The Difference is Sanity

"Recap" Might Be a Code Word for "Short Bursts of Rambling"

2011-06-15T18:28:00.000-05:00

A guy at my work got shot in the neck, by his girlfriend. They were fighting about the baby. One of our dealerships had a fire last week, and the one I work in had a fire today.
I'm up for a promotion in a few weeks. It should be great. It'll be a lot more work, a lot harder, and I'll get yelled at more often. See, great! Less customers, more angry salesmen, stricter dress code, better hours. Totally a fair trade. I'm willing to give a kidney to never have to do customer service again.
I'm eating broccoli right now, and it's pretty damn good. I put a little oil, a lot of vinegar, and a dash of pepper. Same recipe for avocado, except with, you know, avocado. I like broccoli, so this "eat healthier" thing I'm trying is working pretty well. I had steamed soybeans a few nights ago. It needed way more salt than I was willing to admit.
Tessa's pregnant. Again. We're not really friends anymore, so I don't have to constantly be informed about it, which is nice. She's due the week of Thanksgiving, which is the same time Heather had her last two. I keep thinking Tessa did this on purpose. She's never been her own person. Ever. This year Tessa even took the same vacation Heather took, like three weeks later. She posted (facebook) the same pictures of her family in the same places as Heather's, and said how funny it was that she and her best friend are so much alike. She dressed herself and her own husband to match Heather and her husband for aChristmas party. It seems creepy to me, like Single White Female but with more snot and germs. And I think Tessa only got pregnant because she doesn't know who she is. Her youngest will be starting Pre-K in the fall. Either she'll have to get a job or find something to do. And I think she only knows how to be a mom, or only defines herself as such. That's terribly sad. DaVinci says she did it because she wants a girl, but she was bragging about her due date before she was mentioning whether she thought it'd be a boy or a girl. It's a boy, anyway.
It's not that any of this really concerns me. It just makes me think of my own childless position. DaVinci and I have been discussing children more and more. With him getting his recent raise and new position, and me possibly receiving one in a few weeks, children can only be right around the corner. In November my insurance will cover my pre-existing BiPolarII, so maybe I can be a mom. I'm scared to death. I'm becoming an average adult. This isn't where I thought I'd be in my life. On the verge of being a mom, excited to be moving up in a job I hate, living in this city that's only made for death and despair. This city isn't so bad. I survived growing up here. DaVinci did, too. The murders, the crime, the racism, the poverty. Is this the world I'm giving to my child? It's a bit much to deal with, to even think about.
There's other nonsense going on. My sister's building a house, and seems to think DaVinci and I will drive 9 hours to help them move 45 minutes away. It's not going to happen.
It's Hurricane Season, and that means something here. I've got a small stash of cash in case we need to evacuate. DaVinci thinks we should use it to catch up on some debt that's haunting us (him). And I say that every time I put money in my savings account he uses it to pay bills. Paying bills is great, but we could just eat out less. So, I squirrel away cash every paycheck and don't tell him. If a hurricane strikes, we'll be okay for a few days. If not, I'll just give half over to savings/expenses and 1/4 to Christmas, and the rest to start for next season. We seem to always have money problems. But if money's our only problem, I'm not going to complain too much. We've got a pretty good thing going, as far as this marriage thing goes.
I'm sure there's something I should mention. But I have to go work some more now so I can get home on time. Wish me luck in the upcoming weeks.
Also, started playing Little Big Planet and could not be happier. I though video games weren't for me, but this one is. That is all.

Green Monkeys Do It in the Dirt

2011-05-20T17:48:00.000-05:00

I'm trying to go green.
I've always been a bit of a dirty hippie. I don't understand big government, or the use of money. I almost wish we could go back to a barter system. I think by doing so most people could be useful. Trust me, a lot of "big ideas" are lost to me. Like, why can't you shop in a grocery store? I mean, sure Wal-Mart might seem like it's a one-stop place, but what the fuck are you buying? Groceries? Well... try a local store. Saves money and the planet. Medicine? Your local store or pharmacist has that, too. And they are usually near a local grocer. Besides, how often do you need a pharmacist, so that going out of your way is out of the question? Clothing? Really, do you need clothing? Do you need more clothing? Growing kids? I can buy that. And I support the decision to buy cheaply made, inexpensive clothes that will be outgrown in a year. I mean, no one else is ever going to need them again, right? Trust me when I say I believe in donating and passing on items to younger kids and those in need. Spend the extra money for something well made. Ask a tailor to mend something, or let something out, or take something in. It supports- gasp!- a local tailor.
As an aside, I also REALLY hate Wal-Mart.
Apart from trying to save money, I'm trying to do my part to save the planet and lose a little bit of weight. No, I'm still going to drive to work. Sorry, but it gets to be 100º outside, and I'm not willing to ride the bus because I live in a kinda ghetto area that has several homicide reports on the news each night. I do things like hang my laundry on a line to dry, and don't use the heated dry feature on my dish washer.
Instead, I've started gardening. Growing fruits and veggies has been a lot of fun so far. Every year I try, and this year has been better than most. The seeds I started have grown into actual plants. Usually everything turns brown and dies off because I forget to water them. I also had several plants to work with, not just seeds. Right now I have: 4 creole tomato plants, 3 moneymaker tomato plants, 4 yellow bell peppers, swiss chard, and santa fe, tobasco, and poblano peppers. I also have two blueberries, two strawberries, a blackberry, a cucumber, and a cantaloupe. (Spell check says that's right, but it looks weird.) I've also got assorted herbs. I'm rocking the gardening thing.
We installed a plant bed in my yard. We have a really useless patch that has bad soil (full of shells and junk), so we built a raised bed on top. DaVinci's been helping me water and take care of all my plants. He says next year he'll build me another small bed for berries (maybe I'll get a raspberry!) and another large one for things that are on vines. My cukes and melons can go there. Hopefully I can grow okra, too. I'll put lettuces in between the trellises. In the bed I already have, I'm going to try onions later this year, and garlic if I can find it. My main goal for this year is to grow and make at least one serving of salsa.
In another attempt to go green, I've been mulling over some lifestyle changes. I reset the thermostat to not run when we aren't home and the dogs are outside. It's also set to higher temperatures, except when we go to bed; DaVinci insists on freezing us all so he can sleep. We're hoping to install better insulation in our house, though. Some parts of my house have none. So, it doesn't even necessarily have to be expensive insulation.
But now I'm mulling over water. My area is in kind of a drought, and has been for a long time. I know I'm going to install a rain barrel or two (front and back yards). Let me back up and say I've been reading about climate change. Sure, it has me a little paranoid, but I know the situation isn't hopeless. I've also looked into climate forecasts for my region, and it looks like my area will have less frequent rainfall, but stronger, heavier storms. Simply, it won't rain as often, but it'll rain like hell. So, a rain barrel or two might actually be a great idea. Hell, if I can get away with a third barrel, I'd be uber-happy.
Water, though, is important. And I use a lot for my garden. So, I was thinking of becoming a dirty hippie. Really dirty. Really. Dirty.
I'm thinking of just kinda bathing most days. I don't shower every day. I'm just not a dirty person. I usually just throw my hair in a bun or a ponytail. I don't have a physically strenuous job, so I don't sweat. I'm thinking that most days, instead of a shower, I'll just bath in my sink. You know, fill up my sink with water and very little soap, and just use a washcloth. That sounds gross, so let me finish. At least once a week, I'll take a real shower. I'll still need to wash my hair and shave, I guess. And on my period, 'cause ick. So, really, it won't be a major change. I'm just wondering if that makes me such a dirty hippie. I mean, I'll be just as clean, using less water. Or is this too bad. And will DaVinci catch on? I'm on my own most morning, so he'd never really know, right? Hmm. I think I can do this. I think I can be water-smart.

My Name is 3xE, and I'm a Little Crazy

2011-04-15T18:28:00.000-05:00

My work has open enrollment for insurance in the next few weeks. I'm totally buying in on that shit. I was worried I couldn't afford it, but can I really afford to not? I'm going to need help. I'm going to need serious help. Wait, why? Oh yeah....

1) My sister came in town last month. I think I have PTSD due to her. No, that's actually not an exaggeration. I get a twitch in my eye when she visits. For days before she arrives, my right eye twitches constantly. This time it got worse. It twitched, but very little. I got a migraine instead! Woohooo! Migraines....! The damn pain in my head lasted four days. Even with Excedrin Migraine (which I took like candy), I was still an irritated throbbing mass of sunshine. I also had some stomach pains while she was here. It felt like my stomach was in a knot, and there were some uncomfortable bathroom moments I won't get into.
2) The panic attacks have started again. I had one a few weeks ago. It scared me. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, and couldn't calm down. I had never had one so bad. I missed work and stayed on my couch all day. I don't know what triggered it. Unnerving pain shot through my arms and chest, and I felt like I was being smothered by the very air I was breathing.
3) I've been having frequent nightmares. Some are very specific. Most just wake me with a vague feeling of fear and pain. Tied to the nightmares, though,
4) I've wet my bed twice. Let me begin with: I have never been a bed-wetter. I did it once in college that was the result of a night of drinking and the beginning of a UTI. This was not that. Two nightmares, but nothing specific. I don't know how to handle it. How do I tell DaVinci? He knows- I just flat-out woke him and told him. This makes me feel like some sort of quivering mass of goo. I feel so unclean, so unhealthy.

Am I falling apart? Am I reaching a point in my illness where I can no longer do this on my own, or with DaVinci's help? He doesn't have answers. He shouldn't have to deal with this. He should be married to a grown woman. To a woman who can love him and not pee all over him, especially if he's not into that (no, he's not).
We've been talking about having kids. Well, I've been talking about it, edging it into a conversation as an eventuality. One of the Jobless Wives is pregnant again. That's a whole post on it's own, and maybe I'll write it soon. I'm not confident in myself having children at the moment. Even before these recent developments, I wasn't certain I wouldn't be a woman who drove her children into rivers. (More fucked up and even less funny? DaVinci agrees.) I know I wouldn't be able to be pregnant and be on medication. But maybe meds then baby, then meds again? With proper counseling and a stronger support system, I think I could do it. I've seen women become great moms in worse circumstances. And none of them had DaVinci.

I joined a support group. It's the DBSA in my area, and it's a support group for people who suffer with Depression and Bipolar Disorder. Not just people who have it suffer from it. Our loved ones suffer, too, and this group can help them as well. It meets twice a month, and I can't always make it on those days. Some people from the group said that's okay. It's a little weird... to be part of a support group. To be in a room full of crazy people. To announce to strangers I have a problem. To drive thirty minutes away, and they don't even have free coffee. I guess, though, anything helps.

That's what's new with me. I'll be posting soon. I have to update on my recently returned bestie, the same old new mom, and a new web obsession. Oh, and DaVinci got a new job within his same company and a really fun hobby. Wow... so much to talk about. Catch you later!

New Friends are Just Old Friends, but Young Like Me

2011-02-18T17:03:00.000-06:00

A girl came back into my life recently. She's the only woman I'd marry, but we'd kill each other. She was my best friend in high school. I tried to kill myself in college and we couldn't be friends anymore. I never told her about it. I didn't blame her for it. I mean, I blamed myself, but she was the reason. I could never be as good as her, I never was. That sucks, and more so when your friends always talk about how great she is, and your mom says things like, "This is my other daughter," and "This is going to be my successful daughter."
But we got back in touch by the miracles of facebook and we're good friends again. She's the closest friend I have now. And I do love her. She's got a boy. And I worry about her attachment to him. If she loves him, then I support it. If he breaks her heart, she will survive and might even be a better person because of it.
We hung out through the holidays when she was in town. She's a super-over-achiever and is in law school. There's something about her and her boy trying to open a bar in Brooklyn in there as well. She lives in Cleveland, but will be moving soon. We text and e-mail occasionally. It's nice to have someone who gets me.

My trip to the Bahamas got cancelled. I'm super-bummed about that. I was excited about making new friends with strangers from the internet. And I don't think I'm in the book club anymore. One meeting, and I was out, I guess. I'm not made to be a great friend, I guess.

Same day I found out about my cancelled trip, I found out about what kind of friends I already had, too. The Jobless Wives ditched me for breakfast twice in a row. They forgot we had plans. So I deleted them from facebook. Facebook isn't real. It exists, but it's not real life. I'm friends with people on facebook that I'm not in real life. It's just polite. But also, if it was such a big deal to them.... why did it take 11 days for them to figure it out? And why was it so important that we be friends? They are my husband's friends' wives. We didn't have a whole lot in common. We had dissimilar tastes, interests, and hobbies. We were in different places in our lives, different lifestyles. But the sin of casting them out of the holy facebook friends list was too much for them, and we don't talk now. I think I'll live. DaVinci refuses to get in the middle, which is awesome because he wouldn't answer questions like "What did we do wrong?" Also, it means I don't have to watch football. I win so few battles, some friendships are just casualties of war.

In other news, I cry for no reason now. It's that time of year again when the depression rears its ugly head. While I feel depressed, I find that pretending to be happy helps. I have to smile and be nice at work. I don't want to make other people upset or worried, you know. So, I just go with pretending to be happy. I actually find this working. I mean, I catch a few cries in the shower or my car or watching tv and whatnot. It's just not a problem for others like this. It also makes my excuse for the puffy redness, "It's just allergies," believable- because no one actually sees me crying. DaVinci has finally picked up that I'm not sad, just depressed. If I'm crying, it's not necessarily because anything is wrong. My bud in Cleveland suffers from SAD, which is very similar. Her boyfriend is new to this, so she's dealing with explaining the I'm not sad, just depressed thing, too.

I appreciate having a handle on this depression right now. I know that sounds weird. I guess it's because this one hasn't made me hit bottom yet. I'm actually clear-headed enough to acknowledge what's going on. Even better, I'm not letting it got to me personally. Even when my brain tried to get me to go back to that place where I question my marriage, I didn't let it. (As an aside, the Pretender got engaged.) I thought about calling EverSmile up and just chatting, but I know why I'd be doing it. Now I can say I'm stronger than my depression. Well, maybe. It's still early. I still feel really alone. DaVinci still helps and tries to understand. I just know now that it's out of my hands, and I just have to make it as easy as possible.

I don't feel like doing anything. In fact, it's taken me three days to get this far in this post. I read a crappy trilogy which a girl at work recommended to me. It's a kind of love story about human-like troll people (think Twilight, but a little different- main difference being that I never read Twilight). When she didn't chose the one guy, and instead chose another (Team troll!) I bawled like a baby. Reading is usually a good escape for me, but I end up reading books where women run away with guys they love and they live happily ever after. That's never good. I don't want to question my marriage. I love my Hub. He's my favorite, and just because I'm fucked up for a few weeks doesn't mean I have to ruin his life, or our life together, forever. My next book in line to read is Madame Bovary, which isn't going to happen. Books about people- especially women who have trouble with reality- who kill themselves are strictly off the list of readable materials. Got any suggestions?

Reading is Fun-damentally Embarrassing

2010-10-08T11:30:00.000-05:00

In my quest to function like a normal 20-something with no kids, I decided to make some friends. People my age with no kids generally have fun things to do. Fun things, that happen with friends. Involve wine. End up as fantastic black and white photographs on other peoples' facebook pages. And make for great conversation:
"Yes, while jet-skiing in the Alps last year, I decided Buddhism was the way to go."
Right?

