I Could Starve Myself If It Weren’t For The Cramps or My Cats Think I’m The Best Cook On Earth…

Oasis – Stop Crying Your Heart Out

slept: 9 am to 1:50 pm

It’s like this. The golden Autumn sunbeams light the dining room inviting anyone to go out and enjoy a crisp afternoon of warmth laced with coolness and I’m sitting staring at the pattern that the beams make.

I just watched Butterfly Effect. A movie I enjoy but try not to watch too much. Normally there’s no regrets. My mind is like a monkey on crack riding a unicycle but it only goes forward not back. And at the end Stop Crying Your Heart Out plays and my chest seizes. It’s something that happens a lot lately. I think since my parens died last year my brain has allowed me to feel pain. Being numb all these years. Wait I haven’t. My brain has allowed me massive anger attacks.

I’m horrified that sometime one of my siblings will come into the house and catch me, large gulping sobs, barely able to breathe, the accumulation of years and experiences and me allowing myself to finally release the tears. My mind betties kme. “Such a child” like that’s a crime. Like I’m being selfish. I don’t understand even though I do. She was the bride at every wedding and the corpse at every funeral. And the last hurdle to overcome my childhood.

K is in a whirl. I sat back, watched him stutter catch himself and tell me he’s dealing with a couple of issues: his buddy and his addiction problems and girlfriend’s relationship, changing to another hospital for work, (the governor is coming to Zambrano to see where she can make cuts that money hungry slut. I hope she gets put in a mental hospital for a few years. See how “well stocked and put out” they are,) Sprint screwed up his bill, and I can tell his anxiety is being squeezed.

I have a refrigerator full of food but it stares back at me blankly. It appears to have been filled by a tribe of trolls that eat garbage. I have no clue what to make. I’ve been preparing items for mental breakdown. Certain food items that can be made into simple meals so I can feed myself easily once my mind has broken down completely. Unfortunately breakdown is not a linear or sequential arrangement. My brain is tricky like that. Sometimes I blink out for a few days and operate on automatic like I am just fine and living on a parallel plane. Then I wake up one day and I know I missed something am missing something really important. I have to wade through piles of papers to see if it’s an appointment or a piece of important mail I was suppose to answer ASAP and read through intending to but didn’t.

I buy in bulk: cheeses, pasta, certain kinds of canned goods, frozen vegetables, boneless skinless chicken breasts and ground beef. Things that are easy to prepare and divide them into individual packages. At my best I can mix something up and digest it. At my worst I’ll take out a can and eat from it or heat up some kind of vegetable that’s frozen so I don’t feel my stomach cringe and grumble. When I’m doing well I get a hankering for something specific and happily whip it up. At my worst I look at the food and it doesn’t even seem like it could vaguely be edible. I can wait 8 hours trying to figure out if I can eat something. It can be frustrating.

I walk to and from the kitchen occasionally exciting the cats. Two of them have distinctive meowing voices. In my past our cats were very silent. I’m not used to how loud these two formerly feral black cats are. It gets annoying. I sometimes kick them in their little @sses inadvertently when they get underfoot. They keep me company and Skipper is napping on the cabinet next to this desk. I need to eat dinner. I fed the cats at 5. I am so hungry I don’t know what to do.

Maybe sit down in the recliner, put on the boob tube, let the cats climb on top of me and pass out in a warm autumn pile. I’ll have to make something eventually. I’m trying hrd to only eat out once a week. Lately it’s not been working. There’s no delivery except for 2 pizza places down here in this seasonal town. That’s what you get for living near the ocean. All view, not conveniences. Well except for Cumbies. Even then they’re not open 24 hours.


Black Francis Calls To You, Whoa, Ho, Ho, Ho…


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Pixies – Debaser

“Hajime!” he yells, begin in Japanese. A man that’s been dead at least 10 years now.

