Buying tampons, condoms, peanut butter, D batteries, and tissues

That was a shopping list I had awhile back. No, NONE of them were related (we add to the shopping list as we run out of things), but the cashier was a young twenty-something girl. Should have seen the look on her face.

I just remembered that because I had to purchase some feminine hygiene products the other day. I also had some Hostess Cupcakes. It's funny to see the looks on the teenage guys' faces when another guy is walking through the store with a box of tampons and panty liners. Like I have the plague or something. It means I LIVE with a woman guys. Which means that, when the feminine hygiene products are not in use, I am routinely getting what they think about every 7 seconds.

Watching a teenage guy buy condoms is hilarious, too. They circle the section like they're a secret agent tailing someone, then dart in and grab the smallest box--usually a 3-pack--they can, as fast as they can, and then bolt. They never make eye contact with the cashier, especially if it's a woman.

A married guy walks up, picks up the big economy pack (saves money), drops it into the cart, then goes to get the laundry detergent, Ziploc baggies, and milk and bread. And maybe feminine hygiene products, if they're on the list.

Psychotherapist wants me to write to the baby girls we lost.

He says it's obvious their loss affected me more than I let on.

I don't know if I can do it. I don't think I can convey the fact they were real to us, and then they were gone. I'm a pretty good writer. I just don't think I can convey THAT much emotion.

All of this is made worse by the fact the med change has left me with some pretty nasty depression. At least crying at work for no reason keeps my coworkers out of my office.

Video Embedding Test- Kicka** music if it worked

Like the title says. Testing out an imbed.



If nothing else, an awesome song.

On topic, if you don't know of Boy Sets Fire, you should. Especially if you like the heavy stuff (this is soft for them). Or anti-white collar stuff.

What the heck, a few more links:


Unspoken Request (about a girl that was raped and nobody did anything)

(compassion) as skull fragments on the wall Best. Title. Ever.

My Life In the Knife Trade Emo crap. But they do it well. :)

Hey! Get Away From That Horse, Freak!

It's not how the title sounds. Okay, maybe it'll end up how it sounds when we're done. That's up to your gutter mind.

So pill wise, they took me off a mood stabilizer that was causing crippling anxiety and added an anti-anxiety sedative to the two other mood stabilizers and the sedative mood stabilizer. Nine pills a day.

I still don't think I'm ever going to get better, but at least now I'm not shaking and crying. Just crying.

Wish I was joking.

I saw one of those stupid, "My (insert breed of dog) Is Smarter Than Your Honor Student". No, your dog is not. Sorry. I love dogs. Really.

There are some things that are cute and witty, but that bumper sticker--even as an animal lover--is not one of them. (Here's where I put the disclaimer in that it's okay if you have one of those stickers because you find them witty. Right here's where it would be. If I had such a disclaimer).

It should read, "My (insert breed of dog) Is A Fantastic...Kisser".

Your dog likes the taste of your lipstick, even if you're a guy. What I'm saying is, if you are one of those dog freaks (different than a dog lover or dog person. Okay maybe not different than a dog "lover"), then you probably should have a sticker that reads, "My (insert breed of dog) Shares Carnal Knowledge With Its Owner."

Yes, the rest of us find that bumper sticker that creepy. That level of, ahem, devotion, is freakish.

No one has bad or questionable intentions when slapping a bumper sticker of how proud they are of their Elementary School student on their car. Well, no one except a man of the cloth--and I'm pretty sure that weird singer thingy Lady Gaga should not be allowed near them, either.

So those bumper stickers are weird. Just sayin'.

On a related note, we live in a suburb near the rural town we used to live in. We pass bumper stickers all the time professing the driver's love for their horses. These are slightly less creepy, but still a little overboard.

"I *HEART* MY APPALOOSA"

You do? Well aren't you just a trooper. A for effort!

Off to the hospital

Emergency appointment today, and I'm scared. I'm afraid they won't be able to stop this regression into anxiety disorder and depression. I would even go into the hospital willingly--something they had to arrest me to accomplish last time.

I'm afraid I'll stay like this. I'm afraid my family will never see the "real" me again. I'm not used to being afraid, but I'm terrified. I have no optimism or belief I will recover from this. I'm miserable, going on and fighting only for my family and God. I'll keep fighting for them, but I'm afraid it will be always as...this. Not a person.

