Tied to the tracks of a roller coaster

Just keeping it alive

2011-05-26T18:13:00.000-07:00

Just a post to keep from being deleted...wow, it's been a whole year since I posted? Crazy.

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

2010-05-22T14:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-04-30T13:23:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-24T09:44:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-04-21T18:45:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-15T05:34:00.001-07:00

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

2010-04-06T17:25:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-01T12:40:00.001-07:00

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

That Groggy Feeling When You First Wake Up?

2010-03-27T08:36:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-03-21T08:05:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-18T15:22:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-12T05:10:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-03-04T15:26:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-27T16:05:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-23T08:41:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-02-16T10:07:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-10T17:07:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-07T05:19:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-04T19:47:00.000-08:00

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...

2010-02-03T11:16:00.001-08:00

"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).

2010-02-01T19:11:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-30T21:28:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-25T16:12:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-22T17:18:00.001-08:00

INSTANT GRITS AND VERBALLY ABUSING A RACIST

2010-01-18T07:20:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-15T10:00:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-08T07:26:00.000-08:00

It would solve two problems. Think about it.

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

2010-01-01T11:34:00.001-08:00

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).

MY AVATAR REVIEW:

2009-12-28T16:57:00.000-08:00

I was thoroughly disappointed. The best parts were the jokes my wife and I made at the movie's expense about the masturbatory practices of pterodactyls, and the unrelated massive racial bomb she dropped after the movie. Funny because it was soooo wrong.

Killed by its own hype. It was okay. Not epic. The whole electron-sharing ecology was cool. The badguys were ridiculous. I called every plot "twist" an hour before they happened. It was predictable and not worth the money of a movie ticket. Course, nothing is with today's prices, 'cept maybe a houseboat.

Oh, and if you're wondering how a ten-foot tall alien can be with a human with legs that don't work--it's because they put him and his avatar under their special tree and transfer his life to the avatar body at the end. Right after she shoots the badguy with arrows and then saves him from suffocating when he falls out of his chamber. And right before they drive the humans off the planet.

Oh, yeah, there are going to be spoilers in this review. =)

Speaking of my wife, her (better) review is on our writing blog HERE.

Mechs do not have knives. Period. Period.

Period.

Oh, and I heard a reporter going on and on about this: the political...shhh, it's a secret...undertones of the movie.

Reporters don't count, because they are all flakes, flaky, irritating, ignorant, intellectually void flakes flaky flakes flake-ty flakes. But if you are a real person, and you think you see socio-political "undertones" in the movie, please go stick your head in the toilet and breathe deeply until your well deserved drowning cleans up the gene pool. Undertones are subtle somethings under the surface. Blatantly pointing to a message is not an undertone. It's making a statement. Loudly.

And Sigourney Weaver's avatar was just F'ing creepy.

My avatar for blogspot is Richard Simmons.

I HELPED A FREAKING LEXUS, AND TWO WEEKS OF SUNDAY NIGHT DEPRESSION

2009-12-21T17:28:00.000-08:00

Okay, I had to post something to get my "limping crap" post off the top for when we get visitors to the writing blog because of my dearest wife's guest post on another blog, since this blog is linked in the sidebar of our writing blog. Right? Right.

First off, I hate luxury cars. Remember that, it'll be important later. Hate them. If you drive a Mercedes, Jag, Lexus, Beamer, Rolls, higher end Audi, etc., please stop making stupid faces when no one lets you over. Check your manual. No one letting you yield is in there--especially a black/silver two-tone 89 Suburban. I will beat you every time, and you will be much smaller and crinklier from the exchange. Trust me. I have good insurance, and your company can get a new, unsmashed-by-Suburbanis-Prime CEO.

The lone exception to this is the lower end Audi with the Quattro (don't know if that's how it's spelled, don't care), and the Lexus LS400. The LS400 is about as solid and reliable a car as you can purchase in this current age where EVERY car maker is putting out junk, with the exception of a few models here and there.

Okay, so we'll come back to that.

All of the people at work and the store and everywhere else are so fakey-nice it's not cool. Even the nastiest customers I have are being all nice and chipper. And this anomaly of optimism is driving me nuts. Why? Because I am already miserable from the Sunday night depression of January 3rd. Sunday night depression, for those who don't know, is that depression you get Sunday evening because you have to go back to work. Blech.

Now, most of us have time off over the next few weeks. Some of our customers have shut their plants down from tomorrow until January 4th. So they have weeks off. I have Thursday and Friday of the next two weeks off. Two 4-day weekends in a row. Then nothing-NOTHING!-until May. MAY!!!

Some optimist may try to point out that we should enjoy those two weekends, but they can bite me. We all know how fast vacation time goes. Phht. Gone. Like our paychecks.

