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I’m pissy today, so pizza boy, look out.

6 Dec

Why is it that when one finds a pizza place where the pizza is worth eating, and not excessively priced, the order taker is a complete, blithering idiot?

Twice now she’s fucked shit up in three orders. The first time I ordered there, she misheard the address, then accused me of giving her the wrong one. (Because I get confused about my address all the freaking time) This then went on to the delivery guy not being told it was debit, going back for it, coming back, having no paper in the machine, and coming back again, all the while blathering on and on about how he was quitting and SCREW THEM! and how he’d worked 90 hours that week, not including his other job.

I on the other hand, only walked to work uphill both ways.

Last night, I got home craving some pizza. I hadn’t had anytime to each lunch I was so busy (which will likely be repeated today) so I asked my father if we could order some. Easy enough I thought. Since we hadn’t had a chance to dig out the driveway, I clearly stated “Have him come up to the FRONT door since the driveway is NOT plowed.”

That’s clarity, right? I mean, I’m no speaking in tongues or in Arabic or some other language, like possibly english that people don’t always understand around here?

Lo and behold, he appears at the back door, looking rightfully pissed off. I state my shock at him being there, and he gets all accusatory and says I’m lucky that he delivered, since they aren’t supposed to when the driveway isn’t plowed.

Uh, dude? That’s why I told the chick the FRONT DOOR, you know, the place without any snow in front of it.

What really pisses me off is that the guy copped an attitude with me-this attitude seems to be systemic for this company, and at this point, the quality of the pizza isn’t enough for me to deal with their fucking idiocies. I mean honestly-take the order, make the food, deliver it according to the instructions. This is not rocket science. Even someone with a Grade 8 education should be able to figure this out.

I seriously don’t get what is up with some businesses around here, acting like I should consider myself lucky for gracing them with my money. Generally speaking, it’s the other way around.

Been There, but didn’t buy the T-Shirt

26 Nov

Having Bipolar, being bipolar, means it’s likely you experience moments of blinding rage. I have. There are holes in walls to prove it, holes I barely remember making. Rage sweeps you up, takes you on a ride, feeds itself through your own anger, sustained by the emotions of those around you. Only the thinnest threads hold you to reality, let you see through the blindness to the person standing next to you, before your fists and words.

Rage is one of the scariest things I’ve handled with this disease. You think you know rage? You don’t. It’s all encompassing, turns you into someone else. I’ve been mad, and then I’ve been vengeful and full of rage.

I’m reading my feeds this morning when this headlines pops up:

Brutal assault blamed on drugs
But victim proposes, expecting his child as abuser faces prison

I come to read the article and see that this man, who is bipolar, was put on anti-depressants, and then beat the ever-loving crap out of his girlfriend. Which is so horrible on many levels. And yet, then she proposes, gets pregnant.

I’m sure some people will see battered women’s syndrome. I see a woman trying to cling to the good person she knows is under all that crap, the person who, if on the right drugs, doesn’t fly into violent rages and hurt her. She knows that under the drinking (which was likely to self medicate) and under the wrong drugs there is a very different individual. And she loves THAT man.

Make no mistake-there are likely two men in there. Just as there are two people in me. On the wrong drugs, I can be very scary-ask Mogo. We’ve been there. I’ve been in a place mentally where all the kept me from just unleashing my fists was the smallest knowledge that it would be very wrong. If I had been drinking, well, I shudder to think.

I don’t disagree that this man would have know this was wrong-you don’t sustain a beating for over a hour and not realize at some point that what you’re doing isn’t what you should be doing. But jail time? If he truly has bipolar, if he truly needs mental care, how will jail time prevent this from occurring again, and allow him to be a functioning person and father? If someone put him on the wrong drugs, and diagnosed him incorrectly, likely stemming from the lack of resources our mental health system suffers under, is this totally his fault? If he was on anti-depressants which made him manic, which in turn became rage, is it really is his fault?

And moreover, why the shock that this woman could still love him? She remembers the man she loves, the man who quite possibly is just fine now on anti-psychotics. Just as I remember the girl inside me who isn’t crazy.

It’s not that hard to grasp really.

“And I do lift my aching arms to you, And I do lift my anguished, avid breast, And I do weep for very pain of you, And fling myself at the doors of sleep, for rest.”

19 Nov

He touches me there, and suddenly, I’m a little girl again. I grit my teeth, feel my bile rising, resist the urge to break and run, to scream my lungs out, to kick, to punch to struggle. The small child in me is yelling in terror “Never again! NEVER!” is beating a drum in my heart, and I can’t ignore her.

