Monthly Archives: January 2016

Chain Reactions, Brain Reactions

Sans child and with the benefit of 60mg Restoril…I slept most of the night, waking only once.

I got up this morning and launched right into my to do list. Put the chicken on to boil so I could make noodles. Started laundry. Put a new bag in the vacuum, made sure it worked. Took out trash. Forced myself into a shower.

And then the first link in the chain….The chicken (given to me by my mother who got it from her friend who got it from a food bank) was freezer burned and tasted like rubbery cardboard. I didn’t realize this until after I’d already added noodles to the broth. Talk about a let down. And knowing my mom would be let down was even worse but man, you give me a freezer burned bird, what can I do? My magic wand is in the shop.

So around noon I figure mom is probably getting worn out by the spawn and likely going to visit her roommate in the hospital out of town today…I go to get my kid. And my kid yells at me that she was getting ready to go outside with Trigger (once of my sister’s random bum friends, called this because she has a horsey face and yeah, I am mean, fuck you.) “You ruin everything!” Spawn screamed at me, tears flowing. “You make me angry. You need to go home and come back when I am done playing!”

I was…devastated, truthfully. Then my mom jumped to her defense and said, “You never stay, Niki, you always gotta leave fast, Let her play!”

My mom is the devil.

I told Spook, “You really hurt my feelings being so rude.”

And my idiot mom snaps, at ME, “Oh, grow up!”

This from the woman who spent years sobbing any time my sis or I hurt her feelings.

I asserted myself, “She does not have the right to speak so disrespectfully and rudely to me.”

At which point Horsey took my kid outside to play and when they came back in, they’d had a “talk” and of course my kid was contrite and mimicking proper emotion…Only to launch back into her tirade about me messing up her fun.

I didn’t think it could get much more despicable.

UNTIL my mother started prattling, “You know, the donor has more money and a hell of lot nicer home for her than you do, he’s going to take her away  from you!”

Time to flee. The whole time my kid stomping and pouting and telling me how I ruined her fun.

I started crying. Yes, I know, you don’t cry in front of kids. Whatever. I haven’t cried in two fucking months and after that assault…I was goddamn entitled to some stress relieving tears. I am busting my ass fighting for my kid, I have done nothing but right by her, and my kid is cruel to me, my mother is cruel to me…I earned every one of those fucking tears.

From there it was just a chain reaction.

My brain’s reaction was to slip into a depressive defeated abyss.

I am having nightmares about this situation with the donor and the realization that once it’s all court ordered..I will never be free to leave this place, never be free to escape my family, my demons, or show my daughter that there’s a bigger better world outside this tiny town. I will be wearing and walking in the cement shoes that accompany child support and visitations. We will both be at his mercy. He can miss days, reschedule, file court papers, change jobs so her support and insurance get canceled…Hell, he could even take her back to Canada with him.

It’s a fucking nightmare I can’t wake up from and for what? Three, four hundred a month? All it costs is everything that holds my frayed seams together.

And the kicker is…He’s left all his kids. When the woman left him and took the kid, he had a fit about her “taking” his kid away. Yet he left Canada to come to the states with the second wife, leaving behind his young daughter. He left his son in Kansas because it was a small town and there was “no future” for him there. He’s been here almost 8 years and I always thought it was Spook keeping him here yet not once in almost five years has he asked to see her, mailed her a birthday card, etc. Why can’t he just go away? Sign away his rights, I’ll sign away child support.

I want my calm serenity back.

Yes, I know, a million couples hate each other but they share custody and visitations, it’s stressful for all…

For me, with all my disorders, I fear it might be fatal.

So today has sucked. My kid has accused me four times of starving her because I dared to point out four times, “There’s fruit in the fridge.”

My self confidence has taken a beating today.

I do appreciate all the support my readers give me. Your perspective is needed because, let’s face it…Even my own blood thinks I’m incompetent. Which if I’d walked out on Spook or was sitting here with booze and smokes while she had no food to eat…Then you could judge me. But her every need is met so why are they such assholes?

I don’t blame this chain reaction on bipolar (though  the anxiety sure as hell factors in.) But I started the day functioning, accomplishing, feeling level…And ten minutes at my mom’s and…I feel like pond scum. I don’t believe, of course, I’ve always known my family are overly critical nutters. This is just not the time to be picking on me as I have enough on my plate with the donor situation. You’d think they’d have some empathy. God knows they have it for mom’s sick roommate, for that school mate of my brother’s who died, for animals with genetic skin conditions, even they get empathy from my family.

