How swiftly the days pass! It makes us realize how few are the years we have left. Friends enjoy the cherry blossoms together on spring mornings, and then they are gone, carried away like the blossoms by the winds of impermanence, leaving nothing but their names. Although the blossoms have scattered, the cherry trees will bloom again with the coming of spring, but when will those people be reborn? The companions with whom we enjoyed composing poems praising the moon on autumn evenings have vanished with the moon behind the shifting clouds. Only their mute images remain in our hearts.Though the moon has set behind the western mountains, we will compose poetry under it again next autumn. But where are our companions who have passed away?
~ Nichiren Daishonin circa 1280 C.E. written to Niike Saemon-no-jo, an official in the Kamakura Shogunate
On this Memorial Day, please do not lament the loss of loved ones, but rather, celebrate their lives and be reminded of how much they meant to your heart.
I have been stuck in blue funk mode for about a month now. After about three weeks of just feeling awful about myself, the world, and my non-productive role in it, I finally broke down and called my psychiatrist to refill my anti-depressants. One has to be very careful administering anti-depressants to Bipolar people; they have been known to kick that person right into the manic phase of the illness. Although, at this point, I am willing to put up with a mixed episode. At least I will have achieved a balanced madness instead of this one-sided version of madness.
I get very irritable and fatalistic when in the depressive phase of this lovely “life choice” as my Father put it in an email recently. I start to think no one really wants me around, and I start to wonder about what death would be like. However, due to a promise I made 6 years ago to the Universe and all it contains, I cannot actually go through with it. Being a Buddhist, I think that would be a really bad cause that would have Karmic retributions in this life and the next. I cannot believe that my Father called having Bipolar and having your brain swimming in toxic chemicals a “life choice.” Oh that just irritates the living crap out of me. It’s like when people say being homosexual is a “life choice.” How is a chemical imbalance in my brain a “life choice?” I most certainly did not wake up one day about 20 years ago, and say “I think I am going to have Bipolar disorder, and experiment with many psychoactive drugs.” A “life choice.” Hmmpphh. That tells me he doesn’t know the first thing about mental illness.
And then yesterday, my mother calls, and the gist of the conversation is that I only contact him when I need money. That is so objectively and subjectively not true. I have spent 14 years of my life trying to penetrate his narcissistic shell. That’s about a 1/3 of my life that I have been trying to reach out to him, and let him know how I am doing, what I am doing, and whatnot. Nowhere in these letters have I mentioned financial help. Granted, he did pay for insurance so I would not have a coverage gap, but he stopped that, and I did not plead with him to start again. He was reimbursing for Medicare part B, but he stopped, and once again, I did not go begging for him to continue. No, far from it, I just sucked it up and lived on $126 dollars less per month. So, I sent him an email telling him how much it hurt for him to say that when everything I have written to him recently has expressed appreciation and gratitude which are apparently emotions he doesn’t understand. Neither is humility. And, of course, I mentioned that Mom had told me about his comment. Now my Mother is all chappy because apparently she now feels he won’t talk openly with her anymore. So, I fucked up yet one more time. I just really felt he needed to know that his comment hurt to the bone. So, I schooled him in what it is like to be Bipolar with PTSD, et al. Why does my mother attack me when I am down? That has been her M.O. my whole life. Attack when one least expects it, and not only that, attack one’s character. I mean, after all, I “chose” to be poor and mentally ill.
This state of existence is not what I had in my life plan when I was growing up. I had it very clearly laid out: undergraduate school, and from there my Master’s and PhD. That was my plan. To find a subject that I felt fulfilled me personally, and brought a comfortable income. But, no, that is not how it turned out. I have no idea what these drugs are doing to my cognitive abilities. I know the PTSD rears it’s really ugly head when I am under too much stress. I just do not know if at this point, I would be able to do the research necessary to write a thesis. I do not know if I can hold down a job. If my past history is a measuring stick, the answer would be no. But my parents fail to see this about me. My Father thinks I use him for money when in fact, I have not asked for financial help until now to take care of my teeth, but I am hitting my Mother as well. He is so focused on the fact that he has retire at some point that he can’t see that he makes in a day what I live on for a month. If anything, he is the one who is caught up on money. Every correspondence I receive from him mentions retirement and funding that retirement. He is the President of a fucking University. His salary is a matter of public record. In the 6 years, he has been president they have paid him 2.2 million dollars. That does not sound like hardship to me. But every email. every letter mentions retirement and money. I am not bringing it up. I do not want his money. I want something far more precious: his love and understanding and time. You cannot buy that.