I become preoccupied in something else, trying to force away the horrible unclean thought floating in my mind, the film that has arisen on my skin, memories I can’t wash away, leering eyes I can’t get away from.

The anxiety attack takes an hour or so to subside. I fold laundry and wait for my stomach to return to it’s place.


It’s assumed that this is a result of the lithium working, of the bipolar being reined in and under control. That my horrifying memories of being abused are working their way to the surface only because the rest of my brain has finally been given a rest, and sits, sedated, pointing the way to the exit. Pictures float up in my mind, images, places, windows and kitchens, the sun falling on a bed. Knowing grins. I suddenly can’t escape them, and they embrace me, pulling at me til I fall into the volcano, Pele of my soul. People I could escape. I could walk down the other driveway, and ignore him when he came at me.

My dreams, and my memories, I cannot evade so simply.

How is it possible that 20 or so years later, I can still feel his touch, I can still feel the crawling sickness of that house in my veins? I had thought this dead and done with, buried in the recesses on my mind, occasionally taken out for a looksee but mostly finished, dealt with, handled. Why am I wrong? Why am I paralyzed by something some piece of shit did to me so very long ago?

Why can’t I stop feeling ashamed, and blamed? Why can’t I truly tell myself it wasn’t my fault? Why do I find it so hard to absolve myself of responsibility?

Because everyone says it’s not my fault. And I think everyone is wrong.


On a beautiful summer morning, I had a choice. I could choose to not walk across the yard into what I knew would be terrible. I could have stayed in my own backyard, refusing to move, as children are wont to do, I could have lay under our old maple tree and stared at the black squirrels dancing from limb to limb. I could have huddled in my room.

I could have put something on other than my swimsuit.

Yet I didn’t. I walked into fire. I picked my way through the rotten apples, and into the arms of something awful. My own personal demon.

I’m beginning to think my dreams of running away, of fear, are linked to this man, and to my grandfather with the wandering hands. I ran from stopping them then, and I run from the responsibility of accepting what happened and overcoming it now.

Maybe it’s not fair, but I should have ran in the other direction. I should have known better, I did know better.

Writing an essay about “helping” this man, and winning a contest for it was just pounds and pounds of salt in a wound that may never heal.


My mother never knew. I doubt she even suspected. A voice whispered in my ear “Don’t tell her-she’s sick, remember?” and I didn’t want to burden her further. I didn’t tell my father because he’d never believe me, and besides, my mother was sick. And he was our neighbour-imagine the pain this would cause, the mess.

Isolated and alone, he pressed his case, and I lost.

And I still lose. The bastard has been dead over 10 years, and I still can’t defeat him, his hands, his body in my eyes, even when the visions are filled with fantasies of beating him to death. His friend still lives, still talks to my father.

Time has erased all things, but not my fear, or my hatred of these men. I want my body back for me.

I want those summer days back.

In your Room

16 Nov

It’s raining. Sheets of rain, coursing down the windows, keeping us all indoors and safe from the dingy grayed out skies.

I’m thinking of you, laying in your bed, reading on a particularly nasty Sunday afternoon, an afternoon where the rain washed in buckets up against your window, and you stared at it, wondering if rain meant that god was crying. You still believe, vaguely, tentatively in god. Or at least, you do what you mother tells you.

It feels so long ago, centuries maybe, since I lay on that bed, the solid oak antique head and footboards, the peeling wood. You’re on your stomach, kicking your feet, warm and content and safe. Nothing can harm you. Nothing can touch you. Your room is magical, containing for many little worlds in one.

I need to tell you-enjoy you time spent quietly. Time on that grass green rug, playing school, pretending, even cleaning up. It ends, and soon. People will…hurt you. People will stick their thumbs in your chest and rend you apart, part your lips with cherries and promises, warnings. Soon, far too soon, you will be but a shadow of the girl on that bed.

You are too young, too beautiful, too smart and stellar and fascinating for all of this to happen to. But you are a good child who listens to her mother-for this, for once, can you disobey?

Of course you can’t. It will be far too hard to find a reason for the disobedience that won’t be the truth. You’ll trudge next door, fearful, ashamed and sad, like any good little girl should.

I can still see it now. The birdbath collecting rain in the yard, the fridge beside the door, the one with the cherries in the drawer. The bed. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Helpfulness turn into helplessness and they convince you to slide off your clothes. It’s made all the worse because you do what they ask.

There will come a day when you’ll break, crack and refuse to go back. Your mother will wonder, but you won’t care. You won’t tell her, but you won’t go back.