In the background a light and airy 1920’s dance tune, “Doh, doh, dee doh!” with that annoyingly bubbly woman’s giggle wafts through the air as if on a tinny radio. I can imagine him in a raccoon coat to his ankles as his jaunty little bowler, a light grey houndstooth check is cocked above his eyebrows. They sing on and it floats as if the radio drifts on the left side of my shoulder.

When I pass the living room door though to go into the dining room I swear I can hear Chuck Norris or maybe some unidentified salesperson droning on about their wonder product. That was back at 2am or thereabouts.

Am I hallucinating or having waking dreams?

The good thing is that the house is not dead silent like it usually is.

I sometimes see a white woman slinking in at the corner of my right handed vision. It’s better than the black things that creep past the doorways. I nearly jerked the juicer off the table when I partially saw one of the cats under the table and he nudged my thigh. I see a lot of things these days. I’m either driving myself crazy or I’m getting close to seeing déjà vus.

My Mother once told me when I asked her that she believed that I could see déjà vus. They were a “trick of the brain”. I don’t think they’re tricks. I think they’re warnings or reassurances that I will not kill myself in the future. I wonder if any will come this time.

Not that I am doing this intentionally. My life is changing. I am coming to a place where something’s going to happen. This for me happens after a long period of apathy for life. I’ll tell you, when you watch so much television and avoid going out into the sunlight for more than a year, and you can barely walk because your back feels crooked and your skin peels when you spend a few hours on the beach while your brother attempts to catch some baby blues, you know you really fell into the hole again.

It makes me feel a bit relieved because alienating the people in my small family will somehow help me. And I have to keep an open mind because it doesn’t mean they’ll accept my decisions and actions. It just means that that particular decision will lead me to the next part of my life. And I have to be ready for more changes.

When I look back on this year, if I was asked what I think happened I’d honestly have to say that I f^cked it up and right well too. My ease of turning pure anger into total indifference has helped me to lower my anxiety. Not enough to cue the agoraphobia but  you can’t have everything right?

I used to think I was the soul eater. I would have to wait to die to be emptied. I took on other people’s sins. I agonized and dwelled and brewed in the stench of the things people did and knew but refused to admit to. I couldn’t shut my mouth. I let all my transgressions hang out, uncolorful to me but vivd to others, shocking and striking. I am good at keeping secrets. Other people’s secrets. That’s what happens when you’re f^cked up literally, as a child. They have to condition someone to be in the mental state to accept those kinds of poisons from other people.

People are relieved when they tell you. They love you for listening and taking the burden off their backs. The problem with being a soul eater is that no one wants to be your friend. The sin. It shows. They see your face and it comes back to them. They feel dirty near you. And your own effluvium when it comes out is ugly, hideous even. They see you as debased. You’re like a voodoo doll now. Used and ugly and representative of the act which is ugly and needs to be hidden or tossed out.

That’s why I don’t think I’ll lose this weight. The universe is in confluence with fate and they both dictate that I must physically represent the toxins within. I’m like a living haunted house. All my stories are represented within.

This is the kind of thing I could never tell anyone in my family.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“It just seems that way to you. Tomorrow it will look differently.”

“Yeah, right.”

What do you expect from a family that lives in denial?

“Got me a movie
I want you to know
Slicing up eyeballs
I want you to know
Girlie so groovy
I want you to know
Don’t know about you
But I am un chien Andalusia

I am un chien Andalusia (x3)

Wanna grow
Up to be
Be a debaser

Debaser (x5)

Got me a movie
Ha ha ha hoa
Slicing up eyeballs
Ha ha ha hoa
Girlie so groovie
Ha ha ha hoa
Don’t know about you
But I am un chien Andalusia

I am un chien Andalusia (x3)

Debaser (x5)”

Imagine Me Taught By Tragedy…


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Red Hot Chili Peppers – My Friends

I have friends. I do. I don’t feel like I do because my brain is a manipulative ‘jit that likes to screw with me. I have friends and then I have FRIENDS.

