Category Archives: manic

It’s been a while …

since my last blog post. 

Since last time, satan has reared his ugly head and life has given me a bonified black eye, busted lip, bruised rib, and all around beating.

My mom, who I depend on way more than a nearly 50-year old (ok, 47 in two weeks, but still) woman should, has been ill.

In the hospital, taken by an ambulance, ill.

My dad, who leans heavily on my mom, has been beside himself.

My dearest friend has been given (by mere mortals) six months to live.

It has been a trying month.

First off, my mom is home, well and feeling quite herself. 

My dad, an Air Force Veteran (whom we should all be applauding today for his service to the USAF) is better because my mom is feeling better.

It brings a surprising revelation to light.

While this would distress and hurt me beyond comprehension, I have this hope they would die, in their sleep, at the same time.

As awful as this may sound to some, I’d rather mourn them both at the same time than try to handle one without the other.

I can’t frankly speak for my sister, but wonder if she wouldn’t agree.

If that isn’t possible, I hope my dad, my hero and advocate goes first, because I cannot fathom him without my mom.

Mom would miss dad terribly, but she’s strong, and would survive.

Maybe I’m more crazy than I imagined, but I can handle Mom’s tears more easily than Dad’s.

I honestly don’t know how I would deal with him if he had to live without her.

As for my dearest friend, who is battling cancer, I advised her, as I do everyone, to live every day as if it’s the very last one.

Nobody, but nobody has the promise to live further than the moment they are in.

I know where I’m going when I’m gone from this world, so dying doesn’t scare me.

Living, however, without the people who love and understand me, gives me pause.

If that sounds selfish, it’s because it is. 

I thought I’d grow old and watch, with my husband I dearly loved, grandchildren playing in the yard.

Then, I came home one day, and out of the clear, blue sky, found him as dead as Moses.

No warning. No goodbye.  Just gone.

There’s no promise of life, to any of us, past the single moment we find ourselves living in.

If one doesn’t intend to live life as it happens, they forfeit their right to complain when it’s over, or nearly over.

You can quote me on that.

Right now, in this moment, is all I am certain of.

It is all any of us can be certain of.

This moment.

This breath.

This heartbeat.

Each day, if it doesn’t mean something, is wasted.

I say this to family, friends, former friends that I miss with an intensity that embarassess me, and though I can’t think of any specifically, my enemies.

I don’t think I have any absolute enemies.  If I do, they’ve been mighty quiet about it, and I forgive them anyway, knocking out the one leg they, were they real, had to stand on.

That’s good, though, in my way of thinking.  Who, when they have life to contend with, need enemies to muddy up the mess further.

And yet, as I often do, digress.

Now is the only thing that matters.

Grab on or be left behind.

Those are, in actuality, the only two choices.

As Shakespeare said (though he may have meant it differently as words in his day were perplexing, they pretty much say the same thing). To be or not to be … that is the question.

I choose to be, even when it hurts, is painful, annoying, hurtful, betraying or joyous.

I choose to give it everything I have, be whatever I can be and love, even those who don’t love me, unconditionally. 

Be it joyous, angry, confused, happy, sad, contemplative or any number of emotionally relevant states, with bright lights, awesome auroras, sleepless nights and flying debris; I’m there, every day, all the way.

I know who I am and if I die before morning, I know where I’ll find myself.

I love you all, even when you’re unloveable, just as you do me.

We, though we are all in the image of God, are, intrinsically human.

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Self destruction …

seems to be at the top of my bucket list.

Who does that?

Who works to sabotage friendships just to keep from being hurt?

I do, apparently.

I don’t trust anyone.

Not even those I once trusted.

I have lost, or mahaps misplaced, a vital part of myself.

I hear everything yet believe nothing.

I find myself in the same place I’ve always been.

I’m manic, yes, but I’ve been manic before.

This is different.

This time, I’m predominantly, unequivocally alone.

I’ve burned the bridges that led me out of a place I’ve been to many times.

There are no more bridges to burn.

All destroyed.

From here, I am solitary.

Alone.

A reflection that has no image.

A premonition fulfilled.

A frightening, sobering thought.

