Harry Potter Should Be Put To Death...

Since the moment I was unfortunate enough to stumble across this video on YouTube, I've had a knot in my stomach that I cannot rid myself of. I'd love to hear YOUR thoughts about this....

Snagging Mr. McDreamyballs

Listen up kiddies; the following is geared toward the ladies, but it applies to men too, so don't be discouraged guys! You can snag your very own dream girl using the same exact strategy. Read on.......

I like LOVE guys. I love their clothes, their company, their scents and their (wink) appendages. Being that I spend around one third of my life in poker rooms, most of my friends are men. I think they like hanging out with because even though I love the color pink, freak out at the sight of a spider and most of my shoes are 6" stillettos, I'm not the "delicate flower" type AT ALL. I play poker, use the word "cunt" freely and would prefer Red Sox tickets over flowers any day. I can also stuff some ones in a thong with the best of 'em. Yup... I'm a cool chick.

Because they can be themselves around me, guys enjoy my company and let me in on their secret world. Like many women with mostly male friends, however, I do not have a boyfriend. For some reason my complete and flawless understanding of the male mind does not make me more attractive to them. What DOES make me more attractive to the boys is the fact that I am nuts. Yup. Mad as a hatter, that's me. Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Men love crazy women! They can't get enough of us! Not crazy as in kooky, quirky, shoot from the hip crazy... but crazy as in foaming at the mouth, pig-fucking, straightjacket wearing, "They're coming to take me away hee hee, they're coming to take me away ha ha.." crazy. Until yesterday I thought it was a coincidence that all of my friends have dated psychos. But then my friend TJ mentioned he would 'beat it' in reference to this schizophrenic chick we know. Or did he say 'smash it'...?  Oh well, doesn't matter. Point is; it dawned on me in that moment that there was a pattern here. I pried a little bit and, yep, it's true: rumor in the men's department is that crazy chicks are the absolute best in bed, and therefore, Grade A Prime Man Magnets.
. 

So, you're probably asking yourself, "How do I get my hands on a ticket for a cruise on the 'SS Crazy Chick'? I could use a little BAH CHICKA WAH WAH!". Well, relax ladies, I've got you covered. Using, ummm, absolutely no personal experience at all, a lot of poker table man-gossip and my best friend's diary (sorry Dana), here's a guide to scoring Mr. McDreamyballs and eventually turning him into a straight up broken mess who will never question 'Why?', but simply accept and worship you for the lunatic you are. Okay, nutbags-to-be, let's begin! Welcome to Crazy Chick 101...

The First Two Dates: Play it cool. Do the flirty, manipulative things normal girls do like ask prying questions about his past relationships and take food off his plate without asking (doing it with your hands is a bonus). Make sure not to give away any details about where you work, who your friends are, or what you like to do. Men love overbearing yet vague women.

Third Date: This is traditionally the 'sex' date, but you should pretend like he's not going to get any at all. Only let him kiss you on the cheek and keep three feet away from him at all times. Wait until he's turning around to go home then call him back, take him upstairs and pull out all stops. Make sure it's some nasty, wild, ass-slapping, hair-pulling, household pet-utilizing super sex. You have a reputation to uphold.

HOT TIP: A nice variation on this is giving a killer blowjob on the second date then refusing to sleep with him for six months, saying that you need to 'get to know him better.' **Improper boundary issues = man catnip. ROWWRRR!


Fourth Date: He's hooked. It's time to start singing, and a lot. It doesn't matter what kind of voice you have, just make sure to be enthusiastic. Preface this by asking him coyly what he thought of you on your first date. After he answers that, he'll ask you what you thought of him. This is your cue to fall backwards so he'll have to catch you, throw open your arms and let out a loud, major chord, "WELL---" Launch into a snappy, Broadway-esque song and dance number that gives a step by step description of your relationship so far. Make sure to rhyme 'carving knife' with 'loving wife' at some point. Sing often. In the car, at the bar, in bed. Sing an epic poem about the adventures of your cats. Sing angry grrrl power songs about that time he forgot to call you. Sing sad songs about the summer you were bulimic. Sing! If for some reason he puts on music, just hum or whistle a different song over it. (Think Twinkle Twinkle Little Star over Black Dog by Led Zeppelin.)


Fifth Date: Find a new hobby or belief system. Go extreme: kelp farming, furry sex, veganism, Scientology . Insist that he join you. Try to get his friends involved. Create and photocopy your own brochures to bring to his poker games. Find his mom's address and mail her some copies. Don't be shy!
                                                                                                      
Seventh Date: This is the perfect date to have a Reconciliation Party. Issue paper invitations to his friends and family with a full text description of what he did wrong and what habits he changed to get you back. Decorate excessively. Go to a party store and have them do that thing where they put photos of your faces on balloons. Do not invite anyone that you've known for more than 72 hours. Invite strangers and casual acquaintances and treat them like soulmates.   
You: "This is Pablo. We met in the subway station yesterday and he told me the most moving story about a lost pickle. Next week I'm going to Guatemala to meet his family."
Pablo: "Que dice, loca?"

Eighth Date: You two are well on your way to a long relationship full of bliss and spontaneity. Get any major body modifications you want done now, so he has time to get used to them. Gang tattoos, clit piercings and pinky amputations are good ways to keep things interesting. Consider using lit cigarettes to etch a floral pattern onto your back. Be creative!

If you're worried about slipping up and falling out of character, don't be!  Craziness is like riding a bike. After a while, being unbalanced will seem natural to you. You'll be sleeping with his nephew, eating cat litter and taking his last name in no time. If he dumps you, use your state of sanity as an excuse to mail him envelopes stuffed with the flayed hides of small animals. He'll be crawling back soon! Literally. Because when his buddies catch wind of what you've been up to, they're gonna kick his ass for being such an easy target. Then you can introduce him to your wood chipper.  Bye bye, Mr. McDreamyballs, hello Mr. McChippynuts!