I don't deserve better. They do. Loved ones will stay that way--because I truly do love you. And I'm not going anywhere. Bipolar took Dad. No ******* way it takes me, too. I just don't like what it's making me.

Noon today. I pray they can help me.

Still Not Well

They've added an anti-anxiety to keep me from shaking and crying. It works, but I get so sleepy.

Why do I keep updating without the normal explanations or illustrations? So people can see the roller coaster. You can go back and look at the funny posts, the angry posts, and the depressed ones. That's life with bipolar--to extremes.

I also needed to get the post about my wife's figure off the top, so it wouldn't show up on our writing blog as the most recent one here.

They really are beautiful, though.

Boobs I Own

My wife's endowments are grandly spectacular. That is all.

That Groggy Feeling When You First Wake Up?

Multiply it by about ten, add muscle aches and the belief you'll never feel better, and you have the very beginning of understanding clinical depression. The depression bipolar sufferers experience is very similar.

Just a quick description.

Politial Incorrectness On A Sunday Morning.

Note to self: make sure you have sausage and biscuits before Sunday morning, as family's expecting sausage gravy and biscuits on Sunday morning means a groggy trip to the grocery store.

A few observations. Turn the channel if you're easily offended:

The Girl Scouts outside the grocery store selling their cookies are evil. And a special kind of evil; the kind that can't be killed. I'm not saying I feel some obligation to NOT chuck a hatchet at them from a safe distance, I'm saying it would do no good. I do not believe we've invented weapons that can take them out. Everyone knows I am EXTREMELY sensitive to children being hurt. But these are no children, not in the purest sense. Monsters, these are. Monster puppets controlled by their mastermind rich white scheming mothers.

Monsters that were, in this case, out of Samoans. Perhaps I'll toss a hatchet to test my theory. "Would I like to buy some cookies other than Samoans? Sure. Can I pay in...HATCHET!?"

*THWACK!*

Nope. Didn't kill her. And she's still trying to peddle those nasty Snickerdoodles.

I also saw a midget today. Must be hard to be a midget. All that glaring. Even today, we stare at what's different. I've made a pact with myself to call the next midget I see, "Peck". Yes I know Peck was a dwarf. Same thing. Val Kilmer certainly didn't care about the difference. Neither do I.

So I'm going to call him Peck, and then punch the first person that laughs, thereby ingratiating myself to Peck. Because I defended him. I'm a large, protective monster in my own right (one not afraid to chuck ineffectual hatchets at Girl Scout Monsters), and I can keep others from laughing at the poor little midgety-dwarf guy.

Don't argue. I do this crap all the time, and it always works. Trust me. What makes me, me. :)

I Just Don't Have a Rant In Me

I'm starting to come out of the anxiety, and into a nice depression. I had a psych appointment today, and they fiddled with some meds. Nothing really ground breaking there. Still at 9 pills a day. Joy.

I tried to come up with an epic, how-I-used-to-do-rants rant. But my heart just isn't in it. Just as an (unrelated--well, kind of related) example, I am going to be doing some stand-up comedy this spring. Since the lithium makes me forgetful and the rest of the meds make me a little foggy, I forget things. So I was writing down my jokes. Guess what happened?

I'm offering an epic rant to the first person that can find my missing joke list.

Wanting To Die Is Different Than Being Suicidal--but the blog still sits stagnant

So I've been out of sorts for several weeks. How much? The psychiatrists want me to go to the ER. I can make it to my appointment next Thursday, though. If I go to the ER, and they lock me up, my family cannot afford the missed pay. It's torture, working. Being at work. TORTURE. I work with the customers, too. I sit at me desk and shake and sometimes cry and always want to walk out and go to the ER just so someone--ANYONE!-can fix me.

Do I want to die? Tough, tough question. Yes, just so it will stop hurting inside. But I'm not suicidal. I will NEVER leave my family. My dad did, even though it wasn't his fault (his med combo was just...wrong. It destroyed him. Yes, he was bipolar). My meds are not enough. All four of them. So I know what it was like to lose him, and I would never do that to my family. But I'm breaking.