Though I’ve often wished for it, I don’t truly want to be completely isolated.

I only realized that once it was too late.

Be careful what you wish for.

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Guilt …

is something I am well acquainted with.

I grew up on it.

It was my parents’ first line of defense.

Even when I was innocent, they had a way of making me feel at fault.

At fault for what?

Having sex when I wasn’t, my total incapacitation with math, the hostages in Iran?

It made no difference.

I was, for whatever the cause, to blame.

What matters is that I was too weak in my spirit and confused in my mind to argue.

So I went along.

They didn’t understand me.

Nobody understood me.

Nobody at that time really knew anything about bipolar disorder, or, as it was called then, manic-depressive disorder.

I knew I was different, but was made to believe, as everyone else did, that I was a rebellious teenager with a bad temperament.

I slammed doors.

I cried.

I drank.

I cut myself.

I was the epitome of a sufferer of Manic-Depressive disorder.

I had no control and yet was expected to exhibit control.

That is messed up in the purest sense.

I owe one doc my life. He recognized my plight and got me help.

He is one of my heroes.

Thanks, Jerry.

That was a long time ago.

In present day …

I believe Bi-Polar, one of the now-accepted terms, is a bastardization that allows people who have ups and downs now and then, to name themselves so they can be cool.

It let everyone into the nut club.

A place that was, when it wasn’t cool to be ‘bipolar”, only for those thought to be crazy, different, outcasts, criminals, nuts.

Now, however, you aren’t cool if you aren’t either bipolar or gay.

If I were gay, I would take exception to that, but I’m not gay.

I’m just crazy.

I hear rational people who exhibit no signs of affective psychosis , another PC name, proudly proclaim themselves as such.

Bipolar, that is.

Who are these people? These wanna-be’s who haven’t a clue.

They pretend to be psychotic and then turn it off as if it’s water.

I inwardly laugh just before I curse them with the single exercise of  spending a week in my head.

A day would be sufficient, but a week would make them catatonic or institutionalized.

A win, either way.

There is nothing glamorous or popular about suffering from manic-depression and if one thinks so, then they are pretending to so they can either …

fake being in high gear for the sake of getting attention …

have an excuse to be sexually promiscuous; if I may say, if it is real, the sex is unimaginable – (y’all know what I’m talking about) …

or find no fault with jumping out of the high windows on buildings because they know they can fly.

The alternative side of that msnic high is crouching in the bathroom with a razor blade, or cutting or purging or a million other coping mechanisms.

They forget that side while they are being manically cool.

Glamorous? NO.

To those who know what is real,
hang in there and fight.

To those who pretend to know what it’s like just to be manic-depressive, just shush.

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A few difficult days …

are, once in a while, good for me.

They remind me that I am stronger than I think and that gives me confidence.

Confidence makes me manic, which is my baseline normal.

I like being manic as it makes me think clearer and feel empowered.

Right now, all is right with the world.

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              My favorite marker

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          My favorite Lighthouse

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               Sunrise in my world

Coming down …

from medication that poisoned my brain has been quite the adventure.

I specifically told my Doc that I have a hypersensitivity to medication.

“Oh, you’ll do fine” they said.

“You won’t have any problems” they said.

I knew going in that it was risky because, let’s be real here, I’ve been on meds in the past and I went off the deep end then, too.

But to stop the sleepwalking, sleeptexting, sleepcooking, sleepdriving … the list goes on but what would the point be … I went with it.

Big mistake.

I lost entire pieces of my memory, some of which have still not been fully recovered.

It stopped the sleep-stuff and controlled my mania by making me a hollowed out shell without emotions.

WTH?

I spent 48 hours simply trying to remember my niece’s name.

Friends have marked me off their list and I don’t blame them.

Well, actually, I do blame them. 

They’ve known me forever and should have realized something was up.

Mayhaps they weren’t the friends I thought they were.

That, at this point, is neither here nor there.

What’s done is done.

Needless to say, in the near future, I may be sleep-stuffing, totally manic and my own weird self again, but it beats losing pieces of myself that define me.

Meds work excellently for some, but to me, they are poison.

