Negative Nancy And Hurricane Harvey Sitting In A Tree

I was supposed to become a diligent little blogger. It was going to be therapy. For a while it was! I lost steam when I learned of the passing of a fellow blogger I instantly adored. She was tough and kind. She was quality.

Also, last year just took me by the ankle and spun me around for 365 days. It began with my purse being stolen. It ended with me fracturing a bone on my foot. In between, I lost precious kitties, my baby, Harvey took the expensive part of my house and soaked it in shit-water for nearly three weeks, I kicked a sewing needle and it went alllllllll the way into my toe, and my family collectively lost their kindness. Seriously, that bucket of dead dicks stepmother of mine? She never did undick herself. I believe she is going for a record. I should be recording.

I lost a couple of friendships but that hardly matters. Losing friendships was why I thought 2016 was a terrible year! I implicitly recall crying to my stepmother (ha) about how much it hurt to lose those weighty old friendships. Perspective is slutty. What shall this year slobber on? No slobbering, 2018. Pretty, witty please.

My dad, the optimist, he always told me that the more friends you have, the more disappointment. Indeed, some old friends have disappointed me, but where was my warning about the baby? How truly nothing else fucking matters when you lose one? How long does this last? Fuck friends, I kindly request my dreams back.

I still dream about my baby nearly every night. Once I passed what was supposed to be my due date, I no longer dreamed of an infant- the nocturnal tease became instant three. A precocious, dark-haired toddler whose face I cannot capture with paint. Or colored pencils. Or pastels. Or the most ambitious concentration that ever walked the land of broken hearts…

I have stopped taking my medicine, but I swear it is how I have thus far survived all this shit. I can hardly explain it but it’s true.

I have increased my intake of leafy greenery. That helps, too.

I am going to write two blogs a month. That is my goal. Therapy doesn’t grow on trees, you know.

Harvey took the couch I laid on with my darling, Castor, when he took his last, sweet breath. I could lay on that couch, close my eyes, put my hand over my heart, and feel again the pure love from my beloved kitten. I could plainly feel his soft fur beneath my palm. I could hear his dainty, quirky chirp meow.

I cannot do that anymore. Sometimes things are the most important things. It’s not nice to shame those lovers of their things. I would probably punch an old lady in her nose if I could have that couch back.

I am not a good person. I am a sad person. A very, very mad person. I want my babies.

Not All Cookies Are Worth The Ants

I like weirdos. Strange has always been comforting to me, and weirdos have strange and complicated ingredients. If weirdo were cookies, they would not be caught dead with raisins inside of them. Ugh, raisins. Go marry oatmeal and never come back from your honeymoon. What a boring bunch of mush.

It’s time for a new cookie. I always wanted to invent something that made it easy for your car to communicate with another, like a box on top that flashed I AM SO SORRY when you accidentally cut someone off, but I will settle for inventing a new cookie flavor.

 

 

I Could Not Kill My Fish

He was just little guy swimming around and doing his thing. All it took was a dash of neglect to infect my little fishy friend, and he caught the fin rot. He came to me that way. When my mother abandoned her turtles with me, a few days later she showed up with these goddamn fish.

A boy fish and a girl fish, though, they were both boy fish. Two Siamese fighting fishies, ferocious little bettas. One was more blue, the other more pink so my heinous heteronormative mind assigned the blue one as “him/he” and the pink one as “her/she.” Shame on me.

I will just say I was too busy curing these sick fishies to break barriers. She healed up quickly. She was spunky from the first water change, the poor thing. Her name is Happy now. She is happy now.

He was happier, for sure. After acquiring late night red eyes from bright computer screens studying betta sickness varieties, I learned they needed way more space. They needed heat. Bettas are not little bowl hosts of the most boring circus show. Please remember that.

I comfort my selfish self with knowing he was happier at least for a bit before his rot receded more stealing that glorious fin of his. I tried all the suggestions: many water changes, heat and salt, and then went through a few different medications.

For five weeks we battled what was consuming him. The past five days I knew what I had to do, but I could not do it. His energy had depleted. No more happy bubbles were skimming the top of the water. The past five days he laid gasping at the bottom of his bowl, his “hospital tank.” I put an oxygen pump in there, kept him warm, and made sure to scoot the brine shrimp, his last couple of meals close enough to his mouth to effortlessly nibble. What a joke, though. What a heartless bitch.

