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manic depressongs

Originally posted on blahpolar diaries:
In which I spoof, parody, rip off and fuck up the following songs: Loser Closer (NIN) Anhedonia Barcelona (Freddie Mercury and thingummy) Panic Manic Monday (the Bangles) You’re simply depressed the best (Tina Turner) But…