Not me.

I’ve told them all a million times…I don’t stay long because I can’t handle being outside my bubble for long periods. Nothing reaches them, nothing even helps them understand or attempt to. And it’s a sign of what has surrounded me all along- the people are me are so self absorbed and narcissistic that even my mental illness is an affront, thus about them. There’s no, “Sorry you’re having such a hard time.”

I get “Grow up!” or “You have a child now, you don’t get to be depressed!” 

The healthiest thing for me, and I’ve had multiple therapists tell me so after meeting my family, is limit my exposure to them to the bare minimum.

Maybe I need to enact a policy of my sister picking Spook up so I can avoid my mom altogether. Of course, that won’t fly because “Your sister is busy working her ass off, you’ve got nothing but time!”

Never mind the 14 years she didn’t work and mom raised her kid. Never mind I worked or tried to, all those years, and no one ever felt bad when I worked sixty hour weeks.

I truly thought when this day started I’d have the elusive optimistic post today.

Which just proves…if you think, you stink.

Tweaking the Crazy Recipe

According to the experts at WP, it has been 10 days since my last post.  Now, mind you, I have considered updating on several occasions, but have been extremely BUSY and IMPORTANT doing things like sleeping extra hours, watching copious amounts of basketball, doing everything I could to avoid getting dressed or showering, severely curtailing any limited contact I already had with the outside world, and backing out of every appointment and engagement possible.  BUSY, I tell you!  IMPORTANT, I’m saying!


Anytime something seemed remotely threatening to the tiny scrap of sanity I clutched in my sweaty palms this week, my answer was to retreat to my bed.  Phone ringing?  Bed.  Text message?  Bed.  Appointment?  Cancellation, then bed.  People wanting to swing by?  Ignore phone call, avoid with text message, go to bed.  Mess in the kitchen?  Bed.  Time to start thinking about a shower, or brushing my hair, or dragging a toothbrush across my mouth?  Bed.

Ok.  Apparently everything was threatening to my sanity.  Figuring out meals was terrible.  I wasn’t ever hungry, and I can’t just feed anything to LarBear (who has Crohn’s disease), and he can’t cook.  Stress multiplied by three!  Multiply that by one more, because I couldn’t conceptualize food because it was too difficult to think of when I could barely think of how I was going to keep myself alive, going into the next hour.

Up until late last night, I was having very intense self-harm thoughts and urges.  I hadn’t had self-harm thoughts or urges in years, although suicidal ideation is always hovering near the surface for me.  But self-harm, like harming myself just to harm myself, just for the release?  Wow, it has really been awhile, and for the past couple of weeks it has been intense and it has been SURPRISING and nasty and terrible.  I have spent ridiculous amounts of time trying to remember how I “got over that shit the last time.”  Hahahah!  Sorry, that’s funny, if you’ve been there, you know that.

And the answer to that — “how did I get over that shit the last time?” is, well…I don’t remember.  It’s a myriad of things, I have decided, that “gets one over” it.  Because you’re not really “getting over” it.  You’re more tamping it down, so that you don’t see it or hear it (until next time, right?) anymore.  I don’t think this stuff is every going to REALLY go away.  Like, AWAY, away.  It gets buried under other stuff, prettier stuff, healthier stuff, better stuff…you know, until next time.  And hopefully, the next time is a really, really long time away.  I think that’s really all I can hope for.  That the next time isn’t, ya know, tomorrow or next week or even, say, March.

What I do know is that the first thing I must personally do in order to “get over” this stuff, is to be ACTIVE in my pursuit of other feelings.  The passive push-away does not work for me, in ridding myself of these bad thoughts.  So, today I sought out good feelings, and actively pushed away bad feelings.

And today, January 31st, was a better day.

I went to church and sang very loudly.

LarBear and I went for a long drive.

I ate good food that was also healthy.

I talked to a friend.

I set boundaries with someone I have been meaning to set.

I made positive plans for the future, near and far.

I am blogging.

I have set my mind against taking other people’s crap into my own mind.

I have promised myself to try and stay out of bed, as a coping mechanism.