Man, I forgot how irritable I can get when I am in a depressive cycle. I am just waiting for the anti-depressant to start working. That’s all I really want right now is to get out of this overly sensitive, irritable, angry, and sad mood. I do not think it is too much to ask. But, maybe it is. I am not even looking forward to my birthday. It’s just another day. I have had 43 of these, and I do not see any reason to celebrate my life because my life sucks. Okay, enough of the pity party.
Well,, my birthday came and went without pomp or circumstance. although a very odd thing happened. Upon checking the mail on my birthday, I was surprised to find a parcel/package locker key. Being a perpetually curious person, I wondered what it could be for since I had not ordered anything, I opened the locker, and there was this rather large box, with a return address that was very familiar. It was a birthday gift from my Father! I was in shock for at least an hour, maybe more. My Father has not sent much in the way of cards for Christmas or birthdays for going on 8 years or so, and the same goes for gifts. I am still in shock and awe at the gift……and it has been about 3 weeks. Now I am baffled because the rules have changed. I suppose baffled is better than depressed.
Where was I? Oh yes, my parents were waiting for me, and they were angry although not quite as pissed off as I was. However, I may have been in shock by the time I got home. All my parents had to say was the equivalent of “Where the hell have you been”? I didn’t answer. If I remember correctly I told them to fuck off, and gave them the finger as I turned around and headed down the hall to bathroom. All I wanted to do was bathe…..for hours. You would think one of my parents would have found it odd that I stayed in the bathtub until about 3 am. If I were a parent, this would worry me. I had obviously been crying, my whole demeanor had changed in a matter of an hour or so, and I told my parents to fuck off which I had never done in my life. But, life was different now. Something had been stolen from me that night that could never be replaced; my innocence, faith in people, belief that most people were decent at heart. I knew differently now. People, including my parents, were not to be trusted in any way, shape, or form. I cold not believe that my parents had yelled at me for being late especially when there was something clearly wrong; I mean, who takes a four hour bath at 10 at night. Clue number one, and they chose to ignore it. Loss of interest in school, running away, staying out all night without calling, and the beginning of my experimentation with alcohol and drugs. And, they couldn’t see anything was wrong. I never did tell them what had happened to me that night. They would not have believed me. They thought I lied all the time, and the more dramatic, the better.
I am still pissed off at them for not taking time to find out why I was late, and why I seemed so “out of it”. Parents are supposed to support and protect their kids as best as they can, and mine yelled at me for being late because I was too busy being assaulted. Something died in me that night, and it has never grown back. It has a simple name: trust. I couldn’t trust my own parents. I couldn’t trust anybody. To this day, I have this thing about being as clean as possible, and I still do not trust anyone that I do not know well. I look over my shoulder when walking down the street, I have an exaggerated startle reflex, I have infrequent (thank all the powers that be) nightmares, I always feel like I am being followed, or that everyone has an ulterior motive that is bound to hurt me. The thing that has always bothered me is that I can see the whole episode as if I am floating above it, and I can feel it in the first person. So, I have the disassociated third person view, and I have the first person view. It is pretty nifty. I didn’t repress any of the attack. It is as fresh in my mind now as it was then. This incident probably shaped who I was then more than anything else that had occurred up to that point.
Bullies at school be damned; I had just survived something far worse than bullying, and it was made so much worse by the fact that I could not count on my parents to listen. They didn’t actually find out or even believe it had happened until my therapist told them. I guess it took someone with a Ph.D. for them to truly believe, and this was about 17 years after the fact. Sad, just freaking sad on so many levels.
