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Inside My Head (Short)

I’ve been watching Stymy (my bird) hold on to the side of his cage as he flaps his wings like he’s trying to fly as fast as he can. His cage door is open, there’s nothing stopping him from flying out, and yet, he stays like he’s stuck. He’s stuck in his cage like I’m stuck in my head. Oh, I could leave if I wanted to. Sometimes, I think I’m firmly planted there because I have no other option. Nothing can be farther from the truth. I choose to stay here. I’ve been told not to go through my head alone because it’s a frightening place. True, but I have always kept my own council. And true, again, that’s not entirely true. What I mean is, I can be truly unedited in there. I don’t have to worry about painfully awkward encounters or hurting anyone. I can think in multiple loops, on loop, for as long as it takes to work through what I need to. However, I know I shouldn’t remain here and I’m using my time here to come up with some plans. I love plans, by the way. Plans and budgets, oh my, how they please me so. What I’ve been cogitating is creative ways to supplement my income and maybe, donate to a cause. I would love to donate to POMC, Parents of Murdered Children. I have considered everything from writing a book to making my plush voodoo dolls. I miss being creative. I want someone to just tell me what I should do. I get worried about it though. I will hit a manic and be super productive. Then, out of nowhere, BAM!! Down for the count. I hate the cycle. I fucking hate the cycle. I don’t cycle fast. It never ends. It’s always one or the other. It’s like being given choice a sunburn or patchy dry skin. I guess the silver lining would be I get to justify my addiction to cocoa butter.

I never let on, that I was on a sinking ship
I never let on that I was down
You blame yourself, for what you can’t ignore
You blame yourself for wanting more – Smashing Pumpkins “Zero”

Beautiful

I want to feel comfortable in my skin. I want to feel comfortable in my brain. I see beautiful people and I know I am not one of them. It’s not a weight thing. It’s an absolute. I am a lot of things but beautiful isn’t one of them. I’m scary smart. I’m a fantastic skater. At one point in time, I was super creative. I’m raising good sons. I want to adopt every animal in need and a good portion of those not in need. I adore my gran and I want my mom to find peace. I am so much more. Beautiful, no matter what my husband says, just isn’t it. My eye color changes more than my dog wheezes. I have a lot of facial scars. I can’t decide whether to stay blonde or jump ship to another color. I’m a lot of things. Looking for sympathy or be blanketed with praise isn’t it. Neither is beautiful. I’m patiently impatient. I love fiercely. I pick great colors for my toenails. They’re beautiful but I’m not. Before you protest, I don’t mean ugly. I carved U G L Y in my leg and the scar faded faster than I cycle. It was lie, that’s why. Ugly takes very little effort and a ton intent. I’m not ugly. I want to be comfortable in my body. I want to be comfortable in my brain. I see beautiful people and intend on figuring out how to be.

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Rearranging

I would love to raise awareness about Bipolar Disorder, for mental illnesses. The truth is, I can’t. I mean, not in the way I feel I should. When I write about the topic, I stop myself – and often. It just doesn’t flow. Plus, I am not particularly sensitive. It’s not my intent to offend. It truly isn’t. Not being me is something I don’t know how to do. I am what I am. That is to say, I don’t know how not be crass, derisive, and cranky. Being polite in public or in conversation is easy for me but I find myself internally screaming after a bit. I started this blog to give an idea about my world as someone with Bipolar II. The problem is, I don’t think I should write continuously about my life with Bipolar II. I love writing about life, in general. I live and speak in italics, far from edited. Personally, I believe everyone should. For the last year, I haven’t been myself, or anyone else for that matter. There has been so much in the way of transition that I’ve all but shut down. It shows in everything I do. Maybe not yoga, but everything else. Not once have I written a hostile and open letter. Not once have I written a house log, precious moments, pillow talk or really worn lipstick. One year is a long time to be gone. I don’t react well to transition, even if it’s a welcomed transition. Unfortunately, the transitions just kept on coming. This blog was intended to be an outlet, something to release the pressure. The happiest I’ve been while writing it (Yes, I know it’s fairly new) was when I was editing my older pieces. Is this because they’re representational of my older life or because there was no worry as to a theme in which I was writing about? I thought it would be easier for me to write about having Bipolar over being addict. Neither one is easy for me to write about, come to find out. I think it’s because they’re just building blocks – Bipolar II, Recovering Addict, Mother, Animal Person, Tenderhearted, Metal Music lover, wife … All of it is apart of me. Yes, I think I am going to make this blog about the life, world, love, anything and everything as it is in my mind. It’s all in my mind, right?