Okay ladies, you ready? Let's go score us a man minion!

And On A More Ladylike Note...

As I've mentioned previously, the creative work submitted to my "Turbulent Stories" blog will now be published here.

Click on the "CREATIVE" tab above and prepare to feast your eyes on some of the most disturbing, eloquent and raw writing I've ever seen.

Insanity feeds on our reason, not our creativity... These stories, poems and memoirs remind us of that.

DIS ORDER (submitted By Terry)

This haunting poem was submitted by Terry M... He is as talented as he is compelling; I find myself completely drawn in by EVERYTHING he writes. Luckily, he's dumb enough to submit them for posting to ME!!! Thanks for your stupidity Terry - My blog is a better place because of your work!

DISORDER

sin and bones
thin and stones

transparency of a daughter

tracing paper skeletal

jaundiced teeth

falling out dying gums

i wish i were your impaled stomach

i wish i were the food you won’t

i wish i were your meticulous slices of carrot

             and celery and lettuce and evaporated milk

i wish i were your perennial water  bottle comfort

 i will be your ritual, i will lose your battle

 i will be the food at your funeral

 i will be your coffin

 i will be there

And On A Lighter Note, New Blog Content

I have decided to move the content from http://turbulentstories.blogspot.com to it's own page on this blog.

The traffic on the "Turbulent" blog is about as busy as the traffic in West Cowpoke, Arkansas, population 136.

So keep your eyes peeled for all the additional content that will be appearing here. You really don't want to miss the wonderful submissions from others who are battling bipolar disorder. They tell their stories & illustrate their struggles through short stories, truth based fiction, short memoirs and poetry... their talents are indescribable. Stay tuned and see for yourself.

A Rant .... Submitted by Heather Al-Juboori

This post was submitted by Heather, who obviously has some strong feelings on the matter... Thanks Heather!

Hey I got something to submit if your still looking for outside info for the blog..


" You are right on target here. Labels are a biitch, no we aren't the center of attentio n seekers, and hey you know the fuck what??? If I had a choice I would make it all just go away and not have the dramatics in my life.. Hell I have tried to ignore this bipolar shit for years. You know what happens when you do that with out help? You fucking cycle and then it gets worse. If your lucky it won't get followed up with anything that leads to legalities. ANd the sad thing is your right. It is a sickness, Its not a fucking tabboo subject. Its fucking life. The autistic the children born with down syndrome, mental retardation, or even are just a little slower on grasping things are born with it too. Too fucking bad you wanna shut it off and walk away and pretend its not there. None of us fucking can!!! Its a living hell battling with yourself everyday teetering between the social ideas of normaility and your reality of normaility. Its as though at times we bipolars are possesed or short circuting. Its a spiral of confusion. Yes we eventually learn to cope and live and be able to function but thats those that are lucky. And then there are those of us that just dont know what is wrong with us or are crying for the help and never get it end up in trouble in our lives not knowing whats up or down. Its a scary thing to face that reflection that you see in the morning...You just can't walk away and pretend they aren't there. You never can walk away from you..I agree Kimmie, Society just doesnt make things any fucking easier for us. the question is are we really that fucking far from the old days? Have we progressed or is it all just another form of putting us in mental institutions and forgetting we exsist to wallow away in our own filth??? I say no. It is up to us to take up our bretheren in this God awful mental war we face daily. We help each other and stand tall and say Fuck off!!! WHo the hell needs your views??? Live in my fucking shoes and live my fucking real horrors in real fucking life both physical and mental and then you can judge me. Fuck off! The normaility is that noone is without fault and in some point int anyones life they can agree they have lived to some small extent at the least of what we live in a day. Don't take pitty, don't look away, and don't fucking stare. Have some fucking balls ask a fucking question and fucking empower yourself you moronic assholes, get educated and stop judging and being afraid of what you know nothing about. Reality and experience in my life suggests that yes sometimes education is scary, because you face cruel realities...but its also what leads to the epiphany of OH NOW I UNDERSTAND!!!

And if you wanna get right down to it..we can be damned good parents, because there are those of us, like myself, that care very much our children. We are very intune with thier needs. We are often able to see warning signs of any emotion issue a child may have...because hey we have lived it. My life has been sure hell. We have endured allot more then allot of any red blodded Americans could take in my family. And because of that, I knew what that meant for my kids...None of it had to do with me or anything I had done. Everything had to do w/ prejudices and morons. And children were the biggest victims. I am damned proud to say that I signed my kids in for counciling and you know what?? The councilor told me that I had children that were very healthy, especially in mental health...Because I learned long ago how to slow the anger, forgive, and move on. And taught it to them. I know this may sound contradictory here but every once in a while someone has to open thier mouths to help those that fucking cant!!

I teeter between meds or no meds. And you know what? I am me, take me or leave me. I am a devoted friend, spouce and dedicated mother, who will rip a fucking head off for those she loves. I advocate for those whom I can, I help the disabled and elderly without any compensation....and you know where I can find the most comfort??? WIth my grandmother..she suffers from althimers and demntia. She is basically feeling the same types of things I am with different labels..