Please tell her. She’s your mother-She’ll want to know. Maybe she can help fix it.

You’ll wonder forever where the pictures ended up. So tell her. Bring her to your room, sit her on that bed, maybe on a day when the rain falls in buckets and you wonder if the gods are crying, and tell her. Let it all go and tell her.

So we don’t have to wonder.


14 Nov

Anyone else read CNN on a daily basis?

Lost among the stories of murder, rape, pillage, amputated limbs and burning buildings have lately been some rather odd stories.

What exactly is newsworthy about people losing weight?

All around the world people starve. In our own countries, people are malnourished because they can’t afford the proper food, or they don’t know what they should be eating. We’re at war. Our economies may slip into recession in the near future.

And yet some guy loses weight and that’s worth tacking on a major news site. He didn’t save a child, or a platoon. He didn’t rescue a dog, cure cancer or fly around the world in a balloon. Yet he’s front page news.

Is fat really so repulsive, such a scandal, that someone who loses a ton of weight is a hero? Will they write a story about him in a few years when he’s likely to have gained the weight back? Will he be as special and delightful when he’s chubby? Will we write odes to his name?

I’m fat. I may stay this way forever. I may find a way to lose it after all this time. I don’t know. Most of the time I don’t much care. What I do know is that it’s bloody insulting and infuriating to see these little articles devoted to weight loss on a news site, articles telling me that I’m not special unless I shrink down in size, that I don’t matter unless I’m little.

I don’t want to be little. I’m perfectly happy being a giant, thank you very much. I don’t want to hear about their caloric restriction. I want to hear about people doing things, real things, writing novels, solving murders, fixing wars. Meaningful things. How is losing weight meaningful? You’re still gonna die! What you weigh will have no bearing on how meaningful your life was-not if you truly live your life.

I’m tired of it-I’m tired of the celebrity of skinny, of anorexia, of denial. My body wants food like a car wants gas. It shall have it’s gas. My tongue wants taste like the sea wants water. It shall have it’s taste. My life will be defined by more than my waist size or by the amount of chub that hangs over my belt. I am more than the sum of my ass.

Now why isn’t THAT newsworthy?

“Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it’s time to pause and reflect.”

12 Nov

We go out for lunch, and the kids play in the indoor playroom. Other children join, and a merry time is had.

Except for the fact that it’s too much for the mother’s to smile at my husband as he supervises their kids along with his own. It’s too much for them to acknowledge other people. And it’s far too much to ask their children to take their shoes off in the playroom. Wouldn’t want to be considerate to others.

I suppose our jackets weren’t expensive enough, or perhaps my hair isn’t styled properly.

For all the bitching people do about how rude other people are, all we seem to run into when we’re polite and open are more rude people. What gives? Is there some kind of defect in the water that makes it impossible to just say hello, or to lead by example and follow the instructions written on the door? In 10 years, these women will wonder why their little darlings don’t follow instructions, and not once realize it’s because they disregarded what they wanted in front of them.

One of my biggest challenges in parenting has been doing what I want my children to do. No jaywalking, picking up litter, holding the door open, letting people pass, saying please and thank you. It’s important to me that my kids grow up with manner, that they realize at some point that how you treat strangers is indicative of how you treat the people in your life. It’s important to me that they act kindly towards others.

Just once, ONCE I’d like to meet a mother in real life who isn’t suffering from a rectal cranial inversion. Just once.

(And ladies, my husband isn’t going to eat your children. He LIKES playing with them. Just because your husbands can’t be bothered doesn’t make mine a freak. kthxbai.)


9 Nov

This morning, the sun broke through my windows like a thief, quietly, shifting upwards almost imperceptibly, until it was shining in their eyes.

My messy haired daughters, wrinkly pajamas, sleep filled eyes. They sit playing, almost silently, lighting up as I turn the corner to wish them good morning. How happy they are to see me-like they haven’t seen me for days.

I raspberry a belly. Suddenly, two shirts are held up, giggles held in, barely, saying “please Mommy, me too”. Their laughs are like crystalline daggers in my heart.

It’s a beautiful morning.

“mentally ill lighter sentences”

8 Nov


Everytime something bad happens, be it this, or this, my first thought isn’t “throw away the key” like many other people. It isn’t “some people are just garbage”.

It’s “some people are broken, and need help”. Mercy. Compassion. Even when it comes down to sex offenders, I believe that there is a mental defect causing the issue, not any deep seeded issue in their moral fibre.