Friends are people just like you and me. They f^ck up. They are emotional. They are annoyed. They are whatever.

I don’t count anyone a FRIEND unless we’ve had a very big fight that we were able to work out. I don’t count the friends who have f^cked up but never mentioned it and kind of passed the incident by like it was a stinky fart that no one wanted to admit to. Not that I have never been the one to f^ck up. I try to address it and talk about it so no one’s in the dark. I hate that “I’m not really sure what happened” cr@p where my mind is left turning it over trying to decide if it’s a booger, a maggot or a road marshmallow and who left it smeared on the seat of my pants.

L is my FRIEND. We’ve had just such a fight and we talked about it. I was the one who f^cked up. She had every right to be angry at me and dump me as a “friend”. I apologized. I hate thinking about it because I hate hurting people and I absolutely hate being wrong. I drop people who can’t apologize. I have better things to do than tip toe around somebody who wants to treat me as a lesser being and then say they’re my friend.

I have friends who I’ve known longer. I’ve known H since I was in my early twenties. I have friends who I’ve known since I was a kid. History is one of those things that can bind you. Sometimes in my case it is something that can make me avoid someone.

One time when I was particularly hypomanic L wanted to get a male prostitute. She was young and she wanted more than just a vibrator. This was before the internet became really big. You’s go to the Entre Nous section of the free paper and look for the section where the professionals advertised. There weren’t many but this also wasn’t Kansas so any at all was a big deal. We found a guy who advertised and we called him.

When he answered he was skeptical. He asked us if we were just pranking him. He said usually he’d get young ladies who’d call giggling and hang up. I told him we didn’t have time for that. I talked to him, general questions until L was ready to talk to him herself. They made a date and she did meet up with him. She met with him a few times until after he moved to Boston and she didn’t hear much from him anymore.

He was gay but he was sensitive to my friend’s plight. He helped her out in a time of need. I wish I kept in touch with him but once my friend and he had a relationship going (professional or not,) I didn’t want to slurry it with my interference. Life is not perfect. People are affected by other things, people, situations, decisions in life. It is helpful to try to suspend judgement whenever possible. With my split I have a hard time looking stable to others in my life.

There Was Only One Thing That I Could Do: Ding A Ding Dang My Dang A Long Ling Long…

Ministry – Jesus Built My Hotrod 

The brain says, “GO!” Caught in this body. No talent to express myself. I could fly at more than 100 mph and relieve myself.

The anger the panic and the anxiety could burn the thoughts that gnaw into my brain. I have no motivation like I used to. Was it used up running from that sociopath? The anger never left neither did the fear, panic, and anxiety. They all lie about that “heal thyself” crap. I’ve been working it but I still have those urges. The ones I can’t tell anyone about, I can’t write about, I can’t confess to. I’m convinced that this world is actually a series of decisions that link to each other in a vast mental prison. And all those people that give you trite phrases that are suppose to help you are actually demons meant to confuse you with bullsh!t. We serve as each others torturers because we’re blind but think we know because we’re “educated”. That’s why when we shut up, don’t give an opinion and actually listen to someone they feel like we “really know them”. We don’t we just didn’t torture them. Unfortunately we feel compelled to give them our “enlightened” POV about their issue.

I know because I DO IT TOO. And it’s worse torture to be aware of it all. That’s why stupid people are happier. People who are oblivious don’t worry and cover up their anger and their perception. They wander around, good consumers, happy chipmunks, empty heads busy with the little things. And that’s why I can’t maintain. How do you spray the mold when you are crouched over the edge of time looking down into the crotch of the species?

I hate you K because I know you. Like you I think everything I believe is THE RIGHT THING TO DO all the time. How obnoxious. And to see you practice that philosophy goes right up my ying yang like a worm in a hole. No wonder I aggrevate you to. You just haven’t figured out why yet. And when you do…

On surviving yourself: the challenge of advocacy

This is a sad statement of the state of Mental Illness advocacy. And I have seen it before in my state. We can’t seem to put aside our differences and instead of striving toward advocacy we’re beating each other away from helping each other out. I back away. The magic is gone again. It comes back around but, I think to myself maybe MAYBE next time we will realize we are all we got and we’ll stop arguing about our differences.

