Body, Mind, & Spirit

I read today about a man who "cured" his bipolar by eating a diet of seafood for four months. He claimed to have had bipolar for over 20 years, but that after eating this "diet" for four months he was "cured" so much so that he was able to discontinue all meds. If you believe that, I have a bridge for sale too. You can place your bids starting the second Tuesday of next week. I have intentionally not included the link because I do not want to drive traffic to the site or make someone think I endorce that when I absolutely do not.

I do believe that your diet can affect your bipolar, but there is no way diet can "cure" bipolar. There is no "cure". There is only management.

I use to be a junkfood aholic. I was always on the go. Moving. Constantly. No time to stop. No time to cook. No time to shop for food that takes longer than 2 mins in the microwave. I had too much to do, too many places to go. I did not have time to wait for water to boil to even make spaghetti.  I ate out. A LOT. I drank soda. A LOT. Almost all of my food was prepackaged, processed, fast food, greasy, fried and covered with cheese. To say I did not eat healthy is an understatement.

For the last three years, I eat fresh veggies. Cooked properly. With real food. Not Mickey D's. No whoppers with cheese. But real food. I don't drink sodas. Maybe once a month I MIGHT have a glass or two, but that is it. I don't eat junk. No more lil debbie snack cakes, no cream filled donuts, no twinkies. I use to  eat a bag of potato chips/crisps in one day. Now I might eat one bag every three months. I eat lots of fresh fruits also. Drink tons of water a day. I do yoga. Daily.

When I don't do these things, I notice a huge difference in my body and mind. If for some reason I eat too much sugary sweets, I start to feel "tired", sluggish, fatigued. Then my mind also becomes "tired, sluggish, and fatigued". I don't physically feel like getting out of bed which makes my mind not want to get out of bed. Which leads me to sleeping all day. Which leads to depression. Which leads to cutting.

I do not for one second think that diet can cure or treat bipolar, but any parent who gives their kid a candy bar instead of an apple an hour before bedtime knows how difficult it will be to get lil jimmy to sleep.

Sodas, sweets, junk food, and fast food are all loaded with sugar, caffeine and a bunch of other unhealthy things. They make you feel jittery, hyper, on edge. I already feel "jittery, hyper, and on edge". I don't need anything to make me feel more so than I already do. I fully believe that mental ailments can have physical symptoms and your overall diet can effect your state of mind.

That doesn't mean to go buy veggies and get rid of your meds, but I know for myself at least, that my diet has a direct effect on my mental state. My mental state has a direct effect on my diet. If for 2 or 3 days, I don't do yoga, then suddenly I realize I haven't done yoga. I then can look to see WHY I haven't done it. Is it because I had a cold or PMS? Or is it because I am starting to feel depressed and not taking care of myself? How is my diet? Am I eating healthy or just eating junk?

By looking at how I am caring for myself overall, I can catch myself before I go too far. For myself at least, this is the best way I have of remaining stable. When people start to get depressed, the first thing that they usually do is stop taking care of their diet and physical appearances. By noticing these small changes, I can usually catch myself and bring myself out of whatever deep end I am about to go off. Jigger also notices these things. If I start eating things I don't normally eat or not exercising, he will ask if I am ok because he now understands this is  a sign. Treating bipolar isn't just about meds or therapy. It isn't pop a pill and be all better again.

If you want to live a productive life while having a PD, then you have to treat MIND, BODY, & SPIRIT. At least I know I have to.

Seriously, Google WTF?!

So I went to check out my stats. Google apparently has some vendetta against me. I write about all kinds of things. Does Google choose some sage words of wisdom or great advice I gave on how to manage or deal with bipolar?

Oh fuck no Google is a sadist. What  makes Google land upon my lovely world?

Blow sugar up your ass- seriously? people actually  Blow. Sugar. Up. Their. Ass. I reiterate that is an emergency exit. No entrance of any one or thing is allowed.

Ass lick - I think Google has some serious issues. It seems determined to get up in my ass. Dude that is a no fly zone. Fuck off

Man Castrated - I guess that is what happened to Google after he licked the sugar out of some one's ass

I think it's time we scheduled an intervention and got Google the help he is desperately calling out for. Or at least a tube of lubricant. Sugar flavored.

I can see that look in your eyes
I know what you wanna do
you'd die to have me in your thighs
you'd even pay me too

"do you wanna fuck me - forgotten rebels"

Delusions of Grandeur

redrum redrum

In case it's not obvious, I am pretty much self-treating at the moment. I don't have a therapist and don't take meds for my Bipolar. I have taken or well at least been prescribed meds in the past, but never really took them. My therapists were never much concerned. I had state health care which never covered more than a few weeks sessions so I never really saw them unless I had just downed a bottle of pills or two.

The first year of my marriage to Jigger was basically a rinse and repeat of my past. Fighting, yelling, screaming, throwing things and Jigger would get pissed every now and then too. After trying for a year to make Jigger leave/hate me, I gave up and since then have been seeing Dr. Google. He is all I can afford at the moment, but in all fairness, Dr. Google has probably helped me more than the 10+ years of on/off therapy and 3 hospitalizations for suicide and "nervous breakdowns" so I don't want to diss him too much.

Even though he has helped me, he is no substitute for the real thing. I do not recommend his services. You should find a doctor in your area. One that is preferably human and has the ability to write prescriptions. I do not believe a bipolar person can be stable without medications and therapy. At the moment, I am steady, but anything can rock my boat and I will fall into the abyss once again. So please do not think because I seem ok without meds that you or your loved one will be ok without meds. I am a ticking timebomb and sooner or later I will explode.

