Saturday, February 22, 2014

Found My Happy

I learn a lot of TV history while care-taking my 90 y.o. patient.  I've seen plenty semi-racist episodes of "In The Heat of the Night," heard enough horrible dialogue from  "Murder, She Wrote" to want to time travel back to punch the writers, and several 1972 porn-staches in "Emergency" to turn me off of body hair for a while.

Way to go, me!
But despite the spate of crappy TV shows I'm watching every weekend, I'm thrilled.  I've been able to find my happy again.  I'm back on track with my meds, had a few weeks of productive therapy, and furthered the storyline in my novel.  I've got more confident, have a better perception of my ability as a mother.  Great friends rallied around me, reminding me that "Those that love you are proud of you; we don't see a prescription, we see a beautiful, funny, and loving woman. . . .for everything you do I am proud of you."

So even though I have to wipe up some drool and other body functions at times, I can do it with a sincere smile, not a faked grin.  I understand now how much better my life is, now that I've made peace with my drugs.   

PS-- A special thank you to The Bloggess for sharing her struggles.  She inspires me daily and I want to give her a big, squishy hug.  "Die Vampire Die!" has become my mantra.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Just a Baby Step

My mind is gray and empty.  I'm so frustrated with it.  I want to laugh or smile and have pleasant conversations, but it's so exhausting.  I want to work on my book, but I can't put the words down.  Thoughts that that flowed from my imagination down my fingers at the start of January, are now locked behind a trasnparent door.

I can hear the sarcasm laden dialogue, picture the perfect modifiers that convey Norma Jeanne's anger, and almost touch the pretty prepositions that would couple up next to Gams fat English bulldog.

But they won't come out and play with me.  Until I can get the key, in the shape of a horse-sized bitter pill, all I do is sit and stare at the empty word document.  And check on Facebook to see which people have updated their status in the last three minutes.  And stare at the screen, while the pointer mockingly blinks at me.  And check Pintrest because there might be a new picture to see in the last five minutes since I was on there.  And then back to the empty screen.

A lot of artistic friends I have - writers, artists, musicians, - who suffer from forms of depression/anxiety/mania, don't like to be on medication b/c they feel it stifles their ability to create.  And up until 3 weeks ago, I wondered if that was the case with me.  Would I discover more creative freedom if I didn't have my meds swimming in my blood stream?  Was there another side of me that could improve on what I am doing now?

Michael Scott will tell you the answer is a resounding 

As many years as I have been ashamed with myself for being dependent on my drugs, I guess that maybe this situation has now I helped me achieve some peace.  Quite plainly, I can't function without my meds.  I become a very depressive person.  My ability to see beauty in the mundane, to find the story of the person with a past in the eyes of a homeless beggar, to see the humor in the instances where fear or tears would be an understandable response is all gone.  I lack sympathy. 

For you worried about The Kiddo, I'm fortunate that in these past few weeks my Bipolar II Disorder hasn't affected my son.  If anything, I've been hyper-aware of the fact that I need to keep my sad emotions away from him.  I've had him cook with me and we've actually accomplished more workbook pages in this time frame than we have before (much to his chagrin). 

It's now just a waiting game.  Waiting to get to the doctor tomorrow.  Waiting to make the 1.5 hr drive to pick up the meds on Tuesday.  And waiting for them to get swimming back in my blood stream.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014


I put myself back into therapy last month because I am trying desperately to work out the last kinks in my head.  I've decided that after six years on the bench I'm ready to seek out a relationship, but before I do that I know I've got a few more things to work out.

I don't want to write about this.  But I need to write this out. 

This is the constant chatter in my brain:
  • You really don't have friends.  These people tolerate you out of pity.
  • No one approves of your decisions and all are waiting for you to admit defeat.
  • Your child is going to grow up broken because you are broken.
  • You don't have any talent.  
  • You're not bi-polar.  You are making it up.  You just need to work harder and stop being lazy.
  • Why do you think that person would ever want to have a cup of coffee with you?  They're accomplished/written a book/not two paychecks away from homelessness/done something important.  Do you know just how dumb your daydreams are?
  • No one really loves you because you disappoint them and don't do what they tell you to do.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Frustration: Level Six

Up until a week ago, I was fine.
I could write on my novel and write up articles for my social media job.
But two weeks ago I ran out of one of my drugs.
And now I'm off balance.

I can't focus on writing.  I'll sit down and nothing comes.
The waters are muddy.
If I were to peer into my brain, I think I'd find a hollow gray room.