Hopeworks Community

I listened recently to a conversation between two people who have played a significant historical role in the peer/human rights movement (I apologize if that is a politically incorrect term). Both have been involved for many years at a national and state level. They talked about being burnt out, but more than that sad and maybe a little bit disillusioned. They thought the movement that meant so much to them was dying. It wasn’t being killed by psychiatry or by any other adversarial forces. They were no longer convinced that we could survive each other.

Since the 60’s I have watched more than one group, more than one movement either collapse or simply evolve into impotency and irrelevance. The culprit is normally the same. They split, they evolve different denominations, and find the people they are in the most passionate battle with is the same as those who at one…

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What Separates The Kill From The Pack


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The Band & Neil Young – Helpless

I went to the informational lecture for Bariatric Surgery. It was a big step for me. I hate myself and have since I was 3 and molested by the babysitter’s husband. Ugh, reading that is ugly. Makes me think I want your pity and I don’t. It happened and I couldn’t stop it. Whatever.

So they tell you about 3 ways of dealing with obesity through surgery. Tell you about the support that they’ll give you when you go to get it. A counselor, support groups, nutritionist all these people there to help you through making your stomach about the size of your fist from one that’s the size of I don’t know, the head of an elephant? At the end they pin this little gem on: “If you go and tell other people about what you’re planning you won’t get the surgery.” Charming, isn’t that? Guess what I did, thinking; “Okay this is the one time I’ll reach out and get help.” Yes I did.

So I decided that I would wait a while and let people ask me if I started it and tell everyone I decided not to do it. I have this little memo pad I’ve been recording my food intake since Easter. I have the elliptical that I STILL can’t get my fat @ss on. BUT I have gotten out of the recliner and gotten out to do more physical things around and outside of the house. The apple tree has been dropping pips and apples as has the pear tree. I spend every afternoon (well almost every afternoon,) picking them up with one of those old lady claws. I try to get out of the house and ino town to do something at least 5 times a week. I know it’s not enough but I’m building up enough strength so my body stops hurting.

When my Mother made it clear in her passive aggressive way that she really wasn’t going to put my father into a nursing home and I was stuck dealing with him and his dementia I gave up. I stopped going out and doing things with my friends. I stopped looking for things to occupy my time and I started sleeping more. I decided that I should probably die. I couldn’t just out right kill myself though. Everybody would say it was because I wanted attention because that’s the kind of low down pathetic type of denial that my family lives in. Don’t get me wrong. In the “real” world they’re wonderful people. They just couldn’t give a rat’s @ss to take time out of their lives and read up on mental illness never mind actually asking me personally why I acted the way I did and how I am dealing with it. I mean they might learn something like more than one person in our family has mental illness. And god forbid anyone actually talk about what happened at the babysitter’s house. Personally I don’t think about it all that much or any of the other times I was molested by neighbors or people I knew. Still pretending it never happened has NEVER EVER healed the foundation of my tattered soul. I know that sounds dramatic but I am seriously f^cked up and would rather not be. I’ve worked hard alone to undo the years of twisted sh!t that have shaped me into a fearful, obese, closeted person when I could be out feeling free from these brain shackles. I really could use some help from someone that won’t drop small bombs and gaslight me or patronize me or sneer at me for the heavy load I bear. It seems every person I have met so far has to contribute something ignorant or f^cked up that helps set me back a step or two. I mean it’s not just people there are other things that set me back too.