Where was I? Oh yea blogging.

 I started blogging as a way for me to clear my head and focus.  I will never be able to educate others the way Haven and Natasha do, but I hope that by sharing my experiences and how I felt while things were happening that friends and family of people with bipolar might gain a better understanding as to what is going on inside the mind of bipolar. Every person's experience is different, but in some ways it is very much the same.

I have learned a lot in the few weeks I have been blogging. Met some amazing people, some I dare to call "friends", but through all of my reading, researching, and discovering I have yet to find anyone who has shared a personal experience on one very important aspect of bipolar. Whenever you read anything on bipolar, there is always a list of symptoms, and on that list is a symptom that almost all people with bipolar experience in some form or fashion.

That symptom is grandiose delusions. In simple terms, it means "thinking you're better at (insert noun here)  than others". That definition however does not do justice to the reality of this symptom. One common and less extreme example is suddenly believing you're the best damn artist there is. You go out and buy every paint brush, canvas, oil, easel, etc that you can get your hands on. You buy all of this with your rent money, and in a couple weeks when the mania has subsided a bit and the "grandeur" has faded, you realize your stick figures aren't that great and how the fuck am I gonna pay the rent now?

My delusions were a bit different. I told you about my mother (if you didn't read it but want to then the post is here) because I wanted you to understand what would drive a person "mad". Especially when that person is already standing on the cliff, it doesn't take much to push them over the edge.

If you're still reading at this point, I thank you for being patient with me as this is a very sensitive subject. One I want to share because I know there are others out there, but also one that truly labels me as "crazy". Not just crazy but one who flew over the cuckoo's nest crazy.

You see in this vulnerable state after the last time I saw my mother, I met the wrong person. I became extremely religious, but don't think I sat around praying all the time because I didn't. I did however start to believe that I had a special relationship with God that others didn't, and through the help of this wrong person I began to believe that I was specially chosen by God to complete a purpose and to prepare an army for the return of the Savior.

I will give you a moment to digest that before telling you that I believed I could see "spirits" who guided me, told me about future events, and I even believed I could read the minds of others. I believed this so strongly that I sold all of my possessions and moved to another country  in order to fulfill my mission. There really should be psyche tests in order to get your passport.

I lived in this state of delusion for a little over a year. When the delusion crashed and burned so did I. I went from being the guide of the Savior to being the absolute best motherfucking whore that I could be.

That is how far  the other way I swung. I felt that I had blasphemed to such an extent that I was destined to hell for all of eternity so what was one more sin added to the list? You can't kill a dead man. That was my philosophy.

During these three years I had moments of sanity. Moments where I would attempt to straighten my life out and get back on track, but my view of reality was so skewed that everything I did just dragged me down farther and farther. When you sleep in the mud, you can't really expect the pigs to help you get clean.

I became trapped in a vicious downward spiral. The more I tried to get out the further I fell. This is also how I ended up being a "kept woman".

I really don't know how I didn't end up murdered considering all of the shit I did during those 3 years.  Every night I begged God to just let me die. I would often fall asleep on the floor in a kneeling position. I would spend hours and hours begging, "Please don't let me wake up tomorrow". For whatever reason though I never contemplated suicide. I was too ashamed to commit suicide if that even makes any sense at all. I cut myself almost daily. I have been a cutter since I was about 12. Although I have only done it a handful of times since I married Jigger. When he saw the scars, he made me promise to NEVER do it again. I have kept that promise as best as I could. I started this blog as an attempt to keep that promise. I had become severely depressed and was sitting with the razor blade in my hand. My brain literally screaming like it was on fire. For some bizarre reason, blogging seemed the perfect alternative. So here I am. Dumping my shit on you.

My point in sharing all of this is that if you see your loved one suddenly think they are superman in some area or if their behavior suddenly changes and they start doing things like selling off ALL of their possessions and applying for a passport, then don't assume they are just being selfish. Don't assume they are choosing themselves over their family. Most likely they are having a manic episode and they need help. Immediately. So please help them. You can always yell at them later for being a dumbass, but if they sail away and fall off the edge of the earth, then it makes it a bit harder for them to say they are sorry when they come back to reality. If they ever come back at all.

I believe I can fly
I believe I can touch the sky
I think about it every night and day
Spread my wings and fly away
I believe I can soar

 

"i believe i can fly - r kelly"

Silver Gray Impala

The gravel flew as he pulled into the driveway. I had been playing in the backyard. As soon as I heard the car door slam, I ran to the front. The bright red hood confirmed my suspicions. It was Gramps. I don't really remember the day it happened. I have heard the story at least 1000  times if not more. I have some fuzzy memories of a man standing with the axe raised over his head, but that is about it.

Gramps use to be an alcoholic. He was a mean drunk too. You did not want to be in his way whenever he had a few too many. That is why the hood of the car is red. When I was 9, I finally got the courage to ask him "Why didn't he change it to match the rest of the car"?

"So I don't forget, that's why", was his reply.

At 6, I didn't know about AA. I didn't know that 12 steps was a "program" and not a new hop scotch game, but I knew what that red hood on the silver gray impala meant. It meant Gramps didn't get mean anymore. Didn't get drunk. Didn't shout. It might not have been conventional, but it worked.

Every now and then I would see him walk out to the car and run his hand over the hood.52 whacks. Lizzie Borden would have been proud. He had whacked the hood of his most prized possession 52 times with an axe and didn't remember a damn thing. He may not have remembered it, but the car did. That is why its hood is red. A constant reminder that maybe next time it won't be the car. Next time it might be a little 6 year old girl playing hop scotch on the front porch.

