“Anybody want this kid?  How ’bout dis one?”

My mom was adopted. She never found out who her real parents were before she died at 43.  So my brother and I did.
Biological Grandma was dead but we met several of her brothers and sisters.  They were all either old or dead already.

On mom’s birth certificate, the line for the father’s name was blank.  I questioned the aunt and she claimed ignorance, with a shoo of her hand.  She mentioned that it could’ve possibly been an army man coming through town, she wasn’t sure.
Aunt told me that bio-grandma ended up marrying an Italian guy.  Had “izzo” at the end of his name.  Said they adopted a seven year old boy from Italy.  None of them have a good relationship with him now.  They don’t know where he lives.

So Grandma gives her baby up for adoption, and then adopts another kid.

I took a DNA test from Ancestry.com.  That test led me to discover the name of my biological grandfather.  MY MOM’s DAD.  The name on that line.  I am positive that this is the man that knocked up my mom’s mom.  I canNOT believe it, AND I’m totally convinced I’m a genius.

I was satisfied with my discovery, so my interest in the subject was put to rest for awhile.  Fast forward a year or so.

It was a couple of weeks ago.  My son and I are going on a tour of the British Isles in June.  I thought it would be cool to see if any of the places in Ireland and Scotland are going to on our trip, have any connections to our ancestors.  So, I renewed my ancestry.com subscription and I’m obsessed and living in my computer again.  I was enjoying myself so much, I decided to make an ancestry photo book for my brother.  
I finished that, but I’m not ready to put it down, so I decide to make a a genealogy book dedicated to my mom.  I could fill in her missing father’s, grandmothers, and aunts and cousins that she never had a chance to search for herself. 

I pull up mom’s bio-dad on ancestry.com. I knew a little about HIM, but nothing about his life, or his family.  I start clicking on birth certificates, death certificates, and census records.  I found his name on every one.  Checked all the info, where he was, how old, blah, blah.  I made notes of his parents names, where the were born, the age at the time the census was taken.  Census records were taken every ten years.

I got to the third census record.  He was seven years old, it said.  I saw his mother’s name, then father’s….finally found his name.  I scrolled my eyeballs carefully to the right, so I wouldn’t lose the line I was on.

There was a category in the census for your status in your house, or who you were.  You fill in whether you’re, “Head” of household, or “Wife,” or maybe, “boarder” or “servant“, “mother-in-law.”  Of course “Child” or “grandmother.”  Back in the early days there’d be fifteen people in one household taking up the half of the page.

When I looked at the household status line where my biological grandfather’s status was, it said in black cursive handwriting , “Child. / Adopted.


This Isn’t Rocket Science, People!!!

Guns guns guns fuck yeah they’re a problem. Of course they are! And just because we need to change our gun laws doesn’t mean anyone wants to take away your fucking gun!

Mental illness is also the problem! Nobody wants to get down in the mud and talk about that, though! People with depression and other mental illnesses like bipolar disorder have to keep it to themselves, like a dirty secret. All the while, unknowing ignoramuses gossip about “those crazy people” and we take our shame back even further into the dark shadows.

What about abused people? What about the neglected or abused child who grows up traumatized and develops PTSD and has anger issues, or gets into drugs? It is happening! Everyday.

There are reasons these people are looking for guns to solve their problems! It’s not just one issue, it’s so many!

How do we put mental illness on the table and recognize it for what it is and who it affects? Maybe if we acted like it wasn’t the plague, more people would seek help before they hurt themselves or someone else!

I just read online how people are wanting to take their children out of schools and home school them. Is that really the answer? How about when they go to a concert, or a movie? What then?

Doesn’t it just make sense? Good old common horse sense? I don’t understand why nothing is changing.

Maybe because, admittedly, I haven’t changed. I’m quite the hypocrite. My excuse is that I want to wait until next year after my youngest son graduates from high school to be open about living with bipolar II. I’m afraid of what he might have to deal with if people knew his mom had a mental illness. I don’t want to put that on him. I don’t want to put it on me either, though. But, every time a shooting happens, guilt wells up in my chest. I feel like a coward. Doesn’t it start with people just like me?

I know what it’s like when people want to downplay your illness, or just plain ignore it altogether. I can tell people close to me get uncomfortable when I mention something about it. They do not want to talk about it. I really can’t say why, exactly. Oh, but they do not want to go there. Is it that bad? I feel that it must be, because no one will talk to me about it.