As I stated earlier, This marked my initial foray into the world of what became a really bad substance abuse problem. At first, it was smoking pot on occasion with a friend of mine. Then the pot smoking became a regular thing. It helped me deal with what had happened. Like I said, I didn’t tell anyone for about 2-3 years. The only thing that was apparent was my grades fell dramatically. If I had wanted to die before, I really wanted to die now, and I really didn’t give a flying f*&^ what happened to me after that. Sexual assault is one of the most devastating events anyone can live through. It is completely different than any other form of physical violence because in a matter of minutes, your whole life and outlook change. Hitting someone is one thing, and yes, it can break a person down over a period of time. Sexual abuse makes the survivor feel dirty, ashamed, guilty, and like it was somehow their fault. And, you know intellectually these ways of thinking and feeling are not right, but your heart and soul don’t know that. So that was the opening of my 16th year on this planet. Not a good start. The “drug years” follow, but they are hazy…..very hazy….
So, here it is again. Seems like time is getting shorter, or maybe I am just getting older. I woke up early this morning so that I can deal with my mad morning hair, but my cat thinks it is so she can claim my bed. She didn’t even meow Merry Christmas before she took up a spot on the bed which ensures that I will not be able to make it this morning. I am going to have a small Christmas with my mom, her husband, his daughter and her girlfriend this morning. It is interesting the way Christmas has changed over the years, It used to be my sister, my mom, and my father early in the morning followed by trooping over to my grandparent’s houses. In my 20’s, it was my mom’s, then my father’s, then my uncle’s, and finally, my fiance’s parents. It made for a very long, not easily enjoyed Christmas.
My 30’s saw me single, struggling with a diagnosis of manic-depression, very unhappy, and it would be my mom’s and my uncle’s houses, but nobody really knew what to say to me except my grandma, who simply pointed out that we live as well as we can with what we are given. She didn’t say much about anything, but when she did, you listened. It was her that I called when I had my first car accident at 15, and when my kitten was hit by a car when I was 18. I miss her very much. Much more so this year than last when the reality of her death had not yet really set in. I do not remember Christmas last year. I think my mom and her husband were out of town leaving me at loose ends with my failing marriage to try and make Christmas happen. I was not really in a Christmasy spirit last year.
My 40’s find me single again (small sigh of relief; my marriage was a very unhealthy place for me). I do not wish him any ill-will, and hope he has found a way to celebrate Christmas. Christmas may not be a traditional “family” affair this year, but it seems somehow better. I remember the first time my “step”-sister brought her girlfriend to Christmas or maybe Thanksgiving, and how stressed out her father was to have his fears about her orientation confirmed. I had known for years, and I think he had too, but he struggled with it. It has been really interesting and heartwarming watching him come to terms with it, and make his his peace (without, I might add, becoming one of those parents who cannot handle his child’s life). She is a wonderful, lively, highly intelligent young woman.
My mom has hit another milestone birthday having turned 70 about three weeks ago, and she is coping with the loss of her mother last year. For myself, I am coming to terms with the idea that my father either doesn’t really care how I am, or cannot handle what I have. His solution to most problems has been to throw money at it; he has never been able to handle emotion. I am newly divorced, and have decided that I do not think I will try that again. It is just too difficult to find that rare combination of person who can handle the good times, the not so good times, and the psychotic times. Although, our postman is awfully cute, about my age, and I see no ring 🙂
So, I think this Christmas will do. It is my first being over the shock of my grandma, the first where I didn’t get all OCD about checking the mail for a card from my father; normally I would check the mail 3-4 times everyday looking for the card I knew wasn’t coming. I just knew this year it wasn’t coming. Not even a card on the annoyingly impersonal University of North Dakota’s presidential stationery. I met my “step”-sister’s newish girlfriend yesterday. She seemed very nice. So, as nontraditional as my current family is, at least I know Christmas will be spent with a super blended family that suits me fine.