This is for the writing prompt at Studio 30+. The prompt was RED.

Aftermath

Yesterday I wrote about the last time I saw my mother and basically my family. You can read that post HERE if you want.

I was extremely shocked by the amount of emotion I felt as I wrote that post. It is very raw and I allowed myself to feel what I was feeling. I allowed myself to feel the anger and hurt. I allowed that little girl inside of me to cry because she needed validation. I allowed her to be angry for not being protected, for not being loved the way she should have been. I allowed her to have her moment.

I think that is very important for me. For a very long time I didn't allow that little girl to feel. I didn't allow her to be angry at those who had hurt her. That caused her to become angry with me. She turned her anger on me. Instead of cutting them, she cut me. Instead of hating them, she hated me.

That is why I allowed her to  be pissed yesterday when I wrote that post. She has a right to be pissed. What happened to her was fucked up no matter how you look at it, but in the comments Natasha pointed something out. That my mother had to be in pain also because otherwise she wouldn't have done what she did.

In some ways, I agree with that statement. It is not an excuse for her wrong behavior. It does not mean I don't have a right to be angry with what happened, but it's an explanation.

After getting through the emotion and being able to look at it objectively, I can see that is WHY. Without realizing it, I have always had the answer, but I just couldn't see it because I choose to be numb and not feel.

Because I never allowed myself to feel I could never work through the pain to find the answers even though they were staring me in the face this whole time. I think it is important I continue to allow myself to have those moments and then let them go.

I am no angel either. I have done things especially with my own children that I am not proud of, but my actions were a direct result of my illness. I am not making excuses. Being crazy does not justify and make it ok to do something wrong, but I know that if I wasn't crazy, then I would not have done the things I did. That is why I am not a bad person.

Am I a person who did wrong?  Absolutely.

Am I a person who made mistakes?  Absolutely.

Am I trying to take responsibility for my mistakes and become better?  Absolutely.

Am I evil? Absolutely not.

A ten year old who commits murder is not the same as a 30 year old who commits murder. Should the ten year old be punished and held accountable? Yes. The same as a 30 year old? Absolutely not. At least that is my opinion. You may not agree and that is ok, but I don't think they are the same. A man who steals to provide food for his starving child is not the same as a man who is rich and steals to pass the time.

It's important family and friends disassociate the behavior from the person. Not excuse it, but try to understand that I don't want to do the things I am doing. There is a little voice inside my head screaming "WTF?! STOP!" but it's like my body isn't connected to my brain. The best way I can describe it is like being on a roller coaster. You're standing in line, adrenaline pumping, you get strapped in, the ride starts moving, slowly you're going up and your brain is screaming "GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE",  but you're already strapped in and half way up the incline. Now all you can do is scream like a banshee until the ride stops, then get off and pray you don't puke on your brand new shoes.

This is what it's like in my bipolar brain. I do stuff. Stupid crazy insane shit that makes no fucking sense. Shit that goes against every single thing I believe in. I don't know why I do it. I don't want to do it, but I do it none the less.

If one day my kids ask me, WHY?!

All I can do is answer them honestly, "I have no fucking clue, but I am so sorry that my actions hurt you."

That is what makes me human and NOT a monster.

"if I could start again; a million miles away

I would keep myself; I would find a way"

"hurt- nine inch nails"

Make A Wish Mummy Dear

Today is my mum's birthday. It's funny how now I remember but before I never did. I haven't seen or spoken to her since 2004. She might be dead for all I know or care. It's strange. I want to hate her. At least then I would have some emotion. Some feeling, but there is just numb. I am not sure if I ever truly loved her. Maybe when I was little. Before I could fully understand her.

The last time I saw her I almost killed her. If my uncle and gramps hadn't pulled me off of her I am certain I would have beaten her to death. I only regret that I didn't finish the job. My last words to her were "Rot in hell bitch" as I spit in her face. That was the last time I really saw anyone in my family.

I won't ever forget that day. I don't remember many days but that day is one I will never forget. My mother never wanted to divorce my father. I don't know if she got off on getting the hell beat out of her or what the attraction was. That day I had found out she had taken  my children to visit him. When I asked her why and how could she? She just looked at me and laughed, asked me if I was "jealous".

That was when I came unglued and began screaming at her. My father is a rapist. I don't use the word "incest" or "molested". Those words are too nice. What my father did was rape. It doesn't matter that I was 4. It doesn't matter that I was his daughter. It was still rape.

Not that anyone in my family ever talked about it. Oh no. No one was allowed to talk about it. Just pretend it didn't happen. But that day all of the rage I had kept bottled inside of me for more than 15 years just exploded.

I grabbed her by the hair of  her head and threw her to the ground, sat on top of her and began pounding. With each hit, I would ask

"WHY?! "

Why didn't you protect me?

Why did you let that man rape me?

Why do you still love him more than me?

Why do you still choose him over me?

Why don't you love me like a mother should love a daughter?

"WHY?!"

As Uncle and Gramps pulled me off of her, she gave me the answer.

"Because you deserved it"

Four little words that tore through me like a bullet. I died that day. That was the day  my whole world began to unravel. That was the day my mind left this world and entered an alternate universe. Four words that no child should ever have to hear. I lost my job, my home, my life because of four words. I had endured pain, sorrow, beatings, rape, torture, fear, but those four words did to me what years of abuse and insanity couldn't. They broke me.

I hated her more than I ever did my father. I blamed her more than I ever blamed him. Even though he did the actions. I blamed her for staying. For loving him instead of me. How bad must a child be that its own mother would love the man who raped her child more than the child itself?

