Damn, where have I been?
Well, it's been a hell of a few busy months. We moved out of the awful neighborhood I hated. So that took approximately forever to search for a house, go through the buying process, pack, and get (mostly) settled in. Actually, it took just a few months. But I did kind of vanish. Anyway, out with the old and in with the new. And I'm going to jump right in.
Amy has turned two. And, as anyone with a two-year-old can tell you, extended periods of senseless screaming can lead even the most rational human being to contemplate murder. (And I am not the most rational human being.) I'm sure this applies doubly so for parents of teens. However, I don't have teens yet. And if this keeps up, I may never know what that particular feeling is like, because I may be locked in a psych ward somewhere just yelling at the walls to "Please let mommy poop in peace!". But, I digress. They make children small and cute and portable in size specifically so you DON'T kill them. Being able to lift her up and move her about, essentially bending her to my will when she is stubborn, is probably the only reason I haven't left her in a supermarket by now. She is a little princess. And I do not mean that in the pretty, sweet, flowery, Disney sort of way. More in the entitled, stubborn, "mine, mine, gimme" way. She pushes my buttons, drags me to the very edge of sanity, and then, just for shits and giggles, throws me over the brink. Yes, I get into screaming matches with a two-year-old. I'm THAT person. But-and this is very important-I do NOT abuse her. Of course, she's so headstrong, careless, and clumsy she's basically got a new bruise and/or scratch every day anyway. So thank goodness my nearest neighbors are an acre away these days right?
Alex is adjusting pretty well. He likes the new school and riding the bus and the two girls I've taken to watching after school a few days a week. More he likes bossing around two girls older than him, but I'm trying to break him of the habit. And trying to get the mousy little creatures to break him of it for me. He is NOT their boss. I am HIS boss. But more on them another time. Most of the time when he's home he's playing video games now that it gets dark so early. I'm trying to break that habit a bit. But it is hard. I've met a couple of his friend's moms and am trying to arrange times to have them play. They play well-like normal kids, not like the kids he played with back in our old neighborhood. The other moms and I watched these three beat eachother up with an air filled bat, steal shoes, and tackle eachother in the grass, all while taking turns doing so and actively trying not to hurt the other kids and not getting all pissed off when they weren't "winning". And not one of them came crying to us. You know, being normal boys. I'm so not used to it. I thoroughly enjoyed that afternoon. Alex still has his attitude issues to an extent along with his inability to understand that I haven't forgotten my answer was "no" just because he asks again three minutes later. But I think the incidents are fewer. Time will tell. Or maybe Amy is just making him look good.
Nick is working his ass off. He's been doing so much overtime you'd think we wouldn't be having trouble paying the bills. Sadly, the bills don't want to let up. It's been quite some time since we've experienced this level of work for this little money left after bills are paid. So I'm with the kids all day and he works more hours. That coupled with the now long commute (almost 2 hours as opposed to 30 minutes) means I don't see him much. And when I do we try to do family things or we have this home to take care of. It is alot of work. I miss my husband. I wish I could say more on the subject of him but I feel like we're distant lately. He wouldn't get that. And I wouldn't bother with an explanation because we'd only fight. Maybe it'll be better after the holidays. After all, it isn't anyone's fault this time. This is just life.
Is it all worth it? Well, my house is beautiful. I'm not surrounded by the hordes of obnoxious hipsters I couldn't bear being around. My kids are essentially happy. And I've even made a few friends here (more on them later). I'm getting outside my comfort zones more comfortably and I feel less constricted by the skin of the old perception of me. It feels like maybe a new start if I just keep hacking at it. Of course, I might also still just snap and have to be hauled away in a white jacket if I have to spend one more long day alone listening to these damned screaming brats. Really, it could go either way.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
I Blame My Husand's Penis
When I asked Nick what he wanted for Father's Day this year I got a very simple and to the point answer. "Cook my favorite meal and give me a toe-curling blow job." Hey, this was something I could do easily, inexpensively, and without leaving home. Awesome! So he got his chicken parmesan and not just a toe-curler, but an entire body wrencher, and was snoring in my ear about 30 seconds later.
The next morning I woke up feeling like my tongue was wearing a fur coat. It was, to say the least, uncomfortable. Throughout the day the feeling spread to include my inner cheeks and the roof of my mouth. I thought maybe allergies were just giving me an intense case of cotton mouth and so I drank like I was in the middle of the desert. I pissed like a race horse, yet I still coughed all day feeling like I had been licking my dog. And my mouth was getting this whitish coating. By bed time my throat was a little sore and I was considering seeing a doctor the next day.
That would be today. Today I woke up and there was a thick white sherpa covering my tongue and roof of my mouth. I used a tooth brush to remove it and immediately began to bleed. I though maybe strep, but I'm an old hand at strep. I have strep at least once a season and this was not like strep. No fever, no pain up into the ears, no gradual progression, no real swelling that I could tell. And what the hell was with the white coating? And then I remembered something I had heard of before. It was called thrush. Which basically means a yeast infection in the mouth and throat. And I recalled that my husband is a rather large, sweaty, uncircumcised man who has been known to get male yeast infections from time to time that come and go and are, essentially, symptomless. And he had shot a load down my throat the night before the white crap appeared.