I have to stay silent at my job when clients refer to crazy people just like me. I’m an imposter. I’m that crazy person in a normal persons’ disguise…they don’t know, they just keep talking as I stay silent.

Its hard! It’s like putting on Facebook in bold letters that you have a horrible case of herpes…but don’t be afraid! You won’t catch it! I won’t hurt your children!

This is stupid!!!!

So, this is the dilemma I struggle with. Yes, I know what I need to do. While I work on that, maybe some of those fuckers can tighten up this ridiculous gun situation.

Are You Wanted?

Who generally loves a person more than anyone else? Mom, of course.

Who wants you more than anyone else?That’s probably Mom too.

There’s a big difference in loving someone and wanting someone. Wanting doesn’t get mentioned very much, but plays a vital role in a person’s well-being.  They want you.  Want.  No matter what, your mom, if she’s worth a shit, wants you around.  She wants to hear about your day.  She wants to spend as much time with you as possible.  She wants you to talk to her about anything your heart desires, and she cares about it, it’s important to her.  No matter how much you ramble, or complain, or how silly, she is all ears, and you know it.  She wants to see all the paintings you made in third grade.  You don’t even have to think or wonder about whether or not you can talk to her about it.  You can.  She will listen.  You already know that.  Everything you do is important to your mother.

Is it college summer break, and you’re crashing at your mom’s house, and all your shit is piled high everywhere?  You know it’s on her nerves, but you’re not too worried about it because she’s your mom and you know she loves you and wants you no matter what.

Is it your 13th birthday and your mom is planning a stupid, crazy, nice party for you and your friends, despite the fact that you’re kind of a brat and don’t appreciate all of her efforts?  Moms do that.  You feel all secure inside and don’t worry about it.

Are you going out of zone to school and live 20 minutes away?  Does Mom get up every morning and drive you to school, and does it again every afternoon, even though it’s out of her way and she has to leave work, and it’s a big pain in her ass?  Sure, she does!  “So what?” the teenager asks.  Well, it’s her mom!

All those things are just a drop in the bucket of what a mother does for her child, and it’s not because she has to, it’s because she wants to.  So, what happens when that mother suddenly disappears?

Will the child find someone to talk to?  Maybe.  But, she feels like she’s bothering them.  They’re really just doing her a favor by listening, she feels.  She’ll probably talk less and less over time.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”  she says.

Will she find somewhere to crash?  Probably.  But, she feels really guilty and in the way.  She apologizes constantly, and feels like they resent her intrusion.  She moves her things so that they’ll take up as little room as humanly possible.  She rushes to leave.

Will she have her birthday party?  Possibly, but she protests every expense, hastily subtracts all the bells and whistles, and feels terribly uneasy that other people are going out of their way for her.  She does everything she can to not be a bother.  She becomes a people-pleaser.

What this person doesn’t have anymore is the security of knowing that someone wants them.  They know they’re loved, but loving and wanting are two different things.  To know that their is no one person that really wants you like your mother did, and to feel like you are a burden to people is a devastating blow to a child’s self-esteem, and it can last their entire lifetime.

Is it any surprise that when someone comes along, that seems to genuinely want to be with our girl, she clings to them like they’re her lifeboat in the sea.   It shouldn’t be a surprise.

A mother who has died, or is emotionally unavailable for whatever reason to her child, is not only depriving the child of being loved, but of being wanted.  The people that are left behind have got to realize this fact and do whatever it takes for as long as it takes, to help that child feel that they are not a burden, they are a blessing.

(This does not just apply to girls, of course.)

She’s Back!!!

This is a follow up to my post, “I Can’t Believe She Said That To Me!”

The client that told me that “Bipolar disorder is God’s punishment for the sins of Man,” showed up at the shop the other day, just like I knew she would!

To recap, she told me she was worried about her four year old son, who has autism, and the stigma that comes with it.  I sympathized with her fears, and confided that I had bipolar disorder, so I was familiar with stigmas.  Her reaction to my comment was, “OH…bipolar!”  Her eyes got wide, both brows lifted high, her head shook back and forth slightly.  Then she dropped the “sins of Man” bomb.  I was speechless.