 I am still looking for the answer.

I think I'll find another way
There's so much more to know
I guess I'll die another day
It's not my time to go

"die another day - madonna"

Why I Prefer BK

I don't allow Jigger to put his sausage in my butt. Ronald sure as hell is not putting his.


Dun-HAM The Other White Meat

All my life I've been good, but now
I, I, I am thinking what the hell
All I want is to mess around

"what the hell - avril lavigne"

Your Crazy is My Normal

This post is a bit of a ramble. I just needed to work this out and the only way was to "talk" it out with myself. If I keep the thoughts jumbled in my brain, they just stay jumbled. The picture never becomes clear. By slowly pulling each piece out and putting it into place only then can I see what it is my brain is trying to tell me. However, if you continue forward, you do so at your own risk. Don't say you weren't warned.  

I wrote a post the other day about being TOXIC. I have had a lot of thoughts arise from the comments that I received. Those comments helped me to start to see things a bit more clearly.

You see struggling to fit in. To be "normal". It is tiring. Exhausting. For every step forward there are 10 back. For every achievement there is a sacrifice. After fighting for so long sometimes you just think "Is it really all worth it?"

I mean if I flip out again. Jump off the cliff. I won't know  what the hell  is going on around me. I won't feel it. It won't affect me, but it will affect all of those around me. Those who care for me. My love for my family and friends keeps me from jumping. At the moment, I am in "control", but I know that control can slip out my grasp at any moment. If I let my guard down for one second, then I will let go, but holding something that tightly for so long is tiresome.

It's a vicious circle. It doesn't end. It's not that my life is boring. It's just sometimes I don't want to have to "be on guard". The only way that I can "relax" is to "let go". That is what I desire. I don't think I even realized it until I read the comments on that post. That is when it clicked for me. When I realized that it isn't the TOXIC that I crave. It's the just EXISTING. There is a sort of freedom in that darkened haze that is extremely intoxicating. At the moment, I am stable enough to make the choice to not go back there because that "freedom" that exists there isn't really freedom. It is more of a prison than the "normal".

I see Jigger's family. His nieces, nephews. There is laughter. Love. Disagreements. Normal. I would give anything to be able to fit into that. I crave it so much, but no matter how hard I try I just can't. The closeness is suffocating. Every time I reach out and try to bring them close to me I start to feel claustrophobic. I can't breathe. I panic and pull away.

I live in limbo between normal and toxic. If I step into normal, then there are constant reminders that I am "different". It is in my face 24/7. If I step into toxic, then there is a time where I don't stand out, where I blend in. A moment where I am the "same". Even if that moment isn't real, it still exists. That is what I crave. That moment of just being without having to hold on. I guess there is still a part of me inside somewhere that still hasn't accepted that this is my life. For as long as I breathe, this is how it will be. Constantly alert. Aware. On guard. It's strange sitting here reading those words. There is that sense of calm that exists in the toxic. I think I might like it here in limbo after all.

I'm lost at sea Don't bother me
I've lost my way
I've lost my way

" in limbo - radiohead"
 

Shocked-ECT

I have become somewhat addicted to the Bipolar Burble. If you have never read her blog, then I suggest you check it out. Natasha Tracy, the author of the blog, has been doing a few posts on ECT ((electroconvulsive therapy, previously electroshock therapy or shock therapy). I have never had ECT. I only know one person who did and that was many moons ago during one of my hospitalizations. My roommate had them, but she was transfered a few days after I arrived so I don't know what happened with her.

Natasha has said openly that she has had ECT and she is currently featuring another blog author the Bipolar Badger who has also had ECT and apparently both have had successful experiences. ECT like most meds isn't for everyone, but it makes sense to me after hearing their stories.

The closest I had ever come was movies and we all know how true to reality Hollywood is. In my bipolar brain, I can understand why ECT might be effective in some people. I mean obviously the wiring is not firing on all cylinders for those with mental illness. When your car won't start, you jump start it. I don't think I will hook myself up with jumper cables anytime soon, but it is something to think about. ECT I mean not jumper cables. Don't be stupid like that one kid who shocked his nipples unless you're into shocking your nipples then by all means shock away. My nipples and I however will stand a safe distance away.

If my world wasn't the color that it is, then I would definitely be institutionalized. Jigger keeps me level, sane. There is no way I could go back and even begin to function with any level of "normalcy". I just couldn't. Something inside me snapped way back when. Something that can't be repaired. I have fought my way back out of the darkness, but if Jigger didn't hold the candle, then I would have remained in the darkness. If I ever did have to go, I definitely would look into ECT. My moods are very dark and very deep.

What about you all? Would you get shocked? Yes? No? Maybe? Just on the nipples?

Conversations with My Inner Self

Lately I have been all about finding "me". I don't know what "me" is. I am searching around. Trying out new things. Some fit. Some don't. Taking what does, trying a different size on what doesn't. It's very strange to be physically one age, but another both emotionally and mentally.

I have also been trying to stop myself from manipulating and mimicing. It's an extremely bad habit of mine. Maybe by putting it out there I will be able to catch myself before I get too lost. It's so easy to just be things I am not. People like the person I am not. I can be the person they want me to be regardless of who or what that person is. It's so much easier than just being "me".

How do you be something you have never been before? It's being poor your whole life and suddenly somebody goes "you're a millionaire". While that sounds great, but if you have been poor your whole life, you know nothing about managing money. You will go out and buy shiny things, and then a few weeks after becoming a millionaire, you will be poor again. Why? Because you didn't know how to be a millionaire. That's why.

