The Price of a Dream

What is the highest bid you can take to buy your dream? How much will you sacrifice to live your passion? Do you set aside your integrity, your pride, or justice to attain that one dream? If you had waited years, and years to be given the opportunity to do what you love, what would you be willing to sacrifice?

Much of my hope had been, that I would be lucky, and not have to sacrifice anything. I was very wrong. To pursue my dream, I have had to take injustice silently. My husband told me that he admires my restraint. Restraint in the face of injustice is very hard, very hard indeed. I can feel the deep pressure in my chest from wanting to scream, “this is not right!”. To screams those words could cost me my dream, my passion, the job that I was born to do. I would say that if it was a injustice toward another, I would have to scream. This is my injustice, I do not have to speak up if I do not want to.

What has been done to me here, is a simple act of unfairness. One side has done something very wrong to me, and that side has been rewarded for it’s deed by the very structure that is offering me my dream. True, it offers it for it’s own gain, but still, it happens to be my dream up on the board. Do I take the eraser to it and walk away? Do I release the pressure in my chest, claim justice and lose my beloved life’s goal. I have decided not to. I want to have my career.

My mother was once in this very same position. It was not her dream in question, it was her job, and one that she prided herself in. She would come home from work miserable. She had been pushed to the breaking point, over and over again.  Eventually it was over, she had survived with her dignity in tact, but much worse for the ware. I remember telling her, the know-it-all stupid teenager that I was, to stand up for herself. Now I see why she did not do so. My mother and I have something in common now.

I was humiliated, scolded and belittled in a hypocritical situation. I knew what was happening was wrong, even my husband testified to that effect. I took it. I did not speak up for myself. Should I have? In doing so I would have been walking away from my knife, from my stove, from my passion, and from my dream to be a chef.

Was it worth it? My integrity for a chefs knife? Will the Great Spirit know what I had to restrain to hold that knife? Will my food taste like the woman who sacrificed what was right in order to have the honor of preparing it? Will it taste of the devotion that I have for it? Will you take a bite of creamy risotto and release a tear, as I did in the dark room of injustice? What would you pay?

Tootsie Roll Eater

Making friends tends to be difficult for some people. Those awkward years in high school, those awkward years of college, those awkward years of the rest of your life. For someone with BD, it is harder than you think. I tend to attract “friends” who need me to serve them. I call these people “takers”. They are like the kids that reach in and take ALL of the Halloween candy, leaving you with a tootsie roll. This makes me the kid that gratefully chokes down the tootsie roll, and tells the other kid “way to go” for being so cool as to take all of the candy like a bad ass.

This illness causes an extreme sense of sensitivity, and insecurity. The other kids will not accept you unless you eat the stale tootsie roll. This act of tootsie roll eating gives them power over you because you do not speak up and say, “fuck you, give me one of those KitKats!” You do not have to have BD to experience this type of habitual self deprivation, you may know yourself as the tootsie roll eater. The problem with BD, is that most of us are grateful for the tootsie roll. This is not a good thing. I don’t fucking like tootsie rolls.

I allow the few friends that I have had to walk all over me. While I savor the sour, rancid taste of the old tootsie roll in order to be accepted; I still choke on a gross piece of candy. What about the BD’s that make friends like KitKats? I have no idea. Those are the super BD’s. I know nothing of them.

How do we make friends? How do you make friends?

The few friends that I have acquired, use me until I am empty. I allow it. Why? My brain has not told me yet. I recently had the blind, drunken courage to cut a friend of fifteen years out of my life. Why? Because she never cared for me, while I ran myself into the ground making her happy. This took, for me, incredible strength. Thankfully, I do not regret it. The problem with me, is that I have a hard time making friends. I do not act “normal”. I go from depressed to manic at the blink of a eye, I isolate, I have trouble communicating, I generally fall apart if someone expresses displeasure with me. These qualities are problematic while making a friend. I am a wonderfully kind and compassionate person, I will do anything to help someone who needs me, however, I am also crazy as fuck.

As I blindly walk into age thirty-two, I ask politely for a KitKat. I have yet to get one. At best, I get four more tootsie rolls. It boils down to people wanting to use you. Those that do not want to use you, struggle to understand your craziness. At least they try. I am tired of writing this post because I was recently devastated by one of my “friends”, again. I need to live with other tootsie roll eaters, that way, we can all share a KitKat.

Fuck Tootsie Rolls.


Who Are We?

It has been a while since I have written. It would be quite a bit easier if someone was here to read my rants. I have progressed a lot in my illness. My mental illness… silence. The over-diagnosed, over-medicated, mysterious mental illness named Bi-Polar Disorder. I do not know why they have changed the name from Manic Depression to Bi-polar Disorder. It seems pretty stupid to me. It is the same illness. My Grandfather was a Manic Depressive. I am a Bi-Polar Disorders persons of some sort, either classified as Bi-Polar 1 or Bi-Polar 2. I really think they are blowing this not only out of proportion but also out of their asses. Yes, I am talking about doctors, and their ring masters, the pharmaceutical companies. Coming soon – Bi-Polar Disorder 3! Featured in a mental institution near you!

