Begending

In a few hours it'll be a new year. I'd love to write some great words of wisdom about all I learned this past year and how next year will be different, but I'm not wise and the IBS is trying to kill me so my brain cells are not quite connecting at their usual rate of intensity.

However as I was lying here while the alien attempts to escape from my belly, I suddenly heard the sound of my 6 year old nephew, reciting and realized there is no other way I'd rather end my year than to the sound of his voice. Definitely an awesome ending and beginning for the year.

Blind Leading the Deaf

here the words flow droplets upon the page one after another emptying the rage

there they disappear lost amidst the sound unable to unravel they begin to drown

No matter how hard I try to explain my thoughts, they usually go misunderstood. It's hard for people to understand that what lies in my heart is not what lies in my head or that the words that exit my mouth do not necessarily portray the entirety of what I wish to say. It's hard sometimes. Being lost. I've been trying to share more with Jigger. To trust in him the darkness, but I realize I can't. He doesn't understand. How can I expect him to understand something he's never seen, felt, or heard? Something he's not quite sure exists in the first place. How do I make him understand I'm a combination of body parts that don't quite fit together and don't always agree with one another? How do you make a blind man see? You don't and it's time I accept that and give him  a walking stick instead.

Soldiers

I wonder 

if I tugged and pulled 

would they come

words

sounds

syllables

pulled taut between lines, periods and dashes. 

Good little solider lads lined up in a row. Knock one down where will they go,

to a land of not forgotten, a land beneath the sea, a land of long and yesteryear unseen to you and me. 

So I stretch and turn and twist and tug and force them to be. Into their tiny mirror land tucked tight in between dominoes and marigolds and fishermen by the sea. I tried to convince them it was much more fun to be free, but the words they are a fickle bunch for it is with their ears they see. A world of shining sparkles a world unknown to me so I sit in silent shadows and watch them take form. Dancing to their master's tune like good little soldier boys. 

Scrivener

Hear the wind call
Hear its gentle breeze
Hear the sorrows cry
Scattered forgotten seeds

Endless words written
Lines upon lines
Long now forgotten
Rhyme within rhyme

In the nothingness
that once existed when
I drop a bit of ink
and close my mind til then


A scrivener I'm not
Nor shall I ever be
A wanton wayward soul
Trapped betwixt and between

No Soup For YOU

So there we sat. I noticed Jigger occasionally looking at me and after he had looked at me for about the fifth time I finally said, "What?!". Not wanting to interrupt me because he thought maybe I was busy working or something, he very quietly said, "Are you going to cook dinner today?" To which I replied, "Yes, at 2 o'clock just like I do everyday. Why?" Then he says, "Well, because it's 2:33 now." 

Huh?! 

So yea apparently sometime after midnight my laptop thought it'd be "funny" to go back an hour in time and I didn't notice. I don't know how long he would have actually sat there if I hadn't asked him why he kept looking at me. It's little things like that when I realize I'm very fortunate. My ex would have gone apeshit ballistic on me. When I was married before, my ex worked second shift which meant he got home close to midnight. Which meant I got my ass out of the bed at 11:30 pm to prepare his food so it would be hot and waiting on him when he walked through the door at 11:58. It didn't matter that I had to get up at 2 am to be at work at 3 am or that when I finished work at 2 pm I had to pick the kids up at 2:45 pm. Then there was soccer and dinner and homework and baths and maybe if I was lucky by 7 pm I would sit down.

On really good days I'd manage a shower somewhere in between soccer and not feeling guilty for serving macaroni & cheese and hot dogs to my kids for dinner for the third time that week. It's funny how life changes. How having different people around you can make you see the world in an entirely different way. 

So I made my husband his favorite food tonight. Even though it was an hour late, he didn't mind at all.

Litotes

Words
Jumbled letters locked in place
Frozen in time
I wonder
Do they get bored
Standing there all lined up
Like good little boys and girls
Do they ever wish they could whirl and twirl and spin
Do they ever try to waltz or zag or zip
When no one's looking
Always expected to perform on command
No deviations no exceptions
Straight lines without chaos or vacuums or jabberwockeys
Always neat rows untouched
untainted
unscarred
Words
Jumbled crows amidst the cornfield
Scattered by a pen
Tied tight against the scarecrow's chest
Ink stained rows pressed against the page
And then the Wiz goes flying by.

Prioritizing Distractions

My brain never turns off. Not even during sleep. It's constantly going. Never tiring. Never ceasing to function. Constantly processing thoughts and ideas and ways and whatifs and whatnots and maybes and shouldve's or wouldve's. An endless vortex of synapses firing sparks into a pit of nothingness. 