This is the circle I find myself repeating. Being "me". Then being what others want me to be. Then trying to be "me". Whatever the hell "me" is. Most people say just be normal. Whatever the hell normal is.

Normal for me growing up was alcohol, drugs, and avoiding being shot at by my father and/or my mother's boyfriends. No thanks. No normal for me.

Sometimes I feel so lost that I check the backs of milk cartons just to see if my face is there. I am usually surprised when it isn't. I don't know when this journey started. Somehow I missed the beginning and now I am stuck in the middle. Either go forward or backwards. Both choices suck eggs, but at the moment I am trying to go forwards. It is unchartered terroritory, but I am a trekkie so I boldly go where no man has gone before.

Little girl
I wish you well
Until we meet again
My little thirteen year old me

"Conversations with my 13 year old self- Pink"

Apparently I wrote this 10 days ago, but for whatever reason I never published it. I was just looking at my edit posts page and noticed this draft. I don't remember writing this, but it's spot on so I thought I would just publish it. I would assume I wanted to add something and that is why I didn't publish it, but  something shiny must have come along and I forgot.

Toxic

Why is it we ,or well me I guess I should say, crave toxicity? When my world is settled, why do I crave jumping off a cliff? I think about some of the things I did in my past and even though they caused me such terrible pain and loss, I miss it. I miss the excitement, the fast pace, the adrenaline rush. Sneaking around, trying not to get caught. Being quiet when a certain number appears on the caller ID.

The rush. The power. I LOVED it as much as I HATED it. There are times I find myself looking up old pics on the net. Remembering what I did there. Being a part of it all. There is a small part of me that longs for that. Yet I know none of it was real. It was poison, but I crave it.

Sometimes Jigger notices. The sparkle in my eye when I talk about certain things or see an old photo. It hurts him so. Makes him feel inadequate. He can't understand why I still have a longing for that life. I don't understand why I still do. He takes it personal and it isn't. It has nothing to do with him. I am not unhappy and truth be told I would never leave my world now to return to that life.

But yet there was something powerful and magical about being out in the desert late at night. The roar in my ears. The smell of burnt rubber. Why can't I just be fucking normal? Sigh.

I'm addicted to you
Don't you know that you're toxic?
And I love what you do
Don't you know that you're toxic?

"toxic-britney spears"

I have the golden ticket

"I've got a golden ticket. I've got a golden chance to make my way, and with a golden ticket, it's a golden day."

I may never own the chocolate factory, but I  can own the world. My passport is my golden ticket. It allows me to go anywhere I want. Work anywhere I want. It's a status symbol of freedom and superiority. It gives me the right to vote, to dress how I want or not. It allows me to speak my mind without fear of reprisal. My passport allows me to be a lot of things, but most people never realize I carry that passport.

They see ignorance shrouded in a veil. Oppression tied by a leash. People tell me "You can be anything. So why choose to be this?"

My world is strange. "Freedom" is just an illusion. If it were real, then no one would question my clothes. No one would ask why I don't use my golden ticket. No one would judge me because of the color of my skin. People tell me I am "free", but then deny me the "freedom" to wear my cloak of oppression. As long as I don't shackle them, why do they care if I shackle myself? As long as I don't enshroud them, why do they care if I enshroud myself? Is this freedom? It is not my definition of freedom.

The world looks at me and sees someone who has lost a valuable priceless treasure. When I look at the world, I don't really see that I have lost anything. I am happy with my nothing. My "nothing" is more precious to me than the world's everything. I wouldn't trade my shackles for the freedom of the world. I wouldn't trade my hunger for the food of the gods. I wouldn't trade my poverty for the gold of the kings.

I thrive in my world of nothingness. It was in this world of nothingness that I found everything. The world may pity me when it looks at me, but I pity the world. 

"One man's treasure is another man's garbage" I prefer the garbage.

This post was inspired by a Studio 30 writing prompt. The prompt was "irony".

Not a Man

I have been reading this book "Not a Man". It is an extremely good book. I am about half way through it. The middle part is quite boring. I think the author added alot of unnecessary things, but I can be a bit ADHD/ADD/easily distracted by shiny things so it could just be me.

The book is about a boy named Shuki. When he was 9 or 10 he was kidnapped from an Arabian slum and sold to a wealthy arab man as a bed boy (sex slave). After he had been with the man for a few months, the man had him castrated so that he would be a eunuch and "stay beautiful forever".

Shuki realizes if he is to have any chance of survival, then he must please his master and wait for his chance to escape. Which comes when he is 16 years old.

I really identified with the main character, Shuki. I don't know how the author was able to capture such intense complex emotions that are often felt by people who have been sexually violated, but she did an amazing job of it.

Even when Shuki is assaulted and raped, he takes it as part of his lot in life and just moves on. Even when he has to use his body for sex, it's a moment in time and he just moves on. He totally disassociates himself from the act of sex and wants nothing more than to be loved. He substitutes the sex and pretend love of men for real love because he knows no one will ever want him for how he truly is. He is damaged goods and the best he can hope for is the pretend love he gets from paying men.

I get that. I have done that. For about a year I was "kept". I lived in a very posh part of London with a man who flew in for his job on Monday morning and flew back out on Thursday afternoons. He paid for everything. He had an account that I was to use for food or whatever I wanted on the weekends while he wasn't there. I didn't have to do laundry or cleaning or really anything except be "available" when he wanted to fuck Mon-Thurs. He was nice. We went out dinners, sight seeing, the beach. I knew it was fake even though he constantly told me that he loved me. I would just reply "thank you". It wasn't real. His wife didn't know. He had 3 daughters back home and I use to wonder if he ever thought about that. That I was someone's daughter, but I was damaged goods. It seems that once you're broken, it doesn't matter who else steps on you.