I joined a book club.
Not a BOOK CLUB, like my sister is in. That's headed by a woman who get e-mailed a list of questions and book suggestions. They pay to be a part of that club. It's like a dollar for showing up, not finishing the book, or whatever. It's not expensive or anything. It pays for the "club membership" and snacks, I guess. It's like a national organization of a book club, and that's okay.
But my cheap ass isn't paying to read a book. That's what college was for. So, I found a book club on craigslist.org. Hey now, if I can go on a cruise with !!!!!!strangers from the internet!!!!!! I can certainly meet strangers at a bar and talk books. It's practically college all over again in that respect. This was two girls who said "Hey, we like books and would like to have a way to relive that aspect of college. Let's meet at a restaurant or bar and discuss books."
I missed the first meeting. On Friday-ish, an e-mail was sent out to say the first meeting was the following Sunday. I don't check my e-mail. It's filled with electronic bills and coupons for places at which I do not shop. It's cool, though. That was just a meet and greet and decide on a new book meeting anyway. One of the girls e-mailed what the book would be, and I apologized for missing it and promised I wouldn't be such a geek the next time- in those exact words. "Won't be such a geek next time." The book turned out to be Kathryn Stockett's The Help. It was a chick lit book about women's lib and civil rights. It was okay. It didn't move me or change anything about me. In fact, it sort of wasted my time. But it wasn't bad. I'd recommend it to people I didn't take as serious readers.
A month later, second meeting. Same restaurant same/different people- I wouldn't know, I missed the first one, right? I gave myself extra time to get to the restaurant/bar it was at. (Side note, it's a gastropub that gets fabulous reviews and DaVinci and his friends drool over the place.) I didn't get lost, so I was there about ten minutes early. The gastropub- 'cause that makes it sound fancy in the pants- was empty. No, not entirely empty. There was a bartender.
"Hey, you mind if I sit here for a few minutes? I'm meeting some people here, and I'm a little early."
"Sure" ...pause, staring... "Are you with the book club?"
"Yes! You know them? I haven't met them before."
"Oh, they're real nice. The girls who organized it are in here quite a bit, and asked if they could have the meetings here." ...pause, staring... "Aren't you a bit early?"
"Yeah, I didn't want to get lost. I live across the river, and gave myself extra time."
"I thought the meeting was at five."
Pause for my blank look. I could swear the e-mail said four.... Hmmm. Uh, um, well.... Call DaVinci. Yep, because of the football game, they pushed it back an hour. They notified me through e-mail.
I was an entire hour early. Awesome.

The girls were fine. We're not on the same page as far as approaches to literature, taste, or even class (they don't seem uppity or snobby, I'm just a little ghetto-fabulous). But it's a book club. With people who read. Except me... who doesn't read e-mails.
I'll stick it out. We're reading Jane Austen (vomit in my brain). It's literary discussion with adults. None of which have kids. And maybe I'll finally understand feminism... maybe. I promised myself six months of this. If it doesn't work out at the end of six months, I will have stayed with it long enough to make it not about them or the books they read. If it does work out, I've made some friends.

It's Not Always Funny Because It's True

2010-09-13T12:02:00.000-05:00

Whew, that bitchy last post is much funnier in my brain, mostly because my brain added sock puppets.

Today I'm going to be VERY personal, and kind of a downer. I just need to talk myself through this. This isn't a topic up for debate. This is not a topic on which I will be judged by anyone. I'm not religious. For this matter, though, let he who is without sin cast the first stone.
Sometimes, fear takes over me. Sometimes my fear is irrational, like being afraid of people accidentally stabbing me when offering to feed me a piece of food with their own fork in their own hand. Sometimes it's rational, like being afraid of things hitting me in the face- probably the greatest cause of my anxiety.

However... I have one super-rational phobia (which is defined as: a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it). I have a rational phobia. Go with it.
I am married, and have been married for two and a half years. I'd never cheat on him, and he'd never cheat on me. It's something you just know.
Before DaVinci, though, I was a bit of a whore. I don't mean to say I'm ashamed of myself because I had pre-marital sex and god (maybe with the big "g") will never forgive me. I mean, I used to have a lot of sex with a lot of people I didn't know that well. I don't have a fancy excuse like nymphomania. I mean, I guess I can link it to the bipolar thing. But that doesn't really excuse anything. If it was the sixties, sure you can excuse that- it was the sixties, man. My aunt and uncle died when I was nine and ten, respectively. They died of "complications due to AIDS." He got it through a blood transfusion in the early eighties and passed it to her. So, you'd think I'd know better. And I do. And sometimes I didn't care. On more than one occasion, I had sex with more than just one person in a day. I don't even know how to explain that. DaVinci has never asked about my past in any specific detail. Sure, I'll joke with my friends about my promiscuous past. It was kind of like, Oh, 3xE is kinda the whore of our group. And that's fine as long as it stayed a joke. It's not so funny to me sometimes.
I've never been tested.
I'll say that again. I've never been tested.
I am scared to death.
I have a friend who works with HIV/AIDS groups in Austin. He's what you'd expect, a gay man with a psychology background working hard to keep people with AIDS from feeling alienated and hopeless and those without AIDS from contracting it. He's the only one I can turn to, and yet I cannot turn to him.
There are several layers of fear to it. I fear the judgment. Being tested means you don't know. And not knowing is like admitting that you've fucked up. Whether is was one night with a stranger, or one night without protection, it was one moment without control and it could cost you your life. One fuck up, and everything is over. At least if you don't get tested, you can keep that shame to yourself. No one has to know I was a whore. I know it, and I've dealt with it, and I try to avoid letting it affect me.
Then there's the not knowing part. Not only am I unsure of the status- but there's a chance it might be really bad. And not just for me. I might have killed my husband. I don't even know what the statistics are, or the odds of me having contracted it. But we're together, and we have sex. And because of me, he might be dying. I might be dying. And if that is the case, that changes everything. We couldn't have kids. We'd have to tell our families. It'd be all my fault, because it's my past that's so questionable. Everything would be destroyed because of my stupidity and lack of control. My marriage would be over. My family would not get it, especially not after my aunt and uncle. My future would be taken from me. My husband would leave me, and we'd probably die alone.
If and when we decide to have children, I would want to be tested beforehand. Just to prevent that sort of complication. But in the meantime, I can't bring myself to be tested. While not knowing is tortuous, I can't imagine being positive for HIV and confronting my husband is any better.
My past is my only real reason for being afraid. I'm kind of an idiot when it comes to HIV/AIDS. I don't know what the symptoms would be. I mean, it kills your immune system, so you die from something else, and not AIDS itself. And I know people usually exhibit flu-like symptoms with HIV. I get the flu about every 15 months. I got a flu shot last year, hopefully that will help me avoid its terror this year. Or I could get tested. I just cannot bring myself to do it. And that guilt is terrible: The guilt of admitting to myself that I'd rather not know. Admitting to myself that if I'm going to die, and my husband is going to die, isn't it better that we not know it? If it was going to happen, then it already has. And if that's the situation, there's not a lot I can do about it from here and now, right?
This is my guilt and my fear. This is what makes me a bad person.

SWF Searching M/F BFF, literacy a MUST, no references required

2010-08-31T09:17:00.000-05:00

I sent this in to Aunt Becky:
I have to be friends with women I wouldn't normally be friends with- their husbands are my husbands' buds, and we all get together every weekend. I've tried making my own friends, but it's hard when you don't really have a hobby and suffer with a mood disorder. I've also tried being genuine friends with these women, and it's not terrible, just not *me.*
So, I'm looking to go on this Aunt Becky's Family Reunion Cruise, and I don't want to let them know about it. Nothing personal, I just don't want to be on a boat with them. We tried an "all girls" vacay and it failed miserably and ended in drama. I'd rather go on my own and make my own friends, anyway. Does this make me a bad person? And how do I explain that I'm going on a cruise (without the Hub nonetheless) and didn't mention it to nor invite them?

Ahem.
Yes, the jobless wives club tried to plan a vacation. Yes, it failed so badly that it led to bickering, gossip, and no days off. It was a lame soap opera. Here's how it went- and I'll paraphrase as much as possible.

Tiffany and Tessa and Leslie are running their mouths while their husbands watched a baseball game:
This is hot and boring and not entertaining to women. We should do something else.
We should. We should take a girls only vacation. No husbands, no kids.
We should. We should go on a cruise. It's super-cheap, and we live right by a port where a major cruise line leaves from.

Then Tessa and Leslie decided to plan this trip:
I don't like boats, so we shouldn't go on a cruise. We should get a hotel on the beach and do that instead. Except I don't like the beach either, so we have to stay at this resort in Alabama that has a pool and a lazy river. Also, we should plan it now, in May, so we can get a good rate for September. And sleep four to a room, two to a bed, so it's cheaper.
Great!
*send out a text message* We're going to Alabama for a girls only trip in September. In or out?

I talk to Tiffany, who's out because it's the weekend of her kid's birthday:
I don't want to pay money to go to Alabama and sit by a pool. I can do that here for free.
I wanted to go on a cruise. I was left out of the plans. And I don't want to spend my vacation with stupid Leslie or pregnant Heather.
DaVinci says the trip will cause me more stress than it's worth. He says no. I cannot go.

I tell Tessa I cannot go:
DaVinci says I cannot go.
Why not?
He says we can't afford it.
Why not?
We're poor.
It's not that expensive, and we're all sharing a room.
I don't want to share a room with Leslie. And Heather will be big and pregnant by then. And no one will want to go to the beach with me, because Tiffany's out. I'm not going.

Tessa told Heather the bad news:
3xE isn't going because she hates Leslie!
What a bitch!

I left out some stuff, sure, but that's the gist. And then it spread to facebook, and the husbands had to get involved because it was affecting their hang-out time. It was a shitty situation.
I didn't want to pay money so that Tessa could sit by a pool- she has her own pool.
No, I didn't want to go to Alabama to not sit by the beach. Tiffany's the only one who likes the beach who's not me.
Heather will be seven months pregnant by then, and you know how super-jolly pregnant women get in the summer when they're hot, outside, and all their friends are not pregnant and drinking.
No, I don't like Leslie. She's that girl who walks in on people while changing, more than once, on separate occasions.... You know? I've got no problem with lesbians. I just don't want loud, annoying, stupid women sneaking a peak at my goods. She has this really annoying way of ruining a lot of our fun. Tessa hosted a "fun party" and at least twice Leslie said out loud, "You're not supposed to have anything that BIG in you. Those aren't safe." This was before the lecture at how important it is to make sure you clean it well before you hide it because "you don't want to know what kind of germs you can get up in there." Gag! Also, hide the vibrator? Mine is included during sex thank-you-very-much.
It literally blew up and turned ugly. And Tiffany and I bore the burden of being the bad guys. And the husbands said we're not allowed to even talk about it anymore. It irritates them. Things are better now, but it got too ugly too fast for friends.

So, Aunt Becky is having a fun vacation cruise in March 2011. DaVinci said I can go, and I'm saving. But I don't want to put it up on my facebook because I don't want the Jobless Wives Club to know about it. They can know. I just don't want to go with them. I want to make my own friends. I want to be friends with people I'm friends with because we're friends and not forced to be friendly. I want to drink a little and relax and over-use the song lyric "I'm on a boat!" I want to lose my flip-flops and have to buy a blingin' new pair. I want to bunk with a stranger and giggle because it's just like summer camp!

I Don't Even Know How to Take a Day Off

2010-08-12T12:58:00.000-05:00

Really, I don't.
I need a day off in October to see a band/performer I'm in love with, and I had to ask how I go about making such a request. Sad, right?

My work said we're not allowed to be on the internet anymore. I never got that memo. Also, I think they lied, because I am clearly on the internet now. In between customers and playing games, I occasionally watch whatever customers demand be put on the television. For the most part, we watch CBS, which is a shame because my work pays for Direct TV (and I love Direct TV). When I come in it's the Price is Right, and that's followed by soaps, news, soaps, talk shows, and ends with more news. During my lunch is when they play Let's Make a Deal. I'm not there, so it doesn't count.
I enjoy people-watching on television. Not during sitcoms or anything, mind you, but during the news and game shows and such. People dress themselves, and usually aren't paid to be pretty. So you get the occasional slightly chubby woman. And sometimes you get the occasional chubby woman with taste. It gives me an idea of what "look" I could attempt, what patterns fit my shape, and how an outfit can look like a good idea gone terribly wrong.
Today I met a woman I want to be in the future. She was a contestant on the Price is Right. She didn't win the car, and she got to go onto the showcase. I don't know if she won or not. She was dressed like an early sixties mom. She had this fantastic busy shirt, that had a bit of an oriental cut to it, but with a sixties-trippy-hippie pattern. She wore a bright pink headband, and her large-ish button-style earrings matched. She was awesome, and I hope I can pull it off. I might even buy a corset to give me a better shape, because I think I can do it. Maybe. In a few years.
These days though, I need a style- a classification of clothing I can make my own. I hang with the Jobless Wives Club, and each has their own thing, kind of. One mom is ultra-cool and chic. She's high fashion, and thinks she's an actress. Another mom, when we gather for our men to watch sports, tries to be cute and petite. Sometimes she wears pink velour sweatsuits. Those are not attractive on anyone, no matter how tiny you are. So I need clothes to wear for the weekends by the pool or in front of the television. I need a style of clothes that works well for hangin' as well as for having dinner and drinks.
I like t-shirts and jeans. I don't like shoes, so I often opt for flip-flops that I kick off. I don't wear a lot of make-up, and I have some jewelry I'd like to wear more often. You think this would be easy. Most of my t-shirts are old band shirts, and some are too small now. Same goes for jeans... with the tightness. And flip-flops are hardly appropriate for going out. I recently bought a skirt-shirt outfit, and some awesome jeans and trendy tees. I'm working on it. The plus-side is that I haven't been crying when I have to buy a larger size. And I get excited about getting dressed and going around these women who have started becoming my friends. The style I'm going for is, well, jeans and t-shirts with sandals. But I'm doing it with consideration now. Which means I care a little bit. I want to look good, and I want my friends to see that I care about them being seen with me. I don't want to be the fat one, or the one with no sense of fashion. I want to look like I belong with them. Even if I have to be the nerdy one, I want to be one of them. Eww.

The Rediscovery of Indie Rock

2010-06-08T14:33:00.000-05:00

     I'm winding down from a very busy ten days. My sister and family came into town the same day I had visiting friends from college. Usually family visits require many late nights and dinner at mom's (which is usually delicious, but my mom's house has roaches). With my sister being all "Aww, we want to see more of you, do you really have to work?" I had to see my friends for early breakfast. Then my B-F-F from high school came into town and we did dinner followed by drinks for some much-needed catch-up time. Many early mornings and late nights later, I had another friend from college come into town- more dinner and drinks! Then the Jobless Wives Club, DaVinci's friends' wives, all got back from their vacations and held a pool party, and are planning another this weekend. I'm not complaining, I'm just exhausted and would like some down time to get some puppy-snuggling and movie-watching done.
     I am still a cashier at this car dealership. I've run into at least three people from high school and three teachers. Let me tell you, it's not the grand reunion it could be. Sometimes the former classmates are still living with mom and had to drop out of school because it wasn't really their style; but mostly, it's people getting their (new, expensive) cars road-ready so they can make the big move to the new campuses for that difficult Ph,D. program they just got into. And I'm a cashier. Sure, I have a degree, and I'm really good at discussing lit theory. But I'm still a cashier. Sure, one of the teachers was a Free Enterprise high school teacher, and he saw me sleep in class every day. He was impressed that one time my English teacher interrupted his class to tell me what a good job I had done on a paper. Outside of that one incident, maybe- assuming he remembered me at all- he just assumed this is where I'd end up in my life.
     With the seeing people I grew up with moving forward in their lives, I felt a tad jealous, but mostly disappointment in my own life. I do love my Hub, and I love my dogs. Sure, I really feel like I work just to pay bills, and I'm relieved I have a job that I'm pretty good at. I was hoping that since the girl I work for directly is such a tool and not great at her job, that I'd have an opportunity to move upwards in the company. I don't see it happening, and I don't think I want to work in the auto industry the rest of my life. So I broke down and looked up publishing companies in the area. I've written down addresses, printed resumes, and accumulated some envelopes and stamps. I've gotten my resume up on monster.com and a local job search site. I'm pretty excited, but not all that hopeful. I'm looking to do copy editing or fact-checking, or, well, anything. I'm sure I can do any of the jobs I am applying for. It's getting my foot in the door that's proving to be difficult.
     I'm a little distracted now, but I promise to return later. This job has me much busier than it appears.