There is no judgment in this family. My “step” father has OCD, is high anxiety, and is a recovering alcoholic of thirty plus years, my mom has been stellar in her understanding of my strange moods and whims, my “step” sister is adopted and gay, so I think there is room for a manic-depressive. It is a motley crew, but there is love and understanding, and that, in my opinion, is what makes a family,
I hope that everyone finds a way to celebrate this day whether they are alone, married, with a partner, divorced, disenfranchised, estranged, or any other condition people find themselves in…….
BiPolar – What’s Up? – Dunno, I’m kinda Down (Photo credit: Creativity+ Timothy K Hamilton)
I am sure that most people in the Bipolar world have heard of Julie Fast. She has been living with Ultra Rapid Cycling Bipolar II with psychotic features for about 15 + years. It’s not that far away from my own diagnosis of Bipolar I with psychotic features except i am usually in a mixed state which is just the worst. You are the most motivated depressed person and the least motivated manic person. They sort of bleed into one another.
Anyway, the book is Bipolar Happens! and it has a very unique outlook on managing Bipolar symptoms such as anxiety (I knew there was a connection), depression, mania, paranoia, and other subtle symptoms of Bipolar.
She starts the book with that familiar saying and complaint: “I just want to be normal.” She states that people are often taken aback by that statement. People often ask “What is normal?” or “is anyone really normal?” which personally I would find somewhat offensive because there is such a thing as “not normal.” She states it is not normal to not be able to hold a job for more than two years (hmmm, been there), or taking 8 years to finish college (hmmm, been there too). She says it is not normal to hear voices that tell you that you are worthless and you should just die.
She states in return to these statements that everyone is abnormal to some degree, but there are normal people out there. She knows that because she knows what it means to be NOT normal as I suspect many people with mental interestingness would attest to. She points out that “normal” people think about one or two thoughts at a time, not twenty (flight of ideas) whirling around inside your brain. Ms. Fast writes that it is not normal to break down every behaviour looking for the negative meaning. It isn’t about hearing voices that tell you that you’ll never amount to anything so why bother trying (I have experienced those voices for many, many years, and I would dare say that most people with Bipolar have also to some degree).
One thing that really resonated with me is her writing that normal people live day-to-day while Bipolar people have a tendency to live in the past and feel that there is no hope for the future. I am guilty of that. Especially of reliving my childhood where I was a weird kid, but not a Bipolar person, yet.
She writes a great deal on depression and how to combat it in the book (maybe because women are more likely than men to have depressive episodes). One thing that she talks about that I had already discovered on my own is how truly beautiful this world is. Instead of walking with your head down looking at all the garbage this world produces, look at the sky, the bees collecting nectar, the unsual arrangement of pots that make up a planter; of course it helps if you don’t have a car, but I have seen more beautiful things that I would have missed had I been driving. I have met some very interesting people as well.
She asks the question: are you looking up and seeing the beauty of the world and feeling better, or are you looking down and letting depression get you? I know it is hard when you are in the throes of depression to see any beauty in anything, however I have found that getting outside and walking can be very spirit lifting. Basically, she says you have to tell the depression NO! and fight it like an enemy. She suggests writing down the symptoms of your depression so you will know it is the illness talking and not something else. Basically, you have to learn your behaviours so well that you can feel them coming, and you can take action to stop them.
Another topic she writes on, which I think is terribly important, is for your friends and family to be educated about the illness so they can see when you are ill, and take steps to help you rather than as one person I know put it when I asked them to take me to the hospital, “I am so sick and tired of all of your drama and chaos!” That wasn’t what I needed to hear from that person. If a Bipolar is asking to go to the hospital, just take them. They know what condition their condition is in, and they are asking for help not being screamed at. At the time of the above occurrence, I had all my meds lined up in a row an the counter in the bathroom, and I was wondering if I had enough to kill myself. So, yes, I think it is extremely important for those who care about you and whom you care about to be educated about this sometimes fatal illness.
