Crazy Meets Crazy (Cute!)

I’m like a one woman side show circus, an atrocity exhibition center, if you will. I will sell you tickets with disclaimers of only half of what’s brewing behind the curtains. So, there I am heading a support group. I loathe and love being in the spotlight. It makes my boobs sweat. The adrenaline rush alone could power a small city, think Dallas, folks. I notice him, the guy whose name escapes me. (Uhhh…side note: despite my past rendezvous’ with chemicals my memory is that of an elephant. It’s the nervousness, the anxiety attacks, having to suddenly pee that erase my memory and my word bank.) He’s quiet and staring off into the middle distance. Oh! He’s one of MY people. I can smell my own kind from two states over. It’s a party favor I was born with. What can I say? I’m talented. My meeting ends, he disappears and I ride off with my driver. And there I am stuck in the purple vessel of agony, listening to a different kind of bad music, and desperately hoping I see Mr Space Case once more.  To my great pleasure, he shows again and this time, with a friend of mine. SUCCESS!!! I’m in! I don’t have to give details, you know how this went. I blatantly used my friend to stuff my number in this dude’s face. Guess what, he used it the next night. Weird. My people wait a couple of decades but this is good and we agree on a non-committal coffee date.  As I get in his ill fitting mini van (if you see him, you’d understand. What is it about metal heads and mismatched vehicles?)first thing I notice is the ‘Blow-N-Go’. The very next thing is the snowflake/spider web super crack in the windshield. Whoa! Memories whoosh! They’re like a montage of first dates and all of them involve car crashes. What? Am I the only one who’s had six first dates that included being involved in car wrecks? Surely not. Nope? Just me? Okay, then. The look I gave him must have been worth my weight in gold because he said, “I wasn’t drunk and I didn’t do that to my windshield.” I just kept on looking at it in silence. He turns the music on…metal. I, now, turn and say, “Thank you for not listening to rap. By the way, you should run now, I’m crazy.” He smiles and says, “You should too. Coffee?” We have been together since that day. Our dog, Mr Bubbles watches Buffy the Vampire Slayer when he’s crated while we’re gone. The coffee was good, so was the kiss, so is Buffy.



After last night’s post, I went searching for a piece I wrote three years ago. I spoke of my love of Lady H and how we passionately tangoed on razor wire. And we did. You see, the dance ended at midnight, but I didn’t want the night to end. In my crazy world, I needed a love that was always there, never angry, and understood any and everything I said and felt. She did, indeed, do that for me until she forced me to find other lovers. Isn’t that always the way? I usually make light of everything I can. I smile and joke but it’s to camouflage the storm. Although, I do firmly believe laughter is the best for all that ails. True, it’s frowned upon in three handfuls of situations. I never said I always have great idea. I mean if I pull out the list of evidence, it will be a continuous stream and nobody has time for that. Anyway, as I was searching for that post I found a treasure trove of smiles and chuckles. I know it’s a bit early for a montage but I’m bringing one on.

Blossoming into Bipolar

Even though I opt for humor surrounding some of the issues I deal with, I still struggle with them. Something has rang True with me and I paraphrase what one of my most loved people said “…I was blossoming into bipolar.” In today’s age, hasn’t everyone? No, it just seems that way. It’s another media trend (like dying of the Black Plague and Typhoid when it’s just a sinus infection. Thanks, WebMD!) I know people who really, really deal with the reality of being bipolar on a minute to minute basis. Some of us rapid cycle and some slow cycle. In my case, I am a speed demon. Add the sugar issues and Satan weeps in my presence. Today, I am not blasting anyone. Today, I am asking you all to really look at yourself. On top of working with a psych, I do everything I can think of to make me better, up to and including thanking and apologizing to my loved ones for loving me. I will probably never get it right or be off my meds, again. If you’re the lucky ones who can be, I wish you the brightest blessings. This has been a life long journey for me and it continues. I will find the light, even when I think it’s impossible.

