Monthly Archives: November 2016

Whole Lotta Nothin’

What do I got?  A whole lotta nothin’.  Nothin’ to report on the IT Training front.  Nothin’ to report on the jobs front.  Nothin’ to report on the finding a place to live front, unless you count looking at complete dumps for wayyyyy too much money.  This has happened to me before.  This time around the holidays, everything slowwwwwws downnnnnnn to a crawl.  Now normally when things aren’t going my way, I do one of three things:  I eat, I drink, or I get high.  Right now, I’m doing all three.  I’m like a runaway train.  Destination Unknown!  Can you get there from here?  Who the hell knows!  Climb aboard!  Oh and by the way, just to prove to you that Amazon has FUCKING EVERYTHING, I searched for “synthetic urine” (in case I need to pass a pre-employment drug screening) and THEY HAVE IT!!  Oh Amazon, how I love you.  I think I’ll search Amazon for turds.  Just for fun.  I know I’ll regret it because I’ll have all sorts of scatological shit (get it?) showing up in my Facebook ads feed (sneaky fuckers) but what the fuck I like to fuck with Amazon since they like to take my money.  Annnnnd the answer is they have a Tommy the Turd Toy Set!  And I thought it’d show a picture of Donald Trump….silly me!  When I learn how to be a computer hacker I’m going to substitute Donald Trump’s face for the word “turd” all over the Interwebs!  I promise!  I know, grandiose.  This is what happens when I have nothing to tell you.  I turn to fantasy.

Speaking of turds, my Dad (who is generally a turd) is going for a consultation for a Fecal Transplant on Friday!  Can you THINK of anything more disgusting?  No?  Well read on…. Yes he’s hoping for a Fecal Transplant because he can’t seem to kick this C-Diff infection (which causes deadly diarrhea) and where do they get the feces for transplantation?  They have a STOOL BANK!!!  Can you imagine working in a Stool Bank??  “What do you do, Carl?”  “Oh, I work with pieces of shit.”  “Oh Carl, don’t be so derogatory!”  “Uh no, I literally work with shit all day every day.”  “I’m so sorry, Carl.”

 I’m glad I’m not Carl. 

Filed under: Bipolar, Bipolar and Work, Bipolar Pothead, Psychology Shmyshmology Tagged: Bipolar, Bipolar Disorder, Blogging, Depression, Fecal Transplants, Hope, Humor, Mental, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Moving, Psychology, Reader

Validation – Who Needs It? I Wish I Didn’t…

TW: Whining, a little ingratitude, & problemas del primer mundo I’ll know by the end of the week if THEY want me! Who are THEY and why would THEY want me? I shall explain using general terms, my friends. You see, I’m not supposed to reveal THEY’s identity, so I’ll refer to them as the Voldemorts.  Here’s the … Continue reading Validation – Who Needs It? I Wish I Didn’t…

Not So Much Today

I need to find a way to conserve my energy.  I got so much done yesterday that I ached at the end of he day and went to bed early, then slept in this morning.  So I don’t know what I’ll be able to do today.  I need to finish the last tree and pack up all the boxes.  And I need to do Bob’s laundry. Those are the main things I need to accomplish today.  So we will see how much I can do.

Last night I apologized to Bob for putting him through the wringer two weeks ago. I told him I should not have done what I did and I was sorry for hurting him. I told him I just needed to know he cared about how I was doing and hear that  I was doing good for him.

My mood has actually been pretty good lately.  Thanksgiving went well to me and all and I am excited about hosting the Christmas party this year.  Hopefully we will have a good crowd. I’m not stressing out over anything that I can tell.  My class is well in hand with my final project being the only thing left to do from that standpoint.  I have one more homework discussion and it will be due next week.  So I feel confident there.




Did you say my brother had epilepsy or bipolar disaster?

Today’s guest blogger is Marie Abanga, whose blog can be found at Did you say my brother had epilepsy or bipolar disaster? I remember asking my sister that question over the phone in June 2014. That was exactly or barely 2 months before that very kid sister to be precise (yes she indeed had the nerves) called me at…

The post Did you say my brother had epilepsy or bipolar disaster? appeared first on Insights From A Bipolar Bear.

Showing Off

This is the first Winter Solstice in many years that I won’t be sending out my homemade cards.  Partial hospitalization cut into my creation time.  Plus, I had to get ready to show off.


