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.


White Snow

I am Bi-Polar… blah, blah, blah. I prefer the term Manic Depression as that is what my Grandfather called it. I feel safe, terming it so… blah , blah, blah.

OK. Let’s talk about the pills.

I have had these little diamond shaped devils for about a week now. I am truly afraid to take them. I filled the RX you see? I brought the little fuckers home but… I just don’t know. I am so afraid of these pills. They are a “mood stabilizer” with what my RN say’s “they carry a low side effect”.  Honestly my little blog, I just. Don’t. Know!

If I do not take them will my life end as I feel it is everyday, slow and terrorizing? If I take them will I end up with the fatal rash/liver failure that is a common black box warning with these white little devils?

I don’t even want to think about doctors.

I am just a fucking “thing” to them.  Do not get me wrong, I truly feel I may need this medication for the rest of my life, as my Grandfather did but I am scared. The doctors do not trust me and I DO NOT TRUST them. I do not affect their lives, not one of them will remember me. However, they affect me, judge me, control me and tell me what to do, always, forgetting about me. They control, forget and judge. I hate being controlled, forgotten and most of all, judged.

So… Do I take the pills and die? The thought of taking the pills makes me want to die. Do I take the pills and live? They will most likely help me live, though I doubt, not enough.

I must be reminded. I have to do this for my family and doctors.

Clean bill of heath for Catt. Try not to kill yourself. Eat up your pills like a good girl. Try not to vomit them up as usual and keep praying they will actually give you a medication that helps you survive.

Little white diamond shaped pills. They smell like bread crumbs. I take them out and feel them in my hand, I roll them around my palm. They are small and shift like snow flakes. They feel so nice and soft, falling around my fingers, the pills feel too numerous to count. In my palm I can control them. What will they taste like? These… white snow?

What will you do to me my littl’ uns? Will I fear more? Will I panic? Will I scream in pain? Will I rest and dream? Will I hide and die? Will I breathe and live? Will I…

Will I?

Eat the white snow when I am thirsty. I always ate the sweet, white snow in Reno while watching my father work his bow and arrow. I always did in Nevada, clean, white snow like spoons full of cream and cold water.

Should I? Should I dare eat this demon/dream? What will happen?

Break the silence as I hold fear for white snow diamond candy.


The feeling of complete aloneness. It is so over bearing and crippling. I have just passed a manic phase and seem to be wandering into the depressive phase. It is most interesting to document this disease. This depression is a complete feeling of isolation and misunderstanding. Suicide? Nope.

Just the feeling of absent and quiet. Of tolerance and pain. Of nothingness and stillness.

I read today that we manics tend to be great artists. This I find funny, however, as of late I have found one.


This is of little importance. I am no great artist. I have no skill or defining ability. I am poor white trash with nothing to offer but a serious set of flaws and fat. I thought, I could make great on this…disease. But alas, no. Just a set of cuts on my wrist one month and a shopping spree the next.

Sometimes the thoughts of death as a release are comforting and necessary, sometimes they are crude and intolerable. I have no ability to know what I do. I can feel all the time, I am always feeling. But logic and rationality come every so often and at their own whim.

This aloneness. This horror of isolation. This multi-faced bitch in the mirror. This is me.

I can allow others to judge me and I pray that they do. As their perception of me passes fancy and creates a hole around me, they are validated that they are not flawed, I am validated that I am.

Dead things walk the edges of my mind as I wander through this misty place. Once my friend and companion, my mind is now unexplored and unforgiving. For lack of credit card and sun my mind has once again resorted to turning grey as the sky does this October. Now the excitement leaves and the silence sets in. Sweet, deadly silence.

Now as the season turns. I am alone. For the manic may come and go as it pleases, but only on a ticket. This is now the season of my depression. The aloneness coils around me like a blanket from hell.

I am here to greet her, my old friend. I feel safe in the dead of her loving embrace.

Fletch Lives!

I just had a very LARGE breakthrough. Dispolar Biorder still holds true. However if you know me you know I am very… sensitive.

Tonight, after seven years, my husband managed to track down a soundtrack for me. I love the movie the soundtrack comes from, it was an old family movie (Fletch). My mom and dad use to watch this movie all the time. These memories I have been “hiding” are not of rape, not of pain, not of destruction. The memories I have been hiding are of my family and this soundtrack reminded me of all the days I lived unafraid and whole. All my days as a protected dreamer. Yes, my mom stroked my head and we barbecued and so much more.

Fire works on my birthday… My dad coming home to us… So much joy.

The three of us. We really kicked ass. I have been hiding the good memories. I have been hiding the greatest times of my life. I have been hiding US. Three musketeer’s, think twice, we were better. The “black sheep” son, the neglected brilliant daughter, the child they had. Me. I have been hiding them, I have been hiding me.

I made a pact. If my father or mother ever died, I would die. I have been holding the promise. I have been slowly killing myself for seven years. I promised if my dad ever died I would die and I am, it took seven years but I am. Seems my brain remembers. I would rather be dead with him then stay with the lot of you.

If I did really die, I would have to take my mother with me (guess I should talk to her about that first).

I did not understand until listening to this album and remembering the three of us. Both of my parents were separate from their family. They made their own family. The word “special” does not really cover what we were. I was raised by two of the best people that have ever, and may ever exist.

I did not see it before. I guess it really is love. I have one foot in the grave. One foot on the plot. I won’t leave them. Either of them. I am going with them. Even if it tears me in two.

I think I understand God now.

My heart is light tonight. At least now, I know. I am not full of shit. I am just keeping the promise I made to myself years ago.

I Will Blog…

I will blog in efforts to become a better person and express my ideas to absolutly no one (as none read my tiny, deprived, selfish little blog). I guess I could go on and on about why I have decided to continue with this sorely neglected blog of mine that waits for a post like a woman waits for an orgasm but instead I will simply say; my mother has had a blog a year less than myself and written in it over and over again (yes, a very satisfied blog) and I have let mine be a fancy passing in my somewhat delusional life.

My mommy has outdone me! (This is why they encourage home schooling (smart mommy’s))

No longer will I sit in the shadows of her editorial perfect, prestigious, profound, well-developed, intellegent (not “I can retort” intellegence but real independent free thinking intellegence), passionate blog.

I will now rise above to spew forth a very not intelligent, not profound and very un-developed blog.

How dare my mommy out do me!

So lets see what happens when opinions meet fire meet fingers meet blog.

Will my brutal honesty be the folly or simply the teaser?

Will I look like an ass or like an ass that owns an ass whom is owned by an ass?

Will anything make sense in the end of the end that starts the beginning of the end of another end?

Tune in next week for more of my mental bowl movements.