Good Morning America has a Series Called "Living the Dream"

2010-04-27T12:05:00.000-05:00

     A month later, maybe more, and so here I am. I'm still not on meds; and I haven't been back to see the doctor nor the social worker. I am working at a new dealership. It's really quite terrible. The store I'm at now does everything in a way that's a little skewed. I am having a lot of trouble adjusting here.

   Yesterday was my second anniversary, and everything was going well. I had a decent day at work, as good as it could have been. DaVinci and I saw a movie, then went to my mom's house. There we had cheesecake and champagne to celebrate. So there I am, fat, drinking and being pressured to "have another slice. It's so good. Anniversary cheesecake doesn't have any calories." NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! What part of I FEEL FAT AND UGLY do you not understand? Not to mention, I'm tired, because it's 11 at night and I have to be at work at 7 in the morning, and I get a little pissy.
     Then my allergies kick in, like every evening. They have been progressively getting worse as the days pass. It might be the new spring season; it might be the lack of cleaning and all the dogs around. Even my legs were itching, but I think that was a flea stuck in my sock, because I had several places that were itching all on one foot. So I complain to DaVinci that my legs itch and my eyes are drying out. He tells me that I should wear my glasses. He then proceeds to imply that I'm making up the itchy legs, because he feels nothing. I say I think it's a flea, and he says maybe my shoes are too tight. So, wearing my shoes all day, and not having to re-tie them suddenly makes them tighter and causes my right foot to itch in three specific places? Huh, the miracles of the human body, right? So I say again, that's it's a flea and think it was stuck in my shoe or something. And again, I must be making it up.
   Due to the whole "I'm not crazy, I'm just tired, itchy, and my allergies are making it difficult for me to function" thing, I was not getting any support from DaVinci. All I wanted was a chance to vent. And everything I said or felt, according to him, was either wrong or my fault. I don't care about who's at fault. I don't care if it's my shoes too tight or a flea. I don't care that my eyes were drying out, and that I should know better by now and bring my glasses with me everywhere. I just wanted him to say, "Gee, I'm sorry you feel that way." I wasn't even looking for "Is there anything I can do to help?" I just wanted to say how I felt, not asking for help or answers or a solution. And I certainly didn't want to hear that it's my fault.
     So, there I was, uncomfortable and then made to feel even worse. And then I did what every girl wants to do for her second anniversary, I cried myself to sleep, alone in my bed.

It Was Titled "Once More With Feeling!"

2010-03-03T17:09:00.000-06:00

     So, shut up, I know it's been a while. Turns out the trip to Austin had me so screwy that I ended up not doing so hot. I gained back all the weight I had lost (and yes, 10 pounds is a lot to me) and haven't been to the spark site since. This is sad, because I really liked spark. But I'm like some sort of addiction freak, and it's all or nothing to me. I either do something every day or whatever (regularly) or I don't do it at all. Like smoking. I smoked pretty regularly, especially at the body shop. And when I stopped, I stopped. There wasn't a struggle or gum or hypnotist. I just wasn't a smoker anymore. And I used spark all day. All day. Every meal, everything I read, related to spark, tracked in spark. And now, it's just not done anymore. I've always been like that. I get like that with games, shows, even friends. Like, I get super-clingy and I know it's bad. And when I started drinking, I drank a lot, and often. And so now I'm off spark. I'd like to be able to introduce myself back into it. My account is still there, I think. And I was losing weight. And I still have a gym membership. I caught a cold recently and had to quit going. But now I'm all better. Well, betterish. And so, back to the gym I head.
     Also, things at work are changing, and we all know how I just loooooove change. My mom's been moved to another dealership. So, even though she didn't understand what was always going on with me, she was still the only person with any pull around here who had a clue. No one else knows. No one else even knew I had been diagnosed or anything. And now, I'm on my own about it. So it'll be like old times.... too many excuses. She got moved and another guy took her place. And he keeps changing things. Like, I have a great big mirror behind my desk, and I like to draw things or write on it, like "Happy Mardi Gras" or a flag for Memorial and Veterans' Days. Except we're not allowed to write on it anymore. And we had a big glass in front of my desk with like an 8" opening at the bottom to do transactions through, for protection, like banks used to have. But they took that out, so we can seem more approachable to customers. Well, customers aren't supposed to approach me. They are supposed to give me money in exchange for their car keys and leave. Even when I do know the answers to their questions, I'm not allowed to answer them. So, no, I don't want to be approached by them; because usually, it's in an infuriating combination of anger and ignorance. And now, anyone can reach over and into my cash drawer and take money, because it's not like the drawer locks or anything. And the security camera (and button that sounds an alarm and summons police) that helps keep bank tellers safe? We don't have that. The cameras don't work here... so take THAT safety!
     I'm being moved to another dealership soon. Not the one my mom works at, but yet another one. A different and kind of better one. It's busier, and cleaner. My mom told me... not even my boss(es). Also, the girl I work with told me (in secret) because we're not all supposed to talk about things here. I think they are firing the other cashier and moving me there and hiring someone else here. The girl I work with knows because until they fill my spot, she has to do my job. But I haven't heard when it will be official. Today's the end of the pay period, so maybe they'll call me on my way in and say "Go over there instead," because that's the kind of people I work for. Everything's a secret... but no one can keep a secret, so make what you can of that.
     But at the new place, I won't be in a very "private" place. Like, here, I have a sort of cubicle with a window. So I can do things, like goof off online and blog anonymously. Over there it's a lot of people... and all my superiors work there, too (as opposed to my superiors here, who are the same people but who work, well, over there and not here. I'm not sure what I'll do; since I'll be busier, maybe I won't need to worry about what I'll do when I'm bored. Maybe I'll read really big books to impress them... because people are idiots. That's always been my favorite way to say, "please, just leave me alone" and "why, yes, I am pretty intelligent" at the same time. It sounds trite, but one of the owners has like 5 family members throughout our dealerships (one is our receptionist) who only work here because they are his relatives, and not because they can, you know, do the job. And since I am my mother's daughter and work here, they think that I'm simple, too.
     But really, I think I work here because of my mood disorder. I don't think I can handle a real job. And I can't afford to work part-time. Although, DaVinci said I could, but I know we can't really afford it. I've applied to other places, like PetSmart and PetCo, and am thinking about Home Depot/Lowes. Autozone was really good to me. I worked full time there, and I quit because I worked for an idiot towards the end. But to work part-time in a situation like that wasn't all bad. I was in school at the time, and that kinda sucked. But if I could afford to not work, and just had a simple part-time job, I think that would be okay. I applied to a jewelry store before, to get a skill and not a ton of stress. That would be awesome. Not that jewelry is my thing, but I'm good with small detail work with my hands.... not creative or artsy, but I can do links and undo knots and such. I'd rather work weekends and have weekdays off. I'd rather not do retail... but some sort of other work. I like a bit of variety in my job. I was happy doing manual labor at Target, merchandising at PepBoys, and manager/office stuff at Autozone like some merchandising and sales and some back office work like checking the safe and approving payroll, etc. So, I don't know what I like to do. Here, I like playing on the internet and reading. The work sucks, because I get all the questions, and I'm not allowed to answer any of them. And I do things that's not my job. Like work as receptionist. And I don't need to file everyday, because I can do a week's worth of it in about two hours... which, you know, sometimes it's nice to have two hours of work... because I have nothing else to do!
     So, with all these things changing, and me being recently flung into a low, I decided to seek help once again. In about two months my work will be offering insurance again. Having insurance is nice, because you can see doctors and get prescriptions. But then the insurance is so expensive, you can't afford the doctor or the medicine. So I cancelled my insurance a few months ago. I think I will sign up again. DaVinci's work offers him something now, so maybe it will be better this time around when I can cover just myself. But I still can't afford therapy... or time to see a therapist. Damn jobs... with all their work and effort and unhappiness. So, I contacted some local human services people to see what my options are. DaVinci and I aren't quite yet middle-class, but we're above poverty. I am offered insurance, but can't afford what insurance helps me with because I am paying insurance... etc. So, I found out that the community offers help with a sliding scale pay rate, which is like when I saw the lady at the Catholic School. She was a grad student, and worked as a counselor like my Pat, and we paid her what we could "afford" based on income. It's not a perfect system, I assume. I go on Monday. I'll see a man named Bob, who is a social worker. He said that they offer counseling and sometimes meds. But he said that, from what he could tell by by what I told him on the phone, it seems more like I suffer depression. Well... sure, maybe. Look, I'm not even always sure I'm crazy. But he'll contact the people I saw at school and get a history on me, and talk to me, and see what they can do. So... yay! Help!... not like "Help!" but like, "Yay, help!" Whatever.
     So, maybe I'll be better. Maybe he'll say I just need to control myself better. I've already been told lots of things. And how do I talk about it? I mean, can I say things like, I hurt myself, but not often? And do I say I suffer from a series of ups and downs, and sometimes can't tell one from the other? Do I say I've switched to a sort of organic diet to prevent any extra hormonal influence in my already strained body? I'm more nervous I'll come off as someone trying to cheat the system and get some attention and meds, because when I try to talk about it from a clear-minded and stable position, I come off as a person who has read the symptoms from a textbook. And, while I have complained before that not all of us crazy people are the same... I sometimes think that I'm pretty clearly within the definition of what bipolar disorder is. Which is weird when compared to my normal times, when I don't think anything is wrong with me, and that everyone else is just stupid. But I don't want to sound like one of those people who has read the side effects section of a medicine bottle and thinks "oh my god, I soooo have those symptoms." You know? I know- deep in my insane, desperate, roller coaster- riding, addict of a soul of mine- something is off with me. Emotionally, mentally, maybe even physically, something about me is a little off... and it's not my love of crappy action movies and dark comedies. I find that a charming aspect of my personality.
     Still, how honest do I get? I mean... how can I be honest without sounding crazy? Because I know that I want to come off as crazy as I feel, without being as crazy as I feel. Talking about the depression makes me depressed. And it's hard to convey just how sometimes mania feels like a fever, or an infection. You can feel it coming on and getting worse, and feel it when it's gone. But to clearly talk about it makes me feel less like a crazy person and more of an expert on crazy people. Like I'm not the person who has it, but sometimes, she takes over my body, and I can define and explain every move and emotion, and to do that makes me feel separate from her... and I know it's me... but it's not who I am. No, I'm not suicidal, but I have been. No, I'm not manic, but I have been. And I know that I need the meds, but I don't want them. And I don't want to be all "Gimme the drugs, man!" It's like eye drops. My eyes will still close and refuse the drops access, and yet, I know it's necessary, and only I can help me. I guess this is the paradox I face once again... of being too sane to be this crazy... or too crazy to be this sane. I'm not sure what I am anymore. Maybe I'm just damaged, but not necessarily broken.

Ins and Outs of Ups and Downs

2010-02-01T14:43:00.000-06:00

     So, I know I'm crazy. This last week I've been crying at the drop of a hat. Why? Because it happens. Sometimes I'm not sure I'm bipolar. I think I'm just emotionally, well, immature, and that I don't know how to really deal with things. But that can't be it, because there's a bit of a cycle, and I can feel the episodes approaching. Besides, I have classic symptoms. But I do well without the help of a doc and/or meds. So, hmmph, whatever, right?
     I think my trip to Austin had me all screwy. I was using spark regularly, and was even starting to lose weight. I considered January as the month I work on tracking my food/exercise and seeing what I can really improve on. I do pretty okay on foods, except for things like birthday cake, and "cheating" a little. I try to eat healthy whenever possible. Oh, and DaVinci signed us up for a gym. I did 4.7 mi. (1 hr, 519 calories) on the elliptical Saturday. I am going again tonight... and so on. As of last Thursday, I have lost about 7 pounds, give or take for daily fluctuations. That's not too bad considering I incorporated almost no exercise and had a vacation, and like three family birthdays.
     Back to being off-track, though, I got off schedule and that threw my body into upheaval. I started going into a downward spiral, that I already had an inkling was fast-approaching. I started questioning things about my life. Like, did I marry the right guy? why am I not in grad school? why do I live in this shithole city that I hate when I could live somewhere I'd be happier? You know, the usual questions. After seeing EverSmile my brain started playing the "what-if" game. And that's never a good thing. I mean, when I'm not like this, I love DaVinci. So, I really know it's just me. Then EverSmile said something like "When she was 18 and I was 24 we were in two different places in our lives, and maybe if things we different, or if we were older, it could've worked." That makes me think in a bad way. I think that if anything ever happened between DaVinci and I, I'd be hospitalized for a while, for my own well-being. After that though, I'd never be able to do the marriage thing again. I do well now, because DaVinci's got a good hold on things, and good control of me. But I seriously doubt any other man could deal with me and my ways.
     And I hate where I live. I left this place to go off for college, and I didn't go far, just far enough away to be on my own. And I cried and cried the day we moved back here. At my age, just out of school, just married, and starting my own life, I could have gone anywhere. And I ended up back here, with the people I worked to get away from. At least to have a shitty job in a new city people would think, oh, she's just new here and working to get settled. But here, I see kids I graduated with and I think, god, I'm no better than they- because I'm stuck here with this shitty job in this shitty city just like them. And they seem to be working to get out... or are settled and happy. I'm unsettled and unhappy, and can't seem to get away.
     I'd like to live in an area like Austin, but I'd probably need medication for allergies. I'd also be happy in the Durham-Raleigh-Chapel Hill area of North Carolina. I don't want to be a cashier forever. I don't want to be in customer service for anything. I'd like to be a ghost-writer or an editor. I don't want to have to come up with my own work, just improve upon those which need improvement. I'd even write/edit manuals for things if I must. Just give me the instructions, and I'll make them understandable. I'd be a freakin' miracle worker for politicians writing memoirs, because I can. I've always been happiest doing background and behind-the-scenes work. I used to do lighting for an improvisation troupe in college. I was good. When I used a light switch or a full board and colored gels, it didn't matter. I love being the help, the techie, the background support.
     That's about enough rambling for now.  Things are not perfect. My life is okay. But when I think about the extremes I face in my life, "okay" is something to strive for. And so, I'm okay; and okay with that.

Finally Figuring out Fotos. Wait, that's not right...

2010-01-27T13:24:00.000-06:00

Murphy: My bestest furry friend in the whole wide world.

Truffles: DaVinci's dog and my bedtime snuggle nemesis.

On the way to the airport to leave Austin, my sis and I added sparklies to my doggy luggage tags. How jealous are you?

Where Sunshine and Pollen Wait for Me

2010-01-26T17:44:00.003-06:00

     I just got back from Austin. I had a blast. I went to visit my sister. We did fun things, like painting pottery and outlet mall shopping. But a lot of my time was spent watching my nephew and bro-in-law fight and play xbox. Then my sister and her husband had a great big ol' fight about the baby, and who is supposed to do things for her. She's really fuckin' cute, so I loved doing things for/with her. She's 3 months old, and I absolutely love her. I told DaVinci that I know babies change things, and that they can complicate things, but I really hope we argue over who gets to bathe the baby because both of us enjoy it. Screaming crying babies don't piss me off, so I don't understand why my sis and her husband get so mad about it. It's like our dogs- yeah, walking them is a pain, and no, I don't always want to throw the toys, but it's fun whether I want to do it or not. I mean, babies don't speak a whole lot of English, and grown-ups don't always read minds, so I understand the fussiness and frustration on both sides. I just don't understand the anger. The anger is bad.

