Daily Archives: August 15, 2015

once upon an annus

I said ANNUS you perverts, not anus. Can’t take you lot anywhere. Blahpolar Diaries is a year old today, which means it’s wearing a onesie, disturbing my sleep and shitting its nappies round the clock. It also means I get to go all Sally Fields on your asses and make a gratuitously gushing speech, name […]

Downward Spiral

Just when I think I’ve gotten over my ex, the dreams start up again. The memories flood back. This is getting old

Filed under: Uncategorized

Downward Spiral

Just when I think I’ve gotten over my ex, the dreams start up again. The memories flood back. This is getting old

Filed under: Uncategorized

Downward Spiral

Just when I think I’ve gotten over my ex, the dreams start up again. The memories flood back. This is getting old

Filed under: Uncategorized

Let It All Burn The Fuck Down


To which this bitch says, be on your merry way into the land of cotton candy clouds and frolicking unipuppies.

Truth be told, I’m feeling less venomous and more just frustrated. Death, death, death. No money. Too hot. Rashes, itching. Buried under housework. Everything is a fucking disaster and I don’t even know where to start or if I just wanna light a match and let it all burn the fuck down…Lock me in a fucking rubber room ‘cos this “independent living” is absolute shit.

I must admit, I’m not really a pyro cos once you’ve wakened to firemen pulling you out of a burning building, fire just becomes a trigger rather than any sort of high…But when things turn to shit and I am flailing and feeling fed up and week..I have these fantasies like that end scene of “Heathers” where Winona Rider’s character blows up the school and lights a cigarette and walks away…I just wanna grab my kid, my cats, my puter, and blow it all the fuck up and walk far away. It’s not a real desire ‘cos I’m not really destructive that way (thank you, Lamictal) but it’s nice to have fantasies, ya know.

(And yes, I know there are people who have it way worse, but I’m still gonna bitch.)

I slept. Only to wake at 3 a.m. And have all these thoughts about hey, let’s just stay up and do stuff while it’s still cool out, then you can sleep through the heat of the day…It didn’t happen, though. Arsenic kept trying to love on me and I didn’t ignore him but I kept my distance. I can’t get more attached only to lose another one. As it already is, Oleander is acting sick today and I don’t know if I am just so panicked that I am mistaking heat lethargy for something fatal or what.

So I slept til 10 a.m. I’ve showered. That’s about it. I need to tackle Spook’s cyclone of a room but I have zero energy. I’m gonna try her out sleeping on the top bunk for awhile which means a complete overhaul of the entire room and closet. In 93 degree heat and her room having only a fan…It’s gonna be miserable. I have great timing when I decide I want to do these things then my brain laughs at me and says, nope. I HAVE to make an effort. Maybe it won’t be perfect, but I have to get some order going on so she can get her school clothes on and get out the door before noon.

Last night I had all these thoughts on what to do today and now, I’ve got nothing. I needed a couple of things from Dollar Tree to do the organizing and now…Blank. Nothing. My memory has become laughable. Spook will ask, “Really, Mommy?” And I will have absolutely no clue what she’s referring to even though I said it like five seconds before. I just have gaping swiss cheese holes for a memory. The doctors say the meds don’t cause this but prior to all the meds, I had an impeccable memory. Oh, but wait, it’s age…I am starting to hate doctors more than I ever have.

When they picked Spook up last night my dad asked what I was gonna do while she’s gone. I said, “Sleep.” He went off and said, “Now why would you need sleep? And I thought  you were going to clean her room…And I wake up at 5 a.m. every day and I don’t go to bed before 11 p.m. so why do you need sleep…”

He’s always been that way but in my current “burn it all down” state I just want to smack him over the head with a shovel. He has no idea what my life is like cos all he cares about is his own shit. Sleep is a rare commodity for me. Hell, being able to go pee without the kid in tow is a rare commodity. He’s an ass.

I did my forced dish thing yesterday while Spook was still home. We just hit a few yard sales nearby, nothing major, and I eventually cracked ‘cos the traffic was too much but I made myself get out. So why am I not cured? I need to run out today but it will be brief, and that’s IF I even remember what it was I needed at Dollar Tree. Fuck.

In an effort to “battle” the depression I’ve been trying to play music. I can handle it about a half hour before my nerves are frayed. This pisses me off to no end because music was always my shelter, medicine for my soul. To have that impacted by this mental shit is vomit inducing. I’ve never been one to go out or party, I am an introverted homebody, so not wanting to go out and all…The dread and anxiety are depression but mostly, I’m okay at home. But not being able to enjoy music…That is just absolute ass trash. Seems like this depression has cost me more than any other I’ve been through, as far as being comforted.