There should not be a “lighter” sentence for the mentally ill. There should be an entirely different resolution altogether. If a mother kills her babies while under the grips of Post Partum Psychosis, a disorder that no doctor looked for or asked about, or one that they thought “went away”, is it really all her fault? If a man is hearing voices that urge him to kill, to maim, and he follows their orders because the reality he inhabits involves voices, is it really his fault? Should the punishment for having something wrong with your brain really be jail?

It’s not about having a lighter sentence. It’s not about avoiding punishment. It’s about doing the right thing. It’s about preventing these things from happening ever again. It’s about fixing people, making them whole people instead of the shells their illnesses have made them in to. It’s about having the compassion and dignity to see them for what they are-not criminals, but sick people who have been driven by their illnesses, and left out by society, by a world which refuses to believe that anything invisible is real.

I fight daily with my own demons. The first few weeks after Rosalyn was born, I seriously considered killing her a couple of times. I was aware enough to know that these thoughts were wrong. But with less family support, a little less sleep…I know what could have happened. It keeps me up at night sometimes. I am one of the lucky ones-I got help-I recovered from my PPD, and I sought treatment for what turned out to be bipolar disorder. I got lucky.

Many, MANY individuals have no help. They have no idea how to get help, or may not realize anything is wrong, so stuck in their own reality they are. Our culture relies on sick people to get their own help, which is fine if you break your leg. But a psychotic break doesn’t usually leave you with the will and sense to know something is terrifyingly wrong.

When the mentally ill do anything, when they kill, when they harm, the full wrath of society comes down on them, multiplying the guilt and shame. Imagine having to live with the faces of your dead children forever, and the knowledge that you did this. I have only the guilt of wanting my daughter dead. I cannot imagine living daily with the other. It’s a punishment beyond belief.

There is no lighter sentence when you’re mentally ill. You’re castigated from your community, spit on, considered less than nothing. Because you’re brain is broken. You’re considered a criminal for something you may be unable to control, for something no one took the time to notice.

It’s time we all started to recognize the difference between criminal and sick.


“For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul.”

29 Oct

Somedays, I’ll be sitting there at work, and I’ll think of him. I’ll think of my husband and his strong soft hands, his kind laughing brown eyes, his awesome rear end and I’ll smile. I’ll grin, and I’ll feel that quiver all over again-the quiver I felt years ago, so many years past, when we were just young and I was a wild mess of adolescent rage and he was just alone in a small town making music. That quiver which pierced my heart when I was just a girl.

I didn’t intend on falling in love-not ever. I had distanced myself from those needs, even so young I was walled off and had my defenses set to stun, phasers! I told myself that life alone would be ok. I’d have cats and vacations, lots of breakable things and curry. The walls of my home would be multi-colored and jewelled.

I wrote him a letter after reading his in a magazine, purchased on a long drive north to a town on Lake Superior, a grief stricken move, a father, a daughter, me high on codeine after having my tonsils out 2 days prior. I read his letter and something quivered and twinged and I wanted to write him.

And yet…that letter became lost, lost in my room, a cavernous void, a mess that could suck dry a household. I didn’t think of it again until months later, I found it behind a dresser. I sat down on my floor and stared at it. I opened it up to read it, to see if it still represented me. I sealed it up again, and mailed it that day.

Months later, letters later, I called him. I’d be travelling near him-did he want to meet?

And we did. I got off the Go bus and waited near some crappy little store, leaning on the phone booth when he pulled up in his parent’s Olds. I met his eyes, and I felt like he was an old friend I hadn’t seen in years back for a visit. A moment of spark. A second of history I couldn’t account for. But I knew him. Somehow, I knew him, my body knew him.

A vague craving for him sprung up inside me which I quickly dampened. I had renounced all these things and besides-years of being told I was unattractive had taught me a lesson about that. I packed away my own desire, and only felt it pine once as he held his girlfriend in a pool and they laughed and laughed.

Time passed, I moved, moved again. We’d meet now and then, and I’d still feel it. I’d feel the desire I had for him, the unexplainable need to be with him. We could talk for hours, never feeling uncomfortable or strange. It really was like we’d known each other forever. I visited him in a scummy rooming-house in Guelph, slept on the floor near his bed, wishing he’d lay with me. Feeling him near me, and yet knowing it just wasn’t right. Not then.

My last year of high school, I visited on break in March. We stayed up night after night, talking, smoking weed-I got to the point where I was completely mad from lack of sleep. And one night we kissed. One night, his lips trailed fire up my neck and I felt the warm embrace of the one thing I never thought I’d find-love. It filled me inside, it boiled over into everything I touched as I waited for the year to play out, and for my life with him to begin.