So stop pretending you're not getting it already. It's only realistic to form that Sunday night depression now. Here, try this. Go get a cough drop. Suck on it. By the time it's gone, those two weekends will be gone, and it will be 6 pm Sunday, Jan. 3rd. You wonder why the end of the year has the highest suicide rate? That's why. Thinking about 7 am Monday morning.

I absolutely infuriated a coworker that was pulling that "I'm going to pretend to annoy you so it will cheer you up and get you to smile" bullcrap. And he wouldn't leave my office. Guess what? After I gave him the above enlightenment, he left my office.

Dude sucked at it, too. I do that annoy-til-you-smile thing. Ask my wife. But it works for me, because I do it WELL.

Moving on. At the grocery store tonight, there was a Lexus. I parked really close to it. Cause I could care less if he scrapes up my Suburban. Were I driving Lydia's new Ford, I would have cared. I wasn't, so I didn't.

As I'm walking out with my two gallons of milk and loaf of bread, there is this guy ahead of me with two of the most adorable little girls. As they're crossing the lane, some idiot zips around the corner and starts speeding down the center aisle. He almost hit them, then has the audacity to yell and honk at them!

Honked and had words with a dad and his little girls. Nope. That one drew my ire.

So I had words with the guy. When you've been the object of my angry baritone's barrage, words have indeed been had. Dude shut his mouth and sped away.

Where does dad walk his girls after thanking me? GAH! NO! The freaking Lexus!!!

I made sure he had enough room to get in, even helping the little one open the door and slide in. As he's leaving, I apologized, and he said, "Don't worry about it. I don't care if it's got a few dings. I did the same thing to a Mercedes the other day."

Then he drove off in his LS400. Not cool. I didn't know it was an LS400 at first! And, and he cannot--cannot, I say!--find a report with me! I drive a Suburban--Suburbanis Prime, in fact! I hope only the worst--er, less than best--for him. And his adorable little girls.

Like, the next time they try to make a snowman this winter, the snow is too brittle cause it's that snow that falls when it's really cold and doesn't stick well. Yeah. Some evil mild disappointment like that.

Stupid...I helped...a...

GAH! A FREAKING LEXUS!!!

I need to rupture my tympanic membrane with an awl and pour some Lysol straight into my brain, 'cause something in there needs cleaned.

IN LIEU OF CONTENT, (LITERAL) TOILET HUMOR

2009-12-20T11:45:00.000-08:00

I have all these long, profound things to put up, including guest posts. Instead, I will be lazy and share this: this morning, I had to take a dump so bad it was making me limp.

ARACHNIDS ARE STUPID BECAUSE THEY PICK THE CHEERLEADER OVER THE BUSHBABY

2009-12-14T18:52:00.000-08:00

Just a rant today. I'm still going to post things that are craziness 'splainin related, but apparently people want angry commentary.

My dearest wife Lydia (I'm using her blogger name for the sake of the blog) posted on this very same topic on our writer blog. Apparently, watching Spiderman 3 on FX while doing laundry at your mom's house after the customary Sunday night dinner (rest of the family comes--even Caleb, when he and Jackie are up from Nashville. Every Sunday. No kidding. Your mom is so jealous), okay, um. Okay, forgot the original point halfway through that grammatically incorrect paranthetical statement.

Anyway, we both came away with the same thing: Spiderman is stupid. Mary Jane? The chick that keeps running after the rich Goblin kid Harry, and then the spacestranaut guy in the first movie? The Broadway singer, who is struggling to find her "dream" on Broadway. You will always be second to her "dream", dummy. Broadway wannabe's are like that.

Oh, and she keeps stealing the black girls' moves. Stupid cheerleader.

So, she played Marie Antoinette in that other movie. About Marie Antoinette. That nobody saw. So that doesn't count.

And you had that upside-down kiss where she had that pink shirt on in the rain. Yeah, your "Spidey" sense must have been going a mile a minute. But a few things, there, young man. She's not really as busty as you think. Her body is just kind of...freakish. She has small endowments that look large because there is a temporal vortex where her ribcage should be. Young Spidermen may dig that, but to us married guys who have wives that ARE nicely endowed, she's gross.

Secondly, that was two freaking movies ago! You're still hanging on! Two movies ago. Still not together permanently. You do the math.This girl is not the MJ from the comics.

You know who you SHOULD go after? Ursula. The cute little landlord's daughter across the hall. Okay, yeah, cute is a subjective term. I mean, you'd probably never be able to have kids with her, not because she's so skinny her 2-inch pelvic bone would crush your baby's heads to death, but because those pointy daggers she calls hipbones would emasculate you. (Look real close. Just above the pants. See them? Yep. Daggers.)

But in any event, she was so sweet. She brought you cake, every time you were sad. Cake. She didn't run to Harry. She made you cake. And brought you milk. And she had no idea you were Spiderman (MJ knew--and she still ran to Harry!!!). Imagine what she'd bake you if she knew. Like, baklavas and crap. Tirimisu, maybe. And her bony fingers would give you shoulder massages.