Occasionally these sparks drift down out of the crazy half of my brain into the small somewhat normal part, and when this happens, if you're close enough to me you can actually see the little light bulb appear over my mind and see Wile E. Coyote run by. I get ideas the way others get gas after eating beans. I'm constantly starting projects that are "totally awesome omg I have to do this" only for a few days to pass and the high to fade. That's when the realization of "this isn't quite what I really wanted to do sets in and the project gets scrapped". 

Now I have several ideas. Actual real to goodness ideas of things that not only ignite the crazy who is easily distracted and bored but ideas that have ignited the not so crazy part of my brain. The part that says "this is a really great idea. We like this. Let's do it." The only problem with this is that the crazy part is spitting out ideas faster than the non crazy can implement them. Kinda like when Lucy took that job in the factory on the conveyor belt and she couln't keep up. I'm Lucy in this scenario in case you're not following that well. 

I really want to do all of the things in my head. What is even more bizarre is the fact I have no doubt in my ability to accomplish these things and to possibly have a bit of success in them. What is tripping me up is that I need to prioritize, pick one project, begin on it, and work on it until I get it rolling. Then start the second project. Except I don't quite work like that. I get bored my ADD kicks in and I need something shiny new to play with. It takes ALOT to keep my mind active and non bored. Not alot of gossip or "omg did you see what  she was wearing" but real thoughts, real conversations, REAL things. 

So now I'm left trying to figure out which of these ideas to pull out first. Which to begin on until my brain can't work on it any longer, then I'll start the second. I know I'll be working on these various projects simultaneously, but I need to figure out a way that I can actually get a couple of them completed relatively quickly without fucking them royally. This is much more difficult than it sounds. Kinda like going to juggling school and on your first day the teacher throws you a chain saw, an egg, and a baby and says "GO!". Which one do you drop?

Romancing A Crazy

The other day Jigger came home with the biggest shit eating grin on his face. "What have you done?" I asked because neither of us can truly keep secrets from the other. It's like we're each other's kryptonite and whatever one does the other instantly knows. He didn't say a word and just handed me a plastic shopping bag with something very hard inside. A bit skeptical I peeked inside and while I'm not really  a squeeing kinda person I think I did just a little. 

"Really?! Is this for me?!"

"Yep"

"Awwwwww thank you!!"

So what was in the bag? What makes a non squeeing gal go squee? Diamonds? Fur? Gold? Nope. This:

This isn't exact but it's close. He bought me a little tiny pot that's big enough to make about 2 cups of tea in and not much else. I've been complaining about how it's winter and freaking ass cold and I can't always make tea when I want. So he found a little pot for me to be able to make tea in our part of the house whenever I want. I am so seriously spoiled.

Triggers Not the Horse

Knowing your triggers. Absolute must for anyone with any sort of bipolar, BPD, PTSD, anxiety and more big medical words I don't know or have forgotten to mention. Triggers are to insanity what peanuts are to allergies. Know your triggers and avoid them or at least have 911 on speed dial so you hit the button before going into anaphylaxis shock. Yes, they're that bad. 

Triggers. I have many. Some I know. Some are hidden. Some sneak up on me when I'm not looking. I try to avoid them, but somehow they always find my hiding places. The last two days I've been triggering HARD. My safety nets were being pulled from under me. Even though they aren't real safety nets, they're actually harmful to me. In all truth, my so called safety nets are one of my biggest triggers. Fear, rejection, and abandonment. 

Yesterday the perfect storm was created. A long time friend who in many ways has helped me and in many ways not, I confronted. I stood up for myself. I refused to be treated like a steaming pile of dog shit he was scrapping off his shoe, but for ten years he's my one and only friend. The only person my insanity hasn't driven away. Even though he was at times verbally abusive, I clung to him because he was always there. I didn't fear him leaving me. Abandoning me. If that meant being called names, told I was stupid, and used, then that was ok. Because I wasn't alone. 

Except now I have started surrounding myself with people who don't use me, don't abuse me. Who respect me. Who see my flaws, my  broken pieces, and accept them. Who look over the frazzled me and see what lies underneath, and I like that. I don't want to be treated like dogshit anymore even if it means I'm alone. I'd rather be alone than be someone's dogshit. But still it's a trigger. 

Then there are normal worries, financial worries, that pretty much every person who sucks oxygen on this planet has, but when you put those worries inside of a mind that works overtime they become blown out of proportion. So I fight to keep my grip on reality. While things aren't great, they're not that bad either. While some things haven't worked out exactly like I wanted, they are at least working and I'm constantly looking for other ways of gaining income. At the very least I don't feel entitled. I don't feel that it is ok to sit on my ass while others support me. I might have little but it's all fucking mine and I worked through insanity to get it. It's mine fuckers and you can't have it. 

