Daily Archives: February 21, 2018

Two Bipolar Chicks Accused Me Of Hacking Them And That’s Not Cool

Talk about shit coming out of nowhere!  This morning I was on Twitter and I was literally being spammed by Two Bipolar Chicks with some ad about every five tweets so I muted them.  I have no relationship with Two Bipolar Chicks and couldn’t give two shits about them – I don’t know them and I literally have no opinion about them.  So then this afternoon, I get a tweet that says “#WARNING & #RETWEET I am 99% sure @Bipolaronfire was the Twitter handle that hacked me.  DO NOT click on anything they send you!!! #Hacking”  WELL, Two Bipolar Chicks, I can assure you, I did not SEND you ANYDAMNTHING and I sure as hell did not hack you!!!  I don’t know your level of technical skills, but I do know MINE, which are high, and I damn sure didn’t do anything to sabotage your Twitter account!  Throwing out accusations like that are not only lame, they are defamatory, and I won’t accept it!  I would NEVER try to sabotage someone’s Twitter account, their website, their email, or anything else.  I am totally insulted by this accusation and I demand an apology.

Penny Positive #61

From An Optimist’s Calendar


25.5 is how many hours I was awake Monday to Tuesday due to anxiety. I finally crashed around 9 a.m. yesterday and slept an hour and a half. Normally, I’d be concerned about the timing of this ‘up all night’ incident as a precursor to a pre-spring hypo/full manic episode. The fact that I took a melatonin and tried to sleep and wanted nothing but to sleep and yet still could not no matter how tortuous consciousness was…That’s anxiety, not mania, not hypo mania. When it’s any form of mania, for me, I don’t want to sleep, I don’t try to sleep, and I either go full on creative or full on hyperactive. This time, I was not creative and I got nothing done, I was just awake hour after hour agonizing about our living situation.

Last night I zonked before ten p.m. and I did sleep, but I woke often, and I woke early, because there was ice and school had a two hour late start so I was getting notifications. Of course on any day I can sleep in I wake early, it’s life’s little ‘fuck you’ joke. Like weekends with a kid who can’t be dragged out of bed for school without a crane yet come Saturday they’re awake with the bloody roosters.

My anxiety has skyrocketed today as days count down to us needing to be out of here. We have a line on a place in dad’s armpit town, he talked to the guy and stepmonster is gonna come get us tomorrow to go look at it (ya know, since it’s 16 miles round trip and my death trap won’t run over 30mph without a death gasp). I am not wild about this, at all. But I am also sick of not eating or sleeping and feeling like my skeleton is crawling out of my skin. We have to do something and it’s not my job to think of myself right now. My damage from growing up in a small town has to take a backseat to making sure Spook has a roof overhead and I am just gonna have to put on the big girl panties and deal with it. I’m not committing to a 20 year contract to live there. This could be a six month or year long thing, or hell, it may turn out to not suck so much.

I hate myself for thinking that or writing it.

I think mostly I fear my sister and mom might be right and dad and stepmonster may be making a power play to take over my daughter and turn her into a mini redneck version of themselves. And without a reliable car and depending on them to provide me with transportation…I am going to be in no position whatsoever to defend my right as her mother or my independence. That is the worst position (aside from living in a cardboard box with no wifi connection-just sayin’).

To demonstrate how redneck and ignorant my dad is…he thinks because the rent for this place in his town is fifty dollars less than what I pay here, it is going to save me money. Except I will have to pay water there ($25 monthly), trash ($45 every three months), and of course, ten bucks gas every time I need to run into town for groceries or appointments. Moving there may be necessity, but it is not one bit cheaper and it is not at all convenient, so this is how I know that my dad only sees things from his perspective. Saving fifty bucks on rent isn’t saving a penny if I’ll be spending another hundred between water, trash, and travel money.