And it did, as all things do. And ten years later, I am still madly in love with him, he who is now my husband, he who I am tied to with many bonds. When I let him, he heals me. My heart aches for him, and he soothes it. His laugh is gentle, and he cannot bear to see me suffer.

Some-days I sit around and think of him and laugh. I just cannot believe that I deserve such a blessing.


14 Oct

“….I’m gonna be a spider what are you gonna be? Rozie is gonna be a kitty meow! Isabelle came over when I was sleeping so she came back later but her brother had broken his armOW! and we played and it was fun-what’s your favorite color? I love pink. What color is your house? Mine is red. I love dinosaurs ROWR! Are you going to see the bee movie?….

The past two days have been held in thrall to Vivian, she who never ceases speaking in public. 4 straight hours yesterday-4 continuous hours of talking about absolutely nothing aside from what a 4 year old wants to talk about.

Indulgent looks from the older women are counted from looks from other mother’s who are obviously thinking I’m not doing something right. But I count on the older mother’s advice and wisdom in these cases. Today, an older lady smiled and corrected the girl who said “My someone is spoiled!”

“Nah,” she said, “She’s just smart, and that’s never a bad thing.” She looked and smiled at me, restoring my faith in my daughter, she who I continually apologize for. And for what? Because she is curious and friendly, happy to spread her love to all she meets? Because I feel that she is disturbing someone with her incessant chatter and lust to know?

So many girls and women grow up never questioning anything-they don’t watch or read the news, the don’t learn of history or science or of things that take real thought. So many women never learn how to meet others half way, never learn to understand other people, their quirks. My child is curious about her world-is anxious to learn what works. My daughter wants to know. Why should I apologize for that anyway?

“Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends can only read the title.”

1 Oct

We stare at each other for a brief moment, and immediately hug, my usual disdain for touch lost behind my excitement at seeing a bit of my past in front of me. Like a plum, she looks good to me.

15 years falls away like nothing more than a second skin, discarded and left to float, fertilizer for another day.


My children love her. They run to her without inhibition, without fear-even my normally shy second born warms up almost immediately, and starts crowing. They all laugh and laugh and she tells me “Your house is so full of life!”

And she’s right. It’s never quiet, it’s rarely dull, and at times I envy her silences, the silences I once had. But my house is full to it’s brim with heart and love and noise and cacophony and wonder.

My girls wave goodbye from the deck as we drive off, toothy grins and blindly happy smiles wishing us well. My friend waves and waves back, her face crested in a grin itself.

I can’t help but grin back at all of them, immersed in the world I have created for myself.


We wander the mall, something we never did as teenagers. Were we ever that young? Just yesterday I was stoned in her basement, trying to understand the allure of All My Children and getting sucked into a story line about someone being possessed by the devil while tripping over her dog. We wander, looking, not looking really but talking, the hurried catch up talk you have when you know time is short and limited.

And I was comforted in the familiar, a person who knew me, knew who I was, where I was, who was steadfast and unwavering in her person, who had changed but not changed. My friend has grown, but remained at her core someone who calmed me to be around. Someone I felt no need to pretend with, no need to build a facade around. I felt my defenses shatter, useless and unnecessary, and for the first time in a long time, it was like I could breathe air fresh and free of the garbage I usually let fester in my lungs.

We pondered buying a gong, and wondered what happened to us as we admired the bakeware.


We rush to a pub, trying to not speak over each other. She offers a book from long ago, one I vaguely remember as mine. I don’t remember even reading it.

“Keep it.” I say.  “It’s a better story this way.”


We try to remember to eat while filling each other up on 15 years of life, divorce, sickness, alcohol, fear, fulfillment, desire. Who we are. What we want. Where we are. Are we where we imagined we’d be? Are we who we thought?

Why did we think we’d change?

We speak of the love we hold for our partners, the simple love that comes of time and knowledge, that which runs deep like fault lines in each of us. How we can never imagine our lives without them. How lucky we are to have found at least this.

She reminds me that my children are wonderful, and blessings, and that we are doing something right. My daughters have gained an Aunt.

We pick at our food. We look at each other. The pauses in conversation are deliberate and meaningful. We fill up on starch and conversation.

We leave with bellies patted and full.

Together we have a vernacular, a common theme that makes sense to us, and I have missed this, living city to city with no roots, making no home, no past with anyone but myself. I envy those who have this, the immediate recall in a group of a grade 3 teacher or a grumpy old man from Halloween.