So there you go. This is what it's like when someone falls into a crippling depression. They're crippled. They can't solve simple problems. I used to be smart and funny. Witty. Full of encouragement for others, though not myself. I don't do anything now. Not write or pay bills or play video games or watch the Cavs (favorite past time at my house) or movies or wrestle with my son or even check my e-mail. I sit and shake because of the anxiety, and take my sedative early so I can sleep. For some reason, it goes away just before I fall asleep.

Not even proofreading this post. Took me days to be able to type it.

Are They Rude, Or Should You Shut Your Mouth?

The next time someone butts in and "rudely" comments on a conversation you were having (LOUDER THAN YOU REALIZE!) on your cellphone in a public place, ask yourself who the douchebag in the equation really is.

Get off the phone.

Okay, I'm At A Loss, and It's Terrifying Me.

For the first time ever, I cannot explain what is going on in my head. But it's bad, bad, bad.

I can describe how it feels. Just not why it feels that way.

It feels like I am crawling through a cave, through the veins of Mammoth Caves they don't let you into because people get lost, get stuck, and die. You don't even have to be claustrophobic (I am) for that to scare you. Like the crawling scene in that movie The Descent (terribly bloody, but the scariest part is them crawling through a cave).

So this rock is all around me, pressing on me, and I can't breathe. Not just because I'm skeered, but because it's tight in certain spots. This can be attributed to the fact that I have some sort of upper respiratory infection and there are times I CAN'T breathe.

The rock is literally pressing in on me at points, and I want OUT--I WANT OUT! OH, PLEASE HELP ME GET OUT!--but then I fight and scream and I'm through that tight spot. But I'm still in this narrow tunnel in the dark, and the next spot like that could be a few inches ahead. And it could be the last.

I've also been having hallucinations, transparent dreams that overlay reality, actually, that I've been abducted and they've put tape over my mouth. I can't breathe, but I can't tell them I can't breathe because of the tape.

There are varying theories about why this is happening. I think it's a combination of being overworked at my job (my boss is in intensive care in the hospital, so I have no help at a job even the two of us got behind on), and the new med. I pulled a knife, for pete's sake! I obliterated a phone at work. These weren't petulant little rants. These were "breakthroughs" of aggression that broke through the meds.

My psychiatrist thinks the inability to breathe is triggering panic sensors in my brain, and wants me to go see if it's pneumonia or bronchitis or asthma.

All I know is it has to stop. I am crying and pacing again--which is very, very bad. It means I have to get away, but anywhere I go will be just as bad as where I currently am.

The cave analogy wasn't just an analogy. That is exactly how I feel. I can literally feel something pushing my head down.

I just need it to stop. I don't care how , it just needs to. The meds are helping me fight it, but I'm really tired. Hard to sleep when laying down intensifies things, and I can't sleep if I'm away from my wife because I'm sleeping sitting up on the couch.

It needs to stop. It's terrifying me, I can't function, and it needs to stop.

I Pulled a Knife On a Guy This Morning.

Didn't open it, but pulled it. He cut in line, and things escalated verbally. I didn't pull it as a show of force--I don't even think he ever saw it. The people in line behind us did. He did feel me grab his arm and jerk him so he'd look at me.

I am digressing, and I hate it. And it scares me. I'm also hallucinating. I can't breathe recently--nasal passages or something--and whenever I just sit still with no thought on what I'm doing or will do, I see and feel myself abducted and tied, duct tape over my mouth. Of course, I can't breathe through my nose, so I panic like I'm in a claustrophobic situation. When I "come to," I can't breathe enough to calm down.

Either of those things will get me locked up again, so I keep going like nothing's wrong and don't tell the docs.

I just want to feel better. Life is like having a headcold Nyquil won't get rid of. So now you're tired and spacey from the meds, and tired and spacey from the headcold, and you're just waiting for the cold to go away.

When you're bipolar, you always have that "cold". Sometimes it doesn't go away. Blech. Life is kind of miserable right now, even after an awesome anniversary weekend, and a picture my son drew in class of me and him holding hands.

Thank goodness for my little girl and son, and the things they do. Bipolar can't be cured, but it can be fought, and they help me fight it.