So I'm on a bit of a roller coaster. I'll have to start taking sleeping pills today. I've been awake for two days now. Not good. Not sleeping is definitely a sign. So today I'll take little pink tablets with my grape juice so my mind will slow at least enough for my eyes to close and for a few moments the ping pongs bouncing inside my head will lay quietly on the floor. Shhhh......

While He Sleeps

I whisper to the darkness
Encompassing me
Devouring me
Cheeks wet
from silent tears
Unseen
Unheard
he doesn't know
I hide from him
My fears
My pain
My worries
I don't want him to see
The real me
The me I hide
But when he sleeps
Out I come
For a moment
Inhale
Exhale
I breathe the saltiness of the tears
For just a moment
Then back into the darkness
Before he wakes
Before he sees
Before he knows
I hide the me
That bleeds

Even My Dreams Aren't Normal

So I have to write this down because I'll seriously forget it and it's too bizarre to forget. I don't dream. I never have not really. Maybe it's because I don't usually fall deep enough into sleep to dream or that I fall asleep with some major narcotics in my system and sleep so deeply the dreams sort of fade away upon waking up, but for the most part I don't dream. Last night however I did. I only remember the end part of. About 4 secs in time of it, but it was so fucking weird that it woke me up with a "wtf was that all about" coming out of my mouth. 

I dreamed I was updating my Facebook status and for the 3-4 of you who happen to be my "friends" on Facebook you know I haven't actually signed into Facebook in months let alone updated my status. Doesn't seem too weird, right? Well my status update said, "FYI to all my co-workers who are visiting me. You can still visit if you're lactose intolerant. Just because I'm breastfeeding the baby doesn't mean I pass out samples when you all come to visit. Unless of course the price of diapers goes up, then I'll be freezing that shit and selling it as ice cream." 

I shit you not that is what it said. I have no idea what part of my subconcious mind that came from but it was full on weird. Just weird. Anyways not what this was suppose to be about. It was suppose to be about mania and how I'm sitting on the edge of a major manic episode.

I can feel it's familiar tickle up my spine, the panic slowly starting to whirl and twirl through my veins. I can the 3 normal brain cells trying to calm the other 3000 down and telling them it's ok. Don't panic. Everything is ok, but they're not listening. I have worked very hard to get where I am. I don't want to undo it. A few of my safety nets have been removed this week. Even though they weren't real safety nets, at least I could pretend they were and I've finally cast them aside and I think that is contributing to the frenzy that is building inside of me. 

Panic. It's the worst feeling a person can have. If you're a parent, and you've ever turned around for 3 secs and then turned back and not seen your child standing there, that feeling that starts to rise from the tips of your toes and then courses through your entire body. That is what I feel like inside. For a few moments as the panic rises I'm coherent, I shout my name. Then the panic takes hold and I run around crazy in my underwear for no apparent reason other than the crazy told me to. It doesn't help but it calms me. The part of me that is freaking out. The part of me that is coming unglued because of some minor reason that my brain has magnified into a full on catastrophe. I am my own worst enemy. 

So this time I'm fighting back. Fighting back against the panic that is slowly rising within me. I don't know how much of it I'll be able to hold back before the dam breaks, but hopefully it'll be long enough the damage will be minor and 3 normal brain cells will be able to climb to safety. Hopefully I won't destroy all I've worked so hard to build.

Ah-Choo

I hate being sick. Especially cold sick. I hate the stuffy head, the runny nose, the cough. I am such a baby when I'm sick. I readily admit that during sickness my normal bitchiness seems tame compared to how I behave while I'm sick. I will slap the fuck out of you for looking at me when I am sick. I am THAT bad. But Jigger ignores my whining, brings me juice and soup and vicks and warm socks. I don't know if he just has developed super powers that enable him to ignore my whiny bitchiness or what, but if he has, then I so am going to figure out how so I can put that shit in a can and sell it on craigslist. So yea I'm sick and whining.

True Ghost Whisperer

I have this friend. She chases ghosts. Not Casper type ghosts, but the ghosts that haunt people's souls. The ones that cause you to drink or run or be scared or crazy or lost. Those ghosts. Ghosts that you might not even know are there, but frighten you and cause you to shed tears and you don't know why. She chased my ghosts away. And I didn't even see her do it. She works her magic in such a way that you don't even know you're being hypnotized by her spells. 