     Also, on my trip, I visited EverSmile. He lives there for school and work. We met at a Jason's Deli, and had pizza, but I talk too much and didn't get to finish. Then I got a quick tour of UT, which was, um, fun? I dunno, it was a quick tour. I also saw the Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library. Didn't go in, but I thought it was cool anyway. I've never been to anything Presidential.... and with it being a library that was bigger than I expected (everything's bigger in Texas), I was in awe. After that we stopped at ToyJoy, an awesome little toy store similar to the one we have uptown here.
     Then we went to La Casa de EverSmile to watch Muppets Take Manhattan. I've never seen a muppet movie, ever. I didn't want to watch a movie I'd rather watch with DaVinci- like something on our list that I know we both want to see, or a romantic movie- because that'd be inappropriate and awkward. So I decided on Muppets, because, well, I was given the choice. I fell before we even got inside. Not even drunk, and I fell out the damn car onto the walkway. How's that for saying "My life is fine without you and I'm happy now" to an ex? I landed, of course, on the broken bottle I was carrying. It was a whole bottle, and became a broken bottle just an instant before I landed on it. I had glass in my hand, and was given medical attention... tweezers, running water, and a paper towel. I later found another piece when I got back to my sister's.
     The movie was good, as good as a muppet movie could have been, I suppose. The watching was, well, it was pleasant. Since he's the only ex, or former lover or what-you-will, I am on decent terms with, I'm not sure how to act around him. Besides, I don't fully trust myself around guys, especially guys I once really cared about. And he's got a girlfriend. And I have a husband. And I don't want to mess up anything. So, I sat at the edge of the couch, and tried to maintain small talk without getting all panicky and blustery. There was what felt like an inapproptiate foot rub, and a threat of murder. He's such a trooper for putting up with me being crazy. And I kinda missed him for a little bit. I mean, you know, DaVinci is fantastic and I love him. I guess my mind started playing the "what-if" game. Maybe I would have been happy. But I am happy now, and that's enough for me. It was nice to see that smile again, and to hear his voice, give him a hug, and to feel validated again. If it's not love, it's something like it, and it's just as important.

Sometimes It's About What You Have, Not What You've Lost

2010-01-16T12:58:00.000-06:00

First of all.
Okay, with that out of the way. I am slowly getting into a low. I don't know. It just started feeling bad in my brain, and I started crying a lot. I'm a little addicted to the Spark site. I am on it almost all day at work. I consider it a good thing. There's a group for bipolar people, and I'm a member. They are very understanding and caring people. I have been talking to people about how I feel, and it's nice. I don't really feel as bad for not being on meds or seeing a doctor. Now, if only that weight would fall off...
I have another new addiction- LOST. I know, I know. We just started watching it on netflix. I missed episodes 2-5 or whatever, I'm not even sure now. We're halfway through season 2. But I can't stop watching it. It's awesome. And it makes me think about that proverbial island we all question. Here's what I think:
I would trade sex for survival with Sayid and John Locke (so far). Definitely Sayid, maybe the doctor, and let's see what happens with Locke.
I don't think I could have a dog. I might need a couple of unrelated dogs, and have a pack. As they get older/die I'd have replacements... because they could breed. Maybe. Definitely need a pet of some sort.
I'd need a lot of books. Like Marquez, and Borges, Bolano, James, Eliot, all of it. I'd need it. I'd probably go mad anyway, but why risk it?
Do you designate an area as a bathroom? Or do you just hope you don't find one someone else made? I vote we have more than one area designated... but fenced off... with empty gourds or whatever to "knock." We could set it up the way we had it set up this one time while camping...
I don't know that I'd want to live in the caves. I mean... whoever laid those others there to rest certainly didn't live there. They used it for dead people, so why? Why was it reserved for the dead, and not suitable for living? There's a reason, I know it.
Really. Sayid. I'd even love the dude, but he seems to have a thing for the thin leggy blondes. But...mmmmm. I'd be skinny, tan, even blonde on that island to be with that man.
I certainly wouldn't bury dead people in a perfectly good tarp.... or in the sand. Dead people can go by the garden.
Fuselage will do for a shelter-while I work on techniques to build a nicer safer house. But after that, we're getting Gilligan's Island on this mother fuckin' island. I'd rather sleep in a hammock than on the ground. Also, you can make solar ovens, and reflective things to catch attention from parts of planes.
Having my period is gonna suck. What do you do? It can attract animals. It's nasty. You don't dare use anything as a tampon. So, you have to have something... like one of those reusable pads. Eww.
And soap. Rendered from animal fat. Okay. Do fish count? I'm not much of a hunter. Killing, skinning, and cooking an animal doesn't work for me. I feel bad peeling the skin off my cooked chicken. But I'm different about fish. I could do it to fish.
The raft didn't seem like a good idea to begin with. It seemed a little lame. I mean.... they left kind of in a hurry. If they had stayed the year, and really took some time, they could have built a much better boat. Even one with shelter. And better storage. With room for more people.
Charlie depends too much on his guitar. What happens when a string breaks?
Damn, I'd look so good on the survivor exercise and diet plan.
You know. Stuff like that.

Oh-So-Wicked Games We Play

2010-01-08T17:37:00.001-06:00

     I've got big boobs. In high school, I was a C-cup. My average is about a D. Since I've gained all this extra weight, I'm up to a DDD. That's right. Three D's. I wasn't planning on writing about them today. I just wanted to brag about a body part after that whiny fat-kid post last week.
     Today's topic, boys and girls, is my mania. I've discussed it before. I discuss it a lot. This is because it's on my mind a lot. I have to watch for it, like a paranoid old lady listening to the police on a home scanner. I have to wonder if each reaction is sane(.) or not(!). I'm not always either Up or Down... I'm pretty stable and normal most of the time. Today I am okay. Stressed, but really, I'm fine. So, shall we begin?

     You would think that I wouldn't want to talk about my suicide attempts. You'd be right, sort of. I don't like to talk about them. I need to. I feel them in me, like eels. This will be as basic as I can be about it. I tried to hang myself in my closet my first semester at college. The bar I was strapped to, by a brown leather belt, wasn't set into the wall well enough. It fell. As I tried to adjust it, my roommate walked in. I'm not religious... but I can take a hint. I am also a weenie for pain. I don't really believe I'd ever kill myself, knowing me as well as I do now. Not deep in me. I tried to leave it to fate once. I was driving on a very slick, wet, curvy road during a storm. I had no headlights, and I kept running red lights to see how long I'd last. I was doing 60 in a 45. I didn't even hit a kid or anything. And the pills don't count. Not really.
     Depression is not the scariest time for me. And, yes, I do sometimes have trouble telling the mania from the depression. For the most part, depression just makes me weak. I give up. I cry on my couch, throw up from stress, pace the house, hurt myself. It's bad. And maybe it should cause worry. But it's not a very dangerous time for me.
     The most dangerous place for me to be is in a manic state. I do terrible and dangerous things in a manic state. In fact, I have had depressive episodes triggered by thinking about the things I did while manic. I've shoplifted. I've disappeared for days. I've been driving down the interstate, and kinda started communicating with another driver- because we each had a foot hanging out the window. We pulled over at a gas station to hang out, and we hung out for hours. In the middle of the night, at a gas station, in an unfamiliar place. With a stranger I met on the highway. But I didn't sleep with him. He's about the only one.
     I've had sex with four different men in one week. I had sex with three different men in one day. It wasn't during that week. And only one man belongs to both of those sentences. I had sex with a man because he loved me. I had sex with a man because I wanted him to love me. I had sex with a man because I wanted to love him. Because he was there. Because I got turned on by music the band was playing. Because he was dating someone I thought I hated. Because he was the most beautiful man I'd ever met. Because I had sex with his brother, and it was good enough. Because he went through all that effort to get me to sleep with him.
     I don't know how many men I have slept with. I've never told anyone that. I've never said that out loud. It does not scare me. The number does not scare me. Not knowing scares me... not knowing them well enough, not knowing why I was doing it, not knowing what I wanted out of it. Those things scare me. I didn't care about my life enough to protect it, or to cherish love-making. I've only loved three... really loved three. And not high school drama loved. I would have only run away with three. I would have married, cried for, died for, and obeyed only three.
     I wouldn't say fidelity is an issue. Now. When the man is deserving, I guess. The Pretender was not deserving, but I loved him like he was. But he was the only undeserving one I never cheated on. DaVinci deserves more than I will ever be able to give him, and I give him everything I have, even things that are not his. I didn't love the others enough to care about fidelity. If they did not have what I wanted, I looked elsewhere. Like a bitch in heat, roaming. And The Poet was a victim of that. Because of how I felt, about him, about sex, about myself and even the man I was with- whom I felt nothing for- I was willing to use him. And I loved him. And I don't know if I hurt him.
     I was not out of control. I just wasn't holding the reins. But when I feel myself becoming manic, I hold on as tight as I can, then I hand the reins over to DaVinci. Because if I do not, I would hurt the man I love most. I would ruin my life, and every reason I have to work towards sanity.

The Fat Girl Always Knows What's Good at a Buffet

2009-12-31T13:58:00.000-06:00

     It's no secret that I'm chubby. Okay, more than chubby. For the past year I've had to buy size Large shirts and size 12 pants. I've 5'3" and 170 pounds. Two years ago I was a size eight, medium shirt. Almost 4 years ago I was a size 6, and after manic-depressive incident, I squeezed my ass into a size 4. So I know it can be done. I'm not saying a 4 is my goal, either. There's just no reason for me to be in the double-digits.
     It happened so slowly, too. I noticed it, but just never thought about how far along it could go. It happened when:
I quit smoking habitually.
I got married.
I moved to a city celebrated for its food.
I got a job with a desk... and a chair on wheels.
I got a big yard for my dogs to run around in (less walks).
I got switched from pill to pill to pill on my birth control.
I married a man who doesn't let me do dangerous things like leave in the middle of the night to run around, and he makes me eat like a normal person.
     During Christmas dinner, DaVinci's family decided to hold a weight-loss challenge. It's based on percentage of weight lost, so I have a chance. We weighed in that night (after a full day of celebratory meals). The winner gets $125, which would be nice. But win or lose, I'm looking to drop 42 pounds.
     So, now I've joined Spark. It's cool so far. I like that it's a good support network. It also holds me accountable for the things I put in my face, and my activity level. I don't track the Pilates video I do (at least three times a week); but I do track the 2 miles I've started walking every day, and I include a pedometer reading for that, just to be sure. Tracking food has been difficult. And I guess I could follow their meal plans, but it's not always what I want or what he wants; and it's a little difficult with the variances every day. So, I track what I eat, and log it into the computer. If I can't find what I ate, like something from a local restaurant, I just find something similar but more unhealthy. I'd rather err on the side of fat and unhealthy. It gives me a daily report of where I went wrong and how I can improve.
     I should also get back onto WiiFit. Maybe. Like do their cardio STTh, and do my Pilates MWF, all in the mornings. I walk in the evenings. Spark gives you a tool on a google map of your neighborhood, and you can trace a route and it tells you how far that is. I've found which track to take to make a mile. I like it. If I go by myself, I take one dog for each lap. If I'm with DaVinci, we take them both on the first lap, and then by ourselves for the second.
     It's a nice little support site. It gives me my calorie count for the day, as well as other things. There's a group for bipolar people, and a group for dog lovers, etc. It's been nice. But it's only been a week.

     Also, I hate being fat.

Sign of the Gypsy Queen

2009-12-17T16:19:00.000-06:00

     My service manager Chuck once made a huge mistake. He told me he was in a band. He claims that in high school he was a member of a band called April Wine. Well, I've looked them up. He was never in April Wine. His story has changed. His band did not know the popular Canadian band existed, and so were later made to change their name. He also said that Styx once performed, as an up-and-coming band, at a local Battle of the Bands- I believe it was at his same high school. This was right around the time that "Lady" had been released, but just before the band really took off. They were not in the "battle," just performing as headliners to generate a crowd.
     My dealership(s) recently had inventory, and all the other parts managers from our stores were required to join us in counting. Chuck is not in parts, but was invited nonetheless as a manager and representative and all-around-good-guy. I may have spread the rumor to ALL the other managers that "Chuck once opened for Styx." Whoops. He has since received questions and phone calls regarding his joining their band.  Which means that I get to listen and giggle as he explains that he never was in Styx, nor played with Styx, nor anything of the sort, but that he *was* in April Wine. I have also heard him continue on to explain that, no, he did not mean that April Wine. Teehee.
     It should also be noted that Chuck has sort of lived the rock star life. He once drove his car off a cliff. No, really. He was very ill, and was consequently sent home from work. During the drive, with the nice warm heater on, he calmly fell asleep and proceeded to drive his own vehicle over the edge of a cliff. Not a very rock-n-roll story, I know. This is why I leave it at "Chuck once drove his car off a cliff." He also had a car blow up. I know, right? His car caught fire and exploded with fire and shrapnel and BOOMS! and everything. Sounds totally bitchin', doesn't it? He was at a bowling alley, and someone's car began leaking fuel in the parking lot. It so happened that he parked in the lowest point in the lot, and the gasoline began to pool underneath it. A lit match was thrown by a careless smoker, and KABLOOEY! Chuck's car exploded.
     I just never understood how he has gone his whole life without being recognized as the rock star he truly is. I've known the man for years, and I have only recently learned these things. I admit, I did try to google him. Hey, I have a lot of free time here. I was not able to find any evidence to suggest any of these stories are true, but I believe him. Why make those things up, if only to be honest about his (non)appearance with Styx? However, while searching for my Chuck, I did keep coming across this guy. He's a wrestler, who's entry music was Tag Team's "Whoomp! (There it is)." I may have posted pictures around the office featuring the wrestler posing with Styx, claiming that our service manager has left to follow his rock-and-roll dreams. By the way, photoshop is much harder than it seems, so I just used Windows Paint, for that authentic look. This is going to be a super-fun Christmas.

For So Long It's Not True

2009-12-16T16:45:00.001-06:00

     Sorry about the gap in time and space where I should have been posting. It's the sort of situation where not having internet at home, being forced to "behave" at work, and not being in an episode have all collided, forming a virtual perfect storm of laziness, boredom, and procrastination.
     I've decided that, for the most part, nicknames are just a pain in the ass. I know that some members of Pink Velour and Co. do search their names on google, to see if they come up. They even search their names together, and the nickname I have given them for when we are together, to see if pictures of them appear. I will leave DaVinci, and other important people whom I reference frequently, because sometimes things can be found (addresses) by how much I can put out here. But, in the end, who really cares? Tessa, Tiffany, and Heather will eventually get over it, right?
     In other news, my sister and I are speaking again. We were fighting because, well, she's a bitch and I just can't care about certain things. But she just had a baby girl; and if I'm gonna fly out to visit with my new neice, it'll be nice to have a place to stay. My neice is fuckin' adorable, but wails like an ambulance siren. She looks just like her wonderful daddy (which is a plus, because my sis does not have a good track record with men).
     I really don't have much more going on. Christmas is coming up. We don't do a whole lot of gift-giving for adults. We really try to stick with family groups, rather than every individual in the tree, because there's a billion of them and those fuckers are expensive. Pink Velour and Co. pulled names, and each girl got a woman in the group and a child. I got the one kid who might as well be "Baby DaVinci" and the mom I know least about.  Sports equipment and kitchen utensils- done! At least I don't have to buy a gift for the nine, yes nine, other children in the group. Just the three neices and two nephews in the family. That's fifteen, and I may have even forgotten a few.
     I am a sucker for Christmas music, and the whole holly-jolly-lights-and-candy thing. I get excited about decorating and singing and eating cookies. I get more than a little giddy when driving past lit houses, buying eggnog, or mailing cards. Other than my birthday, it's the only holiday about which I get super-excited. Presents, oh well. Family, ok. Decorating a tree, oh my god I'll stab you if you don't include me. God forbid I have a grumpy grinch type amongst my friends. I hate people who try to ruin my great holiday and happy fun times just because they are sourpusses. And, yes, I will embarass them in front of their friends and loved ones for that transgression. I will give them coal, duct tape their hands behind them and string them with lights, and spike as many drinks as necessary to make them sing along to carols. This is serious, people. I'm not fucking around. Santa takes no prisoners, and snowmen show no mercy.
    For now, though, there's really not a whole lot happening. I thought an episode was approaching last week. I was having some sleep issues. I think it was just that with the cold weather finally getting here, I have been getting less exercise. Also, I started bringing my own coffee cup to work (I'm trying to be environmentally friendly!) and maybe my big cup was too much coffee for me to handle. Or maybe the refill was.