When I would go to do it, my movement would make him dart around the tank, zig zags of will still within him, that’s what I told myself. He still had the will to live. It was not the time for the giving of permanent mercy.

But it was. I should have done it. Instead, he was miserable because I am a selfish creature. I could not bear to kill my fish so I let my fishy suffer.

In the event of a zombie apocalypse, somehow I know I could shoot my boyfriend between the eyes if it came down to it … but what about my cats? My turtles? Would I let them starve to death because I could not feed them a tricky supplemented supper that would put them in forever sleep?

I would not want pets in the event of a zombie apocalypse. Because they are not pets. They are my innocent and loyal little friends whom I love so much. And yet I could put a bullet between the eyes of my human friends, as quickly as my boyfriend if I *had* to. I don’t know why I am so sure, but I am surely not quite right for knowing I am correct in my hypothetical assessment.

I could not kill my fish, and I had the nerve to cry when he died the slow death, taking that last breath. It didn’t have to be so bad for him, his end of life. I should have swiftly eliminated that suffering, but I didn’t. I feel it is the equivalent of watching an animal cry on the side of the road after being hit by a car and doing nothing.

It’s far too easy to ignore what you cannot hear, and that is terribly unfortunate. Often times it is the silence that needs to make it to your ears with it’s powerful, wordless message. Animals cannot tell us what is wrong so we have to pay attention. Their whimpers are clues, but what about the little fishes that make no sounds at all? We really must try harder to be in tune with the quiet presence of the silent present.

And how the fuck do we do that? Pipe the fuck up and tell me. I feel like shit over this. And now I have visions of crying animals on the side of the road. Thanks, bitch. You idiot.

Are You Taking Your Medicine?

Mollycoddle my feelings, lollipop. Do not be so sticky. If I wanted ticky tacky hands I would high-five my new enemies.

Shame on the titties and their freeloading thin-fabric jiggling. Giggling fleshy blobs taking not a damn thing seriously enough. I would have a word with them, but I cannot make eye-contact. Without a stern penetrating ocular stance, how can I make my point stand?

I can’t. And it’s for the best that instead, I rest. Better I listen intently to all this hissy whistling. You demand just a smidge of my attention so you can spout some very sound stuff- syrup thick full of wisdom and magical fluff. I ought simply hush, lean back, and soak up the bubblegum.

Yum yum yum.

Fuck yourself better next time, sweetie-heart, and wake up happier. You will bring better candy and I will not have the dastardly task of sifting through this bland menagerie of lackluster and unlickable trash. I hate licorice but you already knew that.

It’s time to break up over this. Pose that medication question again.

So damn dumb.

 

I Recommend Fucking

 

It was this poster on my wall that I gazed upon and shed tears.

Recently,  I had a conversation with someone about the first man to ever make us cry. William Bradley Pitt. We both shared the same first heart pain. Her first yearn occurred after watching ‘Thelma and Louise.’ I was too young back then to look past the hick-vibe of his character and too young to care enough to cry over a dude.

My first love, my first aching lust? Sweet, savage ‘Legends Of The Fall.’ Dear god, the beauty of that man. And the odd stirring within me as his gentle brother described how his first night with his new wife was going to be special and tender blah blah blah, to which Brad Pitt’s character said,

“I recommend fucking.”

Right then, as a foreign fire spread within me, and my eyes widened curiously, I knew one day that I, too, would recommend such a fantastic thing.  At the time, of course, I had no idea just how fantastic a thing it would be. Many years would pass before I would know the great joy of sex, and many, many more years would pass before I would comfortably call it, “fucking.”

Despite the pleasure I take in my naughty vocabulary, in my vulgar and glib story-telling amongst my close friends, I am slightly old-fashioned (Ha- perspective is hilarious.) I cannot fuck someone I lack deeply caring feelings for (it can take me a while to realize I am in “love” and I dance around the word.) I can have awkward sex with them, sure. It might even be good awkward sex but I have to love a man to get dirty. And dirty is where it’s at. I can count my partners on both hands, but I am not proud of that. I sometimes fear I will not have enough stories to cackle with dear old friends about as we age. And it’s the awkward sex, the bad sex that makes for good stories.