I looked up all the symptoms online and, sure enough, they fit. Right down to pictures. I made the doctor appointment for the afternoon. But, by the time I got there, it felt as if my throat was closing up and my chest was beginning to hurt. I hadn't eaten all day and could barely swallow saliva. The physician on duty took a good look, listened to what I managed to choke out, and said she thought I had thrush. But I also had two huge lumps in my throat which concerned her. She gave me two options. Go to the hospital, or wait and see the ENT when he arrived at 4PM. Either way, I needed an endoscopy. Also, she made me call Nick home from work because I was in no shape to deal with the kids. The hospital visit was ER only and would cost $300 to walk in the door and I would have to wait my turn. The ENT took my insurance, would definitely see me first, and is a sadist. I grit my teeth and chose to see the ENT. For practicality's sake it was cheaper and probably faster.
So Nick took me home and we waited for 4PM, left the kids with my parents. and made our way back to the clinic. He did the endoscopy, rolled his eyes at me, and informed me that my throat was not going to close up. Then he said it was an infection. Really? No shit Sherlock. I came in telling you I had an infection. I asked him if he was going to do a culture and he looked at me like I had several heads and one had just vomited on his shoes. Then he wrote me a prescription for a "powerful broad spectrum antibiotic" and a "corticosteroid". He then asked if I had any questions. I again asked him what it was, exactly, that was wrong with me. He told me, again, that it was an infection. I asked if it was strep, or something else, or thrush as the other doctor thought. He said all infections are different and this was an infection. I hate this man.
Just as an aside, this is the same asshole that did an endoscopy on Alex when he was just 5 without even the preface of an explanation to the poor child of what was about to happen. He just sat the kid in a chair, pushed his head back, and shoved this long uncomfortable tube all the way down his throat via his nostril. Then complained when Alex cried out, pushed away, and nearly threw up. For anyone who's even gotten one of these things, they're scary and invasive enough when you're prepared for it. When you're 5 and it's just done to you while you're being chastised for not sitting still, it's downright abusive. Then the guy had the nerve to say my kid must have ADHD and, furthermore, most kids do, since so few sit still for it. He then stuck him on steroids for six months for allergies despite my protests of sticking a 5-year-old on steroids for an extended period of time. Luckily, Alex's pediatrician called a "What the hell!?" on him and I filed a complaint. But then, maybe that's why he doesn't care to find out what's actually wrong with me now and just wants to give me steroids.
Anyway, after I didn't find out what's actually wrong and did get the prescriptions to basically nuke it out of me, he goes on to casually say that should my throat close I should call 911. But I thought he'd just said it wasn't going to? Asshole. Nick picked up the meds while I glowered and reconsidered whether the hospital wouldn't have been a better choice. The steroids came with all sorts of fun warnings. Of of which was that the contraindications were that it shouldn't be used if a fungal infection was present. Thrush, which the original doctor who examined me (without my suggesting it mind you, just by my symptom description and examination) said she believed I have, is a fungal infection. Apparently, the ENT said "fuck that I'm smarter" and gave me a drug that shouldn't be used for what the initial physician believes me to have. Another serious risk factor? Depression and psych meds. Did this asshole even glance at the chart right fucking in front of him? Probably not. Because it was also too much work to take a culture to determine what was actually wrong with me as well. His approach is to throw steroids at everything. And then I opened the antibiotics. Keep in mind I can barely swallow my own spit. These pills are roughly the size of a small continent. Now he's just fucking with me. Oh, and, not that he thinks there's anything wrong or can be bothered with me, but I have another endoscopy tomorrow. For some reason. Probably because he wants to see me choke and cry and almost vomit again.
Despite all this, and my feeble (since my speech sounds like that of a deaf person) protests, Nick got me to eat soup and melted ice cream and take all the fucking pills. Along with my regularly scheduled med routine. But if, for any reason, they don't miracle cure me, I'm never giving him head again. Because I still blame his evil penis. Next year he's getting a tie.
The next morning I woke up feeling like my tongue was wearing a fur coat. It was, to say the least, uncomfortable. Throughout the day the feeling spread to include my inner cheeks and the roof of my mouth. I thought maybe allergies were just giving me an intense case of cotton mouth and so I drank like I was in the middle of the desert. I pissed like a race horse, yet I still coughed all day feeling like I had been licking my dog. And my mouth was getting this whitish coating. By bed time my throat was a little sore and I was considering seeing a doctor the next day.
That would be today. Today I woke up and there was a thick white sherpa covering my tongue and roof of my mouth. I used a tooth brush to remove it and immediately began to bleed. I though maybe strep, but I'm an old hand at strep. I have strep at least once a season and this was not like strep. No fever, no pain up into the ears, no gradual progression, no real swelling that I could tell. And what the hell was with the white coating? And then I remembered something I had heard of before. It was called thrush. Which basically means a yeast infection in the mouth and throat. And I recalled that my husband is a rather large, sweaty, uncircumcised man who has been known to get male yeast infections from time to time that come and go and are, essentially, symptomless. And he had shot a load down my throat the night before the white crap appeared.