These are the things I did today.  I have many more plans for the start of February, and definitely do expect that I *may* have some success, just as I expect I *may* have some setbacks.  Part of getting better is making a conscious decision to get better, and that is something that I CAN do, that I HAVE done, that I AM doing.

content with who i am prayer





Filed under: Collection of Thoughts Tagged: anxiety, Bipolar, conscious decision, DBT, depression, dialectical behavior therapy, getting better, mania, PTSD, thankfulness, Therapy

Before I Die


This is not a suicidal post, but rather a reflection on life and how I want to live it. I heard a piece on NPR yesterday called “Before I Die”, funny enough, and it was about an artist who painted chalkboard paint all over the side of an abandoned house and then stenciled the words “Before I Die ________” all over it and left chalk for people to fill in the blanks.  The idea caught on in cities around the world and became a movement.

Too much of the time I feel like I am waiting to live – waiting to know the outcome on a disability decision, waiting for winter to end, waiting for things outside of myself to determine the course of my life. I also spend too much time on Facebook reading all kinds of fucked up memes saying “Today Is The First Day of The Rest of Your Life”, or “It’s Never Too Late To Make Your Dreams Come True” or other stupid shit like that, that doesn’t inspire me, but rather makes me feel like I have royally fucked up my life beyond all recognition.  But when I listened to the radio program last night, I thought, I could make a list, a realistic list, of things I want to do before I die.  And then I could make sure that the decisions I make in my life somehow point me toward these desires.  So here is my list, and I invite you to share yours too.

Before I die, I want to be truly loved by a man again.

Before I die, I want to go to France again.

Before I die, I want to write a book that details my battles with mental illness, shows that I am a real, relatable person, and inspires others.

Before I die, I want to see many more wild, ancient places and photograph them.

Before I die, (and not the day before I die), I want to quit smoking.

Before I die, I want to have a truly fit body and be active in the outdoors.

Before I die, I want to live independently again.

Before I die, I want to go on another archaeological survey.

Before I die, I want to reduce my belongings to a bare minimum so that my family is not left with a big pile of shit to go through.

Before I die, I want to spent A LOT more time at the ocean.


It seems like I should have something bigger to say, or more profound. But I don’t.  These are things that I want to do, and I’m going to print this out and remember that this is why I’m living.  Not to worry, not just to pay bills, not to exist, do daily chores, and count the days until it’s Spring.  I have a purpose, and it’s found in these desires I have.  What may ultimately come out of achieving these desires, I don’t know.  But I’ve thought long and hard about what my life’s purpose is, and today I realize, it isn’t one thing.  It IS to experience what I desire, and it IS to experience joy, and satisfaction, and meaningful experiences.  This is a revelation!  I found it!  My life’s purpose.  Right here.  Today is a good day.  I’m going to go start working on this list.  Hope your day is a great one.


Filed under: Bipolar, Psychology Shmyshmology Tagged: Before I Die, Bipolar, Hope, Mental Illness, Psychology, Reader

an up date

So today was fun. When last did I say that? It was probably hypomania, but fuck it, I’ll take it. I imagine that if you have bipolar ii, coming down from hypo would be a crash, but I don’t experience it that way. To me it just feels like disappointment. That’s irrelevant for now, because … Continue reading an up date

I am so sorry!


Me on the right

Screen Shot 2016-01-29 at 4.22.38 PM copyme 11IMG_2904

Screen Shot 2015-01-09 at 9.50.34 PM

Me on the right.

I learned something about myself, my brain is used to living in emergency situations, so I unintentionally create these situations for myself to live in. My brain got used to this when I was 3 – 4 years old and I started to be violently, physically abused. With bloody noses, black eyes, split lips. I was loved and adored in my life with my grandmother, two aunts and an uncle, till I was 2 years old. Then my mother graduated from medical school and reclaimed me and started physically abusing me. Pummeling would be the word. She had a lot of stress in her life and a lot of rage in herself, but instead of dealing with her stress, she became enraged at me for things like chewing gum and pummeled me into a bloody mess, with black and blue bruises to boot. I went from a loving, nurturing life to a life full of horrible abuse. I went from peace, calm, and love to never knowing when I would almost be killed. That is when my brain must have gotten used to living in live or die situations. And even now, when things are calm, or even not so calm, I idiotically make things worse so I can have the “fight or flight” response happening in my brain and can live in the familiar terrain of panic. The pictures above are of me when the abuse was taking place. How could you beat up that baby in those picture? Especially when you were the mother, mothers give their lives to protect their babies. My mother, whenever she felt like it, would pick up wooden boards the size of cutting boards, or high heeled shoes, or whatever came into her hands and pummel me with them.