She reminds me that this needs to be created, and home is where you put it.


When it’s time to leave, I find myself wanting to say all the words but can’t. Wanting to tell her how I really have missed her and hadn’t known, how I had missed our common thread of humour and seriousness, our easy friendship. How I appreciated her visit, and did, in all honesty, want to visit again and again. My jokes about her moving to the Armpit were not jokes. My body screams for a piece of my past to be near.

When I cry

23 Sep

When will mental illness be seen as a REAL illness, and one that needs actual care, one that has patients who need a different kind of care?

How many more children need to suffer or die before someone just fucking gets it?

This is the shit that terrifies me about my illness. This is the shit that makes me so frustrated and fucking angry with a system, and a world, that discounts mental illness as something that isn’t such a big deal. Or when something happens, it’s just as excuse to “get off” with a lighter sentence.

I feel like I’m screaming into nothing when I ask why we cannot find a way to protect these families, even if it’s from themselves. Where are the support systems? Where are the spouses to go if the mother does go off her meds? Where are the supports in case a parent needs to be hospitalized?

The fingers will lash out and point that this woman is a terrible mother. They will say that she’s using her illness as an excuse, and that she’s a criminal who should burn in hell. We’ve heard it all before. We’ll hear it again.

Spend a day in their shoes, hell spend a day in my shoes before you cast those stones.

Cheryl L. Meyer, co-author of “Mothers Who Kill Their Children: Understanding the Acts of Mothers from Susan Smith to the Prom Mom,” said she studied about 200 cases of mothers who killed their offspring.

“In almost every case, people knew what was going on and just didn’t step up to the plate,” Meyer said. “In some cases, social services were available but the mothers didn’t access them, sometimes over fear of losing their kids. The last person who will tell you they have a mental illness is people with mental illnesses.”

Are you listening now? Is anyone listening? Does anyone actually care? Or are these women so far on the edge of a population you don’t care about that they don’t matter?

Would it matter if it were me?


17 Sep

Researcher links gas price, obesity

Really? I hadn’t noticed.

It’s funny. I know lots of people who grumble and complain and bitch when the gas price goes up, people who could find alternate transportation but don’t, who still drive their guzzling SUV’s to work a few blocks. Or the people who insist on living outside of town, saying they can’t afford to live in town, not with the car.


We’re a sedentary society which, to quote Over the Hedge, is slowly losing it’s ability to walk. I use public transit as much as I possibly can, walking when I have the time. I meant to buy a bike this year, and just didn’t get around to it. Exercise, and leaving the car at home, CAN come together. They aren’t mutually exclusive.

I look forward to higher gas prices in some ways. More people out of cars. Better air. Food more expensive so maybe we only buy what we need instead of the piles of food that we don’t use.

I look most forward to people ending the dependence on vehicles. There are other ways if people can get over their “I must be king! and alone in my car!” attitudes. It’s not all that hard after all.

I know, I know, another Britney themed post.

11 Sep

It keeps bothering me.

All over media, there’s this huge discussion about OMG! Is Britney fat? Is it ok to call her fat? Is it mean to call her fat, or honest? Are our priorities that screwed up?

For the record, I think it’s bad tailoring than anything else. She looks normal, but she also looks oddly…puffy.

But let’s not talk about how she looked like she was on another planet, how she looked lost and unwillingly. And let’s certainly not talk about the remarks Sarah Silverman made after her performance.

Have we come this far as women that “having the balls to piss anyone off” is a virtue? Should I be proud that another woman stood up and called another woman’s children mistakes?

I continually state that woman should be allowed to be just as mediocre as men, and in many cases, get shot down about it. Yet when emulating some of the more crass and disgusting comics, everyone gets the warm fuzzies cause sister is doing it for herself. Shes casting off the bindings of patriarchy, yadda yadda yadda.

No she’s not. She’s playing into them if anything. She’s making it ok to laugh at someone’s children, and by extension, the parent, the mother. Imagine how you’d feel if those were your kids she just called mistakes. Affirmed by feminism and your place in the world? I think not.

We’ve arrived at this place where everyone is so afraid to say “that is NOT cool!”. We laugh as we watch celebrities lives go down the toilets, unwilling to look at our own hand within their fall. We’re so afraid of offending someone that we are not able to stop and point out the line in the sand. And there ARE lines.

When did it become ok to have no boundaries? Why is nothing sacred any longer?

“Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.”

4 Sep

I write to void myself of the thoughts I cannot bear to keep.