Her Office Has No Heat, But that Blouse is Adorable!

2009-12-05T09:26:00.001-06:00

     I have a fabulous scarf. It's a plum-ish color, and made from chenille. It is super-warm. It is beautiful. I wear it when I am cold but still want to look nice. I bought it at a Renaissance Festival. I got it when I met The Poet.
     I have a plain white undershirt. It's simple, with a v-neck. On it is written "kevlar." I used to wear it to exercise. It does not make me invincible. The Pretender made it for me.
     I have an "I'm with stupid" shirt. It was homemade for me when I graduated. My university seal is on the back. I sleep and do chores in this shirt. Since he did not finish college, DaVinci calls me the smart one, because I am the one with a degree.
     I have a big orange coat. It was in a bargain bin. There is one button missing, but it is only decorative anyway. It looks great with my scarf. It is a little tight. It has no fur. My mom got it for me for my birthday.
     I have a nice grey scarf. It was hand-knitted in front of me, and turned out to be my gift. It matches a lot of things I wear. It is not very warm. My sister gave it to me on Christmas morning last year.
     I have two pearl necklaces. I have several earrings. It is my favorite jewelry. It is not really mine. The Pretender's mom gave them to me, because she does not have a daughter anymore.
     I have a maroon shirt. It has a hand on it and says "Hang Loose." It is from Hawaii. The color comes from the ground on the islands. I cannot wash it; the color will leave the shirt and go to other fabrics. I do not wear it. My dad got it for me. I think of Brazilian music and hibiscus flowers and EverSmile when I see it.
     I have a D&B scarf. It is black with gold designs. I have never worn it. I don't know how to wear it. The Pretender's step-mom gave it to me.
     I have a necklace that has a tiny silver heart and several tiny fake pearls on it. Ever since I was little, I wanted to wear it with my wedding dress. It did not match my dress. I wore it as an anklet, though, as my "something old." My mom gave it to me to play with.
     I have ladybug earrings. They are beautiful. They are tiny. Ladybugs are my favorite animal. They show up around me often. I believe they follow me. My earrings were a gift from my mom "to bring harmony back."
     I have a tungsten band on my left ring finger. I was never proposed to. He traded in the ring he would have given me in exchange for wedding bands for the ceremony. We are supposed to have tattooed bands, but I am a weenie. Some people think it is hematite, which is cheap and breaks. I tell people the word "tungsten"- written on the inside- means "every day." But it does not; and "every day" means something special to us. DaVinci has given me "every day" just as he gave me the tungsten band.
     All of these things I have. And I have more. I love my things, even though they are only things. I love the stories behind my things. I love the people I remember when I think of those things. And while every memory may not be as sweet, I am fond of the idea that I had so many people to care for me, and who want me to have nice things.

Sometimes We All Listen to the Rolling Stones

2009-12-04T10:34:00.001-06:00

1) Do you like sprinkles on your ice cream?
As a matter of fact, I do. I prefer them with a simple flavor, such as peach or pistachio.
And to answer a question that was once addressed by Aunt Becky, "jimmies" seem to be the longer ones, while "sprinkles" are the smaller dots, and I like both.

2) If you had to choose one word to banish from the English language, what would it be and why?
I am not a fan of "undesirable." No one should ever be made to feel that way. Everyone has some trait or quirk that is off-putting (and most can be ignored), but no one should be regarded as undesirable. The fact that it is even a word is a little disheartening.

3) If you were a flavor, what would it be?
Crazy's not a flavor? Perhaps then Candy Cane Stracciatella. It's my favorite flavor of gelato made here. Actually, everything made by Carmelo is fantastic, and I would be any one of them. MMMMMMMM.

4) What’s the most pointless annoying chore you can think of that you do on a daily/weekly basis?
Folding clothes. If it cannot be wrinkled, then it should be on a hanger. And if it can be wrinkled, why do I bother folding it? I have been known to fly off the handle while folding clothes. It's the only chore that has made me cry on a regular basis.

5) Of all the nicknames I’ve ever had in my life, Aunt Becky is the most widely known and probably my favorite. What’s your favorite nickname? (for yourself)
Heh, I have several. I love "Monkey" because DaVinci gave it to me, and calls me that all the time.

6) You're stuck on a desert island with the collective works of 5 (and only five) musical artists for the rest of your life. Who are they?
The Rolling Stones, The Postal Service, Bob Dylan, Reel Big Fish, and Leonard Cohen. Easy.

7) Everything is better with bacon. True or false?
I vote true. I once had bacon flavored gelato, and it was just so delicious.

8 ) If I could go back in time and tell Young Aunt Becky one thing, it would be that out of chaos, order will emerge. Also: tutus go with everything. What would you tell young self?
Sex is not the same thing as affection. Leash your dog.

The Pompitous of Making Up Words

2009-12-01T10:54:00.001-06:00

     Also spelled pompatus. Though, I guess if it's not really a word, then it doesn't matter how I spell it.
     I once made up a word. It's a verb: remagine. It's conjugated the same way as "imagine." It basically is the verb to describe the action of experiencing deja vu. Because saying "I experienced deja vu just now when you said that" or "I had a deja vu experience today, when you picked up your keys and that song came on," is a little wordy. "Whoa, I totally just remagined that whole conversation." See, sounds much better. The main word and it's prefix fit really well; and together they pretty much mean the act of experiencing deja vu. Pretty good, eh?
     Work is boring today. It was "end of month" yesterday, so all of my accounting is done, and everything is filed away. I play pogo.com games all day long when I am this bored. I haven't been in a mood to read, and that kinda sucks. I still try to read in bed. The past few nights I have been exhausted, though. Thankfully, the library loves me and lets me keep checking out books and renewing them.
     Monday Night Football struck my family last night. If the Thursday and/or Monday game is good enough, we *have* to watch it. I am normally a football widow, mostly weekends. In fact, DaVinci is a sports nut. So, really, any sport makes me a widow. "We" officially cheer for the following teams:
Liverpool Reds for Premiership Football
Oakland Raiders for NFL
Oakland A's for MLB (no, I do not live in Oakland, why do you ask?)
Michigan (go Wolverines!) for NCAAF

We unofficially cheer for the following:
Duke for NCAAB (bro-in-law is huge fan)
Nebraska for NCAAF (bro-in-law is huge fan)
Anyone who isn't Ohio State or USC in NCAAF
Fuck anything that's considered Texas, for any sport
Hornets in NBA, but I have a thing for Sean Marks
Ice Pilots for ECHL, but I'm not sure they are even a team anymore
Celtics for NBA (bro-in-law again)
Redskins for NFL, Moneyballs is a massively dangerous fan, too bad they suck!
Saints for NFL, seems to be the current trend
Arsenal for Premiership (though I'm all Italian and Brazilian for World Cup, etc.)

     I'd like to see the Colts and the Saints both go undefeated this season, just so that they can both go to the Superbowl. Either way, one will win, and one will lose. It would mean that the '72 Dolphins will finally shut the fuck up about going undefeated for an entire season. Besides the Patriots may not have gone an entire season undefeated (losing to the Giants in the '07 season Superbowl), but they still won more games total. I <3 dreamy Tom Brady.
     That's all I have in sports for now. I hope it stays that way.

Talking to Her Was Like Dancing with a Lame Koala

2009-11-27T10:59:00.000-06:00

My favorite therapist/counselor was Pat. Pat was a grad student, and was the best thing that ever happened to me. Why did Pat rock so hard? What made Pat stand out?
1) Never called me a liar.
2) Never locked the door.
3) Never told me that my problems were my problems and that I had to live with that.
4) Never offered to sleep with me.
5) Asked me if I needed to move to a "safe house."
6) Brought snacks for my dog, and let me bring her to sessions.
7) Understood that when I describe something, I rely heavily on analogy, because it's easier for others.
8) Not once recommended drugs.
9) Offered to run with me at the gym.
10) LISTENED more than he spoke.
11) Let me see what he wrote in his notebook about me.
12) Let me smoke in his office.
13) Never assigned me worksheets to do at home.
14) Set goals for me to get through the day.
15) Spent my entire first session with me in the pillow room and didn't once ask what was wrong.
16) Believed me when I promised I'd never attempt it again.
17) Told me it wouldn't go away, but could get better.
18) Congratulated me with a soda on three days sober.
19) Recommended me to a non-student for real help when he graduated.
20) Finally helped me.
I try to revel in the fact that I had a Pat. Becasuse to remember what I had without a Pat is just really, really heartbreaking.
Yesterday, I was thankful that I once had a Pat.

She Used to Believe Music Was More Real than Fiction

2009-11-25T17:49:00.000-06:00

     My facebook occasionally tells me "reconnect with so-and-so: write on his wall." Usually I think to myself, "Oh, well, I don't talk to him, I'll just delete him instead. And I don't mind. How many have deleted me? It's about even either way. I read an article today about a man trying to delete 101 of his 400 friends, and it was difficult to associate with 70 of those 83 he did delete.
     Recently, The Pretender came up. "Make Facebook better for him; send him a message." Granted we had a VERY ugly break-up, and a semi-ugly relationship. But as friends we were, well, we should never have been friends. Our lives are not really intertwined anymore, and our mutual friends have all moved on as we have. But I sent him a message. Because I do not have friends to spare. Besides, I loved him once, and do still feel a concern for his general well-being. Although it's no excuse, his life was warped long before he realized it, and he was never able fix it- and the drug use only maimed any hope of recuperation. And everyone agrees we were both too crazy to be safe for each other.
     I told him facebook wanted me to check on him, "I'm good, and hope you are as well. StressExcess tells me your are doing well. Keep it up." His response was along the lines of his confliction with talking to me and that he's okay. I wrote back, explaining that all confliction aside, I have realized that while we may never be friends again, we will always share some concern for the other, and that's okay.
     I hope he does better in his life. I hope he gets happy again. I hope he has let go, too. Finally, I can be free from emotional responsibility or obligation. At least this once.

There's Grey, Black, White, and Black and White

2009-11-23T13:27:00.000-06:00

     While sitting around with Pink Velour and Co., one of the wives asked me, "So, you've been drinking a lot lately. What gives?" "It's nothing, really. Just a bad week." FishMomGrr doesn't like that answer. She also isn't around enough to really know me. She doesn't know that sometimes I don't hang out with them because I spent the entire day drinking, or lying on my couch crying. She doesn't know that sometimes I go over with DaVinci to watch the game with everyone, but end up playing with my dogs behind the house anyway, because I cannot be cooped up in that house with all of them, and I really need some sunshine and fresh air and to get all this energy out of me. Actually, only DaVinci really gets it, and only because he's been around for so long, and he lives with it. People who don't live with it, like myself or like DaVinci, don't understand bipolar disorder. Nor do they understand that it gets people differently. Even people who know someone who is bipolar, which I hear a lot, say to me, "Oh, well, that's not how so-and-so is."
     REALLY? Because I thought all of us crazy people were the same. I hear, "Well, my mother-in-law is bipolar, and she's really bad off. She can't even handle a job." I hear, "When my cousin got diagnosed she had to spend a weekend under observation. Have you ever been locked up?"
     I have a job. I have a job because my mom is my boss and she knows. She doesn't get it, but she has an idea. She knows there are days when I can't sit upright because I've cried myself into dry heaves. She knows I wear long sleeves even in summer because I claw my arms up trying to hurt the pain. But she doesn't understand how I feel. I have a marriage because I have a husband who tells me that as long as I'm not crying, I can go ahead and drive for a few hours, so long as I promise to come back. He tells me it's okay to not go into work today because I might try to drive off a bridge on my way in. He wrestles me; and has taken me and my dogs for a walk in the middle of the night because I was too "up" to sleep.
     Once I told someone that I had been diagnosed as bipolar, and her response was, "Do you sometimes feel invincible? Do you have a regular cycle of feelings of hopelessness countered with despair?" She was asking me textbook questions over dinner about how I feel. Well, no, I don't feel invincible. I'm unstoppable, though. I'm amazing and I kick ass. I do everything right, and when I do something wrong, it's hysterical. And during a low point, I vomit at the thought of making a decision. I have run away in my pajamas in the rain during the night when I lived in the 'hood because DaVinci didn't understand what I was trying to say, and he wouldn't say the right thing back.
     My sister, the nurse who has known me my whole life who was also once institutionalized for six weeks, doesn't get it either. A week went by and we didn't speak, so she called to check if I was okay. I was hysterical because it was the middle of the day, and there were over 200 channels with nothing on, and my socks didn't match, and for some reason I kept getting mail for someone who doesn't live in my house, and all my clothes needed to be folded, and DaVinci was having dinner with a friend from back home and didn't even ask if I wanted to go. She asked why I wasn't at work. "Because I'll drink bleach before I go back to that hellhole." Granted, my job sucked some major balls- enough to call the IRS after I quit- but know I was also a little dramatic. I even looked up how much bleach I'd have to drink to get sick but not die. It wasn't all that much, and I almost did it. She said, "3xE, everyone has bad days." A bad day is a stubbed toe, or a forgotten bank account password. A bad day is not let's see how many red lights I can drive through without an accident.
     Of all the problems I list when I'm feeling out of it, none of them are actually the problem. I know that. DaVinci knows that. It's taken him a few years, but he's learned that much. He has sworn to try to keep things as consistent as possible for me. He tries to do the same things every week (on this day, we visit friends, on this day we eat out, on this day we bathe dogs, etc). I've gotten to where I can kind of feel an episode coming on. I give him a bit of a notice, and he doesn't mind if I cry. He still gets very frustrated, but he so rarely gets mad at me anymore. Depending on how I feel, he'll leave me at home to go hang with the group solo, or he'll grab some couch and watch Harold and Maude with me, again.
     So, as of now, I have decided to stop mentioning the craziness to people. I'll lie, like I have before. Food poisoning, death in the family, stray dog bite, the flu. I've lied to bosses who think people can work when they're "sad." I've lied to professors who don't understand that cutting myself is not, in fact, a cry for help. When a friend asks why I hadn't been around, I must have been ill. If I've been drinking, it's because my mom needs a drinking buddy after she's fired someone, every day for a week. Uncrazies don't speak the language.

Her Reaction to that Song is Nudity

2009-11-16T17:37:00.003-06:00

Went out for DaVinci's birthday Saturday night. I remember three drinks. Apparently DaVinci bought me two, MomFace bought me one, and RockSalt bought me three. That's six. That's six that other drunk people can remember... so, who knows?
I remember some key moments:

MoneyBalls telling everyone how much he makes, and being more than impressed. I admire him, but in no way do I envy him.
RockSalt telling me he's gonna try and hit on DaVinci's new friend (she's still young, but dating someone).
Unbuttoning my shirt to She Wants Revenge, and telling DaVinci "It's on now, mothafucka!"
Trying to teach the new one about The Pogues.
The Krewe of Snuggies on parade, and coming into the bar to annoy us.
The random bunch of people in footie p.j.'s, not with the Snuggies, and my drunk ass asking them if they were here to battle the Snuggies.
My phone falling apart on the ride home.
DaVinci explaning to me that RockSalt inappropriately touches everyone's wives, but it's expected. Eww.
RockSalt asking if my boobs got bigger. Yes, but only because I've gained weight.
MoneyBalls pointing out the CrabMan from My Name is Earl sitting behind him.
BritPunk slipping me cigarettes under the table, and me trying to be discreet about lighting one- in a dark bar it kinda shows- and then not hiding the fact that I was smoking, just lighting up.
I do not remember dancing. I do not remember texting my dad, although it's very common for me to drunk-text my dad. I do not remember going to bed. I do not remember saying "The door's over there? But it's so far." I do not remember much.
But I do regret waking up yesterday. Gin and Seven, at least it wasn't rum. I know I can go back to it, but, man, it made me so ill. I was shaking in the bathtub and could not make it to the toilet. MomFace was no better off. She was drinking whiskey, and she hates whiskey. It must hate her, too. Fortunately, this is not something we do often. Unfortunately, we all had such a good time, we all stated we would like to do it more often.
Really, it was awesome. But I'm going to go on a four-drink-minimum.