Aside for Sugar

My beloved says my superhero name should be Sugar Tantrum. You see, folks, there’s a huge bowl of chocolate mousse in our fridge. It’s in there, dancing its sexy-sexy dance, begging me and triple-dog daring me to get blackout sugar wasted off its mighty scrumptious power. Justin has been telling Odhin and me of this miraculous disaster-waiting-to-happen for a while. He artfully and beautifully made a metric fuck ton last night. Why? Because I’ve been asking and he’s a masochist. Wanna see what this man endures? Toddlers in Tiaras – I just found this out yesterday. Yep, there’s a visual aid where no one gets hurt. Look for Makenzie, she’s the epitome of these special moments. I probably should be televised too. Mr Masochistic, on the other hand, thinks the networks would mess up my new name and shorten it to Tantrum. Oh, how I love him so.

The Boy (the younger, that is)

Sometimes having a hearing impaired child is doubly special because he can’t gage his volumes. I just overheard him, from his room, on XBOX Live saying, “You used up all the glue on purpose!” (The Old Man from A Christmas Story)
If his maternity was ever in question, it is no longer.


It occurred to me  really loving this holiday season means finding not just basking in light that surrounds but courageously bringing light in dark spaces, you know like when you want to assault a fellow shopper with a Buzz Lightyear doll and making sure you exorcise their demons with Buzz’s laser. See light into dark!


They’re probably the most disliked bird on the planet and the boldest. The other day, I was driving through our neighborhood with Oey when one of the seagulls that flock to a nearby house for snacks decides it was going to lope across the street in front of me. It was as bad as those pedestrians who don’t follow the ‘knees to chest’ protocol when crossing the street. This guy kept eye contact with me to mentally taunt me with his slow walking “yeah, that’s right, bitch” demeanor. I could’ve plowed into him but I believe his kind actually served a purpose; plus I was stunned. My ravens and crows need to have a discussion with this bad ass bird. You know, just to remind him I take no shit, wave slippers at his folks but feed everyday to every other day, if he wants to sidle in.

An excerpt from the Lovie Chronicles:

She’s my copilot, activities supervisor, squirrel deflector (take that ya little bastards!), and bed warming pillow pet next to Justin. Together, they’re skin melting inferno blanket thieves and I switch sides beside them throughout the night as one standing in front of a fire. So, it goes without saying, my bunny hopping baby is ever at my side. You’d think I would’ve noticed when she stayed out in the yard last night. Nope. That is, until it hit me. Not her absence but the smell that proceeded her entrance. You know the song ‘Creeping Death’? It went from creeping to a dead run as she came through the door! Everything started to spin. She wanted on me. I was in some strange tonal wail for Fricke to get the baby wipes (yeah, that wasn’t going to help) and Odhin wanted to film it all. She discovered the fruit in the compost pile unblocked an entire nation of woodland creatures and had herself a spa moment. Little furry spawns of unholy torment! Unleash your fecal fury in someone else’s yard.

….After the spa day

There I am in the kitchen at ‘this blows goats’ o’clock in the morning (Holy Mother of the Bee Gees,  yes, it’s a real time) and I’m in a haze, reflecting on stuff (it’s scientific terminology, sheesh) when my magnificent brain pops up with ‘I love our love’. But then the body pain sets in and it all comes flooding back to me. Justin walks in to find me with my hand clenched to the warm mug and asks me how I’m doing. “Awesome. I want to thank you and the dog for my six inches of the top, lefthand corner of the bed last night. Seriously, you sweating, her snoring, me freezing – it just doesn’t get any better than that.” Wanna know what? It really doesn’t. I wouldn’t trade my contorted, hitting my eye socket on the bedside table, struggling for a section of blanket from anywhere in the known US, nights for one hour of sleeping without him. I guess I do really love our love.