Thanks to my father I learned very early that sex had nothing to do with love and everything to do with power. Thanks to my ex I learned that I could use that power to get what I wanted. There was nothing Pretty Woman about it. I never met a Richard Gere. I never took that much advantage either. I took just enough to survive. The absolute bare minimum. Somehow in my twisted mind that made it ok. Made me not "paid for sex". Not a "whore". Not a "bitch on the side".

Because I was introduced to friends. Because I was taken out. Because they said "I love you". All of that made it palpable. On the surface anyways. Underneath it was festering until it would fester over and I would start cutting.

I was living with that guy in London when I met Jigger. I told him the truth about my situation. I think he felt a bit sorry for me. We became best friends. I confided all of my secrets in him. All of the darkness he knew, and after knowing all of my darkness, he asked me to marry him. I said yes and then two months later we married. Two days after I moved out of the guy's apartment.

Jigger is not an ordinary man. I am sure if I searched this world over I won't find another like him. He respected me when I didn't deserve to be. He loved me when I didn't love myself. He cared for me when I prayed for death. He has been my rock. Without him I am certain I would have been dead by now. Either self inflicted or just driven totally mad.

This book has brought out a lot of memories and feelings I had sort of pushed aside and forgotten. It has taken me to places I had hoped to never return to, but I am glad in a way I have gone back to them. I can look at them objectively. I can see myself in this boy, doing the best he can to survive. He was damaged but it wasn't his fault. He was shunned and made to feel ashamed because of what had happened to him, but somehow through all of that, he survived. I can really identify with that.

Norman Bates Has Nothing On Me

Personality Disorder Test Results Paranoid |||||||||||||||||||| 90% Schizoid |||||||||||||||||||| 90% Schizotypal |||||||||||||||||| 74% Antisocial |||||||||||||| 54% Borderline |||||||||||||||||| 74% Histrionic |||||||||||||||||| 78% Narcissistic || 10% Avoidant |||||||||||||||||||| 86% Dependent |||||||||||||||| 62% Obsessive-Compulsive |||||||||||||| 58%

Take Free Personality Disorder Test
Personality Test by SimilarMinds.com

 Oh yea! Paranoid schizo! See if you can top that score!  On the plus side, at least I am not narcissistic.

Martyrs for the sake of Martyrdom

I have numerous pet peeves. This one is one of the top 5. I won't list the others because neither of us has that much time. But it seems at the moment I am surrounded by martyrs who choose to be martyrs. I truly don't understand this. I have issues. We all have issues, but seriously?! I do NOT understand this.

I have this "friend" who BITCHES constantly to anyone who will listen about how she has to do ALL of the work and how NO ONE will help her and oh woe is me I am so oppressed!

OMG Will you shut the fuck up?!

She has to do ALL of the work by herself because anytime anyone ATTEMPTS to help her or OFFERS to help her she totally refuses. I have seen her push and grab things out of the other person's hand whenever they try to help her. She will NOT let anyone do anything and then  bitches about having to do all of the work. I do not understand this.

I no longer bother with it. I figure if she wants my help, she knows where I am and how to ask and if she doesn't, then not my problem. She can bitch and moan all she wants to people. I don't really give a flying rat's ass what they think. I know the truth. That is good enough for me. But I do not get this.

Why be the fucking martyr? What do you get out of it other than a shitload of work? Do you know people like this? Please explain it to me because this is something I do not understand.

Feels so good being bad

There's no way I'm turning back

 Now the pain is my pleasure

cause nothing could measure

"s&m-rhiana"

A Child in Africa Dies

This was just funny as hell to me.

Challenge Accepted

Sapphire Dragonflies issued a challenge and me not being one to back away from a challenge, accepted. You can read about her challenge answer here.

Challenge was to list 5 of your strongest personality traits. So here are mine in no particular order:

1. Honest

Brutally honest. My mouth vomits. It doesn't speak. It just vomits words without ever consulting my brain. There are times when I can hear my brain screaming at my mouth to "just shut the fuck up", but just like when you're dry heaving, no matter how much you want to stop it, you just can't. This often leads people to not like me very much because most people CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH. They want you to blow sweet nothing's up their ass. I might lick your ass but I am not blowing sugar up it. See brutally honest.

2. Kind

Ask anyone and they will tell you I am a cold hearted bitch. Confused? This trait was kind so why do people think I am a bitch? When you figure it out, then let me in on it because I so don't get it. I will bend over backwards to help people. Even if I don't like you I will help you. I do for people without them asking. I don't expect anything in return. Whatever I do is just because with no strings attached but yet people don't get that.

3. Non judgemental

I don't care if you fuck rabbits on the weekends and dress up like little bo peep. I don't judge a book by its cover. I know what that's like. People do it to me all of the time. It sucks big round monkey balls. The people you think are asswads are usually some of the most amazing interesting people. IF you take the time to get to know them.

4. Trustworthy

People know this. My one and only friend who has ridden this whole ride with me is still with me because of this. Because he knows if he gave me a million dollars, it wouldn't matter if I was homeless and starving, I wouldn't use one single pound of it. I wouldn't cheat him. I also keep secrets. Tell me where the body is buried and even Guatanomo Bay couldn't pry it out of me.