Always have been and I take responsibility for giving in.

Never again.

I learned this lesson years ago and it sucks that I had the “maybe this time” mentality and had to learn it all over again.

Good grief.

Good effing grief.

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Ignorance is bliss …

but unfortunately for most of us, ignorance is a luxury.

I have found myself spellbound by the idea of someone.

The thought that they were what I might, had I actually been looking for someone, have been looking for is like a siren’s song.

It is easy to become sidetracked by the fantasies we weave in our own minds when we aren’t paying close attention.

I did that.

I wove fantasies, thought thoughts, dreamed dreams and built castles in the air when there were no fantasies to be fantasized about, no pertinent thoughts to think and no castles to build.

It is the downside of an active imagination.

Reality takes a back seat and the fantastical takes on a life of its own.

There is no shame in that; the imagining, wishing, dreaming.

No shame at all, however, it is important to know where dreams end and reality begins.

Otherwise, you are left scratching your head and wondering where you went wrong.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve spent way too much time becoming whole and confident in my own thoughts and abilities to throw it away by putting all of my eggs in one basket.

If you put all your eggs in one basket and then  drop that basket, all of the eggs are ruined and you are back where you started when you didn’t have any eggs at all.

I, for one, want to have at least some whole, unbroken eggs in my basket.

I have, up until my husband passed a few years ago, never lived on my own.

Never experienced the pure joy of doing what I want, when I want, the way I want or not doing it, whatever it may be, at all.

I came very close to throwing all of that away by thinking I needed validation for this or the other thing.

I don’t.

Need validation, that is.

I am happy being by myself.

Alone, I am not lonely.

Instead, I am free in a way I never imagined.

I find myself pulling back from what I once longed for and realizing that I am perfectly content as I am.

I don’t know how I would react to a relationship, but the past few months have taught me that I do not need anyone to complete me.

I always thought I did, but I don’t.

I can ‘t remember a time when I felt so content.

Yes, sometimes my brain overtakes my soul and I’m manic to the point of madness.

But that, as it always has, passes and I am left, once again, serene in my solitude.

I have my thoughts, my words, my music and the magnificent creation of my Father to sustain me.

It makes me want to encourage others who feel they are not whole unless they are paired with someone to rethink their priorities.

I don’t know what I would, at this juncture in my life, do in a relationship, but I feel, at this point, that I have become too self-sufficient to rely on anyone to complete me.

When I need completion, I grab my camera and head to the mountains.

Companionship comes to me in the form of moon, sky, trees, water, light and shadow.

Seek what you will, but know, before you seek, that even if you don’t find, you are, as you are, enough.

Everything else is simply icing.

The magnificent song of Winter silence

The magnificent song of Winter silence

Dances With Wolves …

is by far and above one of my all-time favorite films.  I love the cinematography, for one, for it is magnificent and portrays many things that I hope to see before I die.

I wonder what the Grand Canyon will feel like beneath my feet, beheld by my own eyes, felt in my heart and spirit.

I can only imagine.

I have seen it, but it was from 30,000 feet in the air.

Yes, I was able to see the whole of it, but I wasn’t able to feel it, to know it in my heart and soul, to feel it beneath my feet, to breath in the essence of it.

I didn’t get to touch it and let it become a part of me, a part of my being.

I yearn to see it, but that is another post altogether.

I was mesmerized by the characters of this movie.

I fell semi-in love with  Wind in his Hair.

What a beautiful human he is and what a disappointment to find that his real name is Rodney.

Really?

Rodney?

I was expecting something exotic like, well, like Wind in his Hair.

But Rodney?

I roll my eyes at that.

Watching a fantasy disintegrate before my eyes is disheartening.

But, that wasn’t the point of this post, the scenery and awe of the West and the Grand Canyon was.

I get sidetracked sometimes with insanely handsome men with beautiful smiles and long dark hair and forget myself.

I get sidetracked with handsome men with dark chocolate eyes and dimples, too, but that is neither here nor there.

I am, as most of the people I know, human.

my depiction of an eye ... a pencil sketch.

my depiction of an eye … a pencil sketch.