And she wore pigtails, which is cute. And you know what they say about quiet girls... (hehe. Lydia was quiet).

And her eyes were striking. Mesmerizing, even. See:

YEP, ELECTRICAL'S WIRED PROPERLY--ONLY IT'S BEEN RUN THROUGH THE PLUMBING

2009-12-10T20:40:00.000-08:00

The problem with a blog about bipolar, written by someone with bipolar? The mood swings result in sporadic posting. I've been cranky recently. Okay, moving on.

This will be one of my less "ranty" posts, but it will be my most important one. I generally don't write anything boring, anyway. But this will be more along the lines of the original intention of this blog: explaining the disease in terms people can more easily relate to. So let's quickly take a look at the physiology of Bipolar Disorder.

I'll be getting into the types of bipolar soon, so this won't compare the differences. Just the nature. Many people know bipolar is depression, but you get hyper. Yes.

But also no.

You do get periods of clinical depression. This is more than just being sad. You get a wide range of physical problems as well, that are real. Not just some figment of a depressed person's imagination. And it's certainly not something used just to get attention. The last thing someone sucked into the whirlpool of depression wants is to be the center of attention.

These physical problems include appetite swings (eat too much, then too little or nothing), inability to sleep, inability to wake up, inability to get out of bed because your body won't produce energy, aches and pains--most people know about these. But many do not know that things like IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) accompany depression. And then there is the lovely emotional aspect that is common knowledge.

Bipolar includes that, but also the hyper side--inability to sleep for days, little or no appetite, too many endorphins in your brain that make you feel aggressive, invincible, or that you can fly, or you're going to solve the world's problems, or invincible and aggressive, on and on.

There is also something I've seen referred to as "hyper-sexuality". Remember all those hormones you had as a teenager? You just wanted to get after anything and flirt and makeout and...more? Yeah. All those come back. For some, it leads to infidelity, promiscuity...basically, your body makes you a whore or gigolo. You have to fight constant arousal the same way you do aggression or depression. As the mania itself is treated, this aspect itself is also handled. I just want to iterate that I, fortunately, have not gotten it to the point it's been a problem. Helps my wife is a Deigo Vixen--and a stereotypical one at that. :)

(PAY ATTENTION, THIS IS THE IMPORTANT PART):

Anyway, people with bipolar get the better parts of anxiety, ADHD, schizophrenia, depression, etc. But also...epilepsy?

People say bipolar is a chemical imbalance. This is true. But it's also a neurological illness. People with bipolar can be sensitive to light or sound. They can also lose cognitive ability and simple problem-solving. When I was really manic, I could not solve 2+2. I'm not kidding.

There was a man interviewed on BBC that had an episode in a grocery store because he couldn't decide between tomato soup and chicken noodle soup. And it caused him crippling anxiety attacks. By crippling I mean, curled on the floor or in the corner, unable to move--I've had it. Not fun.

I also had instances where the words I said scrolled in front of my face. In yellow. Like I had an invisible newsticker relaying my thoughts back to me. And I couldn't process crowds. Literally could not process them--they looked like moving, 2-D glass pictures, like I was watching people through a glass museum case. When someone would talk to me and actually register, it would be like they had stepped through the glass curtain and were outlined in a gold light.

Hopefully I wrote that in a way people would understand.

THIS IS THE IMPORTANT, IMPORTANT PART:

I always try to compare bipolar to epilepsy so people can understand it. So they can understand that someone with bipolar doesn't want to fail their family or lash out or sit in the corner and cry or drink heavily or any of that anymore than someone with epilepsy wants to have seizures.

I now believe, after doing research, that bipolar is closer in a physiological sense to epilepsy than I knew. My main reasoning is medication. Most bipolar meds, if you look them up in a pharmaceutical textbook, will say the reason they work is unknown. They think it is an antagonist at this receptor or that part of the brain. But they're not sure.

A (relatively) new form of meds is the atypical antipsychotic. These are generally mood stabilizers that are taken directly from other forms of medicine. Many of these, most notably Depakote and Lamictil (lamotrigine), are anti-seizure or other medications used for treatment of epilepsy.

Curious, no?

I'll get into medication later, as well as expounding on some of the subjects in here. The differences between clinical depression and bipolar, some of the mood swings, etc. I'll also describe actual feelings of panic attacks or manic episodes or depression, and post experiences others with depression or bipolar have submitted.

All in due time. But here's your intro. I think it will be one of, if not the most important post I will put up. I hope it is helpful in explaining bipolar in a nutshell.

Was any of it helpful?

Oh, and you can stop waiting for me to tie in the title with one of my awesome illustrations. I needed something catchy, and the electrical thing kind of fit. I actually will have an electrical illustration later. Maybe.