I didn’t have a great lay until my twenties. I had no idea I had yet to have a great lay because an orgasm is an orgasm. But man … I had not had that intellectual connection with anyone until then, the connection where your brain shudders in waves similar to orgasms when you  almost cannot respond to what they are saying because your mind is naked and quivering and you need a cigarette after that deep talk you just had.

I had my high-school boyfriends and I had fun with them. But I was often accused of a certain detachment. I think I liked talking about sex more than doing it. I was the last of my friends to lose my virginity. I watched a lot of my friends pine for boys and get used for sex and it hurt my heart. Despite their jealous accusations that I was “always” with my boyfriends, truthfully I was more often with them. We were having adventures. I found that more fun than hours of heavy-petting and raw mouths from making out for so long. I saved the bitching and embarrassing stories for those friends who spent Valentines Day alone. I exaggerated the hell out of a lot of things for their sake because I knew they were lonely. By now I am sure they realize our adventure time was far more meaningful than some bullshit high school romance drama. I certainly cherish *those* memories far  more!

Even now, even while with someone who is quite tenacious in bed, I tend to prefer talking about the deed more than doing it. I like to complain how we never bang and its because of him. It took him longer than society portrays men to be, a truly bullshit pressuring stereotype. One I didn’t understand until  met him. He wasn’t sexually aggressive for a long time. But now when I complain about the lack of quivering in my loins, he rolls his eyes. Most times I just feel like hiding my flesh. I will talk about the wiggle of it and laugh with my friends, but I cannot ignore the jiggle of it while sweatily panting on messed up sheets. I am all talk. I do not want to be. Sex is so healthy.

It’s common for promiscuity to plague those of us who have bipolar disorder. My main plague is impulse spending of money on nonsense I don’t need- so then I buy presents for others to justify the spending. But while manic, I see the sex everywhere. I don’t want to shop from other shelves, but I see what sits gleaming atop them. While manic is when I am insatiably needing  the delightfully fulfilling fucking, but my boyfriend cannot go with the flow of my wayward ways during such times. How can I be crying over long dead pets, come up with a plan to save the seals, paint a mural of a graveyard on my door, pick a fight over the fact that he isn’t enraged right with me, become confused that he dares to refuse to dance with me, and then want to hop into bed?

I don’t know. I may not ever know … but I do recommend fucking.

 

Rare Honesty Reads Weirdly

He is so pleased as he takes my glass and places it neatly on a makeshift coaster of paper towels. I have been taking my medication with determined diligence and the results not only calm crying beasts inside of me but offer ease and peace to him. In his tidy perspective, impossible to be the objective machine he takes pride in being, our cozy world feels promising.  The present actions in the immediate surroundings of his life are calmer with me than he has known. I imagine he feels relief. I imagine he believes with sincerity that it’s possible to relax and let himself enjoy this reprieve of sorts … this pause of the emotional dysfunction that has persisted with ferocious tenacity from the woman he  adores, that woman being me. I have felt lucky. I have never felt anything but lucky for this adoration.

But here of late, there is a worry that shadow looms over my general gratitude. His peppy presumptions of promising prances through bright pastures in the sunbeams I despise is premature. He is blessedly unaware of what I spy with my suspicious eyes.

I have passed the madness to my lover. Something rotten brews within him and I find my self-control in handling it to be remarkably foreign. I zone not out, but through. He fits, snarls, and is unreasonable. His unsavory behavior is not unlike what I, too, have intimately known. But years of battling myself gave me the torturous self-awareness to know of all the ways I wasted time with confusing mental monsters taunting reality most inconveniently and unpredictably. He is a virgin to this mess. He is in a hell I have never been. I doubt my bravery to feel on my skin this blistering heat of his. I am a craven, yes. This I hiss in admittance.

My precious robot is malfunctioning. I wear no tool belt. My mechanic skills are nill, and this proud man has not a single suspicion of the unease he brings. It is the turn of my own tip-toes to callous lest they falter under his alarmingly acquired malice. His brash and reactionary flailing for me so unsettling. So selfishly I have laid down my own expectant needs for comfort, paraded babbling flags of verbal nonsense, and now I study faltering strides from he who is my everything. Why is my arm not raised, my hand outreached? I just stare and stress. I cry for new reasons and as silently as possible. What the fuck is this flip-flop? Where hides my coward eagerness to help this man who wears a brand new maniac mask?