Depression is a oh-so-scary word. Lets make it happy, shall we? Bi-Polar Disorder, feel how it just slides of the tongue? I do not see the point of changing the name of a illness that remains unchanged. Either way, you will be prescribed a drug, which may or may not work. Pretty, candy-like pills. Speaking of which, when did it become legal to advertise prescription drugs via television? Not only do you have your doctor selling you a drug, but now you have the pharmaceuticals telling you which drugs your doctor should be selling you. Me spies a pattern. Don’t mistake me, I have been through my fair share. Fifteen years of searching for help in the pill pushing community. You cannot deny, some of them work. However, most of them do not. For me, I have found that the two medications that I am using, were never intended to treat my illness, but they actually do. How funny is that?

I am struggling with what this blog is destined to be. I am writing this honestly. I do not want to hold back anything that I write. The writing process can show the mood, and this illness is all about changing moods. Changing moods, and deep suffering. How can you truly know who you are when you can change so rapidly? What happens when you take someone with this illness, and add a dash of PTSD, a shake of personal trauma, a pinch of the death of a loved one? We change. We are a unique breed of humans. The difference between having this illness and being told that you have this illness is one factor alone. In your heart you will know. It will not be a excuse for your behavior, it is your behavior. It will not be a excuse for your actions, they are your actions. You will know you in a deep way, a way that others cannot. We are sick, are we not?

What happens if we are just humanity evolving? What does it mean if we are the new creation of the universal brain? We care more, we suffer more, we are confused more. What can happen if we stop defining ourselves to what others are? What if we believe that “we”, all of us with this bitch of a “illness”, may be the beginning of a new human understanding?

Are we the fore-leaders to compassion and thought? Are we the descendant of the first man to stop and weep for the lost kitten, for the child left behind, for the man that died blindly, for the woman who gave her soul to the devil? How many people do you know that actually care? I do. This illness will force you too. That is the key. Maybe it is not us, maybe it is the world. The world is large and unified. Take your drugs so that you can be “normal”. What the fuck is great about being normal? Look to your average high school, look to your average working class man or woman. This is normal? I bypass the medication that makes me like anyone else. I take the medication that allows me to survive. We can do this, all together. We do not have to be “sick”. We are as much Bi-Polar as we are Disorder.

Wait.. wait a minute.

I have spent all of this blog time either writing as I see fit or talking about the pain of my disease. This disease is mostly pain. A pain felt both mentally and physically. What inspired this post is pain. Pain of compassion. I have more compassion than most, almost as much as my mother, less than my Grandfather. What inspires in us this compassion?

This disease is so unlike what the drug markets tell you. It is not a cold depression, not a passing madness. It is else.

I was born with it, as my mother, as her brothers, as her father. Only two of said five are left standing.. and on shaking knees.

Today as my world moved around me, most of said movement offends me. I have questioned this “compassion” I have. I have always said and thought to myself  “I know” this compassion is my enemy. What if it is not?

Eye.. there is the rub. What if unlike the others who condemn me and “my compassion”, “my weakness”  it is nothing other than some sort of greatness? (I know what you are thinking but no, I do NOT think I am great nor those who have suffered from it in the past). But just what, what if? We are a different breed. A unique breed.

Christ was said to be compassion and love. And the bulk of you claim to  follow his name in war and church, both which speak nothing of love or compassion.

I hurt myself and deem myself weak for it, this “compassion” I always have. I cut myself and cry, I vomit my food and listen to your judgement that I am “this” and I am “that”. Perhaps my disease is giving me something you do not know.

The ability to recognize that I am different. The ability to survive it and above all. The ability to FEEL it.

What inspires this?

A spider web.

A simple spider web I did not realize was being affected by my movements. A simple web my movements almost destroyed. For he was attached to my porch swing. I was unaware. How he was affected. Like the breeze blowing upon him, he stood graceful. But in my mind. I had affected, changed, hurt his world. What had he done to me? Nothing. What had I done to him? Ruined his web, his life, his means of survival.

Would you have noticed? Would you have cared? I think not.

But, to those out there like me at least we see it. My friend, who I hope forgives my invasive fumbling and my ” I own the world, human, I never effect anything” mentality. My spider, whom I begged for forgiveness.


Story Challenge

My husband and I set up a story challenge (he wants to start writing again).

The challenge is one written page, short story. He had to give me two words and I had to give him two. You must write a one page story using the two words in some way, be it meaning of the word, expression of the emotion of the word or just the word itself.