She writes on how to recognize the early stages of a manic episode and how to stop them. Of course, this is very personal in how the mania manifests itself. The are a myriad of ways that mania can insidiously crawl into your life. And, it can be a very destructive force in relationships, financial matters, work place etiquette, etc. It is important to know what triggers your manic episodes.
Basically, this is a fast read, and many of the techniques she describes are ones I have tried and been successful with. If you had asked me 5 + years ago how I was doing, I would have had to lie, and say fine. And, since I am really good at hiding my illness from others, people believe me, and are then rather shocked when I become so depressed I can’t get dressed or bathe. However, I find that sticking to a regular sleep cycle, always taking my meds, trying to eat right and exercise, and doing things I enjoy seem to help. All are mentioned in her book. I guess when you have been an untreated bipolar for 15 years and treated for 11 years, you sort of work out your own “health” plan. I do, however, recommend this book. It is short, simple and to the point. And, it makes a lot of sense. She does not claim to be “cured” just very well managed.
This is an open and ongoing dialogue I have with myself. Some days it is quiet on the frontlines, other days, the frontline has shifted. It is like trench warfare; no one side advances very far before the retreat. Today the trench belongs to the other side so I write.
An Open Letter To One Who Denies Me
Hello,
I would like to introduce myself. I am the part of you that you will not acknowledge. Half of my DNA is the result of you. I possess 23 pairs of your chromosomes. I look like you. I have the same coloring as you, freckled and fair and strawberry blonde. I have inherited your intelligence, your thirst for knowledge, your seeking ways, your search for an elusive “truth.” I have the gene that causes you to deny me. I am like your mother, yet I am nothing like her. Yes, I paint, yes, I love to travel, yes, I enjoy conversation with interesting people, yes, I am fascinated by all things in this world. But, I lack the storminess of her. Yes, I used to be a person of stormy and unpredictable moods, but unlike her, I live in this century where they have almost figured out how to medicate the storminess so it no longer wreaks havoc on the world around it.
Granted, I choose to take the least amount of medication that will keep my madness stable. I choose to do so because I still want to feel that storminess that drives my writing, my painting, my dabbles in computer graphics. In other words, the stormy weather that makes me a person distinguishable from others. I manifest the storm in a way that is completely different than she did. I am not her, therefore, I do not understand why you would deny that which is part of you.
Let me tell you about myself. First and foremost, I am a distinct person. I am not my illnesses. I have my illnesses, and to tell the truth, I would not have it any other way. My experience of the world is rich with emotion and appreciation and gratitude (even though some would disagree with that statement). I am not like the other that is also part of you. I have opinions that are based on my experience of what I read and find to be the correct belief. Maybe I am wrong in some of my beliefs and perceptions, but you have to take into account that all I experience is filtered through the somewhat crooked lens of my perception. The important thing is that they are uniquely mine.
Secondly, I am just as flawed as you are. Maybe that is why you deny me. You see flaws in me that you have seen in another. But, once again, I am not her. I am her on atypical anti-psychotics, anti-anxiety medication, and a little stimulant to control my racing mind. She was untreated and, therefore, ran rampant when the episodes hit. At least this is what I am guessing because no one will tell me anything about her except that she was “odd,” and that I remind relatives of her. I have heard this since I was a child, and since I remind people of her, I can only assume she struggled with the same ailments that I do. She must have been “mad” as well from what little I can gather. Which is not much because you have chosen to deny my existence in your world.
Why would you do that? Am I really that much of a disappointment to you? Did I fail in some way to live up to your exceptionally high standards (mine are higher than yours, by the way)? What have I done to cause you to deny a part of yourself? Or, is it guilt for passing on the predisposition to madness? You know, as an intelligent researcher, that only the predisposition is passed down. Some external stressor is thought to activate the “disease.” Or, perhaps, you look at me as being “diseased,” and since all of your research has focussed on eradicating disease from cells, I am unacceptable because you cannot separate me from the “disease.”
For whatever reason you choose to deny me, you are choosing to deny a part of you. I would have thought that by now, you would have learned to accept yourself as you are. Some of us have been forced to do exactly that due to being considered “different” than…….