My mother seizing off her bed on a cool April morning.

Pictures of me, naked as a child on someone’s bedroom wall.

My father, drunk at 2am, pissing on my bedroom door, and the loathing I felt as I swore and screamed at him, my sympathy defeated by my fatigue with life.

Burying my mother. A coffin in the hard ground, my sobbing echoing across the gravestones. The tears I cried at that grave.

Realizing I wasn’t what my biological mother wanted or needed in a daughter.

Watching someone murder kittens, being too young to know how to stop him. Being so desperate for contact, some sort of friendship that I likely wouldn’t have stopped him if I could have.

Realizing a friend was trying to kill herself, listening to her life drip from her mouth on the phone. Getting there just in time. Explaining to a friend’s 3 year old sister why Gisele was in the hospital, and why I was crying.

Crying. So many tears. So much time, lost and wasted. So many years I spent tired and sad, wrapped up in the memories of days I cannot change, people I cannot affect, events I cannot alter. I cannot take my innocence back, I cannot wipe clean those pictures. I cannot erase the hundreds of little ways to grieving, lonely people hurt each other. I cannot take back my stupidity or helplessness. I cannot be strong enough.

Slowly, I begin to realize I never could be.

I write because my life begs to be written. Because my life should serve as something more than a reason for me to be depressed or angry. Because lessons learned should be shared.

Because I cannot stop myself.


Future. That period of time in which our affairs prosper, our friends are true and our happiness is assured.

24 Aug

A little while back I found out that someone I went to high school with, someone I considered a friend once upon a time, had died in a car crash. I hadn’t talked to her in a very long time, but I remembered her as kind, snarky and fun to be around. I remembered she wrote me letters I always forgot to respond to.

This morning I went to load the one picture I have of her onto facebook. But I can’t find it, and it’s bothering me. It’s like the picture, and the letter, are the last links I have to her. The letter I can find, and I hold it thinking “this was written years ago when she was more than memory, more than dream. When she was real, and needed to go to the bathroom, wanted peanuts. She had dreams when this was written”

Yet the letter was like a deflated balloon. No life in it, no mysteries. Just her, gone. Yet another person I never had a chance to say goodbye to, to tell that they lived a good life. Maybe this is the allure of Facebook-it’s a second chance to tell people you once knew that they mattered, that you appreciated them, that you recognized them for what they were.

Sometimes I forget to tell the people in my life what they mean. I’m a terrible friend-I don’t stay in touch, I’m mean, I forget to pay my debts. Maybe maybe….maybe social networking isn’t a bad thing because it allows people to apologize, make good on who they were, recognize the people who really were friends.

Sometimes though, it’s just too late.

Event! First Time for Everything-ENTRIES!

22 Aug

Well…either this month’s topic was fairly inspiring, or you guys REALLY want to make your own poutine!

Here are the entries, in now particular order.

If I missed anyone, let me know. I have a terrible habit of not checking my work. 🙂

And I encourage everyone to go and read ALL of these entries. There are some incredible stories here-I’m so amazed at what y’all wrote this month. Thank you for sharing these with me, and everyone else.

I’ll select a winner in a few days! 🙂 Get Reading!


The body is a house of many windows: there we all sit, showing ourselves and crying on the passers-by to come and love us.

5 Aug

The other night I took a mommy need latte break and wandered into the wilds of the armpit. After changing a few times into something that merely made me look pregnant instead of obese.

Not that it matters.

Sitting waiting for the bus to come home, I started thinking. Watching another “fatty” walk down the sidewalk, and then two young slim “thangs”, it occurred to me that one of those types could be sexual. But not both. Guess who wins that race.

Not the fatty.

It suddenly struck me that I’m now at a size where I’m no longer a sexual being. I’m no longer glanced at, my boobs rarely stared at. I have attained the ultimate thinghood. The thinghood of giant floaty dresses and elastic waist pants. The thinghood that imagines the giggles behind her are about her giant ass. I am becoming IT.

You suddenly become invisible. People are even ruder than normal. They feel justified in creating obstacles for you because anyone who’s that big surely doesn’t have any self worth or dignity to worry about. They glance through you.

That’s the worst part of it-becoming something people look past, or around. You can’t eat in public if you’re this big-lord knows, even if it’s an apple, you can hear the silent “tsk tsk” in the background somewhere.

But wouldn’t it have made sense, biologically speaking, for bodies to do their damnedest to hang on to food, to energy, to store it just in case? Wouldn’t I be one of the people who won the lottery? When did it suddenly change? When did being someone who cannot store any energy become the end all and be all?