Yeah people,like Kimmie said Labels are a bitch. Too bad Dementia is one of those bitches. I read an online article stating there was a theory that mental health is diagnosed on what it is in different decades of a persons life, ADHD, Bipolar, Depression, Dementia, The theory was that each label was at times difficult to differentiate, if I am not mistaken about this. But it suggested that bipolar and dementia are closely related. SO SOCIETY Shove the labels and looking down the noses and shoulder shrugs and side stares up you ass!!! No matter what a person does someway somehow it happens to everyone. Especially depression, a job loss, a death...Look in the mirror and then prtend that ones not there! HAHA fucking HAHAHA"

IF its good and you wanna use it go for it, edit it I dont care..lol If not its just my POV on agreeing with you. HUGS

Afternoon Ever After (Submitted by Terry)

.

.

AFTERNOON ever AFTER

the afternoon awoke sometime, hours ago
i sleep like vampire at dawn
god can’t be this accurate, but why assume caring now

my barnacled eyes – robin breast red – pry open
towering difficulty, bitterness crawls between my teeth and gums
revolted by my hope that this vulgarity would implode

i know better than breath hope

i grumble out of our comfortable bed detailed shapes on each side
now granite cut, sharp sleep after whiskey pills 3 times dosage fuck this and fuck that
stumble through dying life emptiness
reeking clothes beer cans, bottles yawning computer

find the bathroom – comfort porcelain
the mirror swarms fly-by memories grease fire images
three weeks ago
can’t escape can’t fathom
turn off the light

fall against bathtub gather foetal
place pure darkness where nothing matters
forgetting is no false effort dank room my baby blanket now

hard door knocking again?
calling my name detectives professionally
tread carefully killer found their pride and relief

laugh, i laugh i wretch why do i care?

testify pronounce a man guilty
justice for your wife, you

their voices white noise my self-protective deafness
i don’t care about justice don’t want it know it
not judges people or magic not prisons death needles not god
no blame no guilt for me just a hole
pierced in my soul blackened dead at the edges

let him go shoot someone else
let someone else’s family condemn him

just let him go

Original Poem (Submitted by Terry)

.

.

a divinity here will not be denied

a moral in life and in demise

a moment of celebration

distrusted ambiguity

finality without glamour

welcomed like cold steel

stiff by knowing

no choice, no judge


in
sum
may
may
may
summation
in
sum
mer
mer
mer’s

last fires

in

con

cede

cede

cede

conceding everything

in


dy

ing

ing

ing

declaration

in


mor

tal

tal

tal

coil

in


mus

ic

ic

ic

ic icarus


wings

melting

plummeting

Let's Dine Out (Submitted by Terry)

.

.

Let’s Dine Out

some old bitch toothless for years moving parched
blood cracked lips smack, smack
in,out
metastasized tiara queen snake tongue yellowed by sidewalk
ground cigarettes slap,slap out, in
under her delicate thoughts strewn in rusted grocery cart
with cans and paper and magazines

all rotting

like her that bitch whose name is lost
in her own history in collections untouched
she leads now

i follow like i’m a fool and i don’t know and i can’t notice

she knows what i need she leads to
garbage bins behind pish- posh eateries
she calls me bastard and rapist describes my cock
as a raisin

together we feed the leftovers that were left over but
never salivated on by rich lips or wanted at home by fat wallets
she with gums mushing me, the bastard, chewing civilized in reeking clothes
eating cake, she looks at me like a bleeding lamb

eyes suddenly rainbows hard sun through rain clouds
lucidly she says we should both be dead


yeah

Original Poem (submitted by Dani)

..

The author of this poem submitted this piece on a day where she says "I'm feeling alot like this today"...

..

Whirling twirling spinning flying
Twisting running trying finding
Seeking racing searching pacing
Never stopping

Crashing crying dieing lying
Drowning spiraling falling yelling
Throwing losing screaming sobbing
Never stopping

Satellite (Submitted by Terry)

..

..

..

SATELLITE

i hate him

for one precise moment

as i watch my friends

animal attack, relentless


my hatred

orbits me

elliptical trajectory

seduces me

licks me slowly

toe to erection

to nape to lips

seers my senses

burnt raw


with exquisite precision

hatred floods my empty margins

so pure

like addiction


he’s punched to the ground

kicks vicious

blood and rain tangle

he says nothing

grasping for

air or saving

both causalities


i kick him

back of the head

hard it feels

but only glances

focus on leg now

thinking damage would be less


the others, i don’t recognize

frothing, feral

still kicking kicking

blood seeps thick

like plasticene from his nose and mouth


nothing in my ear but thrash, wallop

gurgling, wheezing after each

hard target strike

the inertia of aimless hate


slave to primordial childhood

i become alligator

i become dinosaur

foot targets the small of the back

AGAIN!!

AGAIN!!

AGAIN!!

until his back cracks

goes paranthetical


my hatred evaporates, breathes its last

collapses against the back of my skull

it sits there

not answering questions


i fall to my once steel haunches

his face is no longer

his eye – clouded, near to rupture – latches to mine

pleading? pleading? with me?

i’m powerless


i’ve spent my moment of hate

my second i’ve caring missed

i put my eyes between my knees

listening to the dust of his

tears, blood and dying


and pretend i’m not there

Therapy (Submitted by Tarani) - True Fiction

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This compelling story was submitted by a gifted college student, who has been coping with mental illness in her family since childhood.  Tarani is a compassionate and gifted young woman who has seen both her father and sister afflicted with symptoms of bipolar disorder.  In this true fiction piece, she relates how easily lines between bipolar people and their family members can become blurred...

.

.

The dim room smelled funny, and I laughed because the scent was both familiar and unexpected: It was latex. The clay bowl next to me was the culprit. It was filled to the brim with condoms and--- God, who would've guessed ---the same potpourri Mammaw keeps in a jar by her bathtub. I knew places like this well, and after they locked my sister away, I stopped going as often. Besides, I don’t go here for myself so much as I maintain these visits to keep my mother worry-free.