Quick and Easy, Just Like Stir-Fry

2009-11-03T17:44:00.002-06:00

The girl I work with used to date the loser-drug-addict type. We've all been there. They separated (i.e. she kicked him out of her life because she has a daughter to watch out for) a few months ago. Well, little known to us (the 8 or so of us in this department), she was kind of still seeing him. The fucker died- DIED- yesterday on her day off. Fell out a window or something. This means overtime for me and sad times for her. But I have to admit, I'm a little relieved. He was not a good person.
I think I'll start doing the one-minute writer in here. It'll give me something to go on everyday, and there's a Fiction Friday! I guess there will be the one-minute section, and maybe a blurb about goings-on or events as I need to vent about them. Of course, I make no guarantees. On anything. Other than right now, all I want is a fruit smoothie.

She Might Want to Play a Different Part

2009-11-02T12:03:00.003-06:00

     Just read something super-funny over at Texts From Last Night:
(505): Thank you for holding my vodka while the police let me ride their horse.
     I'm currently reading three books. The first is Anti-Story, a collection of alternative short fiction. I've been reading it for three years. It's fantastic. I keep re-reading selections, and am reading others for the first time. It's my "leave in the car and take with me everywhere" book. I can read a shorter or longer piece depending on the wait I have... or a harder piece if I'm around Pink Velour and Co., like last night.

     The second book is my "leave at work" book. When I'm not distracted by customers or the internet, I do read a lot here. It's Umberto Eco's On Literature. It's a collection of essays and lectures he's given. I like it at work because it's a lot of short pieces, and I can skip selections. I mean, really, I don't and shouldn't read some of the articles because a few are on specific works with which I am not familiar enough to get that deep into. An article that mentions Karenina? Sure, I know she dies and even how. But an article solely on Dante's Paradisio? Don't know enough about it, just the Inferno.
     My bedtime book is also Eco, Limits of Interpretation. These are my first experiences reading about literature, reading about theory. I'm very relieved that I can follow this. His writing is very...well, palatable. Even knowing that English is not the language it was written in, it still has a clear voice to it, and the vocabulary is accessible. I read this at home as an excuse to lay in bed, not watch television, and stay up late. Pretty interesting stuff, too. Other than a linguistics class I once took (that turned out to be cross-listed as a cognitive science class and way over my head) I've never thought of literary theory as having graphs and charts. I guess it makes sense, though. My mentor always drew things to help us get what she was talking about.
     Going back to Pink Velour and Co.: Spent a bit of yesterday hangin' with MommyJubs and her husband. She said she usually has too much going on (remodeling the house and watching two kids) to get into a book. I told her she should read short stories or poetry. It's better than vacummig while the baby's asleep, right? She's got potential to learn things. Went to Pink Velour's house later last night, MomFace was there as well. I had some pictures of my new neice (cute as a button) tucked into the pages of On Literature. Pink Velour's comment was, "Wow, that's a big book, I don't know how you read so much." "Oh, it's not that bad. This is mostly short stuff." "I could never bring myself to read such a big book; it's too hard." She really thinks that the bigger a book is, the harder it is to read.
     This summer, just to pass time at work when HR said we couldn't get on the internet, I read Terry Goodkind's entire Sword of Truth series. It was a fantasy series written for adults (lots of rape and BDSM). It was a nice series; I enjoyed it. The great thing about libraries is that I can read a metric fuckton of books for free. An added bonus to the library is that most of their copies are hardcover, and in excellent condition. Pink Velour honestly thought for a while that I was reading one or two HARD books a week! I was so honored.
     I'm a bit of a book snob. This is shocking to me, because, well, I'm not that well-read. I know a lot about literature without having actually read most of it. Moby Dick, Invisible Man, Wuthering Heights, Eliot, Blake, Shakespeare- I'm a pro at most of it. I'm familiar with a lot of American Lit, but I am more educated In British Lit. World Lit is my weakest point, but I can still hold my own in a conversation if the other person isn't too into it. That's what makes me a big ol' book snob: other people.
True Conversations between DaVinci and the girl who cuts his hair:
     "I just bought this book. I mean, I don't really read or anything. But it's about how to keep your boyfriend from cheating on you."
     "Sounds like a good book."
     "It's okay. I mean, well, it doesn't say what to do if he's already cheated on you."
     "Does it say to leave him?"
     "My BFF said I should leave him too, but I dunno. I just bought that whole book."
and, yes, it gets better:
     "My wife and I watched Hamlet 2 last night. It was pretty funny, you might like it."
     "I've never seen the first Hamlet."
     "Well, you can watch Hamlet 2 without having seen the first one. It's like a separate movie."
     "Well, was that one good?"
     "Yeah. It's a tragedy by Shakespeare. It's not as funny as Hamlet 2, so I don't know if you'd like it as much."
     "Wow, how do you know so much about Hamlet?"

     DaVinci is my genius. My own pocket book of facts; my go-to guy for do-it-yourself projects. He cannot take care of himself, but he's a pro if you're not him. He went to college for accounting, and dropped out because "it was bullshit that I had to take so many classes about shit I already knew." He still helps MommyJubs' husband, and he's the next in line to be the VP at the bank for which he works. Does DaVinci work at a bank? No, DaVinci works in a marine supply warehouse. Yeah, doing manual labor. He has done it on and off for about nine years. But he does damn near everything on his own. He enjoys being his own man, and knowing everything and how to do anything. He was told as a child and later on as an adult that he may have Asperger's- a high-functioning form of autism. He's never been officially diagnosed. I do see it sometimes, in his little odd characteristics. However, (and this shocks people because he's not really a nice person) he's friendly and people seem to love him. He's honest and really efficient. He is a loyal friend, and hates bullshit. I don't know. I don't think it's Asperger's; I think he's just a great person.

She Was Feeling Angry... And Justified

2009-10-30T10:52:00.004-05:00

     I'm going to start this off with a reminder that I am a bad friend. Terrible. After I realize that I have lost a friend, I find myself writing to them years later explaining that I'm insane and I'm sorry, but I understand. We never get back to the level of friendship we were at (because they have learned that I'm clingy and crazy), but for the most part they forgive me. Sometimes, though, I'm actually the ~~sane~~ good friend.

     You see, I have a friend, StressExcess, who, by her nickname, you can understand that she's a tense person. Yes, her life is stressful- but who's isn't? She has disowned her family, lost most of her belongings during a natural disaster, and is not living her dream life. Now, I know I'm being a tad critical when I say this, but 1) she disowned her family because they were bad for her (they did not leave her, either- her choice); 2) I lost a lot of things in that disaster as well, but you know, it was just stuff; 3) she doesn't know what she does want, only what she doesn't; and her husband is living out his dream with her help, and they do have a pretty good thing going and things are getting better for them all the time.
     StressExcess is a good person. She planned my entire wedding, and kept it a surprise for me. How awesome is that!?! She has talked me down through a lot of bad times, including The Pretender hitting me and cheating on me. (Which is a little fucked up because he's now apparently dating her BFF from her new home.) She's always been there. I've tried my best to be there for her, as well. I really did. But it gets all fucked up because, as responsible as she and her husband seem, they forget to be considerate. For instance, we took in her, her husband, her two brothers, her sister, and her father during this natural disaster (thankfully, it was the college years- the Pretender and I lived together away from "home" where the disaster hit hardest), as well as another friend, for a few days. She and her husband up and left. Her dad took the brothers to a hotel. But she left the sister. They left her sister! She had no car and no job, and they all left. We got one note, written in lipstick on a mirror (which is a bitch to clean) that said, "Had to go back to get some things. Thanks for the couch." That's it. They never came back for her. For two months this girl stayed with us, for some unexplained reason. This includes seeing them every week for something we were all a part of... they just never mentioned her or anything. I know, right?
     Well, last night was no different. Haven't seen her in a year, and she lives like five or six states away. She's flying in to my area! She asks me not to tell anyone she'll be in town, because she just wants a vacation with her husband. Stupid me thinks she told me because she wants me to know, like she wants to see me. I suggest dinner, or seeing each other on one of the TWO days I have off this week. "I'm sorry, I just want to chill with [mother-in-law] and stay low-key. We could meet up somewhere and just say 'hi.'" WTF??? Say HI? She's not in my city, she's an hour and a half away, but still closer than she's been for a year. I have two whole days, and just want to see her for a while for one of them. She wants to say hi? Then, a friend from the city she now lives in, who is dating The Pretender, is coming in later this week and wants to go sight-seeing in MY city. Okay, fine, I'm not invited. But I get to "say hi" and this bitch gets a fucking tour for a day? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do feel snubbed.
     Her appendix decided to get all explodey while on this vacation. Her husband calls me, and I ask if we can visit, because, well, I'm worried and it's a good excuse to drive and see her anyway. Yay! I get my visit. He gives me the address, and DaVinci is gonna drive us there after work. After work... I get off at 6:30, to drive an hour and a half there to see a sick friend and an hour and a half back to go to work in the morning. I text them both when we leave my work, and say we'll be there about eight. Get 15 MINUTES from there, and her husband calls me. "Ugh, 3xE? Where are you?" "At the Taco Bell (ick) grabbing a quick bite before we get to your mom's." "Stay there. We forgot you were coming, and were on our way to a movie." Basically, DaVinci and I drove for 3 hours for Taco Bell and StarBucks. Sure, I got to see them; and boy, don't I feel relieved that I got to see my best friend?

It Was the New Scarf Which Had Her By the Throat

2009-10-29T12:31:00.001-05:00

     There have been very few moments in my life where I felt like I stood out and meant something to someone. I am not a leader by any means; and I am a stubborn follower. If the term didn't gross me out, I might consider myself to be middle management. That's a very dirty phrase. I've taken part in some really odd conversations, where my brain just sort of sparks and I suddenly make valid points or say something beautifully true.

     My first time hanging with a particular group, and they were discussing Deja Vu (sp?). The theory in discussion was that your brain holds a sort of script about what you expect to see and hear. For instance, when you go to Taco Bell, you know the kid's gonna say "Welcome to Taco Bell. May I take your order, please?" The same goes for even your wackiest friends. Just because you know them to say outlandishly funny and uncalled-for things, you still have an idea of what will spill out. Well, that's a good theory, but what if it's a new situation? My ass blurted out, "Sometimes it seems more like I'm remembering what happened before I actually know what happened." The psych major turned to me and said, "That's actually what the most prominent theory says. Pretty smart for a freshman."
     There was more that followed, including a lot of "You sure you never covered this before?" Thanks, but I'm not stupid. I mean, I do stupid things- because I sometimes lack emotional control and reactions. I actually think about things, though.
     Same group, a few years later, they were discussing the upcoming presidential election. "Why does it have to be a Tuesday? My boss is never there on Tuesdays, and that's the one day I can't leave." "Well, I know it's always the first Tuesday after the first Monday, not necessarily the first Tuesday of every November." "Really? That's strange. Why not just call it the first Tuesday of November, since that's after the first Monday?" I don't follow politics, but I have this one- "The first Tuesday of November doesn't always follow the first Monday. If November 1st is a Tuesday, then the first Monday is almost a week later." "Then why would they specifically say 'the first Tuesday after the first Monday?'" Me, again, knowing things, "Because the 1st of November is All Saints Day, and this nation was founded on predominantly Catholic/Christian principles. No one was going to vote on a holiday." Score one for me.
     Within the same conversation, a few minutes later, I scored again. "Hmm. I know that the Church of England is, you know, ripped off from the Catholic church, but why don't we have anything like that here?" "Because this isn't England?" And I strike again, "We do, it's the Episcolpalian (sp?) church... it's just like the Anglican Church. Remember when Catholics and Protestants didn't really get along? That was during a lot of the initial travels to and colonization of the new world. People who didn't fit in with their area got sent away or left." No, I was not a genius, just used common sense. I am so proud of that one night. Yeah, I rock.
     Also, on a date with The Pretender, I said something kind of pretty. I was rocking out to some awesome song, and I rock out with the volume deafening and always sing along. After the song, I lowered the volume and apologized. "I'm sorry. That's just such a great song. I have to listen to it at the top of my lungs." I realized how stupid I sounded, and blushed. But I've always liked what it meant to me.... to love a song so much that it becomes a part of you, and comes out through you as well as your speakers. To listen at the top of your lungs...
     Alright, that's about all I've got for now. I'm a little busy as of late. I just like reminiscing about moments like that when I felt brilliant, in all of its meanings.

She Was Just Whistlin' Dixie and Walkin' with a Can of Bug Spray

2009-10-28T16:29:00.001-05:00

     These next few posts will probably be very short, and I may even miss a few days here and there. I have plenty of excuses: I tend to not write as much when I'm not in an episode; business is picking up and my bosses think I should be busy with that; I just got a slew of books I've never heard of to read about literature I have memorized; I get too easily distracted by the internet; etc. But I do have things to write about... mostly good things, too.
     I just got done laughing my ass off at the article and comments over at Mommy Wants Vodka. Today's post was on being a klutz and/or having to make up excuses for the remains of injuries. I confess, I, too, am a trip to the E.R. waiting to happen. The article made me reminisce about all my fun injuries: slamming my finger in a car door because I was trying to flip off and get in at the same time; opening my dorm door into my face and breaking my nose; getting glass stuck in my foot because a stray cat touched my leg, scaring the crap out of me, and I dropped the glass while screaming "You rob me, I'll kill you;" walked into a stop sign because I was looking for a four-leaf clover... Sadly, there's more.