5. Sincere

Maybe this goes with or is a part of #1 & 3, but I don't say shit just to be saying it. If I tell you I like what you wrote, then I like what you wrote. I don't see the point of wrapping a turd in gold plated wrapping paper. It's still a piece of shit no matter how nicely you wrap it. I don't have time or patience to deal with people who are not sincere. I do not like to blow sugar up other people's asses, but I sure as hell do not like it when you try to do it to me. Just be sincere with me. Tell me the truth. We will get along much better.

I've got to formulate a plot fore I end up in jail or shot
Success is my only motherfucking option, failure's not

"lose yourself-eminem" 

Good vs Evil

(source)

I do not fit in is an understatement. There is an image or stereotype of who I should be, but I don't fit that image. Is it possible to be able to make a sailor blush and not be evil? Is it possible to like music and not be the spawn of satan? I don't know the answers to these questions. I know the things I believe in say it's possible. I try to force myself into that little circle that I am suppose to but no matter how hard I try I just can't seem to fit. Every time I fail to push myself inside I hate myself just a little more. Criticize myself just a little harder. Berate myself just a little longer. Cut myself just a little deeper. Hate myself just a little stronger.

I have to be all of the things I am not and it has always ended up badly. I tried being good but that didn't work. I tried being bad but that didn't work. I can't be me because I don't know who I am. Searching for a place of belonging but when you don't know yourself, how do you even know where to search? When you so deseparately long to just belong somewhere anywhere, you start to see a place for yourself in every place you look. Even though that place isn't real. Then you force yourself into that image and people like you. Love you until they realize the true you. Then they hate you despise you.

I was lucky. I found someone who didn't want all of the bullshit. Who just wanted the pure truth regardless of how awful that truth might be. I was so afraid of what would happen that no matter how hard I tried to be truthful I just couldn't be. Then that caused war. Which only confirmed my suspicions that if he found out the truth he would leave me. This is only half of the truth and he gets so upset by it. How would he react if he knew the whole truth?

What my messed up mind couldn't understand wasn't that he was upset over what he found out. He was upset that I hadn't told the truth. It took a long time for me to figure that out. A long time for me to be able to trust him with the truth. With all of my evilness and ugliness and dark secrets. There are still secrets though. Things I can't make him understand. Things that he may never understand, but it's because he has never worn my shoes. Never known anyone who did. I don't blame him for not being able to do everything. I use to blame him but not anymore. I have come to realize that no one person knows everything. He did all of the things he knew to do and he gave me a piece of a beautiful treasure and it's up to me to find the other half.

I don't know that I will ever truly a find a place that I belong, but for now I have found a peace I never knew before. A place where I can just be. A place that is just for me.

So open up your heart
Help me understand
Please tell me who you are
So I could show you who I am
(Stop Standing There- Avril Lavigne)

Proof #456231785964 That I am Crazy

So every night Jigger and I have this routine. He gets ready for bed first and gets in said bed first. I go last and turn off the light and then proceed to get in the before mentioned bed. Only last night as I got into the bed. I suddenly and with absolute terror cannot find Jigger's arms and proceed to scream with panic

"OMG WHERE ARE YOUR FUCKING ARMS?"

Even though I cannot see his face because it is pitch ass dark, I am certain he looked at me like WTF?, but he only said " Uhhh attached to my shoulders."

I was like "I can't find them" as I proceed to run my hands frantically over his upper torso searching for his arms At which point he removes them from under his head and grabs my frantically searching hands and goes "Did you really think they just fell off in the 0.3 secs it took you to walk from the light switch to the bed?"

That is the exact moment I realize "This is Proof #456231785964 That I am Crazy"

The End

Pretty pretty please

Don't you ever feel

Like you're less than fuckin' perfect

"fuckin' perfect-pink"

What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up?

It is only recently that I have started thinking about a career vs a job that keeps me from starving and living on the streets. Of doing something I might actually enjoy vs something that pays the bills and I dread going to everyday. When I think back, I realize I never had any real dreams of what I wanted to be when I grew up. I just wanted to survive the next day and in survival land there is no time for dreams, for plans beyond the next five minutes. My life was constantly changing. Being dragged from here to there whenever my mum felt the urge to be "motherly".

While I have written my whole life, I never considered myself to have any talent whatsoever. It never once occurred to me that just maybe I could be *gasp* a writer. No one ever took interest in my work or what I did. Some because they didn't care, some because they didn't have time and others because I didn't let them in close enough to know that I could put two words together let alone write a whole story.

Reading the comments from various places where I have posted my stuff has made me stop for a moment and say I just might be able to do this. It is also something I can do when my brain doesn't want to cooperate. You see when you have a "job" and you don't do said "job" the way your boss wants you get fired or when for no apparent reason you suddenly burst out into uncontrollably sobbing while in the middle of performing said "job" you get fired or if you are unable to face the world because you feel like your insides are boiling and your brain is attempting to overthrow your hold on reality so you call in for the 5th time that month you get fired. Holding a job while being crazy is a difficult thing to do. Explaining to your boss who you're talking to when he catches you in the middle of a debate with yourself is not easy. Making him believe that you are not crazy is almost impossible.

So now being 33 25 I find myself dancing with the thought of pursuing a career as a writer. I find myself looking at ways of how to improve my writing. Places I can share my writing and get feedback. Looking into all of the different avenues where I could write professionally. I actually feel kinda grown up. This is a new feeling. It feels like living. Planning. Hoping.