I HAVE A VERY BAD FEELING ABOUT THIS APPOINTMENT

2009-12-03T07:07:00.000-08:00

Today is my first psych appointment in 3 months. The meds haven't been working well, and...well, my options are to say nothing and keep going dead inside and depressed, drop the med altogether, or start over on a new med, not knowing what it will do. I've had some very bad reactions, behaviorally, to some dosages of certain medications.

What is really frustrating me is that this combination--an "atypical" antipsychotic, lithium, and a sedative/mood stabilizer--worked so well at times I was actually hopeful I could get better. I want it to work so well, I'm not ready to give up on it.

But it's not working anymore. And that's not cool, because lithium is the one drug that has the highest chance of making someone "normal", without hardly any symptoms of the disease. If it works for that person.

I will get into the medications more in subsequent posts, but for now, I have a very bad feeling about this appointment. I haven't been able to afford the sedative they prescribed for 6 months now. So I'm not sleeping very well (2-4 every 3 days, for some periods), and I'm cranky because of that. On top of my usual manic aggression.

The combination of the lithium and lamotrigine was working so well, I was sleeping normally, without need of something to knock me out. I felt good. Not giddy or hyper or manic. Things that should have made me happy did. Things that should have irritated me did. I felt...normal.

And then it stopped working, and all of that optimism came out from underneath me, like a rug jerked by a gorilla trying to practice his tablecloth-pulling skills. Only I'm the china dishes. And he didn't leave me on the table. Sent me flying across the room, actually.

So do I get back on the table and hope the lithium gorilla eventually gets it right?

I just have a very bad feeling about this appointment. If I tell the doctors everything I've been thinking these past three months, I know red flags will go up. And I'm not going back into the hospital. Period. My wife won't be there to deter me from letting the 5 cops there to "escort" me out that I will not be going with them. Emphatically.

Just have a very bad feeling.

BLACK FRIDAY, AND NARY A SINGLE GRANDMA ATTACK. ALSO, IT ENDED WITH GINGER SNAPS PT. 2/2

2009-12-01T19:14:00.000-08:00

For a recap of part one, scroll down and read part one. I'm not rehashing all that.

This is a continuation (obviously), written the same night.

Then we go to Kohl's, see some kids I knew before they were born--er, knew their parents--feel old because one is buying a house, and go to say hi to my little girl (my wife) before carrying on our day.

Lydia was running a register, and since the registers are roped off , we had to yell across at her.

"Hey, hottie, how much are you on the Doorbuster sale?" I have a pretty loud baritone, so a lot of people looked.

Her big blue eyes were shining, but she pretended to ignore us and keep ringing out, so Caleb, who is nearly as big as me, starts doing this dance that looks like Woody in Toy Story flipping around like an organ grinder's monkey, yelling, "I'm going to keep doing this until she talks to us," then starts pointing and says, "I know her! She knows me! I know her!"

So she finally talked with us real quick.

Off to Home Depot. Got my wrench set. Got my flashlights. I don't need flashlights. I have probably 20. But I have a serious flashlight problem, and they had a really nice 8 pack of LED's for 9 bucks. So now I have 28 flashlights. Of those, five are the headlamps. I only have 1 head. Little Joe will play in the dark with me, all the lights shut off in the apartment except for the headlamps, so that's another head. I still have not found the remaining three heads that would warrant me having 5 headlamps.

Two things about Home Depot totally rung true about Black Friday. The first was that we saw an Amish horse and buggy turning left on a busy street, with an orange Home Depot Homer bucket hanging off of it. Secondly, they had 60 Rayovac Max AA batteries for $9.99. That is an awesome price.

What was not awesome was the fact that a woman had parked her cart in front of the display and was throwing trays containing dozens of these 60-pack batteries into the cart. She refused to move when people asked politely. She looked like she was trying to shovel coal into the train engine fast enough to get the flux capacitor to a high enough speed to get Marty home.

Let's do the math. Dozens of 60-pack batteries, and she was just pushing two trays at a time into her cart. The woman had to have left that store with 674,000,000 batteries. Does anyone need that many batteries? If Connor McCleod of the clan Mcleod put light ropes on his sword so it lit up, and had it on all day long, he would still never us up all of the batteries this woman bought. And he can't die.

For the sake of my promise to not use vulgarity on here, I will refrain from actually saying what personal appliance(s) I told her she must be using all of those batteries in. If you think of something offensive, that's on you. I didn't say anything like what you're thinking.

From there we went to Gamestop, where they had a buy-two-get-one-free sale on the used games. Through some absolute trickery and confusion of numbers that I am at a loss to explain, I ended up with 46 dollars worth of used games, and I paid 8 bucks. Caleb ended up with 42 dollars worth of used games, and paid 26 bucks.

Then we went back to my place and played an XBOX 360 game that I already had. So that worked out well.