Because there is so much sunshine spewage out there and I am all about self awareness I’ve been soul searching lately. Am I amping up the mental thing? Am I just a lazy naturally miserable person? Am I just in denial of that?

I don’t think so. I am bright enough to know the difference between situational depression (broke, relationship broke up, car broke down, etc) and a chronic clinical depression. Not being able to enjoy music…That’s not my norm. That’s part of the illness. So let the sunshine spewers go run ten miles, drink a gallon of water, pray to a god that likely doesn’t exist and proclaim themselves happy and cured. Their story is not my story and I am becoming resentful of the “one size must fit all” shit anyway. I may never be a chipper “top of the morning to you” person but I know who I am and I am not a miserable person. I’ve found contentment and happiness even when things were absolutely shitty. Because my mind wasn’t sick, it was being maintained by functioning meds.

Right now…I’m gonna cling to “let it all burn”. Because some stuff is just shitty and telling myself otherwise makes it worse.

Now excuse me while I root around in the blob of swiss cheese called my memory and try to recall what it was I needed at the store. I’ll try not to burn it down, I promise. I haven’t perfected my burst into flames glare yet anyway.


Catamaran Writers Conference Friday: Amazeballs!

  Good morning everyone! Yesterday it was another fog-free, gorgeous day at the Catamaran Writers Conference in Pebble Beach where I learned a ton and had some major writing breakthroughs. Plus I had a blast. Yours truly, who usually goes to … Continue reading

A comfortable old sweater

old sweaterThe beautiful new sweater sits folded neatly on the shelf. The color is lovely and bright, and the buttons are shiny. It’s taken out into the world, often complimented; but when the wearer comes back home, it’s folded and put away once again.

Thrown over the back of the couch, the old sweater is dingy and ugly.  Buttons are missing, there’s a hole in the elbow, and the cuffs are stretched out. But it is still worn like a safe cocoon. This sweater is warm, comfortable, and familiar.

Depression awaits, not unlike the old sweater, as I become stronger and happier after this most recent very long and very horrible depressive episode. Most days have been good. I can feel sadness without depression, happiness without mania. But once in a while, the habits of coping I developed while depressed creep back into my life – isolating, crying for no apparent reason, losing myself in a book, sleeping, not interacting with my husband. I can remember this happening before. Being depressed is, in some ways, easier than being mentally healthy. There’s no effort involved, no self-examination, no communication with others. Hide in the dark, curl up on the couch, sleep away the normal stressors of life.

This is not acceptable. I remind myself I am a fighter, a survivor, and I have the tools I need to fight depression. On the other hand, I am also compassionate and learning to treat myself with kindness. So for now, I will fold the old sweater and set it on the shelf beneath the new one. I recognize that the old one will still be needed once in a while; but as I become stronger, the bright new sweater will be worn more often.

Tagged: coping, depression, mental health, mental illness, sadness, wellness

5 Reasons Being in Therapy Takes Courage

Being for therapy takes guts and for those of us in therapy, I don't think we acknowledge how brave we are for baring our souls.

Amanda Strydom doesn’t hide her bipolar

Here’s what Amanda Strydom had to say about Bipolar earlier this year:

“Dít het my lewe verander en my lewe gebou. Ek sou nooit weer net ánder mense se liedjies sing nie; ek het my eie begin skryf. En gerééld, soos klokslag, is élke liriek vir Meester gefaks en het hy met ’n pen geskryf waarvan hy hou, wat ek dálk kan verander . . . En só het hy my gementor deur ál sewe my albums . . .” source

Let’s look back… way back… back when modems still made noises from hell…

The Amandla! incident


"Amandla!" "Ngawethu!"

Strydom achieved notoriety in 1986 for giving the black power salute after one of her songs in her cabaret at the Oude Libertas Hall in Stellenbosch. This salute was intimately associated with the black struggle and is still used as a call by black political leaders to this day. (The speaker would shout Amandla! raising his right fist in the air, to which an informed or sympathetic crowd would respond Ngawethu!) At the height of P.W. Botha’s presidency it would have been taboo for any white Afrikaans woman to use this salute on stage in front of a white-only audience. Consequently, Amanda Strydom was soon referred to as Amandla Strydom in popular culture. Strydom uses the black salute on stage to this day and even occasionly refers to herself as Amandla.
Shortly after this scandal Strydom was facing her own private struggle with bipolar depression, something she has written about honestly in her play In Full Light, and in the song Strydom/Amandla. She worked very little between 1988 and 1990. It is worthwhile to note that Strydom’s depression coincided with a very traumatic time in the history of her country, and also that she returned to public life at the same time that apartheid was being dismantled.