STALKING CAT = OLD GUY WALKING THROUGH SNOW?

Ever notice the correlation?

Cat, creeping forward:
Does it see me? Does it see me? *FREEZE!* Nope, didn't see me.

Old guy, creeping forward:
Am I falling? Am I falling? *FREEZE!* Nope, I'm not falling.

GAH! STUPID LITHIUM MADE ME FORGET WHAT I WAS GOING TO POST

Seriously! It was like profound profounded profoundness just jumped up and gave me a dry willy with a pipe cleaner as I was driving home, and now I can't remember what the frick it was. And my hands are shaking. Both side effects of lithium.

So I'll just say that I'm getting so old that it sounds like a dubbed Kung Fu movie when I bend over to tie my shoes in the morning. HUHU. Woohah! Grrrooooooaaaaaannnn.

On a totally unrelated note, here's a VERY naughty video about Aunt Flo visiting your wife (I warned you. Don't complain.):

Down To the Old Pub Instead

Why Miley Cyrus Owns Your Daughter, and Why She Terrifies Dads Everywhere

This is genius.

Link to the music I'm talking about can be reached by clicking here. Just spelling it out, in case someone doesn't know how Links work.

Genius. Your daughter is in this video. You may not see her, but she's in there. Miley Cyrus' marketing or management or whoever made this video, put all these girls (including your daughter) in this video, a sorority kindred because nearly every teenage girl considers their puppy luv the most important, earth shaking thing in the world.

This is when Miley Cyrus began her real takeover of the world. Every girl that watched it was a part of that video. And your daughter will eventually be the one that makes sure you're out of the way in said conquest. Not by shooting you in the face with a small caliber pistol, but more when she begins dressing and acting like the current, can-be-had-for-X-amount-of-dollars-looking Miley. She's always skirted that line, but she only recently realized, "I'm a leggy little thing," and began dressing in ways we do not want our daughters to emulate.

Yes, you have legs. Everyone does. Please covers them a little more. You're not as head-turning as you think you are, and your management miscalculated. You're not swaying dads, you're making them mad.

Myeh, could be worse. At least she's not the straight up, skeezy, skanky, probably infected with VD's they haven't even named yet piece of amoral white trash known as Kesha.

Yet another thing called a link where you click here and it takes you to a website.

If parents knew that most of the parties their kids go to are like what she's singing about, the party scene would crash. Other parents, please help me crash the party scene.

Also, Kesha is skinny to the point of nasty. I'd rather have my daughter end up like Lady Gaga. No, I'm not linking that freak. If she had Miley's minions, this world would be in trouble.

Mad Max Broke His Finger, but I'm Pretty Sure It's Not His Trigger Finger

Me'n my dearest wife were watching our Cleveland Cavs treat the Miami Heat like the little guy in the prison cell tonight, and she asked about Delonte West.

In case you don't know, the Cavs are taking the rest of the NBA--including your favorite team--and punching them in the face. In front of their woman. Not bullying, because they're too classy to bully, but your team thought the Cavs were someone they could pick on, and they're not. So they smashed your team for running their mouths and getting all up in they grill.

Sorry. We're also Browns and Indians fans, so we're rubbing the Cavs in everyone's faces. Until they suck again. Then we'll just watch the Browns, Indians and Cavs silently. At least we'll still have Ohio State.

Also if you don't know, Delonte West was arrested for speeding on his motorcycle. With guns. When they pulled him over, he had two pistols strapped to his thighs and a sawed off shotgun in a guitar case over his shoulder. At least the news called it a guitar "case". I think it was one of those soft guitar gig bags. But, if the news media knew anything about anything, they wouldn't be the news media.

Anyway, Delonte West is bipolar. He was off of his meds and had just separated from his wife. I found it fitting to dub him Mad Max.

Mad Max now faces charges, and we could lose him right around playoff time to either a trial or sentencing or both. This is not cool, because he is pound for pound one of the toughest players in the league. He has a gang tattoo on his neck. He dunks over guys inches taller--and he's only average athletically compared to other NBA players. He's left handed. He does that thing where he gets into someone's face, but his face is actually to the side, and he's just staring into space...yeah. That means it's on, and you're about to get bit before he knocks yo sorry self flat the F out.