As we're stumbling down the apartment steps, we were both being loud, not remembering that even though we had four stores, it was still only 7 am.

I don't remember picking Lydia up from work, or then going to my mom's to get Little Joe. I remember turning out all the lights and playing with the flashlights with Little Joe.

I do not remember shopping, but I do remember I had to leave for Wal-Mart--AGAIN!!!--at about 10pm because we were down to one roll of toilet paper. And apparently I had the energy to decide to do our weekly grocery shopping, as well.

While I was there, I had to get Ginger Snaps. And here's why: the little bonde farmgirl, her boyfriend, and their friends were all from the same High School I went to (before they kind of half-kicked me out following my freshmen year), since we used to live in that country town. They were asking me if I knew teachers, and I knew some, but there were some they didn't know because they had retired.

One of those teachers, Mr. Borgis, would always slide Ginger Snaps across the table to me during home room. I hated them, but I'd eat one a day. I could stomach one, because he was funny and we used to rip on each other. He'd always say, "You ever eat these? They're great in milk."

I thought of that when I was buying milk.

So now here it is, 2:23 am. Hazy-Grayish Saturday (I never called it that before, but I'm starting now. Everything is hazy-gray), still not sleeping. Eating Ginger snaps.

They're still just as bad, even if you dunk them in milk.

Addendum: I'm returning the digital camcorder I bought at Target. It was just a front to buy Play-Doh anyway. And we still have more than 3/4 of the box of Ginger Snaps. Because they're still nasty.

BLACK FRIDAY--AND NARY A SINGLE GRANDMA ATTACK. ALSO, IT ENDED WITH GINGER SNAPS-PT 1/2

2009-11-27T21:47:00.000-08:00

Ths was too long for one post. I'll post the second half in a day or two.

I'm not trying to be funny in this one. It is actually what happened today, this craziest of all days. Black Friday, aka, kill your fellowman with the mace and kill your fellowwoman with the bow and kill those shorter than you with a great trampling--for 5 bucks off a TV.

Let me just preface it by saying it is 1 am, so any typos or anything are just going to have to be in there. I'm not fixing them.

There were no fights this time around. Well, I accidentally knocked a girl out cold, but that was just weird. And there were no Black Friday Gramma attacks.

Black Friday Grammas (yes it should be capitalized, as it's a title) are the worst, and the smaller the fiercer. They're like cranky little Cambodian commandos. I'm a 270 pound ogre, and I don't want anything to do with any of them. If they feel their grandkids need that $9 MP3 player bad enough that they're willing to shank the three people in line ahead of them for it, then more power to them. They can have it. Or all of them, as the case may usually be.

So here's the breakdown, chronologically:

As mentioned in the last post, I am manic again. This is a bad one, as it's pushing through both the anti-psychotic and the lithium with a vengeance. I can't afford the sedative, so I've been sleeping about 3 hours a night for the last few weeks. On top of that, I worked over 40 hours--not counting drive time--just in Mon, Tues, Wed. of this week. Then I was up most of Thursday, either playing with Little Joe (who was so happy I was home after basically not seeing me all week, he hung off me like a necklace all day), or making out with the hot wife (who was so happy I was home after basically not seeing me all week, she hung off me like a necklace all day). Dropped the bumpkin off at Grammy's house, fell asleep cuddling the hot wife, and got up at 2:30 am.

Lydia (we'll use her blogger surname for the sake of the blog) had to be at work at around 3:30, so I dropped her off and headed to Wal-Mart. Yes, I headed to Wal-Mart. I realize that's like the part in the Vincent Price movie where you're like, "DON'T OPEN THAT DOOR!!!", but I had to.

Our local Wal-Mart is a Super Wal-Mart. Each aisle has its own little LCD TV at the end, playing Wal-Mart commercials. I am not joking. Everything except for a few sections of the store. There are large LCD's in the meat department. Why, I don't know.

Anyway, they stayed open 24 hours. People were in line next to what they wanted. At midnight, they grabbed it and got in line. The lines took FOREVER because they were actually letting people check out with their Black Friday stuff. If you had the ad, they were price-adjusting. So you have a line with people rifling through an ad the size of those Sears catalogs we used as booster seats when we were kids, pointing to one item every five minutes, then moving on to the next of the 4 bazillion things that needed pointed to in the ad.

I waited for an hour to get Excedrin, a Milky Way, Halls cough drops (has to be Halls. Ricola is just nasty candy and Luden's is just castrated Halls. Halls turns into vaporized Drano for your nostrils when you suck on them), and a bottle of Aquafina.

This was all for the baby brother, Caleb, who had come up from Nashville since we all had time off. He was in line at Target. Since 12:30 am. Target had the stuff we were both looking for, so we were going there first. Neither of us was messing with Wal-Mart. That place is a zoo on Black Friday.