Love, what a fickle fuck of a fuckless union you are. Universe- must it really be a trade off? My stability for his pleasant demeanor? Tell me I have finally attained the facetious nirvana of being neurotic.  I have overthought. I have overshared. Elimination of other painful people polluting my life was not drama enough?

Say this is a twist? Is my imagination wildly widening? Is he the same sane and patient man who massages my hand to ease me into sleep at night, and I have daydreamed this scenario where I am the mundane straight line who shuns the overplayed intensity for zen sincerity?

As I zone through and not out, hardly handling his ire healthily, I should confess that my eyes are redefining matter. They view reminders of memories I remember with a bit of jealously. Can I admit I love rage and will never bury my own- that watching him broil deadens me because I know the reason rage is right, I know there is a reason we are compelled to fight? I have long suspected that cruelty is masochistic foreplay of mine, with my frequent breakups and makeups. I believed my emotionally controlled robot and I were total “opposites attract” but perhaps two souls who like the teeter-tottering of strife and tender strokes have found one another. Perhaps this is my fairytale. Maybe I suddenly don’t mind as I type this.

Abuse blooms where pain surrenders. I ache as I claim the desire for warmth while cupping icy hands over cold breasts. The same hands I held in the freezing cold while watching with a morbid joy as the flesh turned from peach to blue. Do I do this for the concerned clutching of them between his own? Is he the rage I miss and so have created to placate the absence of this?

No, no. I dutifully swallow the help, the little pills that haven’t the time to humor suicide. And as they digest I watch the infectious malady of misaligned synapses scurry about him, he who is my everything in life. The first time this particular  weakness has ever from me existed. A sentiment never from my lips before formed in a sentence.  I like it, though, don’t I? I fancy this fearing of my robotic Romeo.

I will find any exquisite excuse to remain contrary to satisfied. Not all gifts are sagaciously perfumed for those of us who are titillated by blood and misuse, those of us who then melt into the arms of artful apologies.

The first rule of Fight Club: Only one crazy at a time.

 

Hey Mania, Time To Check In. Bring Chocolate.

I am in an isolating bubble of  paranoia and distrust. There is a sharp pin dangling above me. It is cleverly tied to the end of a balloon string. I only need to reach for this tiny dagger to pop this round, clear, magnifying hell. I desperately need to be on my name brand medicine. lamigotrine is not lamictal.

I let my stash run low and my reserves are the generic and this is the one drug where I have noticed not everything has an equally helpful, more cost-effective side-kick. If cats could speak and drive, I would have three side-kicks.

If cats could speak and drive, I would just charm them to go do my work for me so I could stay at home and paint away my inconvenient sadness and loneliness and I would not ever again have to fend off any creeping resentment towards the majority of my human family that rather pop pain pills and judge me- calling me an uppidy bitch because I have an intelligent boyfriend, with a damn good job, who fucking rocks it, and provides me with a beautiful home I already feel unworthy to sleep in. But fuck me, right? Fuck me for making jewelry and pet-sitting instead of having a “real job”? Reality is a blur for me, how much of a part should I have in operating it? Do you get behind the wheel with someone who cannot see two feet in front of them? Fuckkk

I am so vile to them that I cannot seek comfort when other parts of my family cease to exist, death deserves attention, respect of a memory, or when people I love  go through hell and climb out like a warrior (which both makes me proud for them and ashamed of my own self,) or when that other side of the family gets fucking dangerously crazy in their own right and I need someone to talk to that KNOWS them, too. Sometimes, I need comfort. And the thing is, motherfuckers, 7/10 times you only need to give me a few minutes. My fucked up brain bounces back to the bright side of things at often inappropriate times, so put down your pill bottle and pick up your phone. Develop telepathy and get this message before I forget how to transmit.

Do not utilize your life-sustaining uterus, or you virile sperm count unless you are psychic and you know for a fact you wont end up hating your own offspring. And don’t you goddamn dare shame a bitch for choosing not to biologically stamp herself out when there are kids here who already need LOVE. Tell me it’s selfish to not want to shit out some babies, tell me that one more time, please… I am growing out my nails just to peel your face off.