Again, though…this looks to be our only feasible opportunity and it is a two bedroom so at least I wouldn’t get stuck sharing a room with Ms. Snores A Lot. (Love her to pieces, but man, she could suck down tile ceilings with that snore.) It’s not even a lock, the guy just agreed to let us look at the place and he’s going by what they have told him about my situation. I don’t take anything as a given anymore because…well 2018 has been a dick so far and as far as the former landlord-now-property-manager giving a good reference…I’ve seen the man out and out lie to my face repeatedly so…not breathing easily there, either. There’s also the matter of doing laundry, I don’t know if Armpit (so shall the town in question be known here on out) still has their laundromat, which would cost even more money. I don’t even know if they have mail service, everyone seems to have a post office box, which again, MORE FUCKING MONEY. They have a restaurant open 8 hours a day, a gas station open til 7 p.m. and of course, said post office. That is it. I might go brain dead from boredom, especially if stuck with no gas to escape to town.

At the same time…I wonder if this isolation might be what I need. Get in the slow lane, keep to myself, maybe be able to focus on my writing when Spook is asleep because being so isolated might lower my anxiety and allow me to focus better. God, slap me with a rotting mackerel already for spewing this limited sunshine. Gross. I am likely gonna hate it because it will bring back every traumatic memory from my adolescence and teens where the small town redneck bullies made me want to die daily. But I am 45 now and it’s time to move on, blah blah blah. Some things you move on from but their imprint is a scar that flares up whether you want it to or not.

And this is where standard issue people start rolling their eyes and call me narcisstic and tell me it’s about my kid, not me, and how self centered I am and all I talk about is me me me and I am a horrible person always playing the victim…

Oh, wait, that was what the heroin using shrink said to Analiese on How To Get Away With Murder thus my paranoid brain instantly jumped to, “Oh fuck, is that why nurse doc didn’t help me or believe a word I said? Did she think I was a narcissist playing victim????” And this is where mental healthcare/shrinks/counselors totally confuse and baffle me. If I am supposed to go in and talk, isn’t it supposed to be about myself and how I am feeling and what I am going through? The very definition of narcissism, acceptable not even in my supposed care and management and cure? It is all these self doubt causing questions that have caused me to give up on therapy. The doc nurse and abandonment by Dr. B have made me seriously question if I will ever get the proper professional to actually do more good than harm. But then it goes right back to my own brain rolling its eyes at me and snarking, “Victim much?”

Grrrrr. It’s maddening. And certainly doesn’t help the depression. I have been running on sheer anxiety for weeks and the depressive abyss days certainly take precedence even if I rant more about the anxiety…But it’s come to my attention just how depressed I have been yet scared to admit the sevetrity lesy some well meaning genius professional decide it means I’m an unfit mom. The only person being neglected here is me. I don’t watch my super fave shows like The Flash or Supernatural. I can’t focus on the shows I do try to watch. I am glad to be awake only about two hours of the day, long enough to get a caffeine burst and an acceptable nicotine level. The rest of the time all I do is count down hours til I can go to sleep. And as we’re out of melatonin and the script sleepers damn near kill me…I am going to be spending a lot of time awake, breaking out in nervous hives, twisting stomach aches, and spinning thoughts.

I don’t know where to begin packing. I am frozen, like a deer in headlights with a car speeding at me at 120 mph. And I can’t seem to move. It terrifies me. I should be packing, my kid reminds me constantly. Well, first we need boxes, then we need to have a place to go, and I have to determine the space we will have going from a 3 bedroom two bath to a two bedroom one bath, no outside storage shed. I am trapped in don’t stop, don’t go mode.

Still…I am plastering on the brave face and validating my kid’s ‘nervous-cited- state (thank you, my little pony, nervous-cited is almost a cool way to describe it) while assuring her the move could be a great thing for us, who knows. I mean, I was once stuck in such a depression I thought our world would crumble if the donor left. And ya know what? He handled it like the cowardly cockweasel he is, sneaking his shit out and announcing he wanted out via a 30 second phone call but…within a couple of weeks I was on the mend, realizing how much better I felt without him. I just didn’t have the guts to risk change by admitting it when he was here. And Spook was only two and he wasn’t all that interactive with her so she didn’t even notice his absence. It was something I thought would be catastrophic yet it turned out better than it was, so I often beat myself up for my inability to overome my fear of change and extricate myself from unhealthy situations.