I don't mind them. It's just that, somewhere between latex-apple-cinnamon potpourri concoctions and armchairs that sigh louder than the patients, we are supposed to feel comfort. It’s impossible. The only feelings I can muster are cousins of indifference. So, I even feel apathetic when the receptionist smiles at me a little more sincerely than she smiles at people like my sister. I think she smiles because I'm not anything like Hayley or most of the people I've seen walk out of here. Maybe receptionists have an eye for crazy, and I don’t fit the mold. Still, I have a feeling everyone that sits in this chair fears they might be perceived as mental, kind of like the girl who was opening the glass doors as I walked in. She looked normal enough. She had hair like a firework that swirled around her face in a highlighted jungle of bobby pins and cigarette smoke. Under different circumstances I imagine she would have smiled
at me, but just as I was expecting to catch her eye, shame grabbed her by the ears and pulled her head down.

People like this walk staring at the ground, and they pretend to count their steps. Well, I know what they’re thinking. They’re muttering, "She'll think I'm busy thinking. I don't want to make eye contact and know she saw me leave this place. I have friends I'm going to see right now. I'm normal. Stranger, don‘t assume I‘m insane." Then they count their steps "1-2-3--". For the record, I don‘t look down on them. I understand why these people watch the pavement and skip over cracks. They've got a scar on their pride from Amelia, the receptionist that scoffs, just as simply as I have a scar on my lip from Zach, the Australian Sheppard that bites. Where our scars rest proves to be the only definite difference between Client 2 and I as we shrug in these chairs. Confidentiality forbids Client 1, Client 2, and even Amelia from assuming too much of anything else. This is fine because Amelia doesn’t seem like she would understand my file even if I sang it to her.

I thought of starting a conversation with her, but there was a stack of paper teetering next to her coffee mug. Beyond the calm ocean scene occupying her mouse pad, I observed the soft skin of her hands at war. The skin had obviously lost ground to an army of band-aids, but she ignored them. Paper cuts illustrate Amelia’s obvious dedication. So, I decided not to disturb her work. She would consider conversation unproductive; I would stress her out. I was almost too tired to hold my head up anyway. The clock on the wall gasped 1:45, and I sympathized with it because I know how hard it is keeping track of time.

At this point, Client 2 or Tim, as I read from his nametag, had been gone for ten minutes. Before he went upstairs he reached into the bowl and grabbed a handful of condoms and--are you serious?--potpourri. I wouldn’t have noticed how awkward this was had he not topped it off with a wink. I feel sorry for any girl that has sex with Tim, not only because I don’t understand how the potpourri will come into play, but mostly because I can’t understand the logic behind picking up girls who need therapy.

The clock showed 2:00. I was listening to Amelia’s papers shuffle when I heard a moan. The louder it got, the harder it was to identify. A dog whimpering? A TV? A portable radio that’s making its way towards the door? Judging from Amelia’s expression, she was clueless too. So, I laughed a little and caught her attention “Jesus, that sounds awful…” In an instant, the sound came stumbling through the door. Immediately mine and Amelia’s raised eyebrows and shoulder shrugs turned into an explosion of paperwork followed by Amelia-like paralysis and Tarani-like jumps. The girl with highlighted hair was ripping through the room. Before I knew what I had done, she was on her back. My knees were pressed into her shoulders, and I was shaking with anger. “Hit me!” she screams. “Hit me!” My face is red. My knees are pushing so hard into her shoulders that I can feel the stranger’s back cracking on the floor. I hate this girl, and I hate this place. I hate this girl because she doesn’t look me in the eye. And I hate her because she stares at the ground like a coward, but I hate her most because she haunts my dreams.

“My sister lives behind my eyelids.” I sighed. “I can’t close them without having nightmares about her.” The short woman’s eyes frowned at me through square glasses as she helped me from the couch. Water played against the glass cup as my hands shook.

“Why do you think that is?“ She asked while observing my obvious angst.

“She gets the best of me. I hate waking up to a house that feels like a waiting room in a therapist’s office.”
I walked downstairs to breakfast the next day. I felt my mother’s eyes follow me to the table as my hand glided the old mahogany chair over the kitchen’s wooden floor. I took my seat and, for the first time, noticed the matching table was scarred. The light from the blinds danced over my plate and spread to the wood revealing cracks in its finish.

“So,” she sighed as I massaged my temples sensing the hesitation in her voice, “How did your first hypno-therapy session go?”

“It was alright.” I shifted in my seat as I continued, “It confused me.”

Mom grabbed the crackling bacon skillet from the stove and turned for the cabinets. Her shaking hands reached for our plates; her eyes saw everything in the kitchen but me.

“How did it confuse you?”

“I felt foggy. It’s almost like one of my dreams was blending in with reality.” My heart dropped as I watched her expression transform from anxious to what my friends and I refer to as the “I really wish I understood” look. The plates clanked against the blemished table top.

“Well,” she said marking the beginning of another failed attempt to comprehend, “what was the dream this time?”

“The girl I saw leaving the office turned into Hayley. The guy who was waiting with me in the lobby was Tim. You were the receptionist somehow. Tim left the office early, I can only guess to fuck Hayley again, and you were busy. So, we didn’t talk. I heard Hayley sobbing in the hallway. When she walked in I pinned her to the floor. She was begging me to hit her, and I froze like I always do.” There was an awkward silence, but what more could be expected? “I never felt like I went to sleep. There was no transition from the waiting room to Dr. Tillery’s couch.”

She hugged me before I drove away with frail arms and warm hopes that Spring semester on the coast would bring me flowers.