I looked up all the symptoms online and, sure enough, they fit. Right down to pictures. I made the doctor appointment for the afternoon. But, by the time I got there, it felt as if my throat was closing up and my chest was beginning to hurt. I hadn't eaten all day and could barely swallow saliva. The physician on duty took a good look, listened to what I managed to choke out, and said she thought I had thrush. But I also had two huge lumps in my throat which concerned her. She gave me two options. Go to the hospital, or wait and see the ENT when he arrived at 4PM. Either way, I needed an endoscopy. Also, she made me call Nick home from work because I was in no shape to deal with the kids. The hospital visit was ER only and would cost $300 to walk in the door and I would have to wait my turn. The ENT took my insurance, would definitely see me first, and is a sadist. I grit my teeth and chose to see the ENT. For practicality's sake it was cheaper and probably faster.
So Nick took me home and we waited for 4PM, left the kids with my parents. and made our way back to the clinic. He did the endoscopy, rolled his eyes at me, and informed me that my throat was not going to close up. Then he said it was an infection. Really? No shit Sherlock. I came in telling you I had an infection. I asked him if he was going to do a culture and he looked at me like I had several heads and one had just vomited on his shoes. Then he wrote me a prescription for a "powerful broad spectrum antibiotic" and a "corticosteroid". He then asked if I had any questions. I again asked him what it was, exactly, that was wrong with me. He told me, again, that it was an infection. I asked if it was strep, or something else, or thrush as the other doctor thought. He said all infections are different and this was an infection. I hate this man.
Just as an aside, this is the same asshole that did an endoscopy on Alex when he was just 5 without even the preface of an explanation to the poor child of what was about to happen. He just sat the kid in a chair, pushed his head back, and shoved this long uncomfortable tube all the way down his throat via his nostril. Then complained when Alex cried out, pushed away, and nearly threw up. For anyone who's even gotten one of these things, they're scary and invasive enough when you're prepared for it. When you're 5 and it's just done to you while you're being chastised for not sitting still, it's downright abusive. Then the guy had the nerve to say my kid must have ADHD and, furthermore, most kids do, since so few sit still for it. He then stuck him on steroids for six months for allergies despite my protests of sticking a 5-year-old on steroids for an extended period of time. Luckily, Alex's pediatrician called a "What the hell!?" on him and I filed a complaint. But then, maybe that's why he doesn't care to find out what's actually wrong with me now and just wants to give me steroids.
Anyway, after I didn't find out what's actually wrong and did get the prescriptions to basically nuke it out of me, he goes on to casually say that should my throat close I should call 911. But I thought he'd just said it wasn't going to? Asshole. Nick picked up the meds while I glowered and reconsidered whether the hospital wouldn't have been a better choice. The steroids came with all sorts of fun warnings. Of of which was that the contraindications were that it shouldn't be used if a fungal infection was present. Thrush, which the original doctor who examined me (without my suggesting it mind you, just by my symptom description and examination) said she believed I have, is a fungal infection. Apparently, the ENT said "fuck that I'm smarter" and gave me a drug that shouldn't be used for what the initial physician believes me to have. Another serious risk factor? Depression and psych meds. Did this asshole even glance at the chart right fucking in front of him? Probably not. Because it was also too much work to take a culture to determine what was actually wrong with me as well. His approach is to throw steroids at everything. And then I opened the antibiotics. Keep in mind I can barely swallow my own spit. These pills are roughly the size of a small continent. Now he's just fucking with me. Oh, and, not that he thinks there's anything wrong or can be bothered with me, but I have another endoscopy tomorrow. For some reason. Probably because he wants to see me choke and cry and almost vomit again.
Despite all this, and my feeble (since my speech sounds like that of a deaf person) protests, Nick got me to eat soup and melted ice cream and take all the fucking pills. Along with my regularly scheduled med routine. But if, for any reason, they don't miracle cure me, I'm never giving him head again. Because I still blame his evil penis. Next year he's getting a tie.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
At The Seams
So I haven't written in awhile. I've thought about writing and wanted to write and even sat in front of the blank screen, fingers at the keys, eager to type away. But I just haven't. I've given up my Twitter entirely. I've been suffering from total writer's block. I've actually been suffering from far more than that. I'm like a really slow moving train wreck, relentlessly moving onward, that nothing is able to stop. Here we reach one of the true awful downsides of bipolar. The anxiety ridden manic event.
My vacation came and went. I was hoping that was going to be the balm which soothed my savage soul. But, being I'm a SAHM now, it was more like a business trip than a true vacation. Hell, I did laundry and made breakfast every day. And it was not only 24/7 with BOTH children, but 24/7 with my husband, who was forced to be with the children 24/7. Were parts of it wonderful? Absolutely. And at some point, when my hair is not (literally) falling out in clumps, I'll write some great stories about it. Like the story of Alex trying to mount the dolphin. Or how we ended up the proud(?) owners of a time share. But not now. For the last couple of months my mindset has not been a happy, sarcastic, poke at life and write about it in an upbeat tone type of thing.