Maybe being forced at metaphoric gunpoint to make a change is what I need. Or it may be push me over the edge, God knows I have been hit from all angles this year with devastation and bad luck. I’d like to at least keep the door cracked open on things being okay, minus any sunshine spewing. Sunshine helps my mood, but it just makes me feel like a traitor to myself if I trade in my hard earned cynicism to blow rainbows up my own skirt. If I wore skirts.

So…depressed. Anxious to the nth. Terrified. Feeling helpless and hopeless.

Still alive and kicking and doing what has to be done for my kid.

If this makes my diagnosis narcisstic, then again…the mental health, er behavioral health, community is guilty of bad behavior.

Still Not Well

I still don’t feel great.  I did do my schoolwork, finishing it yesterday,. So I have that out of the way.   I just hope whatever this is moves on soon.

So sad to hear that Billy Graham passed away.  He was really God’s man for the past generation. I’m not sure his son is going to be able to take that mantle on with his support for Trump politically.  But he may not be interested in it–he has his own work to do.  I’m just hoping we can get a revival in this nation and pull back from the brink we are on culturally.

I am still sending out work everyday even this deep into February.  I usually don’t keep New Year’s resolutions I occasionally make this long! 🙂 But I’m determined to hold to it and get some results this year.  I already have in getting the novella deal.  So I am just waiting on more of the same.

I think I am going to eat lunch and then lie back down for a while. Hope everyone’s week is going well.



The internet has eaten 3 things I have typed out to post in the last week! To say I’m aggravated is an understatement. I don’t pay attention to what I write most of the time. But it’s almost always good! 😊

So I will try again with a post from last night….

When did I become a woman? More importantly at what point did I start viewing myself that way?

I was thinking last night about a certain situation and I ended up calling myself a woman in what was to possibly be my words to someone.

As soon as I had the thought I was immediately sidetracked. I have never seamlessly called myself a woman. Much less referred to myself as one in discussion. When did that change happen? What has happened in my life that I now believe I embody the word woman?

Up until 3 and a half years ago when I was medicated for my Bipolar I would have told you I’m not grow up to be considered a woman. I refer to myself as girl, lady, female, anything else. And really it has been in recent months I have started to look at myself differently.

I AM a woman. I have lived if life that has taken me places I never thought I would go and given me things I never even knew I wanted. I am funny, intelligent, hard working, caring, loving, friendly, considerate, empathetic, and wise. Why shouldn’t I consider myself a word that embodies so many of those things.

I have fought and give my tears for so many different things. I have given of myself to the people I love and I have stood strong in the process. I am in ways and in many cases the calm in the storm. I embrace what is happening and I seek ways to learn from it.

I have peace I don’t think I have ever had before. Maybe it’s in that peace that I have found the strength to see the amazing, kind, and loving woman that I truly am.

So today I will face my day with the knowledge that I AM enough! That the thing we as women strive for is the very thing I have finally found. I am a strong woman. I am a loving woman. And I am a woman that knows what she wants and how to get it.

I am a woman that can take that peace and apply it to the situations and issues in my life and use the wisdom I have found to help others along the way. I am a mom and for a long time I thought that word defined me. But now I realize that yes being a Mom does in many ways define. But being a woman is about ALL of me. And all of me is enough to be called a woman of grace and dignity and love. And for that, I am eternally grateful!!

Be blessed!!

FYI- I don’t think it’s as good as the original. But it’s pretty good. Lol

When Invisible Illness Isn’t Entirely Invisible

One of the hardest struggles people with mental health disorders face is the fact that unlike other medical ailments, mental health issues are often perceived as invisible or behavioral and no one takes you seriously. Society does a 4 out of ten in its grasp of bipolar one, maybe 6 out of ten for its grasp of depression, (0 for comprehending bipolar 2) and as for anxiety disorders…BIG FAT NEGATIVE TEN.

Having an anxiety disorder isn’t merely being high strung. It’s like every nerve ending being in flames and your brain is the fire department only they forgot to bring the water hoses so the fire rages on and no amount of self bullying or pep talks or cognitive bullshit therapy can help during the worst of the anxiety attacks.