My church, First Unitarian of Des Moines, brings in a different artist every month and displays their work in this lovely gallery-like space—lots of natural light, lots of traffic (it’s the big meeting space outside the sanctuary).  I get to be December’s Artist of the Month.

first-u-show1Yesterday, the curator and her helper got me set up.  They were lovely, interested, detail-oriented ladies who made my cards looks funky and amazing in the space.  I wrote little descriptive blurbs for each set of cards and a general Artist’s Statement to let folks know about me.  Instead of the hoity-toity, deep philosophical art-babble, I basically said my aim was to make folks snort milk out their nose.

first-u-show3I also claimed a little space for my art journals and set out my newly-minted business cards so folks could find this blog and my Etsy shop.

I’ve made cards for our Caring Ministry to send to folks who are suffering, but I’m excited to share more of my art with this community (Since there are kids, I did have to cull the most blatant profanity, but farts and poop definitely made the cut).

first-u-show6The show will be up all month.  For those who live close, the doors are open Wednesday nights and Sundays, otherwise, call the office to see about getting in.  On December 11, there’s a Meet the Artist opportunity between services (10:15-11:00).  It’s not a big deal, just a chance for me to answer questions and be proud.

‘Cause I sorta am.

First Unitarian Church of Des Moines, 1800 Bell Avenue, Des Moines, IA 50315 • (515) 244-8603 •

Better Late Than Never

I didn’t want to write my blog today, it’s been a day of lounging around napping and trying to make the time go faster so I’m not alone.

Yet here I am writing the blog, because hubby reminded me and then reminded me I would likely be unhappy if I didn’t.

Today was hard to tell where my mood level was. Not up though.

Mind Lust-repost from mytrendingstories

Can you fall in love with someone’s mind without ever having met them?

As a long time user of the internet and chat rooms…I believe you can fall head over heels for someone’s mind. Those who dispute this are apparently unaware of the bond that can be created simply typing on a computer/device. Especially when personalities and humor mesh.

I’ve fallen for many a mind on line.

I’m not talking about tossing everything aside to run off to Zimbabwe for some random person I wrote six lines to on the internet.

But I have formed many deep bonds on line with people who I truly care about. Most I have never met. This is irrelevant to me because I never set out to meet people in real life. I have too many issues and dysfunctions to fret about real life involvements. I am bad at them.

On line…I am charismatic. Funny. Quirky. Appreciated for my writing, my words, my mind.

And that is what it boils down to. Not leaving your spouse for an internet handle. Not cheating on your significant other because you “love” someone from a chat room.

It IS possible to develop “mind lust” for those we encounter on line. There need not be any sexual component. It can be as simple as “this person makes me laugh”. It can be a meeting of the minds where you share similar ideas, tastes, etc, and it makes you feel understood and less alone. It can be mindless banter that lifts your mood. There need not be anything nefarious or unhealthy about on line friendships.

Personally, I excel at internet friendships. My oldest friend came all the way from England to stay with my daughter and I for a few months. We met in a chat room 15 years ago. We still talk, Skype, exchange emails. Not a single flesh and blood friend I’ve made in my life has ever kept in touch so regularly. I have never bonded to another human being in the same way, aside from my child. This “internet person” is not merely my friend, or bestie, she is like a sister to me. I adore her mind, her humor, our banter, the way we are so alike and yet so different. It’s a healthy relationship even if started on line and continued on line.

Many people wonder, “What can you possibly get out of typing to some random stranger?”

My answer is, “What don’t I get out of it?”

I am interacting with people, yet maintaining my real life. Watching shows, listening to music, playing with my kid, eating, curled up in Fort Blankie cos the depression is so bad…But I can still interact with others who get it, who won’t judge me for looking like death warmed over, or tell me I smell bad or my house is a sty or tell me my taste in music sucks. I am accepted for what I type, for how I express my feelings, express my humor, for how I treat others. How I look, if I squeeze the toothpaste tub the wrong way, if my tone is snippy…None of that matters interacting with others on line. There is no pettiness and no drama.

It’s almost exciting to look forward to talking to certain people on line because they bring something positive to your day. I suppose you can call that “mind lust”. Nothing to do with sex or upsetting the balance of one’s real life. It’s just a different kind of friendship that is discounted by too many. I find it odd as prior to the internet, pen pals were a big thing and I enjoyed that, as well.

My point is…Yes, you can love someone simply for their mind without ever seeing them or meeting them. It’s healthy. It’s energizing. It can fill you with smiles and laughter.

And it is often the only place many of us can find total acceptance and be appreciated for our minds as opposed to judged for our flaws.