When it was time for her next appointment, she called every day for two weeks.  She left message after message on our shop voicemail.  I kept hoping that she would get the hint, or at least get mad because I didn’t call her back, and give up.  I had no desire to talk to her, and I knew it would be difficult to have a conversation over the phone.  I’m not good at that.  I dealt with it by not dealing.

One afternoon, I was shampooing a client’s hair in the back of the salon, and I look up, and there she is, coming through the door.  She heads towards me, and with a cock of her curly head, she fusses, “I have been calling for two weeks, and no one has called me back.”  Then, hands go on hips,” I need to make an appointment to get a cut a highlight.”  Now she smiles sweetly.

I motion for her to follow me into the break room and sit down.  We sit across from each other in the small room.  I told her that we had a conversation at her last visit, and she made a comment that upset me very much.  I said, “I don’t even know if you know what I’m talking about.  Do you know?” 

She was sitting with her back straight up, like the good little Christian that she was.  Her big, protruding eyes widened, she nodded slightly, and she said, “I do!’

I was surprised at her answer, which was followed by silence.  I continued,”Well, what you said about mental illness was extremely offensive to me, and I have decided that I don’t want to work with you anymore.”  I choked up halfway through that sentence.  I got very emotional, but kept it together.

She proceeded to apologize for offending me, saying I took what she said the wrong way.  She tried to defend herself, “I feel sorry for you people….”

I say, “…..” , because what she said afterwards I didn’t hear.  All I heard was “you people”.  My chest got hot, my bruised heart seemed to suddenly turn to stone.  I interrupted her, pointed my finger at her, and said, “Let me plant a little seed for you, Brittany.  Your son has autism…he has a mental illness.  Autism is a mental illness!”

Again, her eyes got big, and she said, “I know!”  Then she rattled on about how she didn’t believe God picked on certain people to punish.  I reminded her that that’s exactly what she said that day!  That God was punishing certain people with the burden of mental illness!

The more I heard her talk, the more I was convinced that she was a confused and ignorant, young woman.  I told her I appreciated her apology, but yes, she would have to find someone else to do her hair.  I rose to escort her out.

I was too busy after she left to think about our conversation.  However, that evening I cried a river.  I was so mad at myself for letting this stupid person upset me to such a degree.  Even the next day I had to struggle to keep my tears in check when I thought about it.

I never talk about having bipolar to anyone but my closest friends and family.  One of the reasons why is because of the stigma.  The one time I chose to do it, to put it out there and be vulnerable, I felt humiliated, hurt, and even betrayed.  I thought we had somewhat of a common struggle, so I revealed a piece of my private self to her, even though I didn’t know her very well.  It had barely left my lips when she brought God and his wrath into the picture.  That was a new one!  I never heard of anyone believing such a thing!  I was horrified!  Not MY God!  What?!  What is she talking about?

Hopefully, the next time someone says something so mean, and utterly stupid to me, I will be more prepared.  I don’t think I should hide my disorder like some dirty secret.  I admire those brave advocates that march for our cause, to stop the stigma, and raise awareness of mental illness.  I wonder how they got to be so brave?  I feel like Chicken Little hiding in the corner with my thumb in my beak!

Do We Give It ALL to God?

How do you know how much of a situation to handle yourself, and how much to give to God?  Where is the line between the two?

My friend who is extremely sick is expressing a little frustration at those of us who have questions for the doctor and are researching her illness.  She said that she has faith that God will heal her, and she doesn’t want to talk about the complicated particulars of her disease.

praying hands

I’ve spent a lot of time and tears in prayer for her.  I believe God is in charge and I pray that she is healed!   Does that mean I don’t really need to worry about the details?  God is in charge, so I can sit down and relax?

I believe that there are times when there are miscommunications between doctors and patients.  I also know that mistakes can be made on every level, and we must all make sure nothing falls through the cracks.  I believe that knowledge is crucial, and the more information you have, the better.  Also, when you understand a situation, you are equipped to make wiser decisions.

I am conflicted about how to go forward.  I am extremely involved with her and the family.  I have been a part of their journey since the beginning, and have had a role in helping with the “behind the scenes” things, like bill and finance management, doctor visits, and figuring out what the hell is going on!  Doctors can be extremely vague and not very forthcoming.  Is that okay because we’ve given it all to God?