There was something I noticed when he showed up for his first game. He was inactive for the beginning of the season, and they wouldn't even let him sit on the bench. When he finally did come back and his name was announced, the crowd gave him a standing ovation. Not because he's such a star player. He's a very good player, but he's no Lebron or Shaq. It was because it was made public he was bipolar. Even the worthless Cleveland news media reported the case differently when they found out that fact.

So what? So what. Except this does show that people are starting to accept the fact that bipolar is an illness. The outlandish behaviors are symptoms. Just like people with epilepsy can't help their symptoms, bipolar sufferers are not able to control their moods. This is scientifically proven. And some of those moods and actions are dangerous.

Just for comparison, the Browns had Braylon Edwards and Kellen Winslow, both gifted players. Both headcases, but in the selfish way. Well, Braylon was very big in the community and charity, but he complained. And partied. And punched one of Lebron James' buddies in the face. Winslow was traded early, and Braylon was traded nearly immediately after the face punching incident. And Cleveland fans gave them a helpful push in the back to get them the heck out of town. Very different scenario with Mad Max.

Now, Mr. Max should have been on his meds. That's why he had this episode. That's why people that are (relatively) stable do absurd things, because they ditch the meds.

Mad Max recently broke his finger and has been out. I don't think it was from overusing his trigger finger, but I don't know.

People speculate about what he was doing with the guns. He sped up when he saw the cops, like he wanted to be caught. They say it was a cry for help. But he was heading in the general direction of his estranged wife. He was off his meds. With guns. I think it's pretty obvious what was going on.

Dude is multi-talented and generous, I think. He's actually a singing cowboy, but just during the off-season and just for adorable little bald cancer patients. Brings a smile to their faces. The pistols were props. His wife was fighting for custody of the horse, so he had to ride the motorcycle. He had the shotgun in the guitar bag because he didn't want anyone to steal his guitar.

See. Pretty easy to figure out when you look at the facts.

Our Truckdriver Was In the Office, Picked Up His Phone, and Said...

"Call ****sucker."

His phone answered in the robotic voice, "Calling ****sucker".

A second or two later, my boss's cell phone rang from his office, "Call from, ***hole. Call from, ***hole".

Talking phones with voice recognition are worth a chuckle.

Emporer Pope-a-tine (Yes, I'm aware I spelled it wrong. If I'd cared, I'd have changed it).

They were talking about the pope on the radio today, so it reminded me of this. I was wasting time making my own picture on paint.net, but someone else beat me to it. Still applicable. One is an evil dictator bent on gaining as much power as possible. The other was in Star Wars.

Just sayin'.

NOT GIVING UP, BUT DEFINITELY LOSING FAITH

So I have to go through the process of another med. I call it a process because they always introduce a baby dose of a new med, then increase it slowly. Like, over months. It took about five months to realize the positive results I was getting with the addition of the lithium was limited to a month or so after each increase. It worked, and then said never mind.

Unfounded optimism, in my opinion, is more dangerous and unsettling than constant discouragement.

I really dislike the medication they're adding (and are going to gradually drop the lithium--it may hit a happy medium in there, we may take it away completely), and I honestly don't think I'll be on it for very long. The side effects just clash with the personality my bipolar has taken.

Regardless, I told the psych team I have no idea where to go from here, and they put me on Abilify. So I get to start all over again with a new drug. Yippee.

I really don't believe I'm going to ever get better. I will never regain the talent I once had, will probably never take renewed interest in everything I've quit, and will never be able to push out of this job and into one that actually pays all the bills. Oh, I wanted to believe it, but people like me should know better than to follow pipe dreams. Only leads to disappointment.

I go on, cause I have a gorgeous wife and adorable son, but they're really the only thing that alleviates the pain of...well, being me.

I'm going to stop the search for being happy for reasons independent of them. It's just too tiring, and I'm not really in the mood for more failure.

ANOTHER PSYCH APPOINTMENT--AND I'M WORRIED ABOUT SOMETHING OTHER THAN BEING LOCKED UP

This one's a little long, but I promise you'll learn something.