I'm struggling to hold on. It's brain chemistry. It's the unease of so long feeling like I'm in limbo, without a true base under my feet. We're supposed to be moving upstate and now that's on shaky ground for various reasons. We're still moving but we may now have to rent rather than buy, which still means a few years before I have a place that's truly "mine". The light at the end of the tunnel keeps winking brighter and then dimmer and I'm not sure I believe it's really the outside anymore and not just a train coming at me. Alex's behavior has been awful. Nick and I have had our problems. Amy is entering the terrible two's. And I'm home and bored and isolated and lonely. And hitting that Spring mania with just enough negative triggers to make it unpleasant.
So I haven't been sleeping. I can barely eat anything without it running right through me or trying to fight it's way back up. I'm shedding pounds, which would be great, except I don't look healthy doing so, what with the loss of muscle tone from sheer exhaustion. My eyes are black underneath and I'm pretty sure I could pack an overnight bag in the rings around them. My hair's been falling out. My skin's been bruising if I sneeze too hard. Which I do often given my seasonal allergies. And I'm walking around looking and talking like a speed freak filled with all this wired up nervous energy. I have very little patience for any of the usual stupidity of humanity or even the misbehavior of my children. I'm irritable and moody with them. And I've been ducking my friends and picking fights with Nick over things I normally let slide. Maybe things I shouldn't let slide as often as I do, being they're really obnoxious, but still, I'm not myself.
In short, if I had the option of hiding from the world, that's what I'd be doing right now. But I care about too many people too deeply to pull that crap anymore. My husband, my kids, my good friends, yeah even my dopey family members. So I grit my teeth and remember that I am a human being as, as such, I need and am needed by other members of the species. And being here with them now, even when I want to run under the bed, or possibly bite them all (I won't), ensures they will be there for me later when I snap out of this funk. And that's what makes the world go round. But I will still probably avoid the blog for a bit. Otherwise I'll just sound all emo.
My vacation came and went. I was hoping that was going to be the balm which soothed my savage soul. But, being I'm a SAHM now, it was more like a business trip than a true vacation. Hell, I did laundry and made breakfast every day. And it was not only 24/7 with BOTH children, but 24/7 with my husband, who was forced to be with the children 24/7. Were parts of it wonderful? Absolutely. And at some point, when my hair is not (literally) falling out in clumps, I'll write some great stories about it. Like the story of Alex trying to mount the dolphin. Or how we ended up the proud(?) owners of a time share. But not now. For the last couple of months my mindset has not been a happy, sarcastic, poke at life and write about it in an upbeat tone type of thing.
I'm struggling to hold on. It's brain chemistry. It's the unease of so long feeling like I'm in limbo, without a true base under my feet. We're supposed to be moving upstate and now that's on shaky ground for various reasons. We're still moving but we may now have to rent rather than buy, which still means a few years before I have a place that's truly "mine". The light at the end of the tunnel keeps winking brighter and then dimmer and I'm not sure I believe it's really the outside anymore and not just a train coming at me. Alex's behavior has been awful. Nick and I have had our problems. Amy is entering the terrible two's. And I'm home and bored and isolated and lonely. And hitting that Spring mania with just enough negative triggers to make it unpleasant.
So I haven't been sleeping. I can barely eat anything without it running right through me or trying to fight it's way back up. I'm shedding pounds, which would be great, except I don't look healthy doing so, what with the loss of muscle tone from sheer exhaustion. My eyes are black underneath and I'm pretty sure I could pack an overnight bag in the rings around them. My hair's been falling out. My skin's been bruising if I sneeze too hard. Which I do often given my seasonal allergies. And I'm walking around looking and talking like a speed freak filled with all this wired up nervous energy. I have very little patience for any of the usual stupidity of humanity or even the misbehavior of my children. I'm irritable and moody with them. And I've been ducking my friends and picking fights with Nick over things I normally let slide. Maybe things I shouldn't let slide as often as I do, being they're really obnoxious, but still, I'm not myself.
In short, if I had the option of hiding from the world, that's what I'd be doing right now. But I care about too many people too deeply to pull that crap anymore. My husband, my kids, my good friends, yeah even my dopey family members. So I grit my teeth and remember that I am a human being as, as such, I need and am needed by other members of the species. And being here with them now, even when I want to run under the bed, or possibly bite them all (I won't), ensures they will be there for me later when I snap out of this funk. And that's what makes the world go round. But I will still probably avoid the blog for a bit. Otherwise I'll just sound all emo.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Those Three (Dreaded) Little Words
About a week ago my parents gave Alex yet another stuffed animal to add to his ever increasing menagerie. I swear at this point I don't know how he finds space on his bed to sleep amongst the damned things. But they all sleep with him and they all have names, all of which he remembers. This one was a little hound dog he named Honey.
He's ridiculously protective of these creatures and hates when Amy plays with them, which to be fair, usually involves getting snots and drool on them as she worries them like a dog with a rat in its mouth. So we have a rule. If he doesn't want them touched they stay on his bed. But he's a child, so that rule is forgotten approximately 152 times a day. And the stuffed animals are taken down, Amy gets them, tears into them like a pitbull with a rope toy, and I'm breaking up another fight. I do not have patience for this shit. And my daughter is stubborn and son absent-minded. I could see this going on well into their teens.