It also scares the hell out of me and I find myself doing things that could potentially destroy all of the hard work I have done over the last few weeks and months. At times I am my own worst enemy. This is something that no one can understand. Hell even I don't understand why I do this. Why I sabotage myself, but I do it. I wish I didn't do it. I am getting better at catching myself before the damage is too great. Before too much damage has been done. Before I have gone too far. I don't know if I will ever be famous or make a "career" from writing, but I do know that I will continue to write because I have found that for the first time in my life I have something that I love and actually want to do. Who says an old dog can't learn new tricks.

say what you really mean

when your ambition calls you

for what use is there in praying

if you only hear what you want to hear

"as i lay dying-the sound of truth"

Because I don't NEED You

For as long as I can remember that is what I told myself when others didn't want me. When others hurt me. When others left. It was ok because I didn't need you. It took away the pain. Made me hard. Strong. Numb. I was about 10 or 11 when I perfected this statement.  Mum was back for a few weeks. She had decided she was bored with whatever she was playing with so I was a distraction until something else shiny came along. Only this time I didn't want to play. I was done. I knew how it would end. I was no longer fooled by her false love. Her conditional love. I didn't want it and I didn't want to play.

I am amazing at one line comebacks. I have a mouth that will make a sailor blush. Once when I was in my 20's, a guy tried for an hour to get one over on me. Finally he gave up. I made him buy me dinner. He did. But when you're 10-11, you don't have the same power as when you're 20ish. So when my mum told me to do something and I smarted off, she had the power.

"Go and get a switch young lady I am bustin' your ass!"

She always made me get my own switch whenever she whipped me. If I got a small one, then I got 10 extra licks, but that day I was going to show her because I didn't need her. I got the smallest tiniest branch I could find and with a wicked ass smile that said "Game on bitch" I walked right back up to her and said "Here ya go".

She told me to go and get another one, but I told her if she was going to bust my ass, then she was going to have to work for it. She got the best switch she could find. Stripped all the leaves off except for the tip end. Makes it hurt more if you do that. Standing there under the oak trees that I climbed with my imaginary friends she began to whip me, and I realized I don't need you.

With defiance, I stood, arms folded, looking straight at her. I was not going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry, but she just kept hitting and hitting. I didn't make a sound as tears fell from my eyes. When that switch broke, she got another one. The backs of my legs covered in blood and swollen red welts, but she didn't care. She was going to teach me a lesson, but I taught her one that day. After 5 mins and I still was standing there, refusing to give in, refusing to apologize, refusing to bend to her will, my Gramps and Uncle Bo came and grabbed her. "That's enough", was all they said.

Gran came and put her arms around me. That is when my body started to shake. My legs felt like jelly. I could barely stand but I be damned if I gave her the satisfaction of seeing me fall. Leaning against my Gran I went to the side of the house. Got cleaned up. "Go lie down on my bed and I will put my medicine on those welts," Gran said.

I didn't go to school for a week.  I didn't wear shorts. No one asked why.

While I had started building a wall around me many years ago, from that day forward I sealed it shut. I kept people at arms length because I realized I didn't need them. People hurt you especially those that said they loved you. If that is what "love" is, then I didn't want any of it. Don't love me. Stay the fuck away from me because I don't need you.

So, so what, I'm still a rock star
I got my rock moves and I don't need you
And guess what, I'm havin' more fun
And now that we're done I'm gonna show you tonight

Twist of Fate

Slowly I let the waves overtake me. Engulfing me. Filling my lungs. Eyes wide open staring up  at the deep blue sky from beneath the water’s surface. Then suddenly without warning, the surface cracks open, shattering into a million pieces. Something grabs me from its sweet embrace. Air pushing the water from my lungs. Reclaiming its rightful place and pushing out that which had usurped it. Darkness closing in, not understanding I look back towards the deep blue sky. “Sam” barely a whisper before the darkness overtakes me.

That was how I met my best friend Sam. She rescued me from the Cove. I have always wondered what she was doing down there that day, but she never would tell me. No matter how much I begged and pleaded, she would just laugh and say, “I felt like going fishing. You were the biggest damn fish I ever caught too”. Even though she never told me why she was there, a part of me knew. There were only two reasons teens went to the Cove. Sex or suicide. Sam was a virgin.

Sam would save me countless times after that too. She was my guardian angel. I was content to stand in her shadow. Letting her have the spotlight. Everyone loved Sam, but she loved me.  I never understood why. She was all of the things I tried so hard to be, but just never could seem to figure out. When others made me feel stupid, she made me feel worthy. When others pushed me down, she held me up.

It would be ten years before we would return to the Cove. The wind howling as the waves crashed upon our feet. The siren’s enchanting song beckoning us to return.  “You know you saved my life that day,” suddenly Sam said. Willing time to stand still, I remained silent. Looking down at the waves licking my feet.

“Wanna go for a swim?” Sam asked.

Sensing my uncertainty, Sam locked her arm in mine and said, “Let’s go. The water’s too cold . I don’t really feel like fishing today anyways.”

Arm in arm we walked back into town. Forever united by an unspoken secret that only the two of us knew. While Sam was the bright shining sun of my world, back there on the rocks for just a moment, I was the moon.

This is for a writing prompt at Studio 30+. The writing prompt was Serendipity.

Understanding the Bipolar Brain

Bipolar disorder involves periods of elevated or irritable mood (mania), alternating with periods of depression. The "mood swings" between mania and depression can be very abrupt.

Bipolar is a lifelong disease. It has no cure. However there is hope. It can be managed. I had to walk through alot of darkness before I realized that. I hope to share my experiences with others so that maybe someone will learn from my mistakes and not have to make them or maybe help a loved one gain some better understanding.

Even though it seems like the end of the world, it isn't. Just hold on. Keep walking. You're almost there.