Anyone that knows me knows that, in the initial consultation with the psychiatrist, being locked up was worst case scenario for me. Dad was locked up for three months, was released, and killed himself that weekend. The doctors were at fault. Period. They prescribe medicine differently now because there were so many instances like my Dad. So even though treatment today is exponentially better and safer than it was then, I had an understandable fear of being locked up.

I was fully prepared to fight, and was fully expecting to be killed. You fight hard enough and hurt security enough, they have to plunk you. Yes, I was out of my mind. But if I could unleash what I was trying to control--just pure rage--and get a nice, neat suicide out of it, all the better.

Again, I was out of my mind. That was then. This is now, and now is much different. For the most part.

The only thing that stopped me from acting on that impulse was my beloved and beautiful wife crying against the wall. I didn't want her to see it or--even worse--get hurt in the scuffle. And in that, though I was locked up, I had the briefest glimmer of hope. Something that was quite honestly an alien sensation at that time. It rarely visits now, in fact. And it is hope I'm afraid of.

Every subsequent visit, I was worried about being locked up again. I had periods of extreme aggression. I had periods of crippling depression. But I always told the truth, worked with the doctors, and they haven't locked me back up. So far, anyway.

But this time, I'm getting tired of thinking they can help me. And getting my hopes up. Because if you have bipolar, you're never cured and only marginally made better. They can treat it, but there is no cure.

So, after much input from me and the research I had done and what I was comfortable with, they added lithium to my lamotrigine (amazing drug, originally used for epilepsy--I'll get into drugs later) and quedapine (a sedative/mood stabilizer sold as Seroquel). A little bit of lithium at first, just like every other med. I really do respect and put a lot of trust in my psych team. They take what I say into consideration, but also don't let me dictate decisions just cause it's what I want. I am very fortunate to live within driving distance of The Cleveland Clinic. And Cedar Point.

And the stuff actually worked. I felt okay. Which is a big deal.

I went to Cedar Point with my adorable Lydia that month, constantly sneaking pinches and gropes on her curvy little self while in line for the roller coasters (which I usually do anyway), had lunch in the best-kept secret restaurant there, and had an amazing time. The crowds didn't bother me. I was slightly less inclined to kill the jackoffs eyeballing my baby girl. I had fun. And when it rained, I got cranky, because it could have put a damper on our plans. The rain subsided, we had more fun, and then ended the night in the wee hours at Steve's Hotdog Lunch, the little diner on the intro to the Drew Carey show. Their hot dogs actually suck, though.

Both of those things--having fun when I should and getting cranky when I should--were MAJOR deals. Not something even I can put into an illustration. Okay, yeah, there isn't anything I can't put into an illustration. It was like that feeling you get after a monster migraine has subsided. The pain being gone feels good, even though you're just back to being normal.

Then the bottom fell out.

I had a major depressive episode that lasted for a few weeks, then a dark manic (I don't get "happy" manic) phase for another few. So they upped me. Same thing. Worked, then bottom fell out.

So they upped me again. I'm very near the therapeutic dose now, but the bottom fell out. Again. I have been rapid-cycling and combination cycling (both depression and mania at one time) again. Now I feel a little more even because I've been taking the Seroquel as prescribed, earlier in the evening, and I've been sleeping. I'm a zombie until about 10 am, but I sleep.

But I only feel a little more even.

My next appointment, after two months, is Thursday. And I don't know where to go from where I'm at. They have one possible bump up in the lithium, but can I trust it? Do I try another new med that I could react very poorly to?

It is so FRUSTRATING! It seems like we're right on the doorstep. Right there. But every step leads to one more step. And I don't believe I'll ever reach the top.

So I'll just say the same thing I tell family and coworkers before an appointment, and see what happens:

"If you don't see me again, look for me on the news."

A THOUSAND WORDS ON WHY I LOVE LORIKEETS

INSTANT GRITS AND VERBALLY ABUSING A RACIST

I'm sitting at my desk right now, eating Quaker instant grits. The butter flavor is terrible. Butter apparently means "salt, salt, SALT!".

Eh, whatever. I posted a rant on our writing blog HERE.

They make fun of me here at work because I eat grits and I'm part black. Not enough to get a scholarship, but you know, it's in there. My coworkers are racist, by the way.