That’s how I feel. I’ve had this depression that I’ve been unable to shake off for weeks. I believed it was because of Trump winning the election, but now I know that was only the catalyst. The reason I feel trapped, as most of you know, I want to leave the country. Actually, that’s not necessarily true. I feel trapped…

The post Trapped appeared first on Insights From A Bipolar Bear.

Slow Emotion

This edition was first published in 2014.

Regular readers will know how I am plagued by mood swings, especially sharp bursts of irritability.  Ironically, one of the most stressful activities for me, given the name of this blog, is fixing a puncture. I have written about this before, you can read what I have had to say about what punctures mean for me by reading the 2 posts below that I wrote back in the Spring

Last  month I suffered 2 punctures. The first one was when I was in the centre of town – no repair kit to be found in my panniers  ( will return to this point shortly.) Frustrated, annoyed, mystified (the puncture occurred while my bike was locked up outside my doctor’s surgery, which is to say, stationary. I wheeled my bike to the nearest bike shop, and for a princely sum, they fixed it. Stress levels reduced thanks to my finding a solution quickly – as in the past (see blog posts above) I found someone who could fix the puncture.


The next puncture was what we call a slow puncture. It’s not immediately apparent. I discovered it one morning as I cycled away from my house. Right from that moment my reaction to what had happened – and what I would have to do – was different. The bike went back into the garage, and I walked. I worked out there and then that I wouldn’t have time to fix it for a couple of days. I didn’t fret, I wasn’t preoccupied by the thought of doing something I find very stressful, that I am not very good at.

That was new.

But since I wasn’t fretting about it, I didn’t give it any thought at all. I failed to notice any difference in my reaction to having a puncture to fix. Before I actually got down to fixing the puncture I made a Plan B in case I just couldn’t fix it, couldn’t get the damn tyre off, or the hole was too big to patch up. I looked up the bus schedule (I had to get to the train station the following morning  to go to work.)

That was new.

Only then did I set about preparing to fix the puncture.

I assembled everything I needed, took the wheel off … you get the picture. The hole was so small that I couldn’t find it. Still no grinding of teeth, throwing of tools. I then took the next step and put the inner tube in some water – the bubbles showed me the spot immediately. I applied the patch, slightly inflated the tube and in one go eased the wheel and tube back in place. I put the wheel back on the bike, pumped up the tyre and cycled round the block a couple of times to make sure the patch was doing the job.

Then it hit me. What had happened? I had been totally relaxed; I behaved, well, like a bike mechanic. But I couldn’t understand why. The puncture had happened at an inconvenient time. I had had a couple of days to stew over having to do something I find stressful and still I had acted as though I did this sort of thing every day.

One thing I knew – it stood as evidence. Proof that I do have the capacity to act in a calm collected manner even when in a stressful situation.

Since then I have discussed this episode with my psychiatrist. He suggested that I log my outbursts. I agreed that I would draw up a chart and note down what happened to provoke my flashes of irritability. True to form I haven’t done so yet – but I haven’t noticed any outbursts yet, either.

While it is still a mystery to me as to why I was able to fix the puncture without going red in the face and having a tantrum, I do have a theory: is it possible that all this preoccupation with wanting to control my irritable outbursts (I think about it every day) has somehow contributed to a calmer me?

A Little While, a Little While

A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.

Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart–
What thought, what scene invites thee now
What spot, or near or far apart,
Has rest for thee, my weary brow?

There is a spot, ‘mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But, if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight’s dome;
But what on earth is half so dear–
So longed for–as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o’ergrown,
I love them–how I love them all!

Still, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away;
And from the midst of cheerless gloom,
I passed to bright, unclouded day.

A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side.

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

THAT was the scene, I knew it well;
I knew the turfy pathway’s sweep,
That, winding o’er each billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Could I have lingered but an hour,
It well had paid a week of toil;
But Truth has banished Fancy’s power:
Restraint and heavy task recoil.

Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And back came labour, bondage, care.

Emily Bronte (1818 – 1848)

Erosion Of Self Esteem

Tough past few days. Weather turned real cold, dealing with family usurping me as a parent, depression nipping at my heels…The Bad Thoughts visited. The ones telling me how worthless I am, how my best isn’t good enough, how my kid would be better off without me.

I shut them out best I could. It’s not easy.