It brings me down. Some days I feel like I’m 5. Nowhere to go. No one to ask for help from. Really nothing has ever really changed. People I seek help from give me the old party lines. The same crap my parents, all adults dropped on me to shut me up and doubt my own eyes. It took me many decades to realize that I can disregard most of the cr@p that falls from people’s lips like dung from a cow’s @ss. If only all that cr@p gave someone sustenance like manure actually does. Most of the poisonous ether that emits from people’s mouths shrinks brains. I was helpless against the family chorus, the world cast that chants bullsh!t that only comforts themselves so they don’t have to answer the questions they don’t want to think about, that would have saved me years and my self identity.

It took me this long to find that the magic word is “Whatever”.

On the good side. K and I are now talking. How long will this last? Whatever.

Let’s Not Think, Let’s Not Cooperate… I’m Sick Of You Anyway…


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I don’t get that as a common issue that Bipolar sufferers have: obsessing and rehashing negative events, thoughts, whatever it seems that we’re suppose to somehow exorcise these things away. It’s something I’ve been doing for a very long time. You spend time with people, anybody really even other people with bipolar disorder you get to know that the obsessive behavior irritates and annoys. Here’s the thing, it never stops. You can conceal it, you can try to misdirect it but it never goes away.

I’m tired of writing. I feel like everything I write is the same.

I’m agitated today, can you tell? I had a big fight with my son over using my car. He uses it for work, it’s a hybrid and saves money on gas. He has to cross the state to get to work. Okay, I can dig that. This weekend though he’s not going to give me he keys back to my car. JUST IN CASE HE NEEDS TO GO TO WORK AND I DON”T COME HOME. Yeah. I have no clue what his reasoning really was. It’s a line of cr@p that I didn’t buy. So we fight. He calls me crazy (and this is after telling me he thought I was going to sleep over my SIL’s house. I haven’t slept over anyone’s house since last year. I just got tired of the jockey we both did and said, “How about you don’t use the car at all.” So he brings out the “I’m going to leave and abandon you,” card. I told him I hope he does. If he was a roommate I’d dump him and move out myself. Maybe he’ll grow the f^ck up.

So I have to prepare myself to deal with the house’s maintenance. It might be worth it all to not have to pick up his clothes, clean the rooms and not spend so much on food. The ironic thing is that he doesn’t realize that he’ll get some very good life lessons that will help him not be such a schmuck.

It’s Not Going To Stop…


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Aimee Mann – Wise up

Not pretty, I’m not, get it into your head. Even if you think you can relate to me I’m that ogre that the big boys laugh at.

You’ve seen me. You’ve sneered at me. I’m scary looking but on further inspection (or just vapors leaking out of me,) you’ve begun to suspect that strong looking scary person is pathetic. Maybe it’s the mask that people can sense, that I wear because of the fear that has warped my brain.

I used to think I was a prophet. i could see into people’s souls. The ugly lying part and as I grew older, the empty denial part. The parts that hurt other people. Mostly children though, adults already tempered by the pain and lies.

I’m lost because all the cursing: “I hate your f^ck!ng guts”, “I hope you die”, “I want you to go to H3ll”, make no difference. The prophet’s eyes are empty. The pain isn’t soothed by curses. They solve nothing and never cause enough pain. By the time curses come, the damage is done. The lessons are futile. Any change won’t make a difference. And the perpetrators will not change.

Because in the long run, as a point in the Universe, it doesn’t matter. No one does. And it doesn’t matter.

And I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone. I don’t have to care. I grew up in that alien bubble being constantly pushed away, told to grow up, knowing no touch except the touch of the power hungry users. Being warped to want any touch. Being taught that touch was dirty and my want damned me to alienation.

Twisted, twist me, twisting in the wind I float around go down in my mind and spin. It’s still happening.

Lost Inside Mental Mazes, Peering Out Powerless…


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Nine Inch Nails – Down In It

Sometimes dealing with an episode whether it be hypomanic or depressive is like falling through a jungle canopy. Layers of changing growth, messy exotic but familiar in it’s vegetative existence pass by and the horror of falling or rising is increased by speed and the fear that it may end immediately with an implosion or explosion. You can ask the creatures for help but they’ll only gibber or stare while you pass by. They have no clue what you’re asking for and you have no language to ask for the help you need.