A Small Confession

I was going to write about “armchair psychs” but decided I wanted a fun topic. But you know the ones who talk and act like being crazy is new and how the ways and means to take care of it are wrong unless it’s their way. Umm…do they want to take care of me (unmedicated) when I am attempting to fly? People have been crazy since the dawn of man. However, it’s only been recently where it’s mostly acceptable to speak freely and get treatment without being burned at the stake, packed away in an asylum, or lobotomized. Wow. Okay. Apparently, I am writing about them anyway, since they make my blood boil (even if I genuinely like the person). I will make a small concession, a confession, if you will. What also makes my blood boil are those people who want an instant fix or a flavor of the week label that absolves them from trying learn how to care for their own needs. They have excuses why a mixed regimen is something they cannot do. Why? Because it’s work? Wake up! The insta-fix is non-existent. Also, we live in a society that has forgotten or abhors emotions other than happy.  It should be okay to experience the gambit of emotions humans are granted at birth. The poo-pooing shouldn’t be we are experiencing them, it should be how we work through them. I’m Tinsa, I have been living with Bipolar 2 for as long as I can remember. I’m medicated, active, and I sometimes fail. What I’m not – I’m not a quitter. I respect the fact people are emotional and that everyone has the right to freedom of speech. This means even if I don’t like what you say or how you say it. I appreciate honest people because I’m not a fan of surprises.

Barnacles?

Everywhere I look I see memes. You post them, I post them and hell, for all I know, Martians fucking post them. There’s no escaping them. They’re the new bumper sticker, aren’t they folks? They say so much but are they the real deal? The old adage of a picture being worth a thousand words has turned into snippets from what could be from pharmaceutical print outs. My favorites are the ‘truth in advertising’ ones. “Does Not Play Well with Stupid!” Who does? Okay. Okay! You’re right, other stupid people. I guess, my question then is – do they know they’re stupid? Or is this it like being dead and they aren’t aware? Awww….shit! I can feel your judgement and I can raise you one! Yes, I am an ex-junkie. Truth. Yes, I was maintaining until I absolutely wasn’t. There are NO memes I have found that can give the honest conundrum in living that. I can’t hide behind that. There is absolutely no way to explain it without sounding like I am either romanticizing, defending, or giving a Nancy Reagan speech. By the way, I hope no matter what part of my life’s book you’re hearing about, you get the Nancy Reagan speech in the chapter. Speaking of my life in its descriptions , if you ever talk to me for roughly one hundred and twenty seconds, you will gather I fit into this world like John Holmes would into a key hole. I was once told I need brain friends. I thought I found one and then waxed rhapsodically about barnacle penises. They know all about John Holmes’ struggles. Barnacles can’t hide behind memes either. Like me, their Microvans aren’t decorated with these huge statements of their person. They just drive along waving the occasional sign going “I loved this one!” “I dig pop culture!” “I relate to spree killers!” Machiavelli said, “Everyone sees who you appear to be. Few experience what you really are.” Think about this. I have meditated on this quote for a long time. We ALL wear masks, costumes, bumper stickers, and pass out those horrible, picture-only schematics to those around us. It’s those who are willing to drink the Kool-Aid, listen to script, and wait for the credits to roll to experience all of us. BE THANKFUL for that. BE THANKFUL for the ones who were too impatient to sit through the whole movie. You just experienced what they are really are. If they’re clinging on like a barnacle and they’re not worthy of a restraining order – remember: a barnacle’s penis is three times the length of his body when fully erect

barn

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