It’s strange, but when I describe this, I feel nothing at all. Where did all the hurt feelings, the outraged feelings of the beaten child go? I am learning to mourn for the baby, the child, the young girl I was. And now that I have realized that I unknowingly create panic, I hope this realization leads to absolutely not doing it.

I know I have hurt my friends by doing this, one who was kind enough to message me on Facebook, I unfriended this wonderful friend, like a total idiot. I am so sorry! I apologize to my friends whom I’ve hurt. I know there are no excuses, but I am so very sorry and I hope they forgive me. Now that I realize my brain wants to create panic because it is the most familiar feeling, I will do my all to stop it.

Trigger Warning: Trigger Warnings

What is a trigger warning?

Let’s start with a more basic question. What is a trigger?

Just as a literal trigger activates a gun, a figurative trigger activates your mental disorder. It’s a stimulus that sets off either a manic or depressive phase, or a bout of PTSD.

Triggers are usually unique to the individual. What sets you off may not affect me at all.

Over the years I’ve learned what my triggers are, and so do most bipolar or PTSD sufferers. Loud noises and large crowds trigger my anxiety, which is why I could never work at a Chuck E. Cheese. My depressive phases don’t often have triggers except for bad dreams about an ex-boyfriend. Most of my depressive episodes just happen without a trigger.

Generally, one avoids triggers, because who needs more manic or depressive phases in addition to those that occur naturally, with no prompting?

A trigger warning is something else. It is a notice that someone puts at the beginning of a piece of writing to warn readers that the subject matter may be intense. Ordinarily, trigger warnings are given for major life events that have caused trauma and may cause flashbacks, severe stress  or other extreme reactions.

Some of the most common trigger warnings are for graphic depictions of rape, suicide, self harm, or physical or sexual abuse. The trigger warning says to a potential reader: If you don’t want to encounter this material, if you think it will make your illness worse, or cause you undue stress, don’t read any further.

Although we call relatively minor stimuli triggers, they usually do not require trigger warnings. If you’re going to write about having a fight with your mother, you probably don’t need to put a trigger warning on it. If your mother hit you in the face with a frying pan and sent you to the ER, you might need to place a trigger warning on your post about it.

Online, the standard form for trigger warnings is first to state, often in all caps, TRIGGER WARNING and state the type of trigger it is – TRIGGER WARNING: SELF-HARM, TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, etc. To be extra sensitive, the writer leaves a number of blank spaces or a few dots before beginning to write the difficult material. This gives the reader the choice of whether to scroll down and read it or not.

Trigger warnings have become controversial, particularly in schools and colleges. Many pieces of literature and even textbooks on history or sociology discuss difficult topics that may be triggering. For example, a novel might feature a rape as a plot point, or a history text might discuss slavery.

Some people believe that a trigger warning will help a prospective reader know whether reading further will provoke a strong reaction. Other people believe that trigger warnings are a way of coddling the weak and letting students avoid challenging material that is necessary for the class.

My own opinion is that a trigger warning is like chicken soup: It won’t hurt and might help. It may mean that a student asks for an alternative reading or assignment, but it also may mean that the student simply wants to be in a safe space – not surrounded by strangers, for example – before reading the material.

People that believe trigger warnings should not be given have usually not experienced the kind of emotional breakdown that can result from unexpectedly confronting a traumatic topic. Very likely they have never even been in the presence of someone who has had such an extreme reaction.

I suppose that ideally, we could all read any material and simply brush it off if we found it troubling. Unfortunately, for those of us with mental disorders such as bipolar illness, PTSD, and anxiety disorders, this is simply not possible. A trigger warning may prevent someone from having a public meltdown and others from having to witness one.

I don’t know why that should be controversial. It seems like simple courtesy to me.

Filed under: Mental Health Tagged: anxiety, being overwhelmed, bipolar disorder, books, depression, psychological pain, PTSD, reading, support systems, trigger warning, triggers

Sick And Tired of Being Sick And Tired

That pretty much describes Will’s attitude these days. He’s in no hurry to experience the next dimension, of course, but he’s weary of never knowing which day(s) will be OK and which will suck. We’ve missed church for several weeks because he’s been ill so much of the time, and he is angry with his body for betraying him. He’s relied on it for his entire life of working with his hands and his strength, and now it’s turned on him with a vengeance, leaving him weakened, though not diminished.