Everyone plays games in one form or another. Yes, even if you say you don’t there’s game you play. Mine, in the past were roller derby, eccentric/archaic/odd trivia gathering, Nintendo, slot machines, men with mommy issues, chemical mixing and results thereof, and rebuilding my kingdom from the ground up. Not clustered together, mind you…well, maybe some of them at times. Some I still play because let’s face it, I’m a geek and even though I’ve been told it’s a horrible trait, I wear my heart on my sleeve for those I allow in – and what an incredibly mixed lot that is. I’m not wishy washy. I’m just truly person selective. Anyhow, some of the games I have put on the shelf (never to be replayed). I’ve learned from them. I don’t need to explain how they bested me because I refuse to play victim. I was an active participant willing to take part. But now, I have new games that have integrated with the older ones I’ve kept playing. These now amend my list to: believing love is more than a fairytale despite the decline in mass society, WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK IS MR BUBBLES EATING NOW, and Tins’ Consumption Roulette – the food and beverage edition (non-alco, never been a thing). I think I need new games to play.

An Open Letter

Dear Water Heater,
You suck. If I could give you the ‘Old Yeller’ treatment right now, I would. For your information,  I happen to like shaving in the shower without it turning a glacier-esque waterfall, no matter how the beauty experts preach that it’s good for you. No, I don’t wanna fill up the tub and do it in there. That happens to be where my brain has the activity of a young otter and no one (not even me) wants that. I digress. Just know, I dream of a tankless system. Just know, I think you gargle more balls than the discount hookers in Aberdeen. Just know…just know.
As Always,

An Observation (Possibly an offensive one)

I need to get this anywhere but in my mind.  This has been tap dancing there for a while. I believe everyone should love and accept themselves.  I believe everyone should express themselves in ways that feel good to them. I’m going to do so now. ATTENTION WOMEN of all shapes and sizes: Please, for the love of all things holy, STOP wearing shorts that get swallowed by your vagina.
My plea is not to oppress you in the new world of ‘insert descriptor’ acceptance. It’s because I don’t want to know you like that. It’s true I’m not a fan of people (in the universal sense) but if you want to strike up a conversation, I damn sure don’t want to be plagued with the notion you should be rescuing your clothes from your crotch. That’s all for now. Who knows what my next outcry will be next. It’s more than likely about not bathing in perfume/cologne.  Yes, I do wear it daily. But number 1: I wear scents that don’t burn the nostrils. Number 2: I don’t use it in lieu of a shower.

Do Your Research

I’m a reader and research, a lot. Today’s topics have been a cornucopia of brain candy, seemingly useless trivia (oh, but I do eventually use it, believe you, me), and other topics that instantly hold my attention. I was reading about “Bad Life Choices” that were really just drops in the bucket. Have they ever blown through tens of thousands of dollars without anything to show for it but scars and trauma (not to mention a permanent stigma)? No, they threw a phone into the ocean or drank their own piss. Some people do that for health reasons, which is beyond me but drink away; they aren’t my taste buds. But then, then folks, I moved on to research hard boiled eggs and their life expectancy while mentally flogging myself for all the absolutely “Why didn’t I wake up?!” moments to find that if I eat the neon green glitter eggs from Easter in my fridge, I will probably fall down a lot and die….and then really not wake up. I love eggs but I love waking up more. Hard Boiled Eggs = 1 week refrigerated