Yeah, I know, I was already in line there...look, just go with it, okay?

So I get to the front of the line, after an hour. An hour. And the only girl ahead of me puts her 3-pack of boy's size 6 Spongebob Squarepants briefs on the counter. Don't ask. I don't know why the girl stood in line for an hour for boys skivvies. She looked like they might fit her, but, I mean, would you question someone that stood line that long for Spongebob drawers? No.

So she puts them on the counter. And then passes out. Like, running backwards, trying to stay up but vertigo is pulling her down drops.

I tried to catch her. I've gotten slow in my old age, and couldn't get my arms under her in time. I had, however, gotten to her with a very first quick step. So as she tucked against me, and I didn't have my arms under her, my momentum proceeded to hip-check her into the pop cooler, where she smashed her head and promptly knocked herself out.

Oops. I still think it was better to glance off the pop cooler than smack full force on the ground.

She kind of thrashed a few seconds later, but her eyes were gone. I put my coat up under her head and tried to hold her down, gingerly, so that I wouldn't do anything that could be misconstrued as worthy of litigation.

Employees showed up, and even though I told them she needed to lie still and that her eyes were glazed, they lifted her to her feet and dragged her to the nearest bench. Whatever.

As the line re-opened, I looked at the couple behind me.

"We're all terrible people," I said. "Admit it. The first thought you had when she went down was,
'Oh, God, please don't let them shut the line over this'."

So over to Target now. I meet up with Caleb by hopping the barricade. We were surrounded by teenage kids. It's usually housewives and families, with the occasional gang of thuggish Black Friday Grammas (they tend to congregate before hand--concentrated fire). So me and Caleb are cracking jokes, as we usually do, and everyone is laughing, because we're funny, and I notice this little blonde girl behind us that is just staring. She smiled every time I looked at her, and I knew I knew her. Her boyfriend noticed it, and obviously wasn't too pleased.

She cuts me off and goes, "You go into (pizza joint in the country we frequent), all the time. You're Joe?"

And I recognized her. The pizza joint in question is one that we frequent. It's in the little country town we used to live in, and it's one of those small-town places on a beautiful stretch of road that you go to forget about stuff. Just has that vibe.

The thing with heris that she's adorable. Spare me the look. I want a daughter, and this girl is tiny. She's also very cheerful and pleasant. Like I want my daughter to be. Of course, Little Joe is quite enamored with her...

She knows she's adorable, though, and that little hint of arrogance is a little offsetting. And she had always been REALLY nice when we went in. Except when Lydia was there. Then she was only (lowercase) really nice.

Back to that later. The Target employees come out at 4:30, half-hour to open, and ask if anyone needs directions. And I asked them where the Play-Doh was. And everyone laughed, but I was there to get two things: a Polaroid digital camcorder for 30 bucks, and Play-Doh. 24 color superpack--with molds!--for 5 bucks? Heck yeah. The trail of broken souls--even Black Friday Grammas--would be long and piled to the sky on my way to the Play-Doh!

I then proceeded to ask if they were giving out tickets, and he said no. And I asked if it was not even for the Play-Doh. And he cocked his head and just blinked, and said there was plenty of Play-Doh.

"Okay. So I don't get a ticket. What the heck happens if I get back there and there's no Play-Doh? I swear to GAWD I will find you."

He shook it off like a joke and walked away.

Doors open, sprint for the back. I get my camcorder (which I'm going to return), Caleb got the GPS for Jackie (his beautiful wife), and then I stumbled up to the ring of employees by the toys, stood there, teetering from sleep, and just grunted, "Play-Doh?"

Caleb lost it behind me, but the women at the toy section all looked terrified. But they divulged the info I needed. As I'm looking at the various kinds, little blonde farmgirl from the pizza joint waltzes up, darts between me'n Caleb, and grabs a Play-Doh pack without even looking at what kind it was, then flashes a smile and runs away.

My brother agrees that she is curiously crossing our path quite a bit--as we walk out of the aisle and she happens to be there, uh-genn, smiling. We saw her a couple more times on the way to the register. I've told Lydia. I only hope my wife kills the poor child quickly.

Caleb's the first in line. He gets rung out. I'm the second in line. The camcorder rings out fine. Then the register freezes on the Play-Doh and we have to wait a few minutes for the computer to be reset.

REVOLUTIONARY WAR WAS FOUGHT BY A BUNCH OF LAZYKINS

2009-11-23T19:17:00.000-08:00

I am seriously rapid-cycling right now, so all of the coherence I had hoped to post with is not jiving. I can't find the notebook I write informative posts in when I'm actually cognizant, so I'll go on a minor rant.

I was watching Mel Gibson's The Patriot while doing laundry, and, like everyone else that studies the warfare of the time, I just remembered how stupid their battles were. Thank goodness for guerrilla tactics. Not many Americans can afford tea in this economy.