I can't get to the doctor to get a prescription and I can't fill the prescription until I can find the time to drive 1.5 hrs away b/c the closest pharmacy to fill this drug is in Front Royal!

No, I don't have health insurance.  And Obamacare or the Affordable Care Act is just not going to fix my problem.  Seeing as it would cost me $235/mo to be insured.  Fail to see how that is "affordable."

Luckily, I live in a state that won't penalize me for not having health insurance.

I'm so angry.  I want to write and it's just not happening.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Once Upon A Southern Fairy Tale

I could have sworn that I printed up a passage from my novel.  But it appears that I haven't.  Maybe I put up a spoiler back on Facebook some time ago.

I finally got through my writer's block two weeks ago (it's only taken 2 years!) and have been able to make sufficient progress on this novel to announce that I aim to have it completed by the end of April and will launch it on the first day of summer.  This year!!!

I thought a good way to whet the appetite of potential readers (I hope) was to put up an excerpt from the first chapter.


Chapter 1
 Morons in the Magnolia at Midnight
. . . .“How the hell did you manage to loop your jeans though this damn branch?”

“I knew this was a mistake.”

I snorted derisively and contemplated how to extricate my best friend from her leafy prison.  Seeing as she had backed herself onto a thin branch and couldn’t get a good footing to climb back up and off it, I set about trying to cut the limb with my pocket knife. 

Neither of us were aware that the mattress Olympics had come to an end and that we had become the noisier duo.  It seemed that Char had managed to snag the one green limb on the entire tree, which my knife was unable to sever.

I tried another approach.  “Char, I’m gonna cut up the belt loop.”

“The hell you are!  Do you know how long it took me to find a pair of jeans that didn’t make my ass look like I’ve birthed 10 kids?”

“Look, I’ll buy you a new pair,” I pleaded.  I wanted to get out of this tree and the hell away from his house.  The tears that I’d been fighting back were now rolling down my face.  “I’ll by you two pairs.”

As I continued to struggle, the widow flew open .  “I‘m not imagining things.  I hear something out there,“ said the man.  I went stock still, hoping that it was too dark for Eddie to make out our shapes in the branches of the Magnolia. 

“You’re being too paranoid,” drawled the female, her voice like molasses sliding across Saran Wrap.  “Now come back here.”

“I dunno, Missy.  This doesn’t seem right.”

“Where did these morals come from all of a sudden?  You didn’t say that last month.  I believe your words were, “Norma Jeane could use some lessons from you.”

That was so much to handle.  “BASTARD!” I bellowed.  Forgetting the possibility of deadwood, I propelled myself to my feet and heard an sharp crack.  Before I could react, the branch snapped and I shot down feet first.
My arms pin-wheeled, seeking purchase of tree limbs but finding none.   

Some say time slows to a crawl when bad things are happening, but a million thoughts raced through my head:
This is gonna hurt.
Dummy, you knew the answer before you climbed the tree.
I hope Char figures out how to get down.
Why didn’t he just dump me?
I will murder both of them if I’ve gotten an STD.  And no one in town will blame me.
Prison orange is really ugly.

And then my left knee took the full impact of my fall.  I can’t even begin to explain the pain.  Imagine a bowling ball made of concrete smashing into your nose.  Or an elephant flying a spaceship and landing it on your foot. 

The front door exploded open and the screen door shuddered violently as Eddie kicked at it.  Clad in ratty jeans, he stomped across the porch. I groaned as I tried to rise.  Eddie reached out an assisting hand, but I knocked it away.

“Don’t touch me, you filthy yard dog,” I growled, still dazed from the fall.  “I don’t want your whore hands on me.”

“Norma Jeane, I’m so sorry.  It was an accident.”

“Oh, really?!  What happened?  Did you trip and Missy just happened to break your fall with her hallway-sized vagina?”

“That’s uncalled for.”

“No, I’ll tell you what’s uncalled for,” I yelled.  The front porch light flickered on next door and Mrs. Ginny Crawford peered out the crack of the door.  I glared at her and she quickly shut the door.  To hell with the neighbors and their opinion of me.  They’d never see me on this side of town every again.

“Norma Jeane, you are causing a scene.  What are the neighbors going to think?  Come inside.”  Eddie grabbed my arm.

And then I did a horrible thing. . . . 


PS-The juicing and weight loss (with only a few set backs) have been going great.  I've lost about 8lbs so far.  And that's a good thing because I have to be in a wedding in the fall.