I have, over the years, learned to avoid situations that could trigger my anxiety thus resulting in an embarrassing and societally-frowned-upon meltdown of sweating, hyperventilating, and throwing up over the side of the boat. i’d say I get it right 60% of the time. The worst part, however, and this was diagnoses when I was 14…I internalize stress which agitates the disorder.

My anxiety, well hidden at times or not, isn’t entirely invisible if people were to pay attention. It’s not a matter of being wound like a clock or shaky or cranky.

For me, anxiety, at its most extreme, comes with a plethora of physical symptoms that aren’t invisible at all. Thing is, they are embarrassing so not really something I want people to notice. All the trips to the bathroom because I pee when I am nervous. All the trips to the bathroom when pretzel gut kicks in and my innards feel like they are making a jailbreak. The ice cold sweat soaks the armpits of my shirts and drips down my side, stench free yet sooo humiliating because I’ve used every product available and none of them do a thing for anxious sweat. The shaking hands which cause the dropsies and people assume you’re a clumsy oaf. The inability to form coherent thoughts until you’ve ridden out the panic attack and regrouped with some isolation ‘me’ time. The days when you are so stressed and sweaty, you do actually have a musty odor. Oh, and those lovely pretzel gut noises that perform their symphony of gross noises, as if running to the bathroom abruptly at odd intervals when the innard prison break hits.

One of the worst physical manifestations of my anxiety disorder is not invisible at all, and according to my mom, she has it, her mom had it, and that is our skin breaking out in itchy red hives or spots or welts when we are on anxiety overload. I’ve had all the tests, no physical cause, just ‘stop internalizing your stress and try to balance your anxiety triggers.”

Today’s proof.

I can remember being a kid at the public pool and between flea bites and my nervous hives, they would ask me to leave because they couldn’t risk me being contagious. Talk about mortifying. I don’t think I’ve been back to that pool since I was 12. Mind you, the above is a minor reaction, it gets much worse and often results in such a rash all over my body. I’d hardly call it invisible.

Society as a whole simply refuses to face the fact that mental health disorders often manifest in physical symptoms and even if you can’t see them or we don’t discuss them, it doesn’t mean they are invisible or fictional. Trust me, there was nothing fictional about my date on a gambling boat where I hit the crowd, went into panic meltdown sweating and hiding in the bathroom, make up melting off in tears…and when I managed to be convinced by my date to go outside on the deck…I promptly barfed over the side of the boat. He still tells that story. Because it was charming, not humiliating at all for me.

So before you go making assumptions about ‘invisible’ illnesses and assuming there’s nothing disabled about us…

Try on my shoes and walk a few miles. I’ll do you the kindness of not saying your blistered feet are a figment of your imagination and your battered psyche just needs to snap out of it.

Mental health issues may be a cross many of us bear miserably, but the one thing about it, in my experience…I truly believe that what we suffer from…makes us a very empathetic, compassionate group, who otherwise may never have become sensitive to the plight of others had it not mangled our lives.

It’s a shame the world places far more value on mindless Tweets, fashionista heiresses, egomaniacal rap stars, and the wonderful quality of empathy is just…irrelevant. In my world…it’s about as crucial a trait as breathing is when I want to gauge how well I am going to get along with someone.

I could have used a lot of empathetic friends back in the day when I was brave enough to go out and risk my anxiety turning things into an embarrassing scene and all those so called friends either ditched me or phased me out for making them uncomfortable.

Those are the people I really hope karma pays a visit to. I hope karma bites them on the ass and it has rabies and ebola and then I can tell them how it’s all in their heads and they’re inconvenient and embarrassing for me with their invisible ailments.

Bitter, moi?

But no matter my resentments or grudges…I would probably still extend a hand of support and empathy even to my worst enemy if I felt they truly wanted and needed it.

Not even my misbehaving brain chemicals can change who I am at the core, and that is a caring, albeit with a whiplash sarcastic humor, person.

Though if Trump or Kanye West approached, I’d have to return to bitterness and look for an exorcist. There’s only so much insane ego a woman can stand, ya know. Some people just rub me the wrong way and it’s their personality, not their politics.