Carl Jung saw dreams as a way of the unconscious communicating with the conscious part of ourselves in order to bring something to our notice and restore our equilibrium. So, maybe these appointments are meant to make me see something I’ve been ignoring. Maybe it’s the same concept as the kitchen table. I sat next to the wooden surface every morning for nineteen years being so preoccupied with my bacon that I never noticed the scars--at least not until the sun crept its way through the blinds.

A few Mondays into Spring semester, I found myself walking across Santee field glowing in the same sunlight that graced the table’s surface. The girl hitting the volleyball threw herself on the grass in a desperate attempt to stop it from hitting the ground. I laughed, “It’s not glass, Caitlin. You can let it hit the ground every now and then.” But I adored her for her dedication just like I admire the receptionist for her band-aid hands and the stranger for her guilt. In the end, we all relate. I’ve been throwing myself on the ground, diving through the prickly bushes of hypnosis and therapist offices in order to stay in the air--to find a little peace and awareness.

Last week the dreams stopped. The counseling started foggy and left me feeling really confused and empty, but leaving the post office I felt l finally understood. “Dear Mom,” I wrote, “I got your flowers. Thanks for everything.”

That Was Then, This Is Now (Submitted by Dani)

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The following poems, submitted by Dani, were written at different periods in her life. The first one was composed when the author was just sixteen years old. The second piece was created 2 weeks prior to her bipolar diagnosis...

..

A Stranger's Eyes - Age 16


Looking through a stranger's eyes
Hiding - Out of sight
Wondering if these stranger's eyes
Will hide me from the fright.

A stranger's eyes so full of love
A heart so full of grace
But no one sees what's inside me
They only see my face

I do not want to know myself
What inside me lies
When I stare into that mirror
I must simply close my eyes

Through the darkness of those stranger's eyes
I find some happy place
And only there can I open up
To show my love and grace

I Sigh 2008: 2 weeks before diagnosis


I sigh but don't cry
I want to cry until
I am purged of the pain

I can't cry
It is like a dam
Waiting to break

The pressure building from
A raging storm
What if the dam breaks?

The water floods
It can't be stopped - unrelenting
Leaving distruction in its wake

More pain
But for all the others
Release is the dam's alone

Release for the damned
So I sigh, but don't cry
The price is too high

The small cracks in the dam
slow release nor real relief
Just cracks and slow leaks

The pressure still building
Cracks hidden without repair
Integrity weakening

Maybe there is not stopping the flood
Planned, contained flood
To protect those in its path

Options - not options
Responsibility, fault, blame
Never purged from the pain

I sigh

Forgiving - (Submitted by Terry)

. 

Forgiving

i want to forgive
you or him or she
or them or that race


someone, somehow
i don't care right now who


liar


liar


just a primal urge
a fountain of reminding me


adding my burden of remorse
to the great back that
ends under the weight
of the universe all us


now i need to forgive
misuse the misappropriated
fantastical slide rule i



don't understand but



governs leftover calculus equations
                       in the queasy pit of my stomach
                                    that i tangentially know are me


forgive me - myself


for anything


for everything


for nothing


i can't


you can


i can't swallow to forgive
what i did and didn't do


you can - you will
this is not a test


who are you? who the fuck are you?
telling, telling, that to, to me
numbers don't count


you can
forgive


i can't


of all in the world
you know why


you can


i can't
i can't look into my eyes


forget what shame transcends
i can't lose my desperation
never vanish my shadow


you will


i won't
forgive
me.


again.

It's Just Me - (Anonymous)

Some of you reading this might not know what a wonderful person the author of this blog is. She's kind, loving, intelligent and drop dead hilarious. I met her through my support group, and she is like a sister to me. The Bipolar Support Group has been a life changing and life saving experience for me. Finding that group and meeting and becoming so close to others in the group has been incredible. Having bipolar disorder can make you feel profoundly alone. It has been the one place where I have been able to feel understood, and it's the place where I have met the people I now consider to be like a second family to me. If you're suffering, check it out. You won't believe how it can feel to have the support of people who live what you are living.

I am a 41 year old single mother of two little boys who are the light of my life. I am an attorney and I own my own practice. My parents and brothers and sister are my best friends in the whole world. I am part of a truly amazing family and I'm thankful for them every day. After getting divorced at the age of 38, and having resolved to be alone, I accidentally met the love of my life at age 40. I have a wonderful psychiatrist who respects me, works with me and truly cares about me. I know so many people through my job, through living in a small town and through the two different universities I have graduated from, but the few people I listed above, and my second family at MDJunction are the only people who know me. For clients, judges, other attorneys, people in my community, people I volunteer with and on and on, I wear a mask and hide so much of who I am. It makes me sad to have to do that, but if I didn't, no one would hire me and I have two children to support, so wearing the mask is the high price I pay. It is exhausting.

For as long as I can remember, I have lived on the edge of a world everyone else seems to understand. I always thought that everyone else had the same feelings I do, but that they just understood how to handle them, whereas I did not. It was only after being diagnosed and finding the right combination of medications that I realized this wasn't true.

The rest of the world does not feel the way I do. I am a rapid cycler. I can go from manic to profoundly depressed in the course of a few weeks or a few days or a few hours. When I am manic, I don't sleep for days at a time. I have so many ideas that I can't keep up with my mind. I have so many different projects going on at the same time, but I often don't finish any of them. For some people with bipolar disorder, the manic phase is when they feel really great, but we are all different. When I am manic, I feel so anxious and out of control. I live in a state of fear. I cannot have a conversation with anyone because it feels as if they can't understand the desperate importance of my thoughts. During manic phases, I have said and done things to the people I love that are hurtful. I have made horrendous decisions and have spent money I didn't have.