I Should Have Said No

I should have been Nancy Reagan. I mean, I should have said no. Instead, I said please and thank you. I started using drugs just shortly after my symptoms really began at the ripe old age of thirteen. I went from using on and off to almost always on. I stayed that way until I was thirty seven. I didn’t use during my pregnancies or when I was nursing my babies and I vowed during those times I would never go back. In fact, I had done this without pregnancies too. It never stuck. I liked the way I felt when I was using. It was as if they gave me some sort as semblance of peace when I was manic and a boost when I was depressed. Strangely, I took somewhat good care of myself while I was smoking, snorting, and bumping. Kind of. I kept with self care, beauty routines, vitamin supplements but everything else dangled in the wind. No matter how much I wanted the peace to be real, my mind was just two feet beyond it screaming at me. The mood boosts were little more than throwing myself into hypomania. I used heroin and speed together. They were my sanity. Odd thing for them to be. As drugs go, they’re a bipolar duo. Go figure. Right now, as I write this, it’s taking me everything in my power not to rationalize and romanticize my use. My behavior was problematic. I would still walk down the road half dressed. I have mentioned that before and with reason. It was my signature move besides going into debt. I truly loved the ritual of getting high before throwing caution to the wind. As time went on, I couldn’t get high. I just got stable(ish), so I used more and added different types of drugs. It hardly worked. I started adding self harm to the mix. Just like drugs it helped, until it didn’t. Not eating or purging after eating helped until it didn’t. I was frustrated and then the bottom dropped. My daughter died and then, my father. I went into full psychosis and tried to overdose, repeatedly. The combination of drugs plus adding tenfold to the amount I would use in one sitting wouldn’t take me out. Cutting, hitting my head, trying to speed into walls (gas ran out), and dating someone who attempted to throw me over our stairs by my neck didn’t kill me either. I would try them all over again and in difference sequences and groupings but to no avail. Eventually, I lost everything and that’s when I found abyss. My bottom had already fallen out. Having nothing, including my sons, left me even more desperate for death. I mean I was already broken to begin with. I couldn’t relate to anyone. I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin, let alone my family. I was left with me, unmedicated, and so was the rest of the world. I would walk for miles anytime, day or night, praying for someone to randomly murder me. Fuck, why wouldn’t anyone kill me? I needed them to. I kept praying for death or sanctuary. I wound up committing crimes. I got arrested for a weekend, only to be told I could go free the following Monday. It wasn’t a sanctuary, but I couldn’t use for two days. I was left right where I started from. Six months later, I was picked up, again. I detoxed on the floor of the county jail. I got sentenced to twenty three months in prison and did seventeen. The beauty of this was I got medicated and clean. I am still medicated and clean. It sucks living to live again and having to rebuild but I’m never going back. I will, however, come back to talking about my experiences with drugs and the culture surrounding. It’s my goal to get more and more open about me and my life.joker



I’m in stasis. I’m fucking stuck revving. In other words, my mind is racing to the point of leaving chemtrails but nothing else is moving. I know there is something I should be doing but no thoughts stay long enough for me to fully flesh them out. Those that linger, even a little, exhaust me. Hell, putting on lipstick exhausted me today. Is hypomania a blessing? Or is it a curse? I know I gave props to my Lithium combo but I think I was being a little generous. It’s true, I haven’t gone for a walk down the middle of the road barefooted and in my underwear recently, but has it really helped? I’m not used to feeling muted. It’s moments like this one that urge me to tell my husband that I think I am lying about being bipolar. It was the thirteen year old me that started it. Yes, it’s a hell of a long time (I’m 43) to lie about something but let’s just call this what it is – a phallusy. Everything, all of it, is in my head. I can just go off my meds and he’ll see. He’s patient when he chuckles and reminds of me the messes we will get to clean up. How exciting?! I hate it when he pre-gloats.  The truth of the matter is I am on the lowest dose possible of Lithium. I have been told if I go higher in my dose, these symptoms will ease. I would like to call bullshit. Wait. I can’t. I don’t know. I do know I do not want extra resistance with weight loss, even though my hubby is all about the larger ladies. And that takes me to my second concern, sex. I mentioned I like having sex with my man. It’s very true and I don’t want that going away. I don’t know what would be worse – being in some sort of flux or not enjoying that intimacy. It’s bad enough the man must endure me, as a person, and my moods, as their own entity. But do I really want to add a lack of libido to that fiery mix? Wouldn’t it be like adding kerosene? So, I’m stuck people. By the way, going the route of silence and I’m not pleading to a crime I haven’t committed (lying) will lead to the topic I have danced around a few times and will be what I touch on in my next post, drugs. Me going back to using would be akin to me hurling a molotav cocktail on everything I hold dear. I used on and off (mostly on) for twenty five years. I was, initially, going to write my blog on my history with substance abuse. Let’s face it, I have serious knowledge on it. However. I wanted to talk about my madness, so to speak. In this world, clean and sober, I want to headbutt people, but I don’t. In that world, I did. I mean wanted to and then headbutted a few. I have a very firm understanding as to why no one wins by a headbutt. That knowledge and I hold hands. You could say we’re in a relationship. Even though, I have been tapdancing around that topic, it will be addressed. I can’t give you a look at my life without taking you there. I also know that I am a hot commodity when I’m playing hopscotch with the penal system. Hubba, hubba!  Looks like as long as I can get past the “stuck”, I will always have something to tell you about and all of it has a lot to do with my mental illness. I was informed there are those who don’t like using the phraseology. Well, it certainly isn’t wellness. I could call it a disease because at it’s core, it’s most definitely dis-ease. I would prefer to just call it what it is; an illness. Right now, that illness has me stuck. I want one of these thoughts to get less tiring. I need create more. I used to make perfumes and oils. I love making them. Maybe I should get back to it. Aaaannndd here comes the anxiety and a new wave of exhaustion. I think for now, I am just going to go snuggle with Lovie Doll. Maybe she can help me make sense.