I tend to have better memories of my “formative” years before things got all weird in my family, and between me and my Dad through music and the lyrics. I am in a reminiscing mode. Sorry 🙂 My Dad loved the Beatles, and I happen to really like The White Album, so here we have “Dear Prudence”
Dear Prudence, won’t you come out to play
Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day
The sun is up, the sky is blue
It’s beautiful and so are you
Dear Prudence won’t you come out to play
Dear Prudence open up your eyes
Dear Prudence see the sunny skies
The wind is low the birds will sing
That you are part of everything
Dear Prudence won’t you open up your eyes?
Look around round
Look around round round
Look around
Dear Prudence let me see you smile
Dear Prudence like a little child
The clouds will be a daisy chain
So let me see you smile again
Dear Prudence won’t you let me see you smile?
Dear Prudence, won’t you come out to play
Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day
The sun is up, the sky is blue
It’s beautiful and so are you
Dear Prudence won’t you come out to play
i have had it. I have reached the end of my rope. I cannot stand people today. I tried to
Ever have a day/week/life like this?
do something that I thought would be appreciated by an certain individual yesterday. Turns out the road to hell really is paved with good intentions, but I had no idea it came with undeserved criticism, and a 15 minute long chastising discussion (one sided) about how what I had done was completely wrong. WTF!!?!?!??!
Then, to add insult to injury, said person said they recognize that our thought processes were different: first and foremost because of my “illness,” it is always my fucking illness first, then other reasons such as different backgrounds, different life experiences, etc. But, always the “illness” first and always foremost. Yeah, I have had a much harder life than said individual. But, I, in many ways “chose” that lifestyle based on things that happened to me when I was much younger. Much, much younger. Like barely 16.
I did not ask for the event that occurred and I was in no way old enough to process it. So, I buried it with drugs and alcohol. I did not know what else to do. (There goes the fucking phone again. I am going to rip them out of the wall). When I brought up that snorting speed and cocaine for about 6 years isn’t real healthy for the lungs either (not to mention you tend to chain smoke while high on stimulants), said individual says to me: “You know you always try to compare your experiences like they are similar to others’.” Snorting coke and speed is not good for any part of the body involved. You snort the stuff up your nose…..not good for septum and sinuses. Since you are snorting it, it goes straight into your lungs. That’s fucking healthy, and then you chain smoke. How is that different than smoking for 40 years? Fuck this person. Who the hell do they think they are? Who the fuck died and made them capable of walking on water while the rest of us drown?
So, said conversation (again one sided) basically went something like this. No thank you for trying to do something nice, just you know I cannot smoke commercial brand cigarettes because of the additives. I have to smoke pure tobacco. Said individual has been smoking since I was born, maybe they should quit if brand name cigarettes are going to have such a negative effect. Smoking any cigarette is going to be bad for your throat, lungs, mouth, etc. Then said individual pointed out that when they bought cigarettes for us (yes, I took up smoking after then “incident when I was 16”), that they always got the ones with no additives even if it meant driving further. Well, as people who read my blog know, I totaled my car for the New Year (January 5th). So,I have to drive another car that I am not entirely comfortable with (it is huge compared to my old car.) So, I went as far as I could before the anxiety set in.
I am so fucking sorry I tried to do something that I thought would be appreciated. Won’t happen again. Trust me. I may make mistakes all the time (due to my “illness”), but I do learn from some of them. This one I learned from. Good intentions are not appreciated. I feel taken for granted, I feel like I do not ever want to try to do anything nice for this person ever again.