So, once again, she's got his stupid stuffed dog. And I told him this time he's letting her keep it. A few minutes later she climbed onto a chair, stuffed animal in hand, and fell over. When she started crying, both Alex and I rushed over to her. My first thought was how sweet it was that he was so concerned with his little sister's well-being. But, of course, I was wrong. In her fall she'd dropped Honey. He snatched it up, yelled "Mine" and ran away. Are you kidding me!? Once I'd calmed her down I calmly walked over, yanked the dog, gave a speech about the value of his sister over the value of a toy, put in a mention of the standing rule he had once again failed to obey, and proceeded to toss Honey on top of a high bookshelf, to be kept away from him "until further notice".
His face darkened. He pouted. The tears of rage began to form. And then those three dreaded words whined from my child's mouth. "It's not fair!"
No. You know what's not fair? The fact I had to deal with that entire situation and can't just set a bonfire in the backyard with all the stuffed animals because it would psychologically scar my son. So, here's a list of other things that are "not fair":
*"Sleeping in" means 8AM. Due to this, conversely, a "late night" usually means 2AM.
*Two hours of chasing a toddler around a playground at break-neck speeds apparently does not count as cardio. If you want proof, look at my ass.
*Kids need new clothes every few months. That means I can only get new clothes every couple of years. This doesn't keep them from doing everything in their power to stain/rip/stretch/otherwise ruin my clothes.
*Parents don't get sick days.
*I haven't had a party with cake, balloons, and a bouncy house in years. Yet I still seem to be getting older.
*Stretch marks. Enough said.
*Listening to favorite songs censored because children will repeat everything. And a toddler will ONLY repeat the choice words. That and having to listen to children's songs. Then realizing you know the words and are singing them unconsciously.
*Sex timed around whether the children are sleeping, quiet, and have not psychically sensed you were possibly thinking of getting it on.
*No matter what you do, your child will, at some point, "hate you and you're the worst parent ever!"
*Picking up the same toys 187 times a day.
*No matter how many times you check and recheck, after the laundry is done you will always find that one dirty sock/pair of underwear in a ball under a bed. And it wasn't there before.
*Your child will make at least one good friend with someone whose parent you cannot stand. They will want to see this other child constantly.
*At some point your kid will be sick with a high fever, a rash, and fluids leaking from every orifice, scaring you to death. You will rush them to the ER, wait several hours, at which point all symptoms will have magically cleared up and they will get a clean bill of health. Immediately upon getting home your child will puke on your shoes and the fever will return.
*Children are never born with instruction manuals. Sure, you can pick up various guides on how raise your child to be happy/educated/empathetic/religious/vegan/republican/zombie/other/etc. But, no matter how detailed those books are, your kid's never going to fit a specific mold and not every tip is going to work. Instead, they're born with a placenta. And, while medical science has come up with some pretty great uses for said afterbirth in recent years, personally, I still would have preferred a model-specific detailed programming guide for each of my children.
*You have have to hear "It's not fair!" When, in fact, it totally WAS!
He's ridiculously protective of these creatures and hates when Amy plays with them, which to be fair, usually involves getting snots and drool on them as she worries them like a dog with a rat in its mouth. So we have a rule. If he doesn't want them touched they stay on his bed. But he's a child, so that rule is forgotten approximately 152 times a day. And the stuffed animals are taken down, Amy gets them, tears into them like a pitbull with a rope toy, and I'm breaking up another fight. I do not have patience for this shit. And my daughter is stubborn and son absent-minded. I could see this going on well into their teens.
So, once again, she's got his stupid stuffed dog. And I told him this time he's letting her keep it. A few minutes later she climbed onto a chair, stuffed animal in hand, and fell over. When she started crying, both Alex and I rushed over to her. My first thought was how sweet it was that he was so concerned with his little sister's well-being. But, of course, I was wrong. In her fall she'd dropped Honey. He snatched it up, yelled "Mine" and ran away. Are you kidding me!? Once I'd calmed her down I calmly walked over, yanked the dog, gave a speech about the value of his sister over the value of a toy, put in a mention of the standing rule he had once again failed to obey, and proceeded to toss Honey on top of a high bookshelf, to be kept away from him "until further notice".
His face darkened. He pouted. The tears of rage began to form. And then those three dreaded words whined from my child's mouth. "It's not fair!"
No. You know what's not fair? The fact I had to deal with that entire situation and can't just set a bonfire in the backyard with all the stuffed animals because it would psychologically scar my son. So, here's a list of other things that are "not fair":
*"Sleeping in" means 8AM. Due to this, conversely, a "late night" usually means 2AM.
*Two hours of chasing a toddler around a playground at break-neck speeds apparently does not count as cardio. If you want proof, look at my ass.
*Kids need new clothes every few months. That means I can only get new clothes every couple of years. This doesn't keep them from doing everything in their power to stain/rip/stretch/otherwise ruin my clothes.
*Parents don't get sick days.
*I haven't had a party with cake, balloons, and a bouncy house in years. Yet I still seem to be getting older.
*Stretch marks. Enough said.
*Listening to favorite songs censored because children will repeat everything. And a toddler will ONLY repeat the choice words. That and having to listen to children's songs. Then realizing you know the words and are singing them unconsciously.
*Sex timed around whether the children are sleeping, quiet, and have not psychically sensed you were possibly thinking of getting it on.