Anyway, I think the whole thing was laziness:

Redcoat chases Colonial. They both stop, stooped with palms on knees, trying to catch their breath.

Redcoat: "You can just go, man. I'm tired of running in this uniform."

Colonial: "I'm tired of running, too."

Both stand, panting.

Redcoat: "There has to be an easier way. You wanna just stand still and shoot at each other?"

And so musket warfare was born.

Yes, I know it was fought like that for years before the Revolutionary War. Stop harshing my history buzz.

The main thing I don't understand is how they determined where the fight would take place. It wasn't always done with one army marching to the other's camp. They pre-arranged some. Did they call each other?

Cell phone rings.

Unnamed Colonial Officer: "Hello?"

Cornwallace: "Hey, it's Cornwallace."

UCO: "Oh. Hey." *voice is obviously miffed he answered the phone*

Cw: "So, uh, you doing anything Sunday?"

UCO: "Oh, gee, uh...I don't know. I'll have to check with my wife. I don't think so, but she may have made plans already--"

Cw: "Whatever, dude. You're lying cause you don't want to do anything. If you had plans, you'd know. Look, there's an empty field that would be perfect for a battle."

UCO: "I don't know, man. Last time we did that a whole bunch of people shot each other.

Cw: "Seriously? You're going to bail on me? We agreed it would happen. My men are going to look awful stupid standing out there in bright red coats and white pants with no one on the other end."

UCO: "Dude, you want us to line up across a field and shoot at each other. And die. We're both going to look silly if we do that."

*long pause*

Cw: "But you'll be there, right?"

CLICK

LINKS ADDED, MAN BOOBS, AND MIDGETS

2009-11-20T20:50:00.000-08:00

All of the above will be explained. Whether you want them to be or not.

First off, the links. I added some. For the il-link-erate (ow! pain from my brain to my loser fingers for typing that), you can click on them and black unicorns will bring the websites to your computer. Which is awesome.

Unicorns = lame. Black unicorns = awesome.

Manboobs. I posted a link and inquiry for this blog on the Writer's Digest forum. Another member who suffers from clinical depression, Fleurdelis, sent me an experience (which I will eventually get pared down to fit in a post and put up here). Below is an exchange we had. GrinningBear is my screen name:

"Fleurdelis My brain is broke, too. I'd love to contribute. I'll just use the email addy at the site.

GrinningBear: I got it, but life has been hectic. I just posted today about there is no time to post and left a comment about Ovaltine. Or something like that.

I'll get you in there, though.

Fleurdelis: Take your sweet ass time. I just spent 26 of the last 48 hours at Houston Methodist Hospital.

If my brother didn't have man-boobs, we never would have found out about my mother's two inch aneurysm.

That sounds like a bad writing prompt.

GrinningBear:Ah, life.

You win. Seriously, dude. A "normal" person wouldn't have come up with something like that. And the best part is you didn't explain. That is going up in the next post, I swear.

I actually (kind of) posted today. Something about going off gets compared to women PMS'ing. Only I used harsher language.

WTF? Manboobs? GAAH, LOL!!!

I called my boss in to read that and he goes, "Wait, you're congregating other people like you? I don't think that's a good idea."

I cut/pasted that exchange on another forum, and got responses about how people with mental illness are still people. Which then prompted the following response from one Miss Emily White:

"Yup. I couldn't agree more. You guys are like midgets--just people, but people that make everyone else laugh.

Okay, I realize that sounds horrible, but G-bear will get the joke."

This may be the greatest single line about bipolar ever. I don't care how sensitive you are--I don't care if you're Mother-Freaking-Theresa--that crap's funny. Or Midget-Freaking-Theresa. Hehe.

Upcoming, I will get a little more serious. My dad's suicide, my own initial psychiatric appointment that led to the march to the ER surrounded by twitchy cops (I'm not exactly a small or unimposing guy), messing with the schizophrenic woman and giving the kid with some kind of palsy too many M&M's (Orangey was flyin--you'll see what that means) while in the psych ward, generally giving the staff a sarcastic hard time, etc.

But for now, manboobs and midgets.

OH, YOU'RE BEING ALL BIPOLAR AGAIN

2009-11-18T07:10:00.000-08:00

I am beyond crabby today. Medical term would be "irritable". I'm that.

One quick thing that bugs me: when you are bipolar, you cannot express opinions or get upset without people telling you you're "being all bipolar".

???

This makes about as much sense as those chauvinists that constantly tell women that may have a moment of crankiness that "they must be on the rag again". Um, excuse me, you inbred hilljack sexist Skoal-sucking hog. There is a reason the only breasts you have seen were in magazines or on the computer screen. You keep telling a woman that disagrees with something that it's because it's that time of the month and tell us how that works out in terms of a love life. Oh, and keep scratching your armpit and smelling your fingers. That's okay, nobody wants you to actually procreate, anyway.