     Aside from a serious case of distraction, I have recently borrowed books from the library. I do this often, because I'm poor. The two I have now are by Umberto Eco, and they cover, well, I don't know, I haven't started yet. I am introducing myself to literary theory. Looking for information about what I do with literature, I had a friend and a former professor recommend books. Between the two, Jackpot!!!!! Maybe I'll really learn something now. I mean, besides how to read. I was in my third year of college when I took this amazing class and felt, literally, like I had just learned to read. I was an English major, so it was kind of a big deal for me. I can't wait to go to grad school!
     I have a problem keeping friends. I meet someone, and if the "like" is mutual, we become friends. That's easy. I am a terrible friend. First of all, I hate text messages, and rarely respond to them- but I drunk text all the time. Second, I'm not very reliable as a supporting person. I support most arts, and I will go to public readings, performances, exhibits, and shows. I rarely go to things I have to pay for if they are "those types" of things. Third, I am also not really good at comforting the unhappy, angry, bereaved, etc. I'm a great drinking buddy. Fourth, I have a history of losing friends because I am crazy. I have lost friends because of unfounded suspicions, mishearing things, being too clingy, and sleeping with them, or trying to.
     It's rare for me to be friends with someone for more than two years. I hate to admit this, but I'm sort of bewildered by my relationship with DaVinci. I mean, the wedding was kind of sudden, so I'm always waiting for it to implode. Like he'll wake one day and realize we don't belong together. If he does, he's right. If he doesn't, well, I married someone who puts up with me. I love DaVinci; he's such a trooper. He's brutally honest, and tells me when he thinks the crazy is coming on, even when it's just me. He's also a little mean, and on more than one occasion has lied to make me think I'm crazy. Granted, he confessed later after he found out that I called my sister in tears thinking I had started having delusions (which would be new for me, but not unexpected). It was funny, much later. Much, much later.
     So, I sometimes expect that it was wrong to marry him. Both of us being children of divorce, it's not something we'd ever consider. He's ten years my elder and interested in things that bore me to sleep. Somehow, though, he's perfect for me. I don't trust my opinions, normally, because I have slept with too many people (numbering more than I will admit to anyone- if I could remember them all- and including 4 females). Everyone else thinks it was a great idea, including him! So it must be right. He's the only person I know of who would have stayed with me through my: running away in the rain barefoot and in pj's, trying to run over him with my car, applying to grad school, etc. And the really fucked up part, he's always right. I mean, ALWAYS. He's only been wrong about a few things: the definition of "impeach," a few wrong moves in bored/card games like Mancala and Cribbage, and just how dangerous I can get during an episode. He's learned from each error he's ever made, and makes fewer and fewer mistakes as the days pass. It's eerie. So, he was right in choosing me. Had to have been.
     And I lucked out. I probably would have married anyone. That's a very scary thought for me. I would have married anyone. I would have married The Pretender, and lived my life in Vegas being treated like an unfortunate excuse for a trophy wife. I would have married The Poet, and have to spend my life in this city that I'm trying to escape. I would have married EverSmile, who would give up on me after a few uncalled-for events. I would have married PunchDrunk, who would have taken all my pills and lost all my money. I would have married anyone. And I lucked out. I married the one guy who makes me smile every day. He tries his hardest to make things consistent, so that I can detect changes in myself. He loves me, and asks me questions. He allows me to be his lover and his whore, without making me feel obligated or guilty. He lets me buy him presents for his birthday, and introduces me to new things. I've married the man who lets me love him.
     It doesn't get better than that realization.
     Today's theme was brought to you by a Pinterism, "lists."

I Never Noticed I Couldn't See the Leaves

2009-10-26T17:03:00.001-05:00

     When a friend from college got contact lenses, she told me, "It's like all of a sudden I can see in 3-D." I wear contacts, so I knew what she meant. The world just seems a little closer, a little more realistic. That's how I began to feel yesterday. I woke up feeling like I was back; I have returned from the darkside.
     DaVinci was having a football weekend, and I'm a little tired of it. Saturday night was spent drinking with FaceMom, another wife of the group. She went crazy a few years ago and left her husband and two kids to be a lesbian. We talked for hours about being crazy, and the stupid things we've done. Sober and in the real world, I'm not so sure we could be friends. Apparently, we have a lot in common. It felt kind of good to talk to someone about things I've never told anyone. We talked about men and mistakes. We talked about sex, anguish, and coping techniques. Oh, the sweet relief of honesty. I had never even told my therapists some of the things I told her. We talked about times we've cheated and been cheated on. We talked about the men we miss, the ones who made us feel great, the ones who made us feel worthless. We told each other about things we wish we could've avoided (even if it means a different life now). I've told people about my suicide attempts, just never felt understood until MomFace. She told me about what happened to her as a child, her mother, and what she thinks that means for her now. I told her about the drugs, the men, and cutting myself. As long as we don't got insane together, I finally feel like I can talk to someone about all of this.
     The second part of my football-free weekend involved a friend from high school. I haven't seen him in years, so I was expecting it to be all "blast from the past." It was so much better than that! We hung out for hours and talked books. Books! Real books! Borges, Marquez, Lawrence, Pinter, Beckett, Frisch. Like I said before, I'm good at writing about literature. I just never learned the professional terminology, like what kind of approach it is, and what it is I'm doing. Nor have I ever read anything about it. Thank goodness for Grad Students! He has since sent me a list of books about the approach and theories about it. I have hit the jackpot, and grad school is going to be so much better now. We're both going to read selections from Borges's Collected Fictions and meet up around Thanksgiving to talk about them. Like a book club. Like friends.
     I have never been happier to have a friend.

What a Smile Can Say

2009-10-24T11:35:00.030-05:00

If you really want to know what a sane conversation between exes sounds like, this is how it goes. I did edit names and places. This is the sanest person I have ever met.

3xE: hah! you do exist!
EverSmile: hello married lady.
3xE: hello
EverSmile: i heard that you got married.
3xE: yeah. you'd be proud. he accepts the crazy and everything
EverSmile: oh.
that's great!
but kind of sad for me
i guess i already had my chance
3xE: nah, you wouldn't want me now. you know i got diagnosed as bipolar?
it's no surprise, but sucks all the same.
EverSmile: oh
i knew all along
it's okay, most women have bipolarness
3xE: well, i would like to apologize for being a nutcase. i should have been nicer to you.
EverSmile: thank you. i liked you anyway, and still do.
3xE: aww, that's sweet. i still think fondly of you
EverSmile: you thought fondly of me in the beginning?
3xE: i thought of you the other day. a friend was talking about battlebots
always have
EverSmile: hahahah
battlebots...
my old love
hey, remember that picture of you with a black eye?
3xE: yeah
EverSmile: i still have it, i saw it when i moved about a month ago
it's pretty cool
3xE: i was wondering what happened with that
i thought i threw it away. i threw away an entire box of photos one night.
EverSmile: awwww =
=(
3xE: it happens
it was a bad time when i did it, and i wanted to start over.
so. how are you? besides 2 frugal?
EverSmile: hahaha
well, i'm in shanghai right now
on a little business trip
3xE: what!?!
EverSmile: yeah i work for a microchip design house in [city]
and our factories are all in asia
i have a girlfriend back in [city], who is really pretty cool
actually some things about her remind me of you quite a bit
3xE: that's great.
she crazy too?
my sis lives in [still came city]
EverSmile: small waist, nice butt
hazel eyes, brown hair
5'6"
i feel like maybe your laugh is the same, but i don't really remember yours enough to say
it's kind of weird, now that i think about it
you are similar to her
3xE: heh
EverSmile: what are you doing these days:?
[insert former workplace]?
3xE: I work for my mom outside of [insert another city], back home. a car dealership. but i am applyign to grad school. hopefully to start in the fall
EverSmile: majoring in?
3xE: literature. i'd like to work on modern fiction
EverSmile: oh
that sounds cool
3xE: not to be a writer, but a teacher
EverSmile: you always said that you wanted to teach
3xE: it's the only way to stay in school after graduation
what's shanghai like?
EverSmile: whoops
hellooooo?
3xE: ama t work,, gimme a sec
EverSmile: ok
3xE: ok, back
EverSmile: hi
3xE: i work for my mom, and she just got back from [city]. my sis lives there and just had a baby
EverSmile: oh
mb me and your sister should be friends
3xE: hehehe
maybe. she lives in [close city]
EverSmile: yeah that's close by
do you ever visit her? we could all go get lunch! yay!
3xE: hehehehe
i'm supposed to go in january. my birthday is then, and i'm getting the baby a shirt that says "baby's 1st Aunt 3xE's birthday"
EverSmile: hahahaha
that's funny
3xE: so, life....
EverSmile: life?
3xE: how's yours? mine is okay.
you live in [city], currently in shanghai, have a girl who sounds just fantastic if she's like me, and....
EverSmile: i would like a poodle.
that will complete my life.
3xE: standard, i hope?
EverSmile: toy.
3xE: too small for you. you need a dog who can keep up with you.
you do things. you ahve hobbies and interests.
and i type poorly
EverSmile: oh, right
i mountain bike
i'm starting a little company
that's about it
3xE: i blog anonymously. and stalk ex-boyfriends
don't really ahvea hobby
EverSmile: oh, your xanga?
i read it all the time.
3xE: I have a xanga?
EverSmile: oh
i was just guessing about your blog
hey do you really stalk me? that's very flattering.
3xE: not really. sorry
EverSmile: oh
you could have lied there to make me feel good
3xE: well, i am a friend on facebook.
and i check, but you don't update much
EverSmile: yeah they don't fucking have facebook in china
it's blocked
3xE: they block it here at work, too. and i do not have internet at home
EverSmile: oh
=(
then how do you fb?
3xE: i go to DaVinci's work in the morning and abuse their free wireless
EverSmile: hahahaha
3xE: then go to work. he's always on my account playing mafia wars
EverSmile: that's funny!
3xE: why i blog anonymously. i get no privacy.
it's not all bad, my mafia is awesome
EverSmile: hehehehe
3xE: yeah, my work has blocked facebook and myspace and twitter. add that to not having cable or internet at home, and i live like a modern caveman
but i have a super awesome gay car!
EverSmile: cave WOMAN
3xE: nah, i don't get beat in the head
EverSmile: the next time i see you, you will
3xE: hehehehe
you have always had a thing about me and violence. first the black eye and now clubbing. was it something i said?
EverSmile: hahaha
no
actually i'm not violent at all
though i do seem to be attracted to violent girls

He Brought Hawaii to My World, and Just Kept Grinning

2009-10-24T11:21:00.001-05:00

     There's one ex who is the most astonishing. He's honest, and not a lot of flair. He's got rhythm, and taste. He's got the best smile. For years he was in my phone as The Smile or EverSmile. EverSmile was very honest, but not mean. Everything was so matter-of-fact with him. He was so damn nice, too. From Hawaii, he came into my life one night to get the mail. I just started talking to him, because strangers can be anybody. He turned out to be fantastic. He mountainbikes, listens to groovy tunes, and just takes life as it comes to him. He exists in a world of sunshine and bright colors. Dinner with him was nice, usually sushi or Greek. He's a man who likes flavor, likes spice, and creativity.

     I had a blast dating him. He was more interesting that any art exhibit- well, maybe not Georgia O'Keefe- but damn close. I had no business dating him. He was so smart and sweet. He was a mechanical engineering graduate, and I was a freshman. Like most guys, I would have eventually driven him away. Well, I did, when we broke up. Rather than let it fester and end badly, I was lucky enough to have an out. He was moving to Colorado [personal identity hint: I didn't live in Colorado]. Or so I thought.  What we had was nice, but I don't know if it was love. We hadn't been dating long enough to try a distance thing. So I ended it. Better be safe than have it get too serious and get hurt. But he didn't move to Colorado. I don't really know where he went, actually.
     I stumbled across him later, when I was living with The Pretender. We hung out and caught up. After the Pretender and I broke up, I visited him a few times in a different city. I was visiting family anyway, right? It was nice. He was nice. I cannot have nice things. I'm a little uncareful; I lose/break/deface nice things a lot. I was just talking to him on GoogleTalk. He's still so nice.
     The odd thing is that he's the only guy I've ever slept with/dated who is still on good terms with me. Maybe The Poet would be. Can't bring myself to attempt that one, not just yet. EverSmile will always stay in my heart as a very wonderful man. I wish him great things and eternal sunshine.

Reasons why I remember him so fondly:
We once watched 28 Days Later. Before he turned it on, I actually though it was a sequel to 28 Days (with Sandra Bullock) and I thought, "kinda cheesey, but sweet." I was so happy it was a zombie movie!
He was with me when I first heard Portuguese music, Cyro Baptista's Beat the Donkey. I dance to it still and think of him.
He's the only person I ever met who actually had a battlebot. He's just good like that.
That smile.

When the Elephant Lifted His Leg to Dance, We Saw His Chains

2009-10-23T12:23:00.002-05:00

     Last night was interesting enough. Dinner was okay- at a chain restaurant and greasy. Pink Velour and Mommy Jubs were there, as were FishMomGrr (with sister) and HorseBerri. Mommy Jubs is the one I get along with the best. She has potential to learn and try new things. I like that about her. If I say I read a book I loved or watched an awesome movie, I can count on her to try it out. That's cool because then the next time, she'll say "Oh, I saw that, and it reminded me of _. You would like that, too." She's working part-time now, so she's back in the real world instead of looking for reasons to shop at Wal-Mart and Sam's. DaVinci and I haven't shopped at either store in years, and it's odd how proud I am of that.

     I was thinking, as I drove there and rocked out to Pat Benatar (on two radio stations!), that maybe I should commit to my writing a little more. That's asking a lot of me. It would mean some pretty goofy changes for me; change is not something that gets me wet. I like to write short fiction from time to time, and poetry if the mood strikes me. I've written about the Pretender and The Poet, but never once about DaVinci. It would have been easier in the beginning, when we were all goofy and romantic. But now, there's no more art to this. That's a little devastating to think about, really. I'm in need of art, some heat, passion, some violence, even. I've also been listening to a lot of She Wants Revenge. Mmmm, Monkey wants....
     To write, I'd need some time to myself. I don't get a good dose of alone time. Even in my own home, I don't get a lot of privacy. DaVinci and I are sharing a car (which should end today), so he knows where I am at all times. He also has all the log-ins and passwords for everything, since he does all the online bills and plays my mafia wars. I'm confident the only thing he doesn't know about, and he may, is this blog. When I write this, it's to get the crazy out of me and onto the internet where crazy belongs. The level on anonymity I have on this, allows me to write things like, "I scratch my thighs now. Because I scratch my arms, and you promised to help me. And now, you check my arms for cuts, but don't help." When I write creatively, I work in sections, and self-edit as I go. I want to re-read and correct it before I share it with anyone.
     What's really lame is that I'm not that good.  That's said in no polite, humble way. In fact, I write impressive literature reviews and research articles. Comparative literature, noting little quirks in a piece, and the basics of any literature class, I am a whiz at 'em all. When it comes to creative writing, I can only write the things that I know. I tend to fictionalize (is that even a word?) the facts. I take the people I know, and put them in situations I'd like to see. Or I take strangers, and give them identity. I am not a writer, just a player.

Can You Tell Me the Color of Daylight?

2009-10-22T12:19:00.002-05:00

     During an "up" I can be quite pleasant. Even outside of one, sometimes I am still pleasant. To keep good things going, I sometimes do good things for others. Like donations for cancer, buying girl scout cookies, the usual. I try not to pass up the attempt. One thing I've started doing has been a lot of fun. I write letters to customers who are nice. I have always had customer service jobs. It's a mega-crappy thing to do; and I think everyone should have had to do this, or work food service, or another similar hang-myself-now job. When I am lucky enough to get someone who really makes my day, I send them a note (my job gives me access to their addresses). One in particular stood out so amazingly, I gave her a hint as to my address. I figured if she cared enough, she could find out who I was. Well, she wrote me back, and now I have sort of forced her to be my pen-pal. (I am a sucker for handwritten letters.)

     She came into my store yesterday!!! She had no idea who I was (she knows the name of the author, but doesn't know the name of the cashier); but she was, again, as fantastic as ever. Made my freakin' day.
In other news, I will be having coffee with a friend from over at http://laminatedfragments1063.blogspot.com/ who was a friend from high school. We went our separate ways, but those different paths do kind of the same thing, like a northwestern forest as compared to a northeastern one. It'll be so nice to have a friend again.
     Tonight, I'm pretty sure there will be drinking again. The wife in pink velour has a red-headed friend who is having a birthday.  [back story: DaVinci is friends with an assortment of people; I get lumped with their wives.] I've ditched so many "girls nights out" that I am a little obligated to go to this one. Look, I'd like to be friends with these women, I would. I try. Trust me, I do not have so many friends that I am willing to pass on the opportunity to have another. Some people were made to remain acquaintances. They are meeting at six for dinner and drinks, and I get off work at six-thirty. By the time I get there, they will have already had their food and at least one drink each. I will drink a lot to catch up.
     Speaking of drinking. I did not drink last night. I should have, I believe. I awoke at the shining time of three-fifty. I know it was three-fifty, because usually the dog lays on my face until I wake, and this morning I could see the clock. I get fidgety when wide awake and stuck in bed. DaVinci banished me to the couch, where I flipped through each channel so many times, that the number of times I looped may have actually outnumbered the number of channels we have. I eventually went outside and played fetch with my dog. [We have two, but one is so obviously his.] A five a.m. squeaky toy is the best way to make friends with the neighbors. When I eventually got around to going back inside, I bothered DaVinci until he woke up. I'm such a good, nice wife. He had to be at work for eight, so he was going to wake eventually. We watched Choke (based on the book by Chuck Palahniuk). That's a movie with a very well-crafted storyline. It was amazing.
     Now I am at work killing time, as usual. We're switching my dad's old car to my name so we can be a two-car family again. We have two unique cars, in a lame kind of way. I have a metallic blue Chevy Tracker, and he has a black Honda Del Sol. Each car is so small, we can fit them BOTH under our single-car carport at the same time. Mine is named Jamie Wingo, after the gay adult male actor, because he (the Tracker) can always seem to make Journey and/or Petula Clark come on the radio.   I know, right?
This Sunday is going to be the coffee day with my friend. He's a grad student now, as I should be. Get off my back already, I'm applying. He does lit, but I'm pretty sure he reads different things different ways. DaVinci is so happy I have a friend to talk books with again. So am I. Hopefully, in a few months I'll be able to ditch the weekends of husbands-ignoring-their-wives-to-watch-sports-while-kids-run-around-like-a-pack-of-retarded-bonobos with the excuse of "I'm sorry, but I really have a lot of school work to do."
Wish me luck with that!