*No matter what you do, your child will, at some point, "hate you and you're the worst parent ever!"
*Picking up the same toys 187 times a day.
*No matter how many times you check and recheck, after the laundry is done you will always find that one dirty sock/pair of underwear in a ball under a bed. And it wasn't there before.
*Your child will make at least one good friend with someone whose parent you cannot stand. They will want to see this other child constantly.
*At some point your kid will be sick with a high fever, a rash, and fluids leaking from every orifice, scaring you to death. You will rush them to the ER, wait several hours, at which point all symptoms will have magically cleared up and they will get a clean bill of health. Immediately upon getting home your child will puke on your shoes and the fever will return.
*Children are never born with instruction manuals. Sure, you can pick up various guides on how raise your child to be happy/educated/empathetic/religious/vegan/republican/zombie/other/etc. But, no matter how detailed those books are, your kid's never going to fit a specific mold and not every tip is going to work. Instead, they're born with a placenta. And, while medical science has come up with some pretty great uses for said afterbirth in recent years, personally, I still would have preferred a model-specific detailed programming guide for each of my children.
*You have have to hear "It's not fair!" When, in fact, it totally WAS!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Fork Me
The other night while eating dinner, Amy stabbed a forkful of ziti into her ear, pulled the fork back, blinked at it, and yelled, "Fuck!" She proceeded to wave the fork around and say, "fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," in a sing-song voice.
Not wanting to miss a teaching moment, or risk an embarrassing recreation of her impromptu fork opera the next time we went out to dinner, I helpfully corrected my daughter. "Sweetie. That's a fork. Can you say fork? Fooooork."
She smiled at me. She held up her fork. "Fork momma. Fork." As perfect a pronunciation as you could hope for from an 18-month-old child. It was angelic. I beamed with pride. And then she took that fork, jabbed it into her ear again, and yelled "Fuck! Fuck momma!" Pulled out the fork, showed me, "fork", jabbed herself with the fork, "fuck!" "Fork fuck!" And then back into sing-song voice while waving her fork around in the air, "fork, fuck, fork, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!"
Oh. So she didn't need my help in learning how to say the word fork after all. Apparently she knew what a fork was. Apparently she knew her "fork" from her "fuck" very well. Because is seemed to me she was using the term "fuck" to express her displeasure at her "fork" having stabbed her in the ear. And then she went on to explain her use of the colorful language to me. How very interesting. Especially since I don't recall speaking like a trucker around my daughter all that often.
According to my parents, this is probably the influence of my younger brother. Now I might have insight as to why everything was a "cock" a few months ago. But I'm not going to be dismayed by this. Actually, I'm going to choose to see this as a sign that she's a budding linguistic genius. Can you say that your child at 18 months properly uses a word so complex and fluid as "fuck", and is able to differentiate it from such a similar sounding word as "fork", and then explain the difference to you in mime? I bet not! Furthermore, she conducts whole versus of song displaying her verbal talents.
Now if she could possibly master the art of not repeatedly stabbing herself in the forking face when she's doing something as simple as eating ziti maybe I could take her out in public.
Not wanting to miss a teaching moment, or risk an embarrassing recreation of her impromptu fork opera the next time we went out to dinner, I helpfully corrected my daughter. "Sweetie. That's a fork. Can you say fork? Fooooork."
She smiled at me. She held up her fork. "Fork momma. Fork." As perfect a pronunciation as you could hope for from an 18-month-old child. It was angelic. I beamed with pride. And then she took that fork, jabbed it into her ear again, and yelled "Fuck! Fuck momma!" Pulled out the fork, showed me, "fork", jabbed herself with the fork, "fuck!" "Fork fuck!" And then back into sing-song voice while waving her fork around in the air, "fork, fuck, fork, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!"
Oh. So she didn't need my help in learning how to say the word fork after all. Apparently she knew what a fork was. Apparently she knew her "fork" from her "fuck" very well. Because is seemed to me she was using the term "fuck" to express her displeasure at her "fork" having stabbed her in the ear. And then she went on to explain her use of the colorful language to me. How very interesting. Especially since I don't recall speaking like a trucker around my daughter all that often.
According to my parents, this is probably the influence of my younger brother. Now I might have insight as to why everything was a "cock" a few months ago. But I'm not going to be dismayed by this. Actually, I'm going to choose to see this as a sign that she's a budding linguistic genius. Can you say that your child at 18 months properly uses a word so complex and fluid as "fuck", and is able to differentiate it from such a similar sounding word as "fork", and then explain the difference to you in mime? I bet not! Furthermore, she conducts whole versus of song displaying her verbal talents.
Now if she could possibly master the art of not repeatedly stabbing herself in the forking face when she's doing something as simple as eating ziti maybe I could take her out in public.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
One Got Over The Cuckoos Nest
If you've ever been to a Renaissance Fair you've probably seen those wine glasses with the pewter bases made so that the matching set fits together to form something, usually the shape of a heart. Sometimes the base is a bunch of flowers, or fairies, or stars. Today my mother came home from her bowling league and handed me a wrapped bundle, saying that one of the women on her league, the mother of an ex, had told her to bring it to me. Inside was one of those wine glasses, the pewter base in the shape of a dragon, the flute a deep royal blue, and the matching glass on display inside my TV stand, where it's been standing solitary for about five years. Before that it was in storage for a few years and before that it was on various shelves, always solitary. Within minutes, my eyes were misty, despite the fact I was smiling. I knew exactly what the glass symbolized. He was over me. Finally.