Then comes the crash. It's a horrible, dark hole that is filled with a void. The void is hopelessness, self loathing, powerlessness, and fear. It is the feeling that I am such a bad person that I don't deserve the air that I breath. When I am depressed, I often feel as if I shouldn't be taking up space in the world, and I try to make myself smaller and smaller by talking less and less, leaving the house only when absolutely necessary and constantly believing the voice that tells me over and over and over again that I am less than, lower than and that I have done something unforgivable and so deserve to feel the pain. It is crying and crying and crying.

Whether depressed or manic, and even now that I am basically stable on medication, I always have racing and repetitive thoughts. A snippet of a song playing over and over, along with a fragmented to do list and "movies" my mind creates of past, present and future events, all at the same time. Even when I am asleep, I dream constantly and vividly. When my partner sleeps next to me, he tells me in the morning of the many conversations I have during the night. My mind doesn't rest very often.

For years before I was diagnosed, I punished myself through destructive behavior. I allowed myself to be used and abused, believing it was all I deserved. I self medicated my way through episodes, sometimes successfully but more often with consequences that just made life more difficult.

Through all those years before I was diagnosed, I wore a mask for the world. I wore a mask for family and friends and professors and bosses and anyone with whom I had any contact. No one ever knew me. No one could. It was exhausting to be me. I lived life in a constant state of fear, even during the good times.

I was diagnosed with depression after the birth of my first child eleven years ago. I was diagnosed as bipolar after the birth of my second child eight years ago. I was hospitalized twice because I wanted to die. I only accepted my diagnosis within the last two years, after several years of therapy and after years of being on one anti-depressant after another, which only ever made things worse.

I now take five different medications several times a day. It took months of trial and error to find the right combination of medications, but it was worth it. I still have ups and downs. My moods still swing from mania to depression. The medications make the swings less profound and more manageable. Logging on to MDJunction every day and getting the support I need from people who understand me is almost as important as the medications. Although the side effects of my medications can be difficult to live with and they unquestionably negatively affect my artistic creativity, it's still worth it. My world falls apart far less often now and I don't live in a constant state of fear. I know I will have to take medication for the rest of my life. That's ok.

For those of you who create the stigma surrounding mental illness through your ignorance, it's time for you to learn what it's all about. For those of you who suffer with this disorder in silence, know you're not alone. I can only hope that as more of us become willing to share our stories, there will be greater understanding and acceptance, and the stigma will slowly disappear. I am a good person. I am a good mother, daughter, sister, lawyer, friend and lover. I am sensitive and compassionate and smart and loving. The fact that I can say that and mean it on most days now is the best feeling, and holding those days in my mind and having people remind me of those things about myself helps me get through the other days when I still hate myself.

That's as much of my story as I can tell you. The rest is in my mind and my mind alone, and it really isn't something that can be explained. It's just me.

- Submitted by Anonymous

Dual Diagnosis - (Submitted By O Sun)

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This story was submitted to me by a member of my support group - her name is O Sun...

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I came into this world breached. Feet first. But really, the delivery man forced me out head first with the use of forceps. Heaven only knows. Maybe he accidentally squeezed my delicate little cranium too tight with his tools triggering some kind of chemical eruption in my infant brain. Then again doctors are not supposed to reposition a breech by the head right? I couldn't say. What I do know is that from a very early age I had a heavy feeling of displacement. I have been on this search for something or someone to turn me around or realign my neural configuration.

I have lived most of my life shaken up by a volcanic tide of emotions. My moods are always oscillating and I am somewhere inside of them trying to find a life preserver be it illcit drugs (self destructive and futile), modern medicine (a work in progress that knaws at my patience), or therapy (compatibility also takes time and I am a tough match).

When I was first told "You are bipolar" I did not believe it. Not because I was ashamed or in denial, but because it was (and still is) the trend of the mental health world. Everyone under the sun was being diagnosed bipolar and I did not want to end up just another mistaken statistic. However, when I did my research, looking for symptoms and signs I could not relate to in order to challenge my diagnosis, I couldn't find an argument. I was actually overcome with a flood of relief. An explanation was given to me as to why I was experiencing such difficulty and pain in my life. I was able to stop punishing and blaming myself for my intense instability.

I have been hospitalized three times for depression. I was also in the hospital overnight because the cops came to my house and four pointed me. My family called the police because I was out of control and they were worried about what I would do if I left the house (which I really wanted to do at the time and probably would have ended up in some dark alley with strange people doing drugs). Drugs are very much a part of my story because I used them to medicate my uncomfortable fluctuations of mood. I have experienced extemely uncomfortable highs and detrimental lows quite rapidly. All my life I have been on this quest to make myself feel better or at least to get to know what it is like to feel semi-normal. I am dually diagnosed with addiction and bipolar and the road is a very hard and sometimes excruciatingly difficult one. I was put on disability last year because my condition makes it hard for me to hold down a job and fend for myself independently. I am thirty-one and I still live with my parents: I dream of one day having an apartment of my own like so many other people. I also dream of the day when I can feel comfortable in my own skin without drugs. I am sober now, but I am currently experiencing the depressive side of my illness that makes it hard for me to shower and put on my own two shoes in the morning. I have been through many pharmaceutical drugs, most to no avail, and I have to sit with this until my nurse practitioner comes up with the right combination. I feel like my life is in slow motion. I am trying to separate my feelings and intellect so that my intellect will tell me that I am moving through and this will pass. The highs I've experienced are twinged with irritability and it gets to the point where I want to hurt myself or someone else. I take an antipsychotic to relieve myself (and everyone else) of this state. I am currently in an outpatient program for the dually diagnosed and a DBT program to help regulate my moods. This program is like going to school and learning instructions for living; I seemed to miss out on the instructions early on and I get bored with them very easily. I am trying to learn to have patience in order to survive. It takes a lot of patience to get the insurance I need, the doctors I need, finding the right therapy, and not wanting to end my life when my moods start racing or slowing me down and shutting me off.