We had our hospice consult Friday, and he’s made up his mind—no more drugs, no more trying (and failing) to get an investigational radiation treatment approved by insurance. We also have a timeline…six to nine months if God allows, maybe less if the cancer continues to overtake his liver at the rate it’s going now.

There’s so much to think about, so much to plan for, none of it good. I remember when thinking and planning were fun—our future was still ahead of us, and exciting things like getting married and having children were at the top of the list. Now it’s all about comfort care and end-of-life issues, like keeping pain and nausea under control and maintaining his dignity and how the hell are we going to pay for a funeral?!

I’ve been looking through the book the hospice case manager brought us yesterday, and I feel like I’m drowning in information. It’s not like I haven’t seen this material before—we got one just like it when he went on hospice for that VERY brief time back in the summer of 2013—but it’s all so overwhelming now that there is nothing between us and the yawning abyss but a few months.

You’d think I’d never worked extensively with hospice patients and their families like I did during my career. As a nurse, I know too much; as a wife, I don’t even know enough to ask the right questions. There is such a glaring difference between being a nurse and being a caregiver, and I’m not liking the latter role one bit.

But as much as all this distresses me, it doesn’t hold a candle to what Will is experiencing. He’s scared, and understandably so; last night we had the first of what will probably be a series of discussions regarding his wishes. Naturally we both cried, because he doesn’t want to let go of life even as he wants not to suffer, and I’m heartsick at the idea of losing him. Life is very precious to him and I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who was as grateful for his blessings as Will is. He has not had an easy life by any stretch of the imagination, but he overcame his challenges by sheer force of determination, and of course, by his love of family.

This is the love I’ll remember when there are no more memories to be made. This is the jewel of a husband I finally learned to fully appreciate after the cancer diagnosis (thank You, Lord for these precious years of survival!). And this is the man whose work-roughened hands are the gentlest I’ve ever known.

I know he’s sick and tired of being sick and tired. But hopefully, getting his symptoms under control and keeping him comfortable will enable him to enjoy some quality of life in the time he has left. Mostly, he deserves peace…and he needs to know that we’ll all be OK when all is said and done. I don’t know how I’m going to make that work. But I owe it to him to try.






About Me and This Blog

Blog for Change

Blogging can affect both personal and social change. I started blogging because the thoughts and words in my mind simply had to get out. I hope this blog offers support, educates, and fights stigma.

Though I am a minivan-driving wife and mother, unlike most of my suburban neighbors, I live with bipolar disorder. My Story, My Path to Age Thirty, Psychotic Break at Thirty, Thirty to Motherhood, Mystic or Mentally Ill?, and Mystic Psychosis recount my struggle with mental illness, the two decades it took to get a proper diagnosis, and how my journey has ultimately given me a sense of purpose – and at times, a sense of religious calling.

As a perpetual and proud geek, I always liked going to school. My brown-nosing and hard work got me a BA in Legal Studies from UC Berkeley, an MA in Psychology from New College of California (never heard of New College? well, it no longer exists and was never as prestigious as Berkeley), and twice I’ve attended Fuller Theological Seminary and twice I quit.

Though I’m a licensed Marriage and Family Therapist, I haven’t practiced in over 20 years. My varied career path has included working as a legal assistant, psychotherapist, and commercial real estate professional. Obviously, I haven’t stuck to one thing for very long. In fact, if you take a look at my LinkedIn profile, you’ll see that I was a job-hopper, shooting high, rapidly rising, then crashing and burning, over and over – fairly typical of someone with bipolar disorder type II.

My Battle with Mental Illness:

I’m All Over Social Media:


If you take a look at my social media presences, you might think that either I’m really committed to making a brand out of my name, or I am a narcissist. Probably both.

Here’s My Contact Form:

Filed under: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Parenting, Depression, Hypomania, Mental Health Ministry, Mental Illness, Mysticism, Psychosis, Vocation, Writing Tagged: blogging, purpose

The Shame Game

Today has sucked. Yes, I know, I sound like a broken record. No, I don’t give a damn what you think of me. I am venting. I don’t promote this blog. I don’t forcefeed the url down anyone’s throat. This is my therapy so if it offends anyone…————->there’s the thingie to click and exit the page.