She Only Lets Me Out When the Tequila's Gone

2009-10-21T12:05:00.002-05:00

Rum and I are not very kind to each other. Like most nouns from my past, rum saw a few too many bad episodes and decided we couldn't be friends anymore. I think we broke up the night The Pretender moved away. Everyone was buying me shots, and no one was tracking what I drank, much less me. It was a combination of mixing things that should never be mixed and drinking too many individual things. Highlights include: toasting to verbs for being so helpful (and dissing adjectives for complicating things), throwing up in the booth, falling twice (that's two times) in the parking lot, and confusing my DD's foot for his car. The party moved to his place for my shower, and everyone else continued drinking. I awoke a few hours later asking for soup, but still drunk.

Saturday night I had one drink with a single shot of rum. I woke up a little nauseous, but otherwise fine.

Tequila and I are best friends. When my puppy died, my roommate tried to help by taking away any drug that I could overdose on (my cough syrup, mood stabilizers, anit-depressants, painkillers, etc.). He said "I know you have a bad history of not handling things well, so I'm taking these. But you can have this." He handed me my bottle of Cuervo, sat on the porch and smoked alongside me. He helped me to bed a few hours later, and I woke up still cradling the empty bottle. Tequila will always be there for me.

Since I have been involved in a downward spiral recently, all I wanted last night was to sleep. I average two to three hours a night when my moods start shifting to a peak or trough. I have a bottle of Sauza (not fantastic, but silver nonetheless) but no mixers. Because I consider myself to be super-classy, I usually mix with juice (orange is preferred, but any will do) or Sunny-D. I had absolutely nothing to utilize. I put it over ice in a coffee mug and started playing Mario Kart. Halfway through the 12-race marathon to see who will be crowned king- me or DaVinci- I threw in frozen peaches. BEST IDEA EVER! My bubble bath later was a difficut task, but fun as well.

I got five hours of sleep. It was fantastic. I woke up this morning feeling... something. I'm better, but not well. I broke down and bought a pack of cigarettes yesterday. We can't all be winners.

Since I Have Nothing Else To Do

2009-10-20T17:06:00.003-05:00

See, the problem now is that I'm at work; my job requires the IQ of a carrot. I don't have internet at home. I get more than a daily dose here. I play on pogo.com all freakin' day. I also have a facebook account. Alas my job blocks it. Something about employees wasting time. But I couldn't just let my mafia die, now could I? The DaVinci has taken over my account. He logs in several times a day to do everything. Sometimes he calls to notify if so-and-so wants to be my friend. I don't know most of the people he has agreed to. It's okay, though. I don't talk to most of the people I do know anyway.
A goofy side effect is that when I have to play the social wife, the other women talk about shit they sent me. What's sad? I can follow the score without watching the game. They talk about their kids- I am childless, so I compare them to my dogs. I like dogs more. They talk about their husbands. Since mine seems to be the only honest one in the group, I already know the story (sometimes in more detail than they). They have no substance. There's more to my life than TV and shopping. Not a whole lot, but enough.
I'm not being harsh. DaVinci and I watch very little TV. Actually, besides sports and The Office, we don't watch anything but movies from netflix. I lie. I'm a sucker for the Canadian show The Weekend Guy. But that's because I make my dogs dance to the theme song. All I do anymore is read. I read a lot. I want to be a perpetual student, and study semiotics in postmodern fiction, and the absurdists. I want to write short stories which get published shortly after my death as a compilation- only to be later recognized as non-fiction.
I'd also like to note that DaVinci and I are dirt-poor. We both work, but to no avail. I'm actually cancelling our health insurance so we can afford to insure a second car. We also can't afford to see doctors when sick, because our insurance is so high. We don't shop at Wal-Mart. Haven't in years. That's not expensive though. We just don't shop. He cooks. He's actually a bit of a food snob. And he cooks like one.
I'm applying to the local university. I have a Bachelors in English, and now I want a Master's. If I can survive that, I would like to go for a PhD. The local school doesn't offer the program for a PhD... well, one does but it is expensive and I don't really want to stay in this city. It haunts me.
I know I am rambling. I'm just a little nervous. I can't cry at work. I cut my leg in the parking lot. I only went out for a cigarette. But it hurts so bad. Cutting is bad. And DaVinci says I can't do it anymore. But like I said this morning, I'm fat and he's not touching me anyway.

Venti Mocha, Non-Fat, Shot of Peppermint, Shot of Bailey's, No Whip

2009-10-20T11:24:00.002-05:00

     I awoke at the crisp early time of 1:41 a.m. I curled up in the living room with my dog and Borges until about 3, when I decided to try sleeping again. But my other dog wanted to hang, too. Somewhere around 5 I fell asleep again on the couch. You know what this means? It's another episode.

     The problem with being diagnosed with bipolar disorder and going untreated is that, well, the disorder just kind of does its own thing. Even though I sometimes question whether I am or am not bipolar, there's no doubt that there exists in my mind some sort of mental and emotional disorder. The biggest problem, aside from the crazy running unchecked, is that I can't seem to tell the difference between the ups and the downs. That's not true. When I feel and episode coming on, when I know it's about to peak, the symptoms are very similar. It's the big outburst that defines it for me. The sleeplessness, desire for a cigarette (has to be real bad for me to actually have one), and creative writing spurts come in the approach. A good episode results in my house becoming spotless in the middle of the night, people getting presents from me just because, and lots of music with a horn section. A bad episode results in crying, calling in sick just so I can drink, and the occasional act of dragging my fingernails up my arm or thigh.
     They usually all peak the same way, too: I have some sort of fight with Da Vinci. It used to be whoever was nearest to me. In high school it was mom and school officials. In college it was roommates and friends. Then it was the Pretender. He really couldn't take it. He had his own kind of issues, mostly regarding drugs and family issues to rival my own. But during the fight I tend to run away. I don't mean I am a coward and can't stand the fight. I run away like a 6 year-old kid. I take a highway and drive, just drive, until I begin to think clearly again. I can never stop the thoughts. They move so fast they hurt.
     I'm not very nice when I get like this. The non-sleep is hard enough. Since I'm awake, I might as well be miserable, right? I remind myself how I'm 40 pounds overweight. Shut Up! I'm 40 pounds overweight, have no friends, am the laziest person I know, and am incapable of being on my own.
     I have some people I consider friends. I have one who lives too far away and is too busy to be my friend. She's also a bit of a extremist. If I'm having a bad day, she assumes I might kill myself; if her husband got a correction from a director, she assumes he's fired and needs a new job. The other women around me are pretty useless. One wears hot pink velour running suits and pretends to be a housewife. She's really only good at making kids. Whenever one is old enough to go to school, she gets pregnant with another. Their dog (no longer a pup) is locked away from everyone all day, and she has decided her life in incomplete without a kitten. It goes on.
     Being 40 pounds overweight sucks. I feel too ashamed about it to even have sex. Which leads to me not having sex, and then thinking I'm not having sex because I'm unattractive. At least the boobs are big. The DaVinci is kind and comforting, but not very helpful. He really can't be. When I'm fat and miserable about my weight, he knows better than to say, "Do you really want to eat that, too?" He may die for that, and he knows it. But he's overweight also. His dad is trying to lose weight by correcting his eating habits, not changing in exercise though. This would work for me because I'm so lazy it's exhausting. But I don't cook. I know I could cook, if left to my own devices, I guess. As a family and a person with odd social obligations, a change in diet would entail a total life makeover. Change is the hardest thing in the world for me.
     So in the meantime, I'm fat and sad today. All I really want is liquor. That's all I want, liquor- and maybe my pj's, couch, and some Harold Pinter. Shit, if my life could be that perfect. I'd wear hot pink velour suits as a uniform if I was allowed to just do what makes me happy.
     But today I'm pretty sure it's a bad episode. And all I want to do is drink myself to numbness.

I Only Eat Ponchatoula Strawberries Now

2009-10-19T10:35:00.001-05:00

     Like many out there, I read PostSecret. There's only one I have saved on my computer. It says "Will trade sex for affection." Unlike so many others I have found, this one has defined me. ~~I am not this girl anymore.~~ I work really hard at not being that person. I am married to a man who has helped me greatly. It seemed like a questionable marriage at first; it was so sudden and we are so different. He lets me be me without letting me do the things I do.
     I ran into a former lover recently. Actually, I knew he worked in the area I was in, and I kept an eye out for him. When he walked by me, it was quick and he didn't notice. Why would he expect me? I lived two hours away when... He didn't have time to talk, and with me would want no reason. Whatever I have written since, he has always been "The Poet." He will always be The Poet in the unfortunately long list of men. I remember him fondly because I should have loved him. And maybe I did.
     The Poet is a writer, and artist. He is lean and light-skinned. His black hair is so curly it wraps itself in your fingers and pleads with you to tug it in ecstasy. Nothing comes more naturally to his eyes than a smile, or a kiss to his lips. He moves like a dancer in the shape of a man.
     I attribute my favorite memory to him alone. It was like fiction, it was so good. We hadn't seen each other in a while and were meeting for coffee. That's all it was supposed to be. It turned to dinner, and a tour of the city, then to sleeping together, and an entire weekend misty with pure bliss. It was more than that. It was leather and denim, cotton sheets, and dew-filled mornings. It was a golden hour that rivaled any filmmaker's perfect day:  the grass so green it bled into the air and the sky so blue it melted the sun. It was a motorcycle and medium roast. It was off the interstate. It was a chilly evening and tousled hair. It was slowdancing to Norah Jones, pasta, and the warm scent of naked flesh. It was touching someone and feeling more than human. The Poet introduced me to his family. We ate dinner with them. And when the slow jazz played alone in his living room, each languid note counted out the moments in history that would be with me forever and shape what I expected out of love.
     At 19, he was as much man as I woman.
     That was the problem. Love like that isn't for real people, not for hearts as young as ours. Artists' souls need to be broken before they can find each other the way we did. One night, not long after that weekend, he came to my city. Our last moments together was him asking me to return with him. He asked more than once. And I kept refusing. It was agony. I should have gone. Oh, how different my life could have turned out. The rational side of me stayed sober and firm. My more mercurian side ripped itself to shreds and almost ran away on its own to be with him. It wanted the drama, lust, living in near-sqaulor just for the sake of being happy with him. But I had to stay in class, had to keep my crappy job and crappy apartment, had to stay on track.
     I don't adapt well to change. I depend on consistency like a drug. It is currently the only drug I have, my only sanctity, only hope for life. To throw my life into upheaval for the possibility of a few months of true happiness would have been dangerous for both me and him. That's all it would have been. I would have broken, like I later did with someone else. And he wouldn't have been able to handle it, like that someone else wasn't.
     Right now, my life is not how I expected it to turn out; but I am happy. I could be happier (if I had the funds), but that is true for many. I regret not loving him more, but I know now, that it was the right thing. I am irrational and seem to survive only on blind luck. I admit that I am lucky in having had that weekend with him. How many of you out there can say you've had the pleasure of experiencing an earth-moving experience? How many of you could write factual fiction about a time in your life that stands out like a perfectly made piece of art? How many of you have even had the opportunity to love someone so beautifully?
     If I had one thing to give The Poet, it would be Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude (because his Love in the Time of Cholera is too straight-forward, and would break my heart to know it couldn't really happen). The woman I wish I was taught me that Emma Bovary had to die, as punishment for being a poor reader. Like Don Quixote, she could not discern the world she read from the world in which she lived. I come dangerously close myself, and far too often. That weekend with him almost had me convinced that fiction wasn't just a deliriously enticing optical illusion. In my life I have had one mentor, two failed suicide attempts, three loves (The Poet, The Pretender, and The Da Vinci), and millions of pages. I want The Poet to know that in Fiction, I will always regard us as Constance and Mellors, and in Reality I am sadly more like Carol Kennicott (that itself is perhaps a reason for future attempt number three). If the world works, and I truly am saved by blind luck, then he should read Marquez and remember that time turns in a circle and all things happen when due. I am not implying that I will ever give up what I have with my husband, nor asking that The Poet should wait for me. In the future, though, should the question come up again, I would gladly run away with him. But for now, we finally haunt the same city at night; and it is painful to be so near without that closeness.

Dear Diary: My First Post

2009-10-12T11:51:00.002-05:00

     So, it's Monday, and I'm going to attempt blogging. This isn't really for anyone. If you want to read this, that's cool. My goal is to remain as anonymous as the internet allows. Anyone who can figure out who I am, well, "Way to go on your part." I'm doing this so I can make an honest attempt at cataloging my emotions and tracking what goes on in my mostly unrealistic brain.

     You see, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of 21.

     Hmm. Well, maybe I should have started with high school. In high school I had emotional moodswings that would have rivaled any menopausal spree killer. Unfortunately for me, my sister had "gone crazy" years before which led doctors and family to think she was just "acting out." But she was a teen who said something in a heated emotional state and who had to suffer for it. After that, anything I did seemed like I, too, was acting out. Like any pissy 16 year-old, yeah, I said things I didn't mean. I had bad days and good days. I was too smart to be in the situations I was in at school. I was taken to a psychiatrist who, on the first meeting and with no tests done, recommended anti-epileptic drugs. No thanks. They would have lowered my IQ and dropped my GPA (my senior year, eek!). Besides, there was the whole "possibly a misdiagnosis" thing.  In the end I saw a cheap form of a therapist (grad students are the best!) and got put on birth control "to help with the hormonal part of it."

     So, at 21, after a terrible and drawn-out break-up, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Grad students and their valiant leaders can be so kind. Student health at my school recommended meds, and I took them. Then, my grad student therapist graduated. And I stopped taking the meds. And when I asked for something I couldn't taste in my blood (which limited my mind like an emotional floodgate) I was told, "I prescribe this for all the students with this problem." Oh. Well, then.

     I have since gone back and forth with wanting help. I never get it. I try my best to not freak out. I am married now, and he helps A LOT. He bears the brunt of my out of the blue rants and anger. I love him, and if he ever decides I'm too crazy to deal with, he's probably right.

     That's what this blog is going to be for me. I can't keep a notebook around me. People read that. Sure, people might read this. Who? Well, alright, no one. But no one will see it and knows it's me. That notebook I used to carry around? My mom found one (boy, was that a bad two months!). Another got lost in the Honors Lounge at college. When I went back to look for it, some kids were reading it aloud mocking it. Thankfully, it was new, and had no names it it. I felt like Harriet the Spy. Yeah. I went there. I had to pretend it wasn't mine and that I was there looking for someone (who graduated two years before).

     Alright, well, I'm at work. And not supposed to even be on the internet. I think this'll work as a little journal I can dip into and out of. I'll try to update it regularly, if only to track the ups and downs to see if there's an identifiable pattern.