Rage Against The Machine: Anger is a gift.

It is motivation, something uncomfortable that forces movements for change, and I prefer anger to pathetic, worthless, unproductive, unappreciative sadness. I embrace my anger, I shun my disgusting self-pity. To each his own? Really? Then respect that in all regards. I am not strong with depression. I wish I were, obviously. But you know what, I sure as hell don’t wrinkle my nose when others experience it. We are human beings and we are in this shit together. That is the only thing that keep me from gaining height, turning grey, having my eyes transform to giant black orbs, and returning to the mother-ship.

But not really! Because guess what? People who are wear a name-tag of mental illness, it’s uncanny, they too, can be figurative in rants.

I know what I need to do, but I don’t do it. It’s nonsense. Go get my fucking proper meds, just do it, just fucking do it.

I am a lizard. Stress scales my body and my rashes are my unwanted mask.

When pot is legal and you can self-medicate without breaking the fucking law, and stoner-taxies become a thing, many of us will function much, much better. But until then, let us enjoy the stigma and paranoia and refrain from helpful herb. Make us masochists.

Thank you, internet, for your shoulder. I feel a bit better. Maybe my side-kick cats popped my bubble with their claws.

Please be so kind and gentle with your animal-friends. Love them, respect them. They worship you, trust you, and they forgive your faults.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Perilous Plants With People Faces

That’s how I feel about those around me, as if I am walking in some fancy lady’s tea-sipping garden and atop those flower stems are familiar faces. I want to pluck them and press them between pages, preserving them for future fond memory-gazing.

All I desire from these souls is the ability to reflect happily upon the old times, those good times- the ones we made for smiling when we are very old.

Starting a blog was huge for me. I keep my secrets in seclusion. I do not enjoy talking to people and saying my label aloud. I have made a friend in the last couple of years that has no shame in saying the words. She makes being bi-polar look beautiful somehow. She is the first friend I have been comfortable conversing about the disorder with, and that’s likely because she is my first friend who suffers the same.

Many friends have been unintentionally hazardous to my health. I should pray, meditate, or take more vitamins. Then it will all go away, and I will be fine. The last time I went off my meds, as I was losing a slippery grip on my beloved sanity, a friend told me she was proud of me for tossing my magic pills. Every medicated motherfucker has had that impulse (or ten) to figuratively rip off their clothes and be free, naked and free. Wildly free. Your art is not the same, you want to feel yourself in your true form. You cannot have friends that encourage this if your mental nudity causes harm.

She didn’t know better. She is not a fan of education and therefor does not seek to further her own. Knowledge makes her curiously defensive, something that grew to bother me too much to keep the flame alive. I am casual with her now, and so much more comfortable.  Ignorance isn’t malicious but it’s certainly dangerous. Frankly, as I grow older, I lack the patience for those who choose blissful ignorance. What was once envy is now disgust.

I am a natural actress, but some call it being a liar. I am a writer. My joy is telling a story worth stealing a bit of someones attention. I have a small gift of knowing what people need me to say. I know what validations they need me to water, and I offer them all they need to quench their insecurity. Because of this small gift, I am highly functional socially. I have very close friends who truly think there is nothing wrong with me. The flattery certainly keeps away my arguing. Why would I insist I am not well? Why not bask in that moment of someone thinking you are delightfully balanced and sane? I bask indeed. I revel and roll all around in it.

You’re goddamn right, friend. I have my shit straight! Until you leave or hang up the phone …

It’s been a very difficult year. My emotions are not tormented by only my brain. External drama and trauma has burned fire inside of me. There has been heartache and fear. I have have been introduced to new and terrifying pains. And through my sobs, the only noise I hear is crickets. The friends for so many years that I held so dear were absent. I did not need them to have the gift of a good spin, I just needed their ears. Some blatantly betrayed  and others obliviously merged with their reflection, they became self-absorbed mirrors.