The above doesn't hold true for married men. I don't care if anyone thinks it's insensitive, when my dearest wife is noticeably hormonal, I like to further poke the tiger and tell her she is PMS'ing early. You know why I can do that? Because I know her timeline. I can tell when she's PMS'ing early.

Also, I learned massotherapy when she was pregnant, and she got used to massages. She gets lower backrubs whenever she needs them, especially those times she needs them more. So I can further agitate her all I want. It's a trade-off in the contract.

Back to the topic. If I dislike something, or disagree with something, or paint the wall with someone I dislike's innards, I'm being all bipolar again.

Do I do things that are illness caused? Yes. Does that include irrational irritability towards certain topics? Absolutely. But it drives me nuts when I can't go on a "normal" rant like a "normal" person.

You know what, **** you, person (people, voices in my head, whatever) saying that to me. I'm allowed to be a dissenter.

(See, he just dropped an Asterisk Bomb. He's being all bipolar again)

Nice. Keep talking. I'm almost done sharpening this railroad spike. As soon as I'm finished, I'll wrap an athletic tape handle around it and bring it into the discussion, mmkay?

Life gets in the way of living sometimes

2009-11-16T05:33:00.000-08:00

So much to post. Zero time to actually do it. Overwhelmed at work and the wireless at home is spotty, at best. I don't know if the guy we're "borrowing" it from is to blame, but I threw a rock through his window with a note that said, "Pay your Cable bill, deadbeat!". Just in case.

In lieu of actually putting something up, I will leave you with this thought: Ovaltine (both flavors) is a superior milk additive to both Hershey's chocolate syrup and the Nestle Carnation malted milk--especially the vanilla. Blech. The chocolate flavor is close, but Ovaltine wins out due to superior absorption and dispersal while stirring. The Nestle stuff leaves clumps.

Hope to return soon. I don't want this blog to die before it has a chance. If it hasn't already.

I did finally respond to the comments below.

Welcome to the insanity!!!

2009-11-07T18:24:00.000-08:00

WITH THREE WHOLE EXCLAMATION POINTS SO YOU KNOW IT'S IMPORTANT!!!

*pukes*

No degree of profanity can emphasize how much I hate the title of that post. So cliche'. Some idiot may even call it insensitive, which is the kind of idiocy an idiot would display. I'm crazy. I can call myself and my illness anything I danged well please, so go run into a wall until you pass out.

Idiot.

That assumes anyone actually reads this, of course. There are a small-to-moderate grouping of idiots in society: politicians, highway drivers when I'm late for work, protesters of anything (your stupid sign is not going to change the world, idiot), Yankees fans, those people who say Lebron James is going to New York, Ben Roethlisberger (if I cared about spelling his last name right, I would have looked it up. I don't, so I didn't), regular people who just happen to be idiots, etc. I doubt I get enough readers to actually warrant that cross-section of idiots.

As you have surmised by now, this blog will be my meanderings through Nutjobland. If you haven't surmised that, you are on the wrong floor. Behavioral health (read: too dumb to technically be crazy) is on the 6th floor of the Cleveland Clinic S building.

I'm telling you right now, the above is how I roll. Translation for our caucasian visitors: I sincerely hope I didn't offend you. I use politically incorrect humor or general crankiness from time to time. It doesn't mean I necessarily dislike that group or individual--except those mentioned in my idiots section--or don't feel their plight. I'm and equal opportunity annoyer. I hate and love just about everyone. Now back to regular speech. Whitey.

In all seriousness, about the only things you will not see me disparage are children, others' families, and victims of rape. My family is the only reason I wake up in the morning. I will not put anyone down anyone else's.

Some of my nonsense is going to spread awareness, blah blah, blah--I'll try to make you learn something. Some of it will be just rants. And I go to some very weird places when my mind is kicking the electrical jolt of thoughts to whatever random synaptic path it danged well chooses. I mean WEIRD.

I have family and friends--oh, okay, just family, as I have no friends--that read this site, so I will be tempering stuff to the best of my ability. I won't get vulgar, but I will get crass. I promise you that.

My wife will be a regular on here as we share nearly everything, including our writing blog, (shameless blog, er, plug, forthcoming) The Sharp Angle. Hopefully she'll add some insights of her own. Spouses of bipolar folk are actually referred to as caregivers, and are looked at the same from a medical perspective as those who are caregivers for other ailments. It is not an easy task, believe me. Of course, how can you believe me if I'm not the caregiver? Such conundrums keeps one up at night, do they not?

Welcome, check back often, and feel free to post. Don't worry about looking like a idiot. If you are, we can tell by your post. Or your Yankees hat.

(incidentally, if you caught I put "a" idiot, that does not necessarily make you not "an" idiot. Just grammatically aware. Though it's a good start...