I watch people go to work and I watch them walk by me and drive and shop and I wonder why they seem so far away and why I don't feel as human as they seem to be. What would life be like if I did not have a mental illness or an addiction? Would it be easier? It looks very easy for some to do the day to day things that are so tremendously hard for me. It seems as if I am looking at life through a glass wall and I am stuck on the other side, in a different dimension. Sometimes it seems that I am a semblance of a person. I never quite feel whole. It is hard not to trust what I will be one minute or one day from the next. My goal is to one day be comfortable and stable and to know what consistency means. Until then...patience.

All They See Is Me (Lindsey)

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My story is in the form of a poem... I hope that's okay. This is my life with bipolar 2 mood swings.






All they see is me….
By Lindsey






When I feel you coming
it is like a tidal wave that slaps my face,
and captures my breath.
I can’t run from you, I can not hide.



I have to face you,
as if I am in a field
all alone
and I am being hunted.



When I have been captured
it is disabling.
You take possession of my soul.



You rob me of myself,
my emotions,
and my thoughts.



I take on your feelings
and your judgment.
No matter how grisly it is,
I am forced to cope with it.



You drive me to be your abettor,
in all the shameless acts
that you perform.



You leave my loved ones to
pick up the ruins, when you
have had enough and gone.



When you depart,
I am left crumbling
with little explanation.



I am weak and I am drained.
I have nothing left to put forward.
All you cause is pain and heartache.



I try to hide you from the world
and detest it when
you suddenly peer around the corner.



The majority of the world has never met you.
Some are intrigued,
most despise you,
and the rest
are worried by your presence.



You are a part of me,
and I am accepting that now.
Not everyone is that willing.



I can not seem to control you,
no matter how hard I try.
For now, I just need to live with you.



I am not sure if
everyone can
live with us both.



Not many see you
for who you truly are.



All they see is me.






- Submitted by Lindsey

Temptation - (Monica)

I am a 36 yr old mother, wife, teacher with bipolar type I disorder with rapid cycling.

The following is a diary entry posted on Thanksgiving. It is amazing how I can literally SEE the workings of my mind in my writing. The following day after the posting my thoughts were better, even regretful for all the negativity I wrote and the exaggeratedness of the entry. But that is how I think from one day to the next. My moods can change in HOURS and that' s why I document it in my diary. It is amazing to see the workings of my bipolar mind at work.


DIARY ENTRY:

Today was a holiday. supposed to be family...sharing..etc. I made my turkey...homemade gravy....potatoes....all the fixings. Delicious.
We had an unexpected visitor come by who stayed all daylong. I didnt really like him because he was one of my hubby's old druggie friends. But I said, what the heck...i cant be selfish on Thanksgiving. He ate, stayed...and stayed. Little did I know I had let "the devil walk in to prey on the weak" so to speak.


I am a recovering cocaine user..never a lot..just an occasional user. I cant be around people who have it. I just cant. I've been trying so hard and have gotten very disappointed in myself for even taking the drug to begin with. I never knew what it was about coke...I just liked it. I wonder if there is a sincere connection with BP and cocaine cravings or usage. Not just because of the self-medication, but because of chemical driven reasons.


I had never done a damn drug till i was 33. I wish i never had at all.



This friend later offered some coke to ease the turkey "fullness". I refused. My hubby did some like nothing. It kinda bothered me...but I said nothing. After about 3 hrs later, he offered again, and I took some. Man, all the rush came back. The high..but also the depression. The hate....self-loathing and guilt.


How could I stoop so low, especially at such a delicate time in my life? I dont want pity or comfort...but i am a horrible mother and person for this. I know better. I would like to know of anyone else suffering from BP who has had this problem to write me please.


I cant stand myself anymore. I really can't. Why am I so weak? pathetic. I hope I do not lose the respect from my friends as I write this as I am writing it because I KNOW other BP's must encounter this dilemma but are too ashamed to bring it up.


Needless to say, I stopped a while later, and the damn fucking "friend" left at fucking 2 in the morning. I dont mean to sound harsh...but I hate these old loser friends that show up every so often. Usually they don't get past the door. I can spot them right away and shut the fucking door on them because after all....i'm the crazy bipolar bitch. I literally slam the fucking door on them. I don't give a shit. They are shit in my eyes. No good for anything. No ambition. No job. Just good for causing problems.


My hubby had a major drug problem in the past and had been good since marrying me.


Yes, I did marry the bartender , got pregnant, did drugs, had unprotected sex, spend like hell, got a BMW because "I deserved it"; told anyone off that disagreed with my views;but I did manage to finish graduate school with honors ironically---in the most severe manic episode in my life. But my hubby and I can't have temptation. I have to "guard" my household from these "friends" who show up out of the blue. My hubby isn't strong enough to do it, so was I..until today.


I have stooped so low its just overhwelming. So besides all the issues with my son who was just diagnosed with high functioning autism this past week....my issues with my sex addicted husband...being the sole provider of the family....I also have to protect and isolate my husband (and myself) from persons carrying temptation with them. This is too fucking draining.