I will of course, keep praying.  I believe God knows my heart, and He knows I believe in Him, and He hears my prayers.  My friend had a revelation from God the other day when she was in the hospital.  That’s when she said she knew she would be alright.

Maybe I should stop and listen for God to tell me what to do.  He usually does, I just have to be still, and quiet.  Why do I keep forgetting to do this?  Ok, I have to go and be still and quiet.  Bye!

Do You Have Obsessive Thoughts?

A topic I don’t run across very often in the bipolar universe is our tendency to have “obsessive thoughts.”  Maybe it’s because it’s often a minor blip on the hilly, winding road of bipolar symptoms.  It can sometimes serve a person well.  They can focus on important tasks and problems.  But, I know first-hand that it can serve as a false director to mania’s feverish race to self-destruction.  Nepal-curvy-road-Vagabond-Way

I wonder if you have to be in a manic state to have obsessive thoughts?  It seems I can obsess about anything that my brain deems important enough to obsess about.  These obsessions thankfully are for the most part harmless, except for the huge waste of time and irritation to others.

I spent every free moment for two weeks on Ancestry.com trying to find my biological grandfather.  They offer a 14-day free trial, and I was determined to get every shred of information I could find before the end of the 13th day.  I succeeded not only in finding him, but am now friendly with three relatives that I contacted, just so I could ask questions about my secretive family.  I had two days left of my free subscription and I was done with it.  grandfather-597x600

One time I came across a hair product line that was designed only for people with curly hair.  It was a whole concept salon, with not only products, but classes and education.  The majority of the clients were women of color, but not all.  I am not a woman of color, but I do have curly hair.  I spent every waking moment for about a week pouring over their websites and literature, reviews and product samples.  I dissected my calendar and bank account, trying to figure out how I was going to get to New York City to take classes so my salon could be certified.  I researched the ways that I could get the word out to the masses that I specialized in curly hair.  I was going to be an expert, and carry all of the products for people of all races and color, and maybe I could find an African-American stylist who would work with me, and we could have the first multi-cultural salon in our town, which would be awesome, because race relations are terrible, and wouldn’t that be amazing, and we could all make new friends and learn from each other, and…  curly hair

That lasted about a week.  I changed my mind about it in an instant.  Thankfully, I hadn’t committed thousands of dollars to products, travel, and education.

My latest obsessions have mostly been related to my friend with cancer.  I haven’t felt that I’ve been unreasonable in my research pursuits, until the last couple of days, when I have felt the hint of impatience and irritation from my husband.  I have been the giver of information to my friend and her family.  I have spent hours upon hours setting up donation funds online, finding specialists that make house calls, combing through pictures for social media updates, and now researching the cause of her sickness and how to obtain much needed financial aid.

good person

My sick friend sent me a message one day thanking me for all of my help.  She said she didn’t realize how giving and selfless I was, she was extremely grateful.  It occurred to me, sadly, that I’m not selfless and giving!  I have bipolar disorder and I obsess.  It’s true that this is a worthy cause that I care deeply about, and not some hair product or DNA mystery.  But, I’m obsessing.  It’s what I do.   good-theresa_2637100b

But, I do feel that when it’s a good cause, my obsessive nature can serve a good purpose, and I can be beneficial.  I cannot help being this way.  If I am not able to actively work on the object of my obsession, my mind is consumed with the pressure of it, and can only find relief if I complete the task I’ve chosen to be supremely and urgently important.

It makes me tired being this way!  I have to remember to try and pick up my head every now and then, to look around to make sure I’m being reasonable.  However, when you are in the middle of an obsession, you are too focused to think of such things.  When finally, I am released from its’ spell, I discover that once again, my obsessions are without merit.  When reflected upon, I find that again, I have expelled energy and emotion on ideas that seem stupid and pointlekidtvss.

My only consolation is that hopefully, my obsessing can be beneficial at times.  Hopefully I can make a difference in a positive way, and that makes me feel better about all the wasted thinking, time, and effort I’ve spent trapped, spinning around in my own head.

I just read this article that relates to this:


I Want You to Meet Our Cousin, Gary

Every year in October, my father-in-law’s family has their annual “camp-out”.  It’s really just a family reunion that takes place in the woods, next to a creek that runs through his cousin’s property.  A road made of worn down grass and weeds winds around until it gets to a clearing in the trees.  As always, they build a big bonfire, and all the women bring food, and lay it all out on the back of a wooden trailer.