Rewind to the summer of 1999. I was dating Angel and I was actually going to marry the guy. That was the plan anyway. Aren't twenty-year-olds and their plans adorable? Anyway, he was perfect. Except that he had an issue with us being the same height so I wasn't allowed to wear heels because they made him look short. And he loved the sexy way I dressed-until we started dating, because then it drew too much male attention. And he thought it was great that I was self sufficient and confident, except he wanted me to quit working and start popping out kids and stay home once we were married. (I'm his dream come true now.) Also, it was great I had my own life and friends. Except could I please not hang out with any males and drop all my friends because they were bad influences, and instead be with him every waking moment? But that meant he really loved me right? Like I said, aren't twenty-year-olds adorable?
To his credit I did cheat on him. It wasn't until after the thirty or fortieth time he accused me of it simply by virtue of there being a penis in the same building as me. But I probably would have anyway if I'm going to be honest. Most of my twenties were spent in a semi-buzzed hypomanic frenzy where every other person who met me thought they were in love with me and had to have me. I studied like a librarian, fucked like a porn star (mostly just Angel-the guy got a blow-job a day), worked like a day laborer, and partied like a rock star. Then occasionally slept and did it all over again. Hell, even if there wasn't a penis in the room I would have cheated. And did. I remember telling Angel one day I thought I might be interested in women and wanted to experience lesbian sex before we were married. He screamed at me about how disgusting and unnatural I was and forbade it. And he tried to kill us. Of course, I randomly came out with that while he was driving down Queens Blvd. at a good clip so maybe the attempted vehicular homicide wasn't intentional. But forbid me something and I don't take that shit well. I started up an affair the next week with a woman from work. I didn't even like her all that much. But that was kind of the point. I was going to marry Angel and didn't want to fall in love with someone else. I just wanted to dip my...umm...toe in the...umm...water.
I was a crazy bitch. But I kept it to myselves. And I had alot of selves. To this day I still have people come out of nowhere and say "Back in college I was in love with you and you were oblivious." I tell them to consider themselves lucky. To love me and to have been loved by me, in my fashion, at that point in my life, is like having a war story. I have an equal number of people who I did take notice of and who either avoid and hate me, are still telling me they have never found my replacement (creepy), or who call me whenever they've broken up with their latest partner to ask me why they are so broken and unlovable and how they can possibly be fixed. They call me, over ten years later, even though I am married and have two children, to receive my affirmations of love. Because I fucked their heads up to the point that, for whatever reason, my affections still matter to them. I still maintain none of them were ever really in love with me, only the ideal they thought I was. But try explaining that to someone you broke. Yes, I was an amazing person back then with alot going for me and I could, by proxy, make anyone dating me feel like an equally amazing person. And there are those who came away unscathed, some even better for the experience. But, for the most part, dating me in my twenties was like playing Russian roulette with five in the cylinder. An incredible rush, but probably not worth the long term risk.
Anyway, the wine glass. I bought the set at the Renaissance Fair in upstate NY in 1999 when I caught Angel looking at them over and over again. One glass went to him and I kept the other. The plan was that we'd use them as our champagne glasses on our wedding day and then they'd sit on our mantle, forever entwined in the heart shape they made. A great romantic story for the grandkids. It didn't work out so well when we broke up a couple of years later. Amazingly, not because he discovered my cheating heart. I finally ended things. Several times. It took several times because he didn't want to let go, even threatening suicide, and it hurt to hurt him and I was a coward. But it did end. And we each kept a glass. I have no idea what he did with his. But, after an appropriate amount of time, I put mine back on display. It's pretty. Every so often we'd talk and they'd come up and I'd offer to give him my glass. (After all, I did technically buy the set as a gift for him.) He always declined. And so I just had my solitary wine glass.
Angel was still talking to me and flirting with me for years, after his initial anger and pain died down. And after he got his vengeance by going out and slutting it up. (I'd popped his cherry, but hadn't been a virgin when we started dating.) We even went out and got a drink a couple of times. He always wanted to know what he'd done wrong to lose me. And I always answered him honestly. I never told him how badly I cheated. No reason to pour salt on the wound. But I did tell him I wasn't what he wanted in a woman anyway and he was trying too hard to create a perfect woman rather than find someone who already fit the bill. About a year or so ago he started dating Maggie. And they've been going strong. At first he was messaging me once a week asking me all sorts of things about dating advice and what to do with this new woman. Then once a month. Then every so often. Then I found myself initiating conversations with him just as often as he initiated them with me. And there's been much less flirting or anything inappropriate or weird from him.