Until one day you stick your hand inside your gut and realize the hole that was there isn't as big as before. Isn't as empty and the whispers of your ghosts aren't quite as loud or scary. She replaces their whispers with her laughter, her love. She's infectious, contagious. You can't know her and NOT love her. You can't hear her words and not become mesmerized by the way they bend and twist and twirl to her commands. You can't be near her and NOT be healed. If you walk away from her, then you never truly heard her. Never truly saw her. Never truly let her wrap her words around you and tease your ghosts away. 

But I did and now I'm watching her do the same to someone else and it's amazing. When she was working her magic on me, there were so many little things I didn't notice. A twinkle, a sparkle that I couldn't see from my darkness, but now I can see her. See her purpose. See her drive. She's a fixer of broken souls and a ghost chaser. 

She chased my ghosts away.

Conversations I've Had Recently

I talk to myself. Not in the muttering under my breath, aliens can hear, wear my tin hat kinda way. Also not in the "I hear voices that tell me to slap the stupid out of you" kinda way either. 

Take for instance, my BFF Sam. I talk to Sam pretty much on a daily basis. Literally and in my own quirky way. If I read something, see something, or think something, then in my head I tell Sam. I know Sam well enough I can pretty much guess what her reply will be and in my head I not only hold my end of the conversation but hers as well. I don't know what part of bipolarism this falls in or if it's just part of my own special blend of awesomeness, but after one of our conversations, I have the same exact feeling as if I had actually just spoken with Sam. 

I don't just do this with Sam, but pretty much everyone. Even people I've never actually spoken with. Some random nijjit on the internet might write something that amuses me and I'll make up a conversation with them. Maybe their replies are what I'd want them to say. Maybe it's a conversation I'd hope we'd have. Why I don't just actually message or talk to the person I'm not quite sure. Maybe it's some form of self protection. Maybe I"m just mind fucked (that's my word of the day btw). I've searched on the googletron, but that was less than helpful. I don't really know what to call this or if anyone else even does this. I've never actually told this to anyone either. Not even Sam. Even though we talk everyday.

Vienna in Your Sausage

I come from a very sophisticated background, can you tell?! DEM commented on my yesterday's post. I'd link it but I'm too lazy at the moment and that's what the archives are for. She mentioned red hot dogs which reminded me of one of the delicacies that we as children were forced allowed to eat.

If you live below the Mason Dixie line, then you've eaten this at least once in your life whether you know admit it or not. This wonderful afternoon snack was often served along side saltine crackers and on special occasions there was Kraft Individually wrapped cheese slices and some French's yellow mustard served along with this mouthwatering concoction of every meat known to man. 

Ya'll might be laughing at me but I know every single one of you mutherfuckers out there is adding this to your grocery list as we speak. I mean seriously who could resist the temptation. Unless you're already having some redneck pate then I totally understand.

it has chicken AND beef! yum!!

Irritant Bananas

I have pet peeves. I know, shocking, right?! But I do. A major pet peeve of mine is wasting food. I attribute this to my lack of said food growing up or well my lack of store bought said food. A little background so this story makes sense. I grew up pretty much white trash. We didn't buy meat, we shot it, skinned it, gutted it, and butchered it before putting its ass in the freezer to pull out a few times during the week. Fresh veggies? Only those we grew in the little garden out back. 

Rules of the table consisted of:

1. Do not put on your plate what you do NOT intend to eat. If it goes on your plate, then your happy ass will sit at the table until you eat every last bite even if it means til 1 am. Your happy ass will eat every last bite on that damn plate. 

2. If you don't like what is cooked for dinner, then you don't eat dinner. Rare exceptions are made but mostly included examples such as cauliflower. I do not eat, touch, sniff anything that remotely came near cauliflower. Therefore on those days I was allowed to eat only the meat which was cooked with no veggies or the bread that was cooked in place of meat and no veggies. On those days I mostly just waited til lunch at school to eat the next day. 

3. Leftovers are the unmentioned food group from which goulash, stews, and patties (example salmon patties) shall be made from.

There were other rules but these are the ones I remember the most. 

Now that you know a few of the rules I was raised with you can fully understand why my head spins around like Linda Blair when I look in our fridge and find food that was left over from days ago. Food that most likely will end up in the trash simply because my inlaws do not eat "leftovers". WTF?! Then why did you cook so fucking much then?! This pisses me off to no end. While our financial situation has improved, it is not at the point where perfectly good food gets thrown out because "you don't like left overs". 