Every year it’s usually the same folks that come…everyone is always happy to see cousins from far away.  This year a new baby made an appearance.  A miracle baby, in a way.  A cousin’s oldest son is a little person.  Two years ago, he married another little person.  About a month ago, they give birth to a baby little person.  She is a beautiful baby, and so far, she has no health issues to speak of.  Everyone knows that could change, because little people can have big health problems.


So, they were there, and that was cool.  Both of my kids were there, and that made me happy.  The usual older aunts and uncles were there, sitting in the fold out chairs around the smoking logs.  They don’t talk as much as they used to.  They just kind of look around and smile, say a few words here and there.


The people you notice right off the bat, though, are the two-year old twin boys.  They aren’t identical, but pretty close to it.  They remind me of the odd couple.  One is all neat and clean, and the other has scabs and scrapes on his dirty face, his blonde hair sticking up everywhere.  They had a big, red wagon equipped with fold-out back rests in the front, and the back.   They would climb in and sit facing each other in the wagon, after successfully charming a relative to pull them around the campground.

The person you most often see pulling those two around is a large, hulking man wearing overalls.  I noticed this year the buttons on the sides of his overalls were barely keeping his belly reigned in.  He has reddish gray hair with a matching mustache and beard.  His name is Gary and he is the twins’ grandfather.  It is his land that the campout is held every year.


Gary’s hair used to be red as fire, but it almost looks strawberry blonde now with all the gray that has grown in.  He is my husband’s first cousin, and they’ve been more like brothers than cousins.  Gary used to work at my father’s hardware store, back in the 80’s, when he was a teenager.  We still laugh at the memory of him burning out the clutch in my dad’s work truck.  Which, of course, wasn’t funny at the time!   If it wasn’t for him, though, my husband and I wouldn’t have met!  His family was very active in one of the Methodist churches in our town, and my husband’s family never went to church.  When they were old enough to attend youth activities, Gary would drive fifteen minutes to pick up my husband and take him to church, because he couldn’t drive yet.  A couple of years later, we started going to that church and the rest is history!


Gary can talk more than any one person I’ve ever met.  He’s always had stories, and man, are they long!  He loves history, and he is deeply devoted to his family, even the ones that are long gone.  See, his family has deep roots in a rural area outside of the town we grew up in.  Great-great grandfathers, great-great uncles, and the farms and land they all grew up in, are still in his family.  That land and those stories are part of what makes Gary who he is.  When he would tell stories about those folks, his eyes would light up.


He and his wife finally could afford to build a house on some of that land, and I’ve never been happier for anyone.  It’s like he was home.  His brother lives a couple of acres over, and Gary was always figuring where the best building sites were for his son and daughter, should they ever decide to build.


Yesterday, I was standing next to a tree talking to one of the cousins, when I looked over and saw Gary in his old overalls, walking towards the makeshift road.  In front of him ran one of the twins, and the other quickly caught up from behind, his arm raised as he ran, so that it could find Gary’s hand.  I stood there in silence and watched as Gary slowly walked across his beloved land, with his two precious grandsons, and my heart broke in two.

The person who wasn’t at the camp-out was Gary’s son.  His name was Jack, and he died six months ago.  He took his own life.  He was 25 years old, the same age as my oldest son.  They used to actually camp-out at the camp-out.  My husband and boys, Jack, Gary, our nephew Dylan, and some of the other young cousins would sleep in tents and go for night-time strolls through the woods. They have so many stories of camping out there next to that creek, scaring each other, talking all night long.  Jack never missed a camp-out.


Gary is one of the kindest people I know.  He was his son’s biggest supporter when he was battling addiction and demons, and never gave up on him.

The image is burned into my memory, Gary in his overalls, holding his grandson’s hand, walking away from us through the grass.  He moves slower, and he doesn’t seem quite as tall as he used to.  The little boy awkwardly maneuvers through the tall weeds with his grandfather’s help.  I recall his face as we talked earlier, how he wasn’t quick to smile, and he hasn’t told any stories today.


Gary doesn’t get to share his family land with Jack anymore, but he will share it with Jack’s children.  He shares it with my children.  Someday soon, I pray that his eyes turn bright again, and he tells us stories that never end.