Oh, and then there is what I found in my email yesterday from my Internet company. Apparently,I downloaded a “film” back in December from some company DBA as “Devil‘s Films”. First of all, I would not be looking at “films” produced by such a company: I find that I lose interest in about a nanosecond, and they are not my preferred viewing material. Apparently, this was a niche film involving two “grannies” getting down with each other. WTF would I be doing watching that kind of crap? I am 41 years old. Not 65. Were I not to be completely bored by the genre in general, I would prefer younger people, with a plot that actually tells a story….. not just two or more people doing their thing with each other. Now that I have finished raving and ranting about that, here comes the real problem. The account is in my name, with my email, my address. I “own” the account. It doesn’t matter what someone else does with it, I am the responsible party. I am the one who could get fined, I am the one who could be criminally prosecuted. Not the dipshit that downloaded the “film” in the first place. And, then said jackass says, “I don’t even have the video anymore. It was boring so I deleted it”.
Does not matter if the “film is still on the computer or not. The point is that it was downloaded in the first place. And the Internet company knows it. It came from my router’s IP address, it has my router’s MAC address, it has everything associated with the router’s configuration. My router and my IP and MAC addresses. That’s how it was traced in the first place. I am not a techno-idiot. I know how to trace people from their IP addresses and the MAC address of the computer. I can pin it down to a physical address, in whatever town, city, state. I can pull up satellite maps of the area. This is how the company discovered the copyright infringement.
For crying out loud, if you are going to risk the fine and/or jail time, why download two grannies getting it on. If that’s what you are into, you are married to a person in the wrong age group. Even at 41, I am considered in this realm as “mature,” meaning I am not 20 something. Find a new fucking hobby (pardon the bad pun). Like, oh I do not know, paying attention to your wife who is very close to leaving you, or at least, getting what she doesn’t get at home somewhere else.
I have never cheated on a lover before, but I am getting damn close. I get no attention, no affection, it is a given that I will clean the kitchen and cook dinner. No thank you’s. Those are implied. It may be implied, but it is nice to hear once in a while. I am so close to ending this relationship so I don’t end up cheating because I have very strong feelings about that. My father cheated on my mom with a family “friend” for about 6 years until they both divorced and then married each other. So, I have a thing about cheating. It is wrong. Break up first if you think you are going to the dark side. That way no one gets seriously hurt, and there is no having to forgive and forget. I am that close. But, considering what my mom went through, I just cannot do it. I will divorce first. It’s not like this is a marriage anyway. He sleeps on the couch and has for about 3 months. I sleep in the bed, and I won’t let him sleep there anymore. It has been about the same amount of time since we had sex (I know, overshare), but it is relevant to my wanting to cheat. I don’t understand.
My “illness” has not popped up recently which said person claims is why they are sleeping on the couch and we are not engaged in “normal” marital relations. I am 41 freaking years old. I still have a very healthy sex drive, and I do not even get kisses or hugs. I am talking zero physical affection. And, he wonders why I don’t put on my lingerie anymore. It such an obvious answer. The last few times I have tried that, I got shot down in flames, and felt like such an idiot. Since I do not feeling like an idiot for trying to initiate sexual relations with my husband, I stopped. No reaction, no sexy lingerie. That’s the way it works. What is the point if you get no reaction? You just sit there all dolled up while he watches PBS Newshour or some shit like that. It is humiliating. I am just going to let him have his “fantasy” amateur porn stars. They seem to do more for him than I can.
Besides, It is not like I am ugly. Quite the opposite. I am not beautiful, but I am very pretty. Coke bottle figure, a little more voluptuous than I would like to be, but not bad. I am well proportioned, I have eyes that change from grey to green, I have a large chest (which he claims he has always liked in women; not me apparently). Basically, I have no problem finding men. Most women don’t because men are, in general (not always), interested in one thing from women, and it isn’t philosophical conversation. Robin Williams once said that men only have enough blood to run one head at a time. True.
So, I am completely pissed off while at the same time really sad. Mixed-episode? I do not think so. I think everything in my little world has collapsed, and I am not handling it as well as I could be. I am getting angry, I am getting depressed, I am feeling unloved, unwanted, undesirable, not sexy (even though I know some guys who would disagree, just not the main one), I do not even know why I spend so much time doing my make-up (unless it is to out-do other women; this is likely. Women are catty like that). Continue reading →
My Grandma died (I am not going to say passed away or any other euphemism) on November 17, 2012. She died 27 years and 12 days after her husband who died when I was 14 years old. She was 97 years old when she died. That’s a damn long time to live. I do not think I would like to live that long because every one I care about would be gone by then. That and I am not entirely certain that I like the way the world is going right now. It is either going to get better or worse. Those are the options.