Then there is my family. My dissolving family that divides bitterly, and multiplies irreparable resentment. The closeness once among us baffles my comprehension of the present. I fought like a wild wolf to preserve even a semblance of loving unity. I failed hard. So hard that most of them can fade away and I already said my goodbyes. I would not watch the slow dissolving of atoms even for curiosities sake. I gave up and retired all interest of their existence. Without my family I feel as though the inherent loneliness I was born with was preparation for the eventual abandonment. I am appreciative of that preparation.

Fuck drugs. Fuck jealousy. And fuck the fuck out of feeling like the world owes you even a small goddamn thing. Let those things make you turn on your kindred? Well then, fuck you.

An attempted guilt-trip would be in vain. The fight of a wild wolf is exhausting. You may only have one family, as so many are want to insist, but it is also true that within you there is only one true fight of a wild beast. I am spent.

Exhaustion does not dim the deep gratitude for the newer developed relationships I am lucky to have garnered. And I have my cat-babies, my boyfriend, and a beautiful home. On bad days of late I do not feel sorry for my self, I hate my self. It’s much more manageable.

How can I feel sorrow when I am so lucky? Old friends are old wounds and new friends keep the flesh from scarring. My cats worship me. My robotic, emotionally-controlled boyfriend is the strength I need around me. My home is my own and the walls are mine for the drawing. And I do draw on my walls with glee, a giant canvass. There is no censorship or restriction.

Starting this blog has been the very best therapy. Connecting with the entries of strangers who speak a language I understand has made me wish I could reach through the screen and hand each writer a small ‘thank you’ note. I appreciate so much much the collective exchange of honesty and vulnerability. It’s ultimate bravery. It’s a giant comfort hive. I see inside the minds of people I have never met and I feel as if I am properly introduced to myself. I understand a bit better the parts of myself that sully a good day at random. I am not a freak anomaly.

I can now press those old flower faces between book pages and move right on feeling lighter in a world where the colors a little bit brighter.

Tomorrow is uncertain, of course. Even this evening cannot be known… but I have found an avenue that calms me down, tempers an often terrifying certainty that I do not belong on this planet, that I am an alien all alone.  And right now in this moment, I feel okay. Feeling okay feels pretty fucking great. Knowing that others know exactly what I mean by that is damn near divine.

I just want to say thanks.

Pocket Full Of Middle Fingers

Bitterness is the enemy with weapons I most fear, weapons too long and lovingly polished. The proximity of bitterness is too close to permanence. Who has that kind of time when half of their life is spent dreaming without explicit permission? I hope never me. I don’t want my moments to be longer than minutes.

Simple and quickly birthed anger is by far my most powerful preference for slaying all dangers. Feel free to step back and inch away from the mess. You may judge at your leisure, but please don’t deny me my favorite defense.

I want my self-reliance more than you want your freedom from my cling. Don’t doubt the sincerity in my stating very clearly that my blows are stronger when they are dealt on my own. I can find the will easier when you are not in my way.

This rage exist regardless of convenience. It is unconcerned with comfort, whether yours, mine, or the thing that tried to cage it. It is as present as a beating heart and thin skin too easily split.

It can be the seductive new mistress or the grim wife tallying up years of lies. In this instance, I shed the honorable intent of fidelity. I embrace the wanton new touches. I shun the old and angry loyalty crutches. I walk that jaunty walk that goes right to the place in that space where I first spied the ire that riled.

Armored in anger I punch with balled fists. There are claws involved. There is a hiss, some spit, and guttural growls. There is no need to build to tear things down. You will see this if you stick around. A solution manifests remarkably fast. After the rumble there is nothing left but zen, yet you are still slowly counting to ten, letting that slight fly past without consequence. You don’t understand that flying things can turn around.

You will see small shreds of paper floating about, the remnants of a shit list.  You rather  watch the hypocrisy of the hippie ripping flowers from the Earth than admit that list no longer exists because of anger, the superior direction of rage. And because of this, a slow burning rot within you will assure we meet again. By then you will be bitterness, my nemesis.

We are not so different, you who I sometimes lean on, you who resents the extra weight. We both are bound to have a dance with discontent, it’s inevitable. I find it incredible that you, with all your extra crispy bits of sane, will end up as my worst nightmare because you complain about the way I handle my rage. Instead you suppress, you let it brew, and you will just end up as a cup of bitter stew.

I know when my mind is not alright, but this time my anger is not the crime.