Are We a Burden?

Do you ever feel like a burden to your spouse and/or family because of your mental issues?  I have always felt guilty about the stress and problems I have caused my husband, especially, even though I know it’s not my fault that I have bipolar disorder and PTSD.  He’s never once done anything to make me feel guilty, it’s just how I feel.  Especially when I’m depressed.  I think that’s common.



So, I think, “Man, it must suck so bad to have to put up with a wife with all these depressive periods, and mood swings.  I’ve been in the freakin hospital with this crap, squalling on the bed for days at a time, manic episodes where I’m trying to quit my job or cuss out my friends.  Always going to the doctor, tweaking my meds.  He’s had to call in sick to his job so I wouldn’t be home by myself.  God, I feel so bad that he has to put up with this shit from me.  I’m a lucky woman to have this man in my life.”


The other day I was diagnosed with neuropathy.  Neuropathy!  What the hell?!?  We don’t know why yet, I just started bloodwork yesterday, and I have to do nerve testing on my feet.  I’ve had pain in my feet and legs for a while, but the last year or so, weird symptoms, different pains, and numbness have showed up, so I went to the doctor about it.  For the longest, I just figured that leg and foot pain was just part of being a hairdresser…you know, an occupational hazard!


The pain has gotten to a point where, I can work about five to six hours and then my feet hurt so bad it kills me to continue standing.  If I sit for more than a few minutes, I look like a ninety-year old woman walking on hot coals for about 15 or 20 feet before it works itself out.  I just spent $250 on another pair of shoes and inserts that seem to just be a waste of money.


There’s not a whole lot you can do about this condition, they say, except try to keep it from getting worse.  That is already proving to be a difficult task.  I’m trying to adjust my work schedule to not work too many hours, and get a stool to sit on for time consuming services.  My doctor says I should swim for exercise, instead of more walking to get the twenty pounds of weight off that Latuda and then Lithium were kind enough to help me pack on.  Swimming?  When in the hell am I going to go swimming?

So, who knows why I have neuropathy.  We might never know, or we might find out I have diabetes or some other condition.  And, you know what keeps running through my mind?  That I am possibly adding another burden onto my family!  I don’t want to complain, or bitch about the pain if I can help it, because I don’t want my husband to have to listen to it all of the time.  I don’t want him to have to worry about me or my health.  I don’t want to have to work less hours and make us strapped financially.  I don’t want to walk like an old lady and have to wear big ugly shoes (Ok, that’s about me lol)!


The guilt I already am beginning to feel is something I know I’m going to have to fight.  Logic tells me he knows I can’t help it, he loves me, blah blah blah.  But, dang!  Sometimes I can’t help wondering…if he knew twenty-seven years ago what he was signing up for…would he would sign up again?

Mental Illness and the Sins of Man

I’m deciding how to deal with the person who offended me a couple of months ago.  She’s the one who told me that mental illness is God’s punishment for the sins of Man.  I wrote about it in my post, “I Can’t Believe She Just Said That To Me!”  https://idontwanttotalkaboutyourhair.wordpress.com/2017/06/02/i-cant-believe-she-just-said-that-to-me/   Well, she’s back!

I got through that horrible appointment, but now she wants to come back for me to do her hair again. I don’t want to do it, but I can’t decide how to handle it!  Do I just avoid her and never return her phone calls?


Or, do I grow a pair and tell her that she offended me so bad at her last visit, that I never want to see her face again, much less spend a two hour hair appointment with her!


Maybe I should suggest that she do a little more research on autism, (which she had shared that her young son had), because there is quite a debate going on because many professionals believe that autism falls into the category of mental illness in addition to a developmental disorder.  And you know why some just don’t want it to be labeled “mental illness?”  Because of the stigma!!!  Give me a break, people!  Why does this has to be so hard?  We can’t help it!  They are both disorders of the brain that we all have through no fault of our own!  Why does one have to be demonized?   I found this article that talks about autism and the brain:



Whatever!  These people can categorize and draw little lines between titles and symptoms til the cows come home..BUT, DO NOT tell me that mental illness is God’s punishment for us for the sins of man!   That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard!  I guess I should probably ignore her, cause I get pretty riled up just thinking about it!  My scary mental illness might cause me to get the chainsaw out of the trunk of my car and chase her around the parking lot, while screaming “The sins of man! The sins of man!