Amanda meets Madiba

Strydom/Amandla was (ironically) the first ever Amanda Strydom song I ever heard (back in the nineties, kids, when I was definitely bipolar, but far from the diagnosis) and it’s still the one I love best. She’s done what we should all attempt at some point, to apply some creativity and haul out what we have stuck inside. Bi-fucking-polar. It’s really well done too, it’s all very humorous, but by the last verse, the message is clear – you can find plenty to laugh about, but it doesn’t stop the pain. I couldn’t find an audio or video online, so you’ll have to be content with the lyrics I’m afraid. If you’re interested in hearing it, it originally appeared on the 1996 album Vrou by die spieël (my favourite album of hers too) and it’s also available on Stroomop, released in 2010.

Strydom / Amandla

Strydom/Amandla manies depressief
So staan dit opgeteken in my dokter se argief
Ek praat te veel
Ek lag te hard
Daar’s stemme in my kop
Die wanbalans is bipolêr
– ons sluit haar liewers op

My dokter is aansienlik
Hy’s blond en bruingebrand
‘n Connoiseur in psigiatrie
Gewerf in die buiteland
Hy vra my oor my kleintyd
My moeder en my pa
Was hulle dalk ook depressief
Ek antwoord toe maar – ja

Hit me with valium
Fill me up with lithium
Stick me full of needles
‘Cause I’m crazy crazy
‘Cause I’m crazy

Die tralies voor my venster is vir veiligheid bedoel
So sê nurse Van Staden en sy glimlag ewe koel
En die dapperes bring blomme
Die skugteres bly weg
Die pers kom loer soos jakkalse en skryf
“Meisie, dit gaan maar sleg”

Hit me with valium
Fill me up with lithium
Stick me full of needles
‘Cause I’m crazy crazy
’cause I’m crazy

Ek vleg bedags macrames
Speel smiddae terapie
En saans help ek Dolores om met waardigheid te pie

In Junie word ek vrygelaat ek’s vet en lui gelê
Die pyn en die vernedering – wat gaan die mense sê?
Ek liefkoos nou my stilte, daar’s watte in my kop
My dokter het my mak gemaak – kyk
Ek lyk nou nes die trop


Insult To Injury

I get an even free of my kid, have parmesan bites, oh, and I have another dying kitten. I swear the neighbors are poisoning them or Spook is accidentally stepping on them or shutting them in the door. (I’ve seen her do it and lie right to my face.) I cannot take another loss. My tear ducts may be busted due to all the meds but my soul is bleeding out. What’s the fucking point of getting attached and then having your heart broken over and over?

I was always a “better to have loved than lost than never to have loved at all” type.

That part of me is long gone. I am so disconnected right now, I don ‘t want to feel love because everything I love either ends up dying or despising me.

Nope, it’s not enough that my brain keeps sending me faulty information. Now the universe and it’s stupid notion of “all mighty god” keep taking away innocent little creatures I dare to open my heart up to.

And all day my brain has been  forcefeeding me misfires. I saw a flea on the cat earlier now i am convinced I have bugs in my brain. The heat and sweat have brought back my nasty itchy rash all over my torso so that just feeds the delusion of bugs under my skin and inside my head.


And for any sunshine spewers wanting to bestow their religion based logic and well meaning prayers on me…As far as I am concerned at this moment, with my heart broken, there isn’t a god I want to pray to. This is just fucking cruel and sadistic, having all these cats I get attached to only to have them mysteriously get sick and die. It’s like a repeat of my first pet when i was 5 and the asshole neighbor fed it glass and I watched it- held it- as he died. That’s all I ever seem to get is a repeat of the past.

There are no better days. There are only “less awful” days for some of us.

My attitude was better earlier but when I lose a cat…All bets are off. The fates can go die screaming in a fire. Between my brain’s misinformation and all these kitty burials…I am really ready to go on some sort of grief and fury induced rampage.

I’d normally make some snarky quip about pegacorns or giraffes here but…Nope. I may not be able to squeeze a tear out due to my meds making me ever more fucked up…But my soul is bawling and bleeding out and I just can’t muster up humor.

And if the world were the logical and sane beings they think they are, they wouldn’t shove prayer and religious logic down the throat of someone who is simply hurting and needs to grieve and mourn. You have your faith, thank you for your good thoughts but please don’t mention god or prayers right now.

I won’t pray to any god this cruel.

Now shove me into the pits of hell for being a godless heathen, IDGAF. If there is ever a time to be faithless and angry, it is when there is pointless suffering and death.