The grits keep the nausea from the 5 bazillion pills I take in the morning down.

Haha, what perfect timing! My boss just stormed out of my office. Today is MLK day, and the jokes were flying last week. One driver made a comment on Friday about shooting "4 more this week so we can get the whole week off next year."

I lit him up. Lit. Him. Up. I'm about as un-PC as they come (I have nasty racial jokes for all races, including cracker), but he was serious, and overt racism makes me cranky.

So I informed him I'm part black, and he says he feels sorry for me. To which I respond that I don't have enough in me to get a scholarship, but enough to (have relations with) his white wife.

Seriously, y'all. You have no idea how much I usually avoid profanity and how much I hate the wife jokes. That and kids are about the only thing I leave alone when going back and forth with someone.

So the boss found the "4 more" comment hilarious and was e-mailing it all weekend. When I relayed the continued conversation just now, he became mildly agitated and left the office. Been gone about twenty minutes now.

Hehe. I'm probably in trouble, but these grits taste so good now. For some reason. Maybe because they're flavored so well with WIN.

LAST DAY OF SCHOOL, DEATH OF A RELATIVE, AND NONE OF YOU PEOPLE ARE REAL

Yes, all of the nonsense in that title will end up in an illustration. It is a very difficult thing to explain, this disease. Illustrations help, but they can't really pinpoint the feelings.

You can explain to someone what it feels like to ride a rollercoaster, but you can't actually convey how the fear of the climb up the first hill whips into elation when you come hurtling back down (hopefully still in the coaster car), or that lift and fall in your stomach. It just has to be experienced. I'm a coaster junkie, in case it wasn't clear. I live 45 minutes from Cedar Point. Haha! Your envy, though understandable, is not very attractive. All splayed out all over your face like that. Making you all redfaced and jealous. Hehe.

Likewise with describing the feeling of putting the sweetspot on the ball and launching it over the fence for a homerun. Or sex...I'm not. Not going beyond that. People who know me'n Lydia (and have read my romance) know I should stop now. But it's true. You cannot accurately convey the surge of endorphins or the...

The dirtiest part of that sentence was the ellipsis. I deleted about six lines there, so be thankful.

*Rambling ends and post begins here.

Anyway. Most of the actual feelings that bipolar induces are the same way. Though not to the same extent, people get depressed and can understand the sadness aspect of it. People get anxiety. People feel that certain situations are hopeless. People feel really happy and confident.

The best way I can explain people, and how we see them, is to reference "regular" depression. I've often said that there are times where I view the world through a museum case; the world has a literal glossy veneer over it, and people are just kind of moving around in it. That is largely controlled now by all the meds I'm on. But people still are kind of not real to me.

It's like when a relative dies. You're sad. You're numb. Angry. Hurt. The people you pass on the highway aren't real. You flow amongst the traffic, merging, keeping speed. You still have to drive, to function, but you don't notice individual cars or the people within. Even how they're driving.

Your coworkers aren't really there. The woman at the store. Friends who come by to visit--they're all kind of swallowed in this numbing sadness.

Sure you function and interact, but it's all perfunctory. People say things, you respond. Phone rings, you pick it up. Get hungry, you eat. But there's little emotion over that when hammered into a deep depression. If you can get into public to interact at all.

Conversely, being manic is like that last week of school. Or 30 minutes to getting off work for the weekend. You're nice to people you normally aren't, not much bothers you, and the pile of work can wait until Monday. Your responses are chipper and sarcastic, joking. Again, people aren't really distinct entities. More like objects and responses and conversations overshadowed by the happiness of going home.

Even now with the medications, I feel like one or the other--depending on my mood--about people nearly all the time. I'm pretty much devoid of anger or empathy or compassion or even recognition of the people around me, except family. And even they slip in and out of real.

We all feel like that from time to time, but my body won't let me feel otherwise.

Did any of that make sense?

I THINK THEY SHOULD SEND ALZHEIMER'S PATIENTS BACK IN TIME TO VIETNAM AND GIVE THE CURRENT VETS ALZHEIMER'S.

It would solve two problems. Think about it.