I want to stuff the shit down their throats and say "you'll eat it and love every fucking bite of it". But instead I just try my best to use up the left overs so as little as possible gets wasted. Food wasting is a major pet peeve/trigger for me. Jigger has already been informed if we ever get our own place, he shall and will eat left overs if there are any and he shall and will love the fuck out of them. I do not waste food. 

So I'm basically in a pissy mood that doesn't have any real cause and therefore every little thing is grating on my nerves like the four pots of food sitting in the fridge.

Elusive Masks

Anonymity is great. I could be Charles Manson for all you know. I'm not but I could be. Have come close on a few occasions but that's neither here nor there. Anonymity allows me a sort of freedom that I don't get in real life. In the last week I've done things most people only dream of. Or don't dream of because they consider it so far out of their reach that it is an impossibility. I'm feeling slightly proud of myself. Before this week, I hadn't really left a mark on the world. There was nothing I could point to and say "I did that." "That's all mine." Now I have something. No one will ever know it's me. No one well except for two people, but beyond those two, no one will ever know. 

And I kinda like that. It makes it more mine. It keeps the rot and decay that is associated with me far from it and I like its purity. I like how it sparkles. I like how people think it's special because I can then pretend that I'm special vicariously through the things I do. There is a narcissist inside of me that does want to lay claim to it. To stomp and shout and let people know that something of value can come out decay, but that part is quickly silenced. 

So I keep doing what I do and watch others put their name on it. And I'm ok with that. For now. But there's a part of me that I think some day will step forth and lay claim to what is mine. But I'm also certain when that day comes very few would believe a psycho gori ummati slut could ever be associated with such things as that. But at least I know.

Blow

I turned and she was gone. Like the wind blowing through the trees. She was the love of my life and I crushed her like the soft rose petal. I press my lips together and blow. Giving her the freedom she never had within my grasp. I watch as she floats away. Carried by the gentle breeze to a  new life and into the arms of a new love that will cherish her for the perfect beauty that she is. While I, the thorn, remain behind, tossed aside, and forgotten. A decrepit being unwanted for the cruelty its existence brings.

100 words velvet verbosity

It Won't Last Forever

I HATE when people say this. It pisses me off to no ends. Because you know what? I'm fucking BIPOLAR. Not just normal catherine zeta jones take a weekend off and everything's all fine again bipolar. I'm more of the Sybil boil your bunny on the stove bipolar. And you know what this will LAST FOREVER. Bipolar is not curable. It is managable to a certain extent if the person WANTS to manage it and I do want to manage it and I manage it and my life actually quite a lot better than most fucking sane people do. 

I work my ass off. I support my family. I put up with shit that most normal sane people would not be able to put up with, but I deal with it. And fuck you  and everyone like you for saying such  idiotic comments when you don't know jack shit about me and I never asked you for your opinions. 

When you live inside of a bipolar mind, one of the best things to do to get the shit out of your brain is to vomit it out and I do that here on my blog. I vomit out the shit so that I can function and manage. I put all of the shit here instead of in my life. I say here the things I can't/shouldn't say because I"m in a moment of no control so I say them here and get it out so that I can think clearly and act with a clear mind. So that I can make reasonable clear headed decisions instead of fucked up decisions that are totally NOT in my best interest. I don't come here to hear your pathetic attempts at "advice" because obviously you know jack shit about what it's like to live with a brain that makes no fucking sense half of the time.

I Want To

Scream and Rage and HATE and Yell and Hit and Cuss and Beat and Destroy and Rip and Tear and Demolish and ERASE and Deny and Annihilate 

But instead I am 

Silent and Invisible and Resentful and Hurt and Angry and Still 

I want to rip the pounding from my chest, to tear it from my body and throw it on the ground. I want to stomp on it and make it feel pain the way I feel pain but instead 

I type these few letters and syllables as silent tears no one will ever see slide down and make the floor wet and slowly stuff the pounding back down from whence it came to hide it from the world and from myself...

Yep I Said It Outloud so the Universe Can Hear

I wish I'd never had kids. I love my kids. I would cut myself to pieces for them, but I wish I'd never had them. I wasn't strong enough or good enough to fight the rot in my brain and I failed them in so many ways. They have no idea what today is. No fucking clue and that is my fault. I didn't fight. I gave in. I surrender to the decay and the rot and fell into the abyss and now they're left to swim through reality totally unaware of the truth. Totally blind to reality and it's all my fault.

I wish I could turn back time and know that birth control pills do NOT work on me. I wish I could go back and say no when he asked "will you marry me". I wish so many things. None of which will come true and today of all days I hurt the most because they have no idea what today is. They're off enjoying life and the world and they have no idea what they're missing. And it's my fault for not being there to show them.

It's my fault.