“If you think anyone is sane you just don’t know enough about them.”
― Christopher Moore, Practical Demonkeeping

Overcome with Yoga

I am usually in a state of being overwhelmed. My brain never stops. Someone could be suffocating me with the pillow of serenity and I would still be mentally creating next month’s budget, plan to declutter the house, decide which nail polishes to chuck, figure which books to order, and so on. The intensity of it all would be akin to planning a military operation from end to beginning and from beginning to end. It’s loud, repetitive, maddening and exhausting. The madness is exponentially worse if I’ve had a shitty diet that day. A good eight and a half times out of ten, my diet has gone above and beyond. That means on a scale from ninety five to one hundred, I’ve reached unicorn. No matter where I am on the cycle, manic or depressed, there’s no break from it. The Good news for humanity is I am constantly (yes, obsessively…shhh…) searching for ways to quiet my mind. I have found the more strenuous the activity the quieter everything becomes. Then the answer is easy, yes? No. I walk roughly three miles a day with Lovie Doll. It helps but it’s not like hiking up and down hills for miles. To my dismay, my body couldn’t do it everyday. I so desperately want to but I ache. It’s common with bipolar people but it’s not the entirety for me. I have nerve damage from the knee down on my left side and patellofemoral pain syndrome on my right.

Since my body is rebelling, I thought I would try yoga. I love it. I don’t love it in a peaceful, “all is right in my world” sort of way. I love it like we’re in a hate sex type of relationship. Truth be told, for a large woman I am really flexible and that makes the relationship even more intense. As I pose, my mind starts screaming about how the practice is a racket. Downward dog? Go suck a bag of dicks. Warrior Two? Why not? I kicked Warrior One’s ass. Okay, let me stop here. My very dear friend is a yoga teacher. More specifically, my yoga teacher. I don’t look at her with disdain. When I focus my anger it’s at the origin of the art. That’s right, yet another who has an emotional response to art. If it’s such an abusive relationship, why continue? I could prattle on about Stockholm Syndrome but ultimately, it’s because it works. For that entire hour, I don’t have a million thoughts racing. I have one hour of focused thought. Yes, an incredibly volatile thought but one, nonetheless. Afterward, my thoughts slow. I sleep in a longer stretch than two hours at a time. That’s more than I can say about anything else I’ve tried for sleep. Lovie Doll helps me with bedtime yoga. Sometime she poses with me and sometimes she just gets on my side of the bed and snores while I pose. No matter which, when I crawl into bed she makes sure I can’t sleep without being in some weird, slightly archaic pose. Gotta love her.


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