Is it possible to educate and enlighten, while giving the finger at the same time?

I’ll probably just avoid her phone calls.

Is Your Gut a Liar?

How do you make decisions?  Not when your moods are normal, but when you are in a period of mood cycles?  What do you do?

Since I’ve been on Lithium, I still experience rapid cycling.  Thankfully, they’re just not as severe.  They typically last about a week or so, and run the usual roller coaster of emotions.  Then I might get a break of a couple of days, and then the bar closes on my lap, and slowly the coaster climbs the hill again.


But, what do you do when situations arise, where you are faced with life’s punches in the gut?  When important decisions need to be made that will affect you and your family, your friends and co-workers?

Monday’s girl is sad and depressed.  She can’t take the anxiety and pressure of her job and the people in it.  It’s time to make a change.  My body just can’t do this anymore…the physical demands of my occupation are too much!  My body is hurting, something is wrong.  I’ve been doing this for over 25 years!  That’s a long time to stand up all day every day!  I just can’t do it!  I have to quit my job and shut down my business.  It’s so sad, but I really don’t have a choice!  We’ll be okay.  We have to be, cause, I can’t take it anymore…sob.  I tell my husband, “Honey, we have got to talk about my retiring.”

Wednesday’s girl is pissed.  Fuck these people.  All they want is what they can get from me.  They don’t give a damn about me!  I cannot deal with these people anymore.  They keep pushing!  They’re so selfish and pushy, and cheap!  I haven’t gone up on my prices in forever!  You can go anywhere and pay more than I charge, and I have way more experience!

ten minutes and work girl

I’m so close to cussing my friends.  They’re not my real friends.  They don’t appreciate me, or give a damn about me.  They don’t listen when I’m talking, they’re always “busy”, and can’t hang out.  I don’t know why I do this.  Fuck this place…I’m done.  I don’t care if we have to live on beans and rice, I’m not working anymore, and I don’t care if I never see these people again!  “Honey, I’m not kidding!  I’m not doing this shit anymore!  We’re going to have to sell some shit, cause I’m done!”



Friday’s girl turned on a dime.  What the hell was I thinking?  I can’t quit my job, Silly!  I’m saving up for that vacation next summer, and if I’m not working, I won’t be able to make that monthly payment!  Oh, I forgot, if I’m not working, I can’t keep paying to have our house cleaned every other week.  Screw that!  I’m not cleaning toilets!  And, I have to have my own spending money!  Well, I’ll figure something out.  I’ll change my hours around and hopefully my legs won’t hurt so much.  It’ll be fine.  Oh!  I have got to clean that refrigerator out today!  My bathroom vanity looks like hell, I’m going to get that done today, and I should have two hours that I can spend on Ancestry.com obsessively researching and combing the internet for minute clues about my dead kin people.


I’ll end up being on it until midnight, but I can’t stop!  It’s so much fun!  I wonder how my friend is doing?  I need to call her this afternoon.  She’s so damn funny!  Oh lord, I don’t know what I’d do without her friendship!  You know what I need to do?  I’m going to go through all of my pictures, and make a collage of all of our amazing memories we’ve shared over the years!  I’ll go to Hobby Lobby first, then….

Today is Sunday.  I’m Sunday’s girl, and I recall the last week’s ups and downs.  I feel tired and defeated.  I realize what has happened.  Every day this past week, my feelings were real and authentic!  I wanted to quit for all of those reasons!  I had severe animosity towards my friends, clients, and loved ones! My moods dictated this story, and I lived it out loud!  That was my GUT talking!  One of the things about being bipolar that is the hardest for me, is that I can’t trust my gut.  Ever.  My gut is a liar!


When the cycles are subtle, other people can’t really recognize what’s happening to you.  Sometimes, you don’t even recognize it until it’s over!  I’ve tried explaining it a couple of times to friends, and they kind of brush it off, attributing it to hormones, or just being in a plain ole bad mood.  They say, “Oh, girl, everybody gets like that sometimes!”  Yeah, yeah.

I know I’m supposed to not make any big decisions if I’m going through a cycle.  But, I wonder, how in the hell do you know what’s real and what’s a cycle?



I made it through another weekly cycle.  Hopefully, these cycles will stop pretty soon. wonder though, am I the only one who can’t trust their gut?