My words were Myriad and Anathema. Here is my story.

Story Challenge. One Page. Title is “Red Blue”.

He could have stood quietly allowing the waves of indifference to pass over him. Yet he held her, still breathing, taking life into her lungs. The blood had sprayed like twinkling stars upon his arm, a universe of blood, all moments, all pumped from the source that would never know its maker.

Tight wired hair complicated all movements, why had she not cut the damn mane? Small red tokens adorned the nest of sand washed hair. This was the movement, the moment.

He twisted his arm, she was losing breath. He could hold her tighter but she would not feel it.

He had been held by her, so many nights, awakened by a flash of this wired sand hair and her breathless movements. All that would pass now, all that would be was the end of these movements.

She held fast and then, with a silent touch, reached with her eyes to him. All forgiveness pleaded, all mistakes begging for understanding. He held the knife. His hand was shaking; he should not have pulled it out. He had seen the movies. The knife may have held the blood in, may have held it in the body, like stars before the black hole.

She stopped. He could feel her leave as though the knife had left him. She was gone.

Red became blue and blue became red. Loud were the sounds that crashed like so many drums, like the war his grandfather had told him about, the old stories. It was calm now, she was gone. He lay her head down on the cold driveway were once all tires had past, all of the comings and goings of this God forsaken family. It was over for her but not for him. Not for the other.

The man lay in the grass like bag of trash forgotten, left behind by the garbage truck. The breath he pushed was soft and tired and smelled of gasoline. The drops of blood-let stars covered his shrunken, drunken chest. He still breathed, unknowing of what he had done.

Blue became red and red became blue as the drums grew louder. He walked up to the trash. Something was crashing and screaming, something was close and he could make out words. He wanted to talk to the lights and the words  but the trash was there. He had to remove this trash from the lawn.

He stumbled upon empty batteries of courage, anger and fear. He tripped upon bottles of hope and desolation. He fell into a pool of sick and rested beside the trash.  He could do this thing, he could. He held the knife as surely as he had been taught with his own eyes. He needed no batteries. He had wires, wires of tangled hair. He had her, her thoughts, her pain, her passion, her breast, her devotion, her tolerance, her forgiveness and now her death.

He looked the trash in its eyes; black and small. So many bits of loathing that rested in ambivalence. He could hear the red, see the blue. Too many sounds around him, asking him, pleading with him. The knife found its home, covered in the bloody stars that were his mother’s universe. The knife found its home pushed into the beat of his father’s heart. A shot fired. Another drum.

He lie there, quiet now. They were both gone. He would be gone soon. His father had taken his mother, he had taken his father and now, he had taken himself.


Today was actually quite sad for me. Though the last few months have been sad as well. Sadness follows me like a butterfly with no wings and like a dragon with no fire. I guess the last few months have been hard and ever presenting loss. I try to think of what I love, of what is gain, but I bend and bleed to the determent of loss.

I fell today upon hopelessness as I reached for help. I could feel ghost fingers as nothing was given. For a world that asks everything, nothing is given in kind.  I am truly sad. It is the world and I, nothing upon it other than human waste and politics. I so long to shed that skin. Human waste. Human crap. Human. So long to cut it off, this human.

It is a moment for me to feel me. Not a moment enough. These things pass, thoughts sink within the fatty brain matter and dreams become a fog of longing.

No-thing-ness is upon me and a silent feeling recovers me to sleep. Perhaps no anger tonight, perhaps I lack the fight.

Today was just another day. These moments of my life that pass away. Why wait for death when the bitch has already found me? Maybe not such a bitch is she. Maybe just a bitch she be.

They say be thankful for everyday.

I say stop pissing away my day away.

Quiet Blood

My mouth will open.
My mouth can speak.
All is quiet.
All is pain.

Do not speak as though you know.
Do not speak at all.
Slip into the quiet night.
Slip before you fall.

I stood upon the hill.
I looked long and deep and hard.
I fell long before I met the ground.
I fell long before I heard the sound.

All is quiet as the ring slips on.
All is quiet as the rage moves on.

And he stood like a rabid pig.

And he bled like a rabid pig.

Still so quiet I could hear the sound.

I could hear the sound.

Quiet footfalls as they hit the ground.

Run. Run. Run.


Homemade 3 Cheese Ravioli with Garlic and Jalapeno in a Thyme, Garlic and Jalapeno Cream Sauce.

Hi all! I have not posted in a while, I know. I have been busy following a life long passion of mine: Cooking and food porn photography. While I am a beginner in this type of photography and by all means not a chef, I have decided to follow my heart.

As you all know I am a Redditor. These people are my family. I recently posted one of my new recipes and a photo on Reddit. The response was overwhelmingly wonderful. I have decided to post the recipe here as I do not want punchy face.

Comments on this dish.