CAN I SAY I HATE FOLDING PANTIES? (THIS ONE GETS A LITTLE INAPPROPRIATE)

Because I do. I hate folding panties. I mean, the satin ones slide, so it's hard to keep them at a crisp edge. The cotton ones have thicker seams, so it's impossible not to get some bunching somewhere (no pun intended). Thongs I just wrap around my hand and toss into the drawer (no pun intended). Boy shorts *pauses...pausing...still pausing...c'mon, appendix (that'll make sense later)...coherent again* are a little easier, but there is always that little section in the crotch that is a little longer that sticks out (no pun...wait, there's not really a pun there. Sorry).

While we're on the subject, Boy Shorts--yes, they should be capitalized, as they are that important--are just...ah, what's the word? AHSKLHADSLKFNAL;KFNWEK. That's what comes out of my mouth when Lydia wears them. Thongs are kind of stupid and I hate them, but Boy Shorts *pausing...* are just...

Okay, look. Forget all that thong crap. 80% of guys LOVES them some Boy Shorts. You see how I keep pausing? That's because Boy Shorts...so hard...to...type now...have that affect on men. I get lightheaded when even thinking of a pair, and having my wife's image in my head. Not even ncessarily her wearing them, just a pair of the stretchy blue or lacy little white ones, and her face (and the rest of her), and all coherent thought just heads south with the rush of blood. I'm not apologizing if you understood that.

In fact, that should be the new Tazer. Cops could just throw a pair of Boy Shorts on the ground and watch the fleeing vigilante pass out. They'd have to invent a spray the cops could take so they don't pass out, as well, but I don't think there is a natural antidote.

Imagine the implications in riot control.

You know how nobody knows what the heck the appendix does? It's an, "I saw boyshorts" pump that sends blood back up from the way it came. Without it, mankind would be permanently crippled. And then we'd be doomed, because all the women would get lost. Hehe, see what I did there? Women can't drive without men. Hehe, see? Yeah, okay not that funny.

By the way ladies, do NOT hold up a pair of Boy Shorts while shopping with your husband, place them across your waist and hips, and ask, "Whaddya' think?" There is absolutely NOTHING a guy can do in that instance. Even the "untuck-the-shirt-and-walk-slowly" technique is powerless against that. You have three options in that case: walk out as-is and get arrested, let him stand there biting his lip and leaning on the table, whimpering, for the next hour, or let him pick you up and sprint into the dressing room. I'm not apologizing if you understood any of that.

And this is the sternest warning I can give. Do not--I repeat DO NOT!--revel in his suffering, as his face goes from a stark white to a flushed red to a deep crimson, like a cuttlefish vibrating his colors, and think you can add to it by WIGGLING YOUR HIPS WHILE YOU'RE HOLDING THE BOYSHORTS AGAINST THEM! GAH!!! That is not funny, and will result in one thing: he will be Attila. You will be the corpulant Roman provinces. Right there in the middle of the department store. There will be no Aetius to save you.

It'll be worth getting arrested for, at least. If they can find a firehose with enough PSI to blast him off you. I'm not apologizing at all, because everyone understood that.

While we're (sort of) on the thong/Boy Shorts topic, one-piece > bikini. By a HUGE margin. Especially the scoop-neck blue and white patterned kind with the flirty little skirt on the bottom, where the backside just sticks out the slightest little bit, which Lydia hasn't worn in a while...

I mean, one pieces > bikinis. I count tankinis as one pieces. They come in BOY SHORTS!!!

*slam slam slam slam slam slams head into wall*

Geez. This is invariably leading my mind back to a corset trying on/dressing room incident. I will leave that story untold. Lydia would not enjoy me sharing it, and I would not enjoy sleeping on the couch. Or castration.

What was I talking about? Oh, yeah, folding panties. I dislike folding panties. I'm doing laundry, and there is a pile of panties. And just out of the dryer panties are pretty much useless. They're warm and all, but we use unscented detergent and fabric softener. So they smell like, like clean. And nothing else.

I'm not apologizing for that. You should know better than to read anything I write that has the word, "panties" in the title.

And they're not my panties, if you're thinking that. My wife's. I don't think they even make panties in my size. Oh, thinking of panties in my size, I hate folding sheets, especially the fitted ones.

(Admit it, all that vulgarity was nearly worth that last paragraph).