But, I am slowly processing the fact that she is gone and is not coming back. I am also beginning to realize what an immense influence both she and my Granddad had on me. I do not think I would have had the strength to become who I am without the presence of either of them. When I asked her last Christmas how she met my Granddad, she said she had a nickel and she went to town. Well, I am glad that she had that nickel.
I can remember them taking care of my sister and myself on year when my parents went to Puerto Rico (I think) for a couple of weeks. There was always an old lunchbox full of Matchbox cars and dominoes and Chinese checkers that were in a closet that was off “yonder.” I consider myself both horrified and proud to know that I know where yonder is regardless of where it really is. If you tell me to this day that something is off yonder a ways, I can always find my way there.
She always made the best cherry pies for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thanksgiving was a little weird this year as we buried her ashes on the 20th of November, and Thanksgiving was two days later. It was the first Thanksgiving in my lifetime that she was not there. This will be my first Christmas without her. That will be difficult, I think. I try not to cry or get overly emotional because when I do, I find it hard to stop.
She was amazing in so many ways. She and my Granddad were married shortly after the Depression and right before the Dust Bowl. They lived in a very simple house on the eastern plains of Texas. One story I remember her telling is how she needed eyeglasses, and my Granddad went out and hand-picked cotton until he had the money to buy her the glasses she needed. If they were picking together, he would carry her sack because he was stronger (she was tiny), and when it got too hot, he would send her inside where it was cooler. Her maiden name was Hatfield. So, I am descendant of a Hatfield. That’s kind of cool. Knowing that I struggle financially, she would periodically make up “gifts” of coffee, canned soup, crackers, flour, and other dry goods. She knew what it meant to be poor.
She was so strong, and caring at the same time. She hardly ever smiled because she just didn’t. She didn’t express her opinion often, but as I grew up, I learned that didn’t mean she didn’t have one, because she most certainly had an opinion on everything. Especially things that affected her family. She was a woman of few words, but when the words came out of her, they were short, to the point, and you listened. And you listened good. She only really spoke her mind when she felt it to be absolutely necessary. I remember her telling my husband that he “better take good care of her granddaughter.” And, that was all she had to say about that. To this day, he remembers that. I was her first granddaughter. And she loved me fiercely though I did not realize it until it was too late to tell her how much I loved her.
She cared for those she loved like a lioness protecting and teaching her cubs. And she loved her family with that ferocity. Her strength and dignity still amaze me.
She died exactly where she wanted to be: in her recliner. Her life touched me in a way that I am only beginning to understand. My aunts and uncles, her children, have been my babysitters, my one uncle has always been the “goto” guy. He’s the one that came with her when I wrecked my first car at the age of 15. It was his house where she died. I am glad that she was with familiar people when she died. I am glad they moved her from the hospice where she was. And, I am glad that she died with some family around. It is soothing to know that she died near her loved ones.
I am proud to have been her granddaughter, and I am very proud to be her first-born’s daughter first-born even if I am a little weird sometimes 🙂 I love all of you very much, and I appreciate the help you all have given me over the years (even when you didn’t know that you were helping me), I appreciate the lessons I have learned from all of you even if it took some time to stick. And, I especially appreciate the fact that all of you did not give up on me when it would have been so easy to do. And that definitely includes my Grandma who never gave up.
Man, I forgot how irritable I can get when I am in a depressive cycle. I am just waiting for the anti-depressant to start working. That’s all I really want right now is to get out of this overly sensitive, irritable, angry, and sad mood. I do not think it is too much to ask. But, maybe it is. I am not even looking forward to my birthday. It’s just another day. I have had 43 of these, and I do not see any reason to celebrate my life because my life sucks. Okay, enough of the pity party. 
A Bipolar Journey Through The Rabbit Hole 