This recipe is rough and I am still working on it. I want to at least get down the foundation for this recipe here so anyone can play with it. This was my first time with fresh pasta, let alone ravioli, so ouch, it was a tough first challenge. This recipe involves my “signature sauce”. I have always wanted one, so I invented the damn thing even though I am defiantly not a professional chef. Who would not want a “signature sauce”? I want it on my gravestone; “She at least made a signature sauce”.

Ok. The basics.

I made fresh pasta dough and used my Italian pasta maker to get the nice pasta sheets. I honestly believe that any store-bought pasta would go through the roof with my easy sauce. I struggled and swore with the fresh pasta but managed to survive.

My mommy gave me this great little ravioli cutter that I love, but a knife would have worked better (I will do this next time and hand cut the ravioli).

Rough as hell.


1/2 cup cream cheese (softened)

1/4 cup fresh grated Parmigiano – Reggiano (any parm will do but this is the best and gives it a very salty bite)

1/4 cup finely grated mozzarella

1 whole Jalapeño, (finely diced)

(I seeded and de-ribbed the jalapeno before adding it to the cheese mixture and it was sweet and fruity with only a little heat. Next time, I may amp it up and leave the ribs in but adding the seeds would kill the mild flavors with too much heat.)

1 garlic clove (finely diced)

Salt and Pepper to taste.

Eat this filling as you go and decide if you want more of one ingredient or another.

Please let the filling rest so as the Jalapeno and Garlic have time to bleed yummy into the cheese.

Filling is set and make your homemade raviolis as you like or grab a yummy store bought ravioli.


MY pride and joy. I put this on all the food!

1 1/2 tbs salted butter

1/4  of a sliced Jalapeno

2 sprigs of fresh thyme ( no need to remove the leaves)

2 cloves of garlic

1/2 – 1 tbs of flour

1/2 – 1 cup half and half or heavy whipping cream (you have to watch the sauce as it develops make sure there is not too much liquid so add it SLOWLY, trust your instincts).

Melt the butter gently in a small sauce pan (med-low heat) with the jalapeno, garlic and sprigs of thyme. (I Smash the garlic with my knife to open the clove and throw it in whole).

When butter is melted and bubbly and yummy smells are about, add the flour, a pinch at a time while whisking until you get a paste (a light rue). Be sure to keep the thyme, jalapeno and garlic in there while whisking so as to flavor the flour and cream as well.

With whisk, add the cream very slowly, break your arm in the process, whisk, whisk, whisk.

Bring that temp up (med-high heat) and wait for sweet, lovely thickening to happen.

Strain all of the sauce with what ever you have that will strain (I cannot afford “special” strainers so I use my little old tea strainer).

Get that sauce on your ravioli. Eat that and eat some more. Adjust heat as you like with the jalapenos. I added fresh thyme on top as garnish but upon tasting would recommend that only a little, very FINELY chopped thyme would work or no thyme at all. Sub parsley for that fresh green color. The fresh thyme works in the sauce but on top it seems to over power the gentle flavor of the sauce.

I will update this recipe as I get feedback from it and will keep trying ways to make it better. Food is love. I love food. Thanks Reddit, for giving me the balls to start cooking again.


I see myself outside of myself. I am planet me. I am ashamed that I am so selfish yet I know that I am not. My compassion holds me like razor blades. I cannot move unless I be cut.

I have no friends. I am an outcast that dreams of Gods.

I once was so pretty, now I AM TORTURED.

I hear music in my head. I think of nothing else but pain. The music will not stop. I need a haven. Is there no safe place for one like me? Is there no home for the mad? I see all that can happen, the pain, the dead, the fear, the loss, the reaction, the guilt, the terror. It will never end. No matter how many snow white pills I take, no matter how many sessions with my therapist, no matter anyway.

The people in my life do not see me. There are so few now. The ones that could see killed themselves. Yes, I have to say it out loud. They killed themselves.  I am a child of suicide and a child of such love as to one could ever comprehend.

Maybe I will get better. Maybe I will not. Maybe it will all fall away like the frost that covers our trees.

My Grandfather once smashed the eggs of a Robin. He tried to care for the eggs, we did it together. He built an incubator for them, we nursed them. We were going to save them. But the eggs died. He cried and smashed them. We smashed them among his clocks and we both died of insanity that day.

I wonder if God will ever see me. Will God ever see me? Will He see the moments? My Grandfather. my father, my mother?

This is movement. I do not care for it. This moving through fogs of nothing.

I hear the music in my head. It is a movement. Beethoven, my dark prince. Bach, my devil. Mozart, my love. Vivaldi, my hope.

Hold me now. Just hold me and let me curl up in the demons of my mind.

Let the movement be. Let you sweep me with Summer. Come Vivaldi, come. My hope.

I so long for you. Hope.