I actually thought about suicide today. I don't mention this to be a whiner. I actually hate people who think like I am right now and also say they want to end it. But i am on that wavelength at the moment and now I know how those people feel wanting to end their lives. I know I won't do it....but the thought to be free from emotional pain was just alluring. But I just think of my kids and I fall apart crying. The torture. I always am the strong one. i just can't get a grip right now.


As I write this crying like a weakling, I have to keep thinking "God doesn't give you more than you can handle....God doesn't give you more than you can handle." There has to be a reason for all of this.

- Submitted by Monica

He and The Lieutenant (Terry)

He opened the door to the waiting room. Ambled in, self-conscious and uncomfortable. If he was being watched, it was for pity not because he commanded the eyes filling the antiseptic room. An aging hip had robbed him of his proud swagger.
His hand also twitched in his jacket pocket. The old man kept his hand in his pocket in public. A vanity to hide the truth that there were less and less years he could look forward to.
He introduced himself to the receptionist, surveying the room as he did. Sitting down beside the Lieutenant, he measured him in a glance.
“Hello,” he said, extending his hand.
The Lieutenant looked at him. His shoulders were broad. He was tree stump stocky, face like driftwood.
Then he returned his hand, “Hello.”
The Lieutenant was reading a magazine. His eyes drifted back to the page.
“Bloody awful magazines in these offices. Nothing a man wants to read.”
The Lieutenant didn’t notice or didn’t hear him.
“So you’re in the military, eh”
The Lieutenant gazed at the crags on the old man’s face. Water began flowing down his face in rivulets. The Lieutenant ignored the streams and responded, “Yes, I am. How did you know?”
“When you’ve been around as long as I have, you develop a keen eye for people,” the old man explained. “The razor-sharp haircut, your military bearing even though you’re not in uniform. You called me sir even though you didn’t. Pretty obvious to an experienced eye.”
The Lieutenant’s military bearing was tattooed through to the marrow of his bones. It was that tattooed marrow that kept him from going to military doctors.
“What are you here for?” the old man asked. “You look like there should be posters of you in these offices.”
“If you don’t mind me saying.”
“No. No, not at all. Thank you for the compliment,” the Lieutenant replied. “Just routine.”
The Lieutenant turned his attention back to the magazine in his hands.
“That’s a strange magazine you’re reading.”
“Excuse me, Sir.”
“Chatelaine, I mean. Can’t be of much interest to a guy like you.”
The Lieutenant hadn’t been reading the magazine. He was trying to put together a puzzle. Words floated across the page. Sentences scrambled and made no sense. He didn’t know what the article was about or what magazine he was reading.
The Lieutenant saw a photograph of a sofa. “Oh my wife wants to redo our living room. She wants me to help so I’m reading up on decorating.”
The man with the failing hip seemed to accept the Lieutenant’s explanation.
“Women are like that. Always wanting to change something. Never satisfied.”
His voice was thunder loud to the Lieutenant. His sentences an avalanche.
“Would you mind speaking a little slower? And a little quieter?” He asked. “A bit of ear trouble.”
“Oh certainly. Didn’t mean to bother you.”
“Oh no, you’re not bothering me. It just that loud noises sometimes . . .” and the Lieutenant’s voice drifted off.
“I was married once,” the man carried on. “In Spain about 25 – 30 years ago. We stuck with it for three years but in the end she couldn’t keep up with me. Tight deadlines and mad rushes to planes are a photojournalist’s life. But not the foundation of a long marriage.”
“Anyway, we had a baby boy and that made travel together unwieldy to say the least. So we went our separate ways.” He was relishing the chance to tell stories again. To someone who hadn’t heard them.
“Where’s your son now?” the Lieutenant asked out of politeness.
The Lieutenant turned his focus to him. Suddenly an exquisitely aimed pickaxe pierced him between the shoulders. Deep and through the spine. Exactly placed.
Plasticine blood seeped from the wound and slowly stained the chair he was sitting on. The Lieutenant looked at the old man’s face. Blood spittle came down his chin.
“He lives here now,” he answered. “He teaches history at the university.”
“That’s a kick in the ass isn’t it,” he continued. “My son spent years uncovering the secrets of the dead, now he’s got a living, breathing fossil right in his own home.”
“’Course I have better stories,” he laughed. The emphatic laugh of someone who enjoyed his own humour.
The Lieutenant cringed at the sound. Boulders of laughter bounced off his eardrums. “Yes, I’m sure you do. With that kind of exciting life I mean.”
The Lieutenant forced his eyes to the page, wanting to look preoccupied.
“Do you have any children?” he asked.
“Yes we have two, preschool.”
“Funny thing. I didn’t see my son for 25 years,” he said. “Now I have three grandchildren who I spoil just how I didn’t want to spoil my son.”
He laughed his laugh again.
The Lieutenant glanced up at the laugh. Blood gushed from the old man’s mouth, ran from his nose, oozed from his eyes.
“None of this is real,” the Lieutenant said, not realizing he spoke aloud.
“Pardon me,” he asked.
The Lieutenant fixed a blank gaze on him.
“I don’t think I heard you properly --- what you just said.”
The Lieutenant didn’t respond. He didn’t hear him.
A long silence --- a silence that made the old man and the withering hip uncomfortable, not in control. A cold silence. He didn’t know how long they didn’t speak.
A nurse appeared at the door to the doctors’ offices. “Lieutenant Cross? Doctor Ellis is ready for you now.”
The Lieutenant rose stiffly and offered his hand to him. It was briskly shaken. “Nice talking to you. Enjoy your grandchildren.”
“That I will,” he said. “That I will. Good luck to you. Tell that doctor to take good care of you. We need men like you.”
“Thank you sir.” And the Lieutenant crossed the room and followed the nurse.


- Submitted by Terry