I have been pondering, simply because it happens so often, my fitness as a mother. I mean, I was dealt a shitty hand of cards, I was born at a disadvantage, but I have been here since day one. When it would have been so much easier and less anxiety provoking to walk away from the mom gig…I was still there. Breaking out in hives, not sleeping well, crying behind a closed bathroom door…BUT I WAS HERE FOR HER.

So you can only imagine how galling it is when a couple of simple remarks make you doubt yourself.

I know all the arguments. “If you were really strong, a comment or two wouldn’t touch you.”  Or an old classic, “If you’re so sure you’re doing right, then nothing anyone could say would make you doubt yourself.”

When your entire life is spent surrounded by people whose only joy in life seems to be running you down so you can never build up self confidence…Things are very different.

I have never faltered on the “fluff” factor. I don’t give a fuck if you like the way I dress, my make up, my hair, the music, shows, music I like….That doesn’t phase me at all. I am true to myself, you can go fuck an electrified barbwire fence if it bothers you.

Since having had my spawn…

I am suddenly very sensitive, very paranoid, very defensive.

So when some jackhole (usually a member of my family) makes a statement about how I gripe “too much” about how my kid annoys me and strains my nerves so I must not really love my kid or be grateful to have her…

I reeeeeeaaaallly want to get out the shovel and smash some skulls.

Just because your central nervous system is especially fragile and every tiny thing threatens it, let alone a hyper aggressive super loud chatty child, doesn’t mean you don’t love your kid or appreciate how special being a parent is. What it means is…you are a human and your nerves get fried. This is NOT exclusive to those with mental issues. Most normal parents find their children a challenge on their best days…It does not mean they love their child any less.

I think it’s absolute  bullshit to be judged so harshly for “venting” when the stress in your life has skyrocketed.  I don’t care if you’re a mom, a dad, a nun- we all have a breaking point where we need to “vent”. To deny a person of something so therapeutic, especially with “guilt” and “shame” techniques…is plain sadistic.

And this is where I say thank you to various factions of my family.

My kid is at my mom’s tonight. When I dropped her off, I told my mom that we have a nightly ritual of playing a few hands of Uno as it seems to put Spook into the sleepy zone. My mother snaps, “I don’t have that problem, she goes to sleep for me just fine!” Never mind this wasn’t the point of me establishing a routine with my child that works. Nope, it’s all about my mother reminding me I am the only one Spook acts out on. I told my kid not to go hugging people, in light of the lice season, but then my sister’s friend is there and tells Spook, ” No, you can hug me any time you want.”

Being invalidated at every turn SUCKS.

Then my sister informs me dad and stepmonster have scraps for my cats and my vacuum bags I asked them to get since I don’t the gas in the car to run to walfriggingmart to get…so I rush home, under the impression they’re en route. Then I spend five hours so anxious I can’t take a shower, a nap, or even go to the bathroom cos waiting has me so bound up.


So  I waited four hours for them. The new microwave made my popcorn chicken overdone but my mashed taters ice cold. I can’t work up energy for a shower. I am ready for sleep. Even without the spawn….I am drained.

Proof? R gifted me with a laptop that’s barely 2 years old cos the guy thought $20 for the repaired hinges was too much and never came back…Rather than being all happy and stuff…I managed an Avast quick scan (67 viruses) but truth be told…I don’t have the give a damn to deal with it. Least not now, in spite of the nice weather and ten hours of my kid not pounding my brain with a verbal sledgehammer.

This is depression.

And I feel utterly ashamed because I should be stronger. Because my kid deserves better than a mom who is mental.

She deserves better than someone whose self esteem is so eroded she is having nightmares and night terrors about taking the donor to court for child support…

NO ONE would make a diabetic, a cancer patient, someone with MS- feel ashamed for “failing” their kids. No, they would be credited with battling their condition and still being a caring parent.

Mental illness….

I am chopped liver and it has nothing to do with my poor self esteem. It has everything to do with the cruelty from a society too ignorant to equate mental illness with physical illness.

The shame game sucks and ya know what?

I fucking quit.

in brief

So now I’m three days into the olanzapine and fluoxetine meds regime. I prefer the word regime to cocktail, because meds generally seem to arrive in jackboots and take over my life. Also, there are no parasols or  disgusting maraschino cherries in sight. I’ve gone from spending about two thirds of my life asleep, to … Continue reading in brief