I am sitting at the office window in the house. The sickening smell of many lilies engorges the house. Although a thunderstorm has cleared the recent heavy humidity I can’t sleep for the smell of these flowers flowing through the house like a thick fat tide. My Mother planted these flowers. She loved lilies even for their sickly sweet smell. She felt the same about hydrangeas but they did not survive long in the yard’s soil. The lilies, their smells are reminiscent of funerals and are a haunting reminder that Mom will not be back again to enjoy the fruits of her labors.

I have not reached the bottom (or top,) of this fall (or ascent.) I do see the trips. I do see the cruel hiccups in my behavior. The torture is knowing short of isolating myself I can’t change them. At times my trapped psyche whirls around within me and screams “Please stop! Stop now!” It has no effect on my automated pace through the days. At night I stay awake trying to soothe it as it lists my sins for the day. It screams and cries as I numbly do all that I can do to help it calm down. There is no connection and that tragedy distracts me from eating, sleeping, remembering the things I usually do that comes easily. I haven’t shopped in 4 weeks. My pantry is become slowly empty as is my freezer. What’s going to knock me out of this spiral of h3ll? Only time will tell. And then I will blank out making it impossible to plan for another inevitable episode. That’s why I write this blog. Can it help me help myself?

This Isn’t What I Was Going To Write About…


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Faith No More – Last Cup of Sorrow


I don’t talk about it. Incest is one of those big taboos that “normal” people wouldn’t admit to. This blog is one of the reasons I write this kind of stuff though. I don’t share it with people I know. Except one and he doesn’t think of me in any kind of erotic, exotic way anyway so he’s less likely to judge.

Have patience with me. Typing this makes me nauseous. I don’t really know how to say it and it doesn’t help that my mind only remembers clips and bits. Admitting to it is worse than telling everything else f^ck3d up that’s happened in my life. I can’t even say which sibling it makes me that ill.

All these years I had to enforce that I was normal. I had to be. We were living with the enemy. My sib and I were not hillbilly scum like the babysitters’ were. Women with mustaches. Rooms that smelled like piss. Our house was not like that, neither was our family. We couldn’t let them claim our identities. I want to hold you by the shoulders and scream and shake you until you understand. But of course you can’t. We are not you. You are not us. And there was always more to the alienation than just the depression. I could never get a therapist because who specializes in all the sh!t I went through beginning with this horrid fact that determined the direction I followed.

All my childhood I was horny. That looks like a joke me writing it that way but I have no way of conveying it better as a cheap, aroused, inappropriate state of being knowing that sexual itch but not understanding it or even questioning it but just knowing it made me dirty. I masturbated in the bathroom at the age of 5 (and many times thereafter. It gave me a feeling of serenity.) I remember it. I masturbated to get to sleep. I masturbated in front of my Mother on the library floor. Her response: “Oh gee, you must be tired; time to go to bed.” My genitals burned most of my childhood. I thought I was just dirty. I stopped taking baths and showers. I didn’t comb my hair. My Mother was constantly disgusted with me. The kids called me greaseball. I was bullied. I was pathetic. I became a victim, a scapegoat, the butt of anybody’s joke. And I was invisible. That is when I knew I was worthless. My life wasn’t worth dog sh!t. My childhood was h3ll.

Everyone around me blamed me for sleeping too much. For hiding in my room, for not wanting to do anything. It was easy for my parents to think I was retarded. Most of my childhood I didn’t even live. I did what my parents insisted I do nothing more nothing less.

I would look at adult men, measuring them up and down. I can’t imagine how creepy I was. No wonder I was a loner my whole life. I wanted touch. Anything for someone to just touch me, make me feel like I wasn’t dirty. The touch would feel dirty though and I was caught in a twisted game of sickness.

Okay, I don’t think I can deal with this anymore. I think a split happened.