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.

Provocative Popsicles Never Melt

That thing you did that amassed fire still sizzles.

Most may wonder to whom you directed the mess. The rest are want to assume they were your muse as they writhe within the honesty you carelessly threw. Let them have their little wobbles, those rapid and jerky movements are their wagging tongues. Their mouths beg for a drink.

If you desire to remedy the thirst of those you humor, pour wisely. How tall and proud you are to know your cup carries enough. How wise and strong you are to carry that ridiculous goblet.

Placate at your own peril. Tomorrow you may wake up as your other person, the other you who is sick to death of the artful arrows you toss around you. The other you is ready to rig them with poisoned tips and teach you a thing or two. The other you has those same big, wide eyes so don’t even try.

Maybe it’s time you learn that there is something worse than having what you do follow you. Stagnation is true torture. What you say and do can absolutely bind you to a place you merely visited on a whim. Your thoughtless spatter of artillery is not a pretty place to be when permanent placement is your brain’s retaliation.

 

 

Do You Want To Catch The Mouse Or Taste The Mouse?

That hunt. What skill you strut, fine predator. You are focused. You are doing what you are meant to do. Fine-tune that do that you do so diligently. Paws maw at the scurrying dinner, poor feller. 

Success! You bested the scampering morsel. Caught- he is within your claw cage. The only escape is your approaching mouth, framed by fangs. 

You have now chewed so long that your dinner begins to digest. You want for something. You were deprived the beautifully beastly flavor of your meal. How can a full belly be so unsatisfying? 

You took your pill so you could act like a cat. But that pill dulled your tasting pleasure. 

There is no contest. You forsake the succulent trickle of deliciousness in your mouth because the truth is, you love mice. You hate yourself as a killer. 

So pop your pill, swallowing the guilt, and dine on bland bones. You have to eat.  

I Wish I Woke Up With Morning Wood

I wake up with morning rage. It’s not every day. Contrary to the opinion of my mate, it’s not even most days, but a significant portion of my mornings have birthed from hell.

My eyelids flutter open, a naive tease, and then quickly narrow. How dare they. They curse themselves. I have fools for eyelids.

I have trouble falling asleep, staying asleep, and often I suffer bouts of two-day-insomnia. Sleeping pills are a coin toss, and when they do bring forth the sleepy, there is a persuasive urge to overpower.  It is as if I am going to miss the best bit of life that happens secretively in the middle of the night. My mind is certain there exist party elves that get down after midnight.

I love to sleep and even bad dreams cannot cheapen this affection. So why do I resist what I adamantly worship? When I rise from a slumber that was hard to fall into, sometimes all I can do is watch, powerless to intervene with reason. If I tried to reason with angry-morning-me, I would end up bruised and committed. So I watch from behind those brazen eyelids that ripped me from sleep and forced me to be awake, to be in the foul company of my adversary. My eyes are lucky to have lids. I do not jest.

The world is a red blaring siren. I am a beast, all claws and growls. Things rip, break, and fly through the air. I am frothy spittle and a reign of terror. The cats I would die for are not even sacred.

You little motherfuckers are hungry? Fuck your hunger. Your little cat stomachs can suck it. My cats are wise and they sense if I wake in rage. I know this because when I fly out of bed, they are long gone, or safely on his side. The side of my sleeping mate, who in that moment, I completely hate.

He dares to sleep while I am forced awake. So I seem to do my best to remedy this. Noise is easy, and quiet is a skill crafted by caring. On those red blaring siren mornings, I don’t know what caring means. I am only bitter frenzy.

Sentience is not necessary to sizzle me.

Brush, I fucking dare you. Snag my hair and see what happens. The brush ends up on the opposite end of the room. It never learns.

You call yourself a purse? Then learn how to purse properly, you stupid shit-bag. I know I put my mascara in you, you fucking thief. And I show that purse I mean business when I turn it upside down and watch the contents fall to the floor and scatter. I will only pick up what is necessary. I slam every door between the shame on my floor and the car that will soon hear my powerful fit.

During my drive I am the only one on the road that knows how to drive. Everyone else is a dildo. The lights are bitches who turn red for only me. Blinkers! What the hell are blinkers? I must have made them up in a fugue, as I am the only one who uses them. Everyone else is a dildo.

Then, as do all my undesirable moods, the rage I awakened with quickly disappears. I have arrived at my destination. I deeply inhale. I slowly exhale. I am fine. I am wearing my mask. I have worked for years with people who laughed when I shared the fact I am not a morning person. They say,

“But you are always smiling in the morning! It’s borderline irritating.”

It’s true, I am. I smile with those I surface exist with, and I torture those that deserve the smile most. I despise that about myself. It’s cruelly unfair to those that mean everything to me. I am faithfully grateful for all those who have kept me and continued to claim me despite my very bad mornings.

I would prefer to wake up with morning boners. Maybe looking down and seeing a middle-of-the-blanket tipi first thing upon waking would make me laugh. If only such were true.

Borderline irritating to my coworkers with my peppy morning smile isn’t the only thing borderline about me. It’s an irritating dance to that song that compels movement.

 

 

You Bitch Too Much

There is an efficiency in expressing your seething displeasure that is terribly unfair to the gentler side of your self. While cross, you are focused, your words are sharp and quick. Your desired point is impossible to miss. You are gleaming clarity of hostile transparency, and no one need inquire what’s wrong.

“Why” is only asked by the daft. You answered that twenty seconds into the rant, and you have yet to pause for breath. Your audience would be wise to remain silent. All you require of them is to be a prop. Their vital signs are not vital to your venting. Perhaps your own alertness is negotiable. Are you able to explain the hate while asleep? Is it really that easy?

Yet, if prompted to express the affectionate specifics for your darling,  you are so quick to look down … What secretiveness insists on hiding the immediate smile as you blush and shuffle a bit? Elaboration is elusive. You inhale and exhale for sound. You clear your throat and it’s unnecessary. There is no barrage of boastful statements. No proclamations are present.

Is the tenderness so terrifying? Are you afraid if you perfectly explain the depths of what you adore, those words will be plucked from the air and stolen? Does your listener not deserve the poetry? Is it an insecurity of your ability to convey the intensity within your own heart?

Words are abundant for anger but they tie up tongues that attempt to speak of love. It’s unfair to distribute so much ve

And I just read about some piece-of-shit throwing a kitten out of a car, Kitten is okay after having it’s little innocent kitten eye treated and and looking for a home but FUCK HUMANITY, this is why it is the rage, this world is ugly