What is most irksome is that I generally feel pretty secure in my parenting. UNTIL my ass trash family chimes in. Then they plant all these seeds of self doubt, pointing out everything I do wrong, everything I did wrong (dad brought up how annoying I was to him when I was Spook’s age, which is hysterical cos he was a long haul trucker we saw maybe two days a week)..Stepmonster chipped in, doesn’t like the way my kid’s clothes smell (I can’t afford Gain right now, sorry the dollar stuff doesn’t reek like fields of flowers.) Mom griping that I can never stick around, always have to hurry off…

And my brain, meanwhile, is screaming I AM DOING THE BEST I CAN, YOU IDGETS, CUT ME SOME FUCKING SLACK! I am the one of them who has raised a kid totally alone. What do they know? And I am doing it with little money and a plethora of mental health issues and a willful child who has no respect for me THANKS TO MY FAMILY’S CONSTANT USURPING.

It took a couple days before the “die,Morgue,die already” voice in my head quieted. The less I am around the family, the better I am. Though I get days of my kid telling me grandma M does it this way, grandma b does it that way…Oh blah blah blah. I’m your mom, kid, deal with it, this is how I do it.

Which was pointed out, I sent two pairs of capri pants with my kid and stepmonster flipped out, took her to Goodwill for different clothes… but kept them at her house. They see my kid maybe four days a year. Wouldn’t it make more sense to let her keep the “better” clothes at home for school rather than reminding me what a failure I am that I can’t keep my kid well fitted season appropriate clothes?

I want selective orphanhood. Everyone says you’re nothing without family. When all your family does is trash you…you’re nothing with them and something without them.

Slept like shit last night cos I knew I had to come to the shop today while R is at the funeral. I can’t breathe when I have something hanging over my head. I only sleep sans Melatonin on weekends when I know even if I don’t sleep well, I don’t have to hear a ticking clock to get her to school on time.

Been quiet at the shop aside from two people. One of whom was a sweet old lady whose son I went to elementary school with and R wanted me to get all snotty with her cos she’s bugged him about her tv three times in three weeks. Well, I was not rude or snotty and she did not rub me the wrong way and I mean…I hate everyone on principle so he’s just being a dick. And he’s been sick, now the family  death, ok, you have reason to be grumpy. But the woman said he was not nice to her at all and I’ve seen him be that with way, usually with elderly people. She just wanted to chat a bit and I listened and chatted with her and she was very understanding about the tv not being done and she went on her merry way.

And I wasn’t even faking it.

Found out yesterday a kid my sister used to babysit died. 32, small son, and he overdosed. That’s sad.

I want to leave already. I am outside my bubble and it just feels…like being out in public naked. I know this is not rational, it is a symptom of depression and anxiety…Logic means fuck all to a mentally diseased brain.

At least the thoughts of dying have gone away.

Anger at not even being able to get a 5 minute call with my shrink is weighing heavily. He always says if I have problems, call the office. But then his pit bull staff make it abundantly clear he has not one second free time (and since this whole town has developed depression and booked him solid for months, I buy it) and act like I am putting them out cos it I am upright and able to use a phone, I MUST be ducky.

I’m slipping. Sure, it starts out as situational “family induced” stuff. Then the cold weather kicks the seasonal affect into high gear. The anxiety erodes my nerves so I’m snapping about everything. I’ve been thru it so many times and yet I can’t get a shrink to listen when I tell them THIS IS NOT THE TIME TO LEAVE ME FOR MONTHS WITHOUT AN APPOINTMENT. I don’t care how busy you are. Make 5 minutes for a call and prescribe something, don’t tell me my only option is to go to the emergency room and hope they get me a referral to my doc’s psych service. That’s a lot of expense and trouble when a 5 minute call and script could well help.

I think rather than say “my life sucks”…it’s more like “my life is frustrating.” Here I am doing battle best I can and I keep getting met with absolute resistance and constant invalidation.

And more maddening and puzzling is why I even let my idget family get to me. I moved out at 17 to escape their dysfunction and toxicity to my mind. Now, at 43, suddenly my Teflon coating has worn off to this extent I think I am better off dead cos my kids don’t smell like expensive detergent???

The erosion of self esteem stemming from  mental health disorders and an unsupportive, overly critical family is…slaughter of the soul.

My one saving grace, (though most consider this detrimental and rude) is my “fuck you” attitude.

Because as long as I draw breath, I am gonna repeat “fuck you” to these people even if only in my own head.

I know who I am. They know nothing about who I have become because they are too busy judging me from the past, judging me from a “your problems are imaginary” place…They have NO idea what I’ve become. In their world people don’t change.

I have changed. Grown up. Become self aware.

One thing that will never change…

is me saying “fuck you” to all their disparagement. It’s how I survived those people in the first place. Don’t fix what ain’t broken.