When did I stop mattering?

I don’t know what to do. I feel like I get puffier and puffier every day-I feel like I cannot ever get full. I feel empty and without a soul, because I live in a world that tells me I do not possible matter if I cannot stay skinny, something I have never been.

Something I have never been. I live in a world where everything around me tells me to be something I will likely never be, and never was. And it depresses me. They give me more pills, which slow things down further, act like weight gain is avoidable by just eating right. I beg with my eyes for help, not wanting to admit to my inability to find fullness, not wanting to see that look, that fat hate in their eyes.

Why? Why does the size of my ass reflect my intelligence or worth? And why have I judged others with the same paint for so long, when I knew there was a good potential I would go that way too.

It hurts to write this. It hurts to be fat, still. It hurts to feel powerless and sexless and full of anger and fear about something that controls me. My willpower left me when I quit smoking, and left me with an extra 50 pounds. Others have had great advice before, with one exception.

You aren’t crazy.

I’m worse than double blind. I’m totally screwed in a world that hates the fat and the crazy. What next, 40 cats?

  Continue reading

Natural Selection-1, Stupid Human-0

1 Aug

PENSACOLA, Fla. — A Pensacola man died after opening a car door to spit, authorities said.  

The Florida Highway Patrol said Miguel Rogelio was a passenger in a car Tuesday morning when he decided he needed to spit.

The 37-year-old opened his door and leaned out.

He then fell and hit his head on the pavement, according to authorities.


Flux-Bipolar Jump Start

28 Jul


I’m in flux-continual, bleeding flux. I’m here, I’m over there, I’m somewhere else, someone else. BOO! I’m new now.

I’m frustrating as all get out. Imagine waking up next to this everyday.


initial periods of cycling may begin with an environmental stressor, but if the cycles continue or occur unchecked, the brain becomes kindled or sensitized – pathways inside the central nervous system are reinforced so to speak – and future episodes of depression, hypomania, or mania will occur by themselves (independently of an outside stimulus), with greater and greater frequency.

Once, long ago, someone liked to touch me. And take pictures. Have his friend help out.  Somewhere in there, I do believe my brain split into a million sprinkled, but real, pieces, and reassembled. A little off, like it was put through a broken transporter. Then my mother was sick. And sick and sick and sick then dead and all that was left was a fake boob and a wig, pieces of someone I called mom.

Even a heart stops working after too many shocks I assume?


My rage can burn intense-forests crumble within me, towers fall to the ground as I sit swept through a maelstrom. I see red. Blood. Death. Hell. Life moves on.


Fickle? Meet my present listing. What’s good for now I won’t understand later. My passion for anything is usually underwhelmed by my apathy and ability to change minute to minute to minute. Or perhaps I am Mercury-a charming, raffish thief, poison, sweet pretty poison.


When I started writing this about 15 minutes ago, I was drawn by a desire to help you understand, to explain, to be another place for a new bipolar to land. Now-I’m tired, Josh Homme is on my TV watching some chick eat raw meat, and I’m tired. I have no interest in trying to teach you anymore. My desire is vapid, mean and fleeting. (Aside for the desire to own Hot Fuzz-I love those boys)


I might not be fixable. The damage may already be done. They don’t know what works, why it works, why some people get better more than others. THEY don’t know. I may spend the rest of my life getting fatter and fatter in a quest for the holy grail of psychiatric drugs. And they still won’t find it.


Is it desirable to be 300 pounds and “better”? 300 pounds and sick? What if nothing gets better-what if I’m a waste of air forever? taking up too much space with an ass that’s too big, with feet that fit nothing I can find, with lips that can’t seem to wrap themselves around the things that really need to be said? I wouldn’t desire any of this-I would run as fast and as far away from me as I possible could.

But I’m a coward after all anyway.


I still spend my days convinced in my quiet hidden paranoia that I will be fired, that they’re counting up the offences and lying in wait for me. I am nothing. I am useless-I contribute nothing. I stare at my screen at work and listen to the conversations flow around me, the worlds I am not included in.

I don’t mourn it. why would I? I have this world of my own, as much as I cannot incorporate it into the rest of my life. But it’s mine at the very least.

ultimately, a killer

Not only is my chance of succeeding in killing myself 10-20% higher than gen pop, but there’s also expanding evidence connecting physical ailments that kill to bipolar. So I’m screwed from the outset aren’t I.

It doesn’t matter much what I do. The future in some ways, is laid in stone-salt and acid in from of my feet.