Today, I got the wine glass. I was surprised at the sting. Small, but there. Angel was the only guy I was ever actually planning to marry. With Nick all this just sort of happened. We didn't have a plan. Yeah, right. Nick and I? He tied me down by knocking me up, and even that almost didn't quite work. But Angel I was actually planning on the happily ever after, despite the cheating and the undercover lesbian action and him trying to fit me into a cookie cutter mold at 20 that I'm still uncomfortable in at 31. So him being over me for realsies, as symbolizes by exorcising my demon wine glass, stung. But good for him. He found his perfect woman. I'm happy for him. And it means I can stop carrying the guilt of having broken his heart on my shoulders. Which is awesome since carrying two kids did a number on my spine. Besides, the pair of glasses looks so much cooler in my cabinet than the solo glass did. Score!
Rewind to the summer of 1999. I was dating Angel and I was actually going to marry the guy. That was the plan anyway. Aren't twenty-year-olds and their plans adorable? Anyway, he was perfect. Except that he had an issue with us being the same height so I wasn't allowed to wear heels because they made him look short. And he loved the sexy way I dressed-until we started dating, because then it drew too much male attention. And he thought it was great that I was self sufficient and confident, except he wanted me to quit working and start popping out kids and stay home once we were married. (I'm his dream come true now.) Also, it was great I had my own life and friends. Except could I please not hang out with any males and drop all my friends because they were bad influences, and instead be with him every waking moment? But that meant he really loved me right? Like I said, aren't twenty-year-olds adorable?
To his credit I did cheat on him. It wasn't until after the thirty or fortieth time he accused me of it simply by virtue of there being a penis in the same building as me. But I probably would have anyway if I'm going to be honest. Most of my twenties were spent in a semi-buzzed hypomanic frenzy where every other person who met me thought they were in love with me and had to have me. I studied like a librarian, fucked like a porn star (mostly just Angel-the guy got a blow-job a day), worked like a day laborer, and partied like a rock star. Then occasionally slept and did it all over again. Hell, even if there wasn't a penis in the room I would have cheated. And did. I remember telling Angel one day I thought I might be interested in women and wanted to experience lesbian sex before we were married. He screamed at me about how disgusting and unnatural I was and forbade it. And he tried to kill us. Of course, I randomly came out with that while he was driving down Queens Blvd. at a good clip so maybe the attempted vehicular homicide wasn't intentional. But forbid me something and I don't take that shit well. I started up an affair the next week with a woman from work. I didn't even like her all that much. But that was kind of the point. I was going to marry Angel and didn't want to fall in love with someone else. I just wanted to dip my...umm...toe in the...umm...water.
I was a crazy bitch. But I kept it to myselves. And I had alot of selves. To this day I still have people come out of nowhere and say "Back in college I was in love with you and you were oblivious." I tell them to consider themselves lucky. To love me and to have been loved by me, in my fashion, at that point in my life, is like having a war story. I have an equal number of people who I did take notice of and who either avoid and hate me, are still telling me they have never found my replacement (creepy), or who call me whenever they've broken up with their latest partner to ask me why they are so broken and unlovable and how they can possibly be fixed. They call me, over ten years later, even though I am married and have two children, to receive my affirmations of love. Because I fucked their heads up to the point that, for whatever reason, my affections still matter to them. I still maintain none of them were ever really in love with me, only the ideal they thought I was. But try explaining that to someone you broke. Yes, I was an amazing person back then with alot going for me and I could, by proxy, make anyone dating me feel like an equally amazing person. And there are those who came away unscathed, some even better for the experience. But, for the most part, dating me in my twenties was like playing Russian roulette with five in the cylinder. An incredible rush, but probably not worth the long term risk.
Anyway, the wine glass. I bought the set at the Renaissance Fair in upstate NY in 1999 when I caught Angel looking at them over and over again. One glass went to him and I kept the other. The plan was that we'd use them as our champagne glasses on our wedding day and then they'd sit on our mantle, forever entwined in the heart shape they made. A great romantic story for the grandkids. It didn't work out so well when we broke up a couple of years later. Amazingly, not because he discovered my cheating heart. I finally ended things. Several times. It took several times because he didn't want to let go, even threatening suicide, and it hurt to hurt him and I was a coward. But it did end. And we each kept a glass. I have no idea what he did with his. But, after an appropriate amount of time, I put mine back on display. It's pretty. Every so often we'd talk and they'd come up and I'd offer to give him my glass. (After all, I did technically buy the set as a gift for him.) He always declined. And so I just had my solitary wine glass.
Angel was still talking to me and flirting with me for years, after his initial anger and pain died down. And after he got his vengeance by going out and slutting it up. (I'd popped his cherry, but hadn't been a virgin when we started dating.) We even went out and got a drink a couple of times. He always wanted to know what he'd done wrong to lose me. And I always answered him honestly. I never told him how badly I cheated. No reason to pour salt on the wound. But I did tell him I wasn't what he wanted in a woman anyway and he was trying too hard to create a perfect woman rather than find someone who already fit the bill. About a year or so ago he started dating Maggie. And they've been going strong. At first he was messaging me once a week asking me all sorts of things about dating advice and what to do with this new woman. Then once a month. Then every so often. Then I found myself initiating conversations with him just as often as he initiated them with me. And there's been much less flirting or anything inappropriate or weird from him.
Today, I got the wine glass. I was surprised at the sting. Small, but there. Angel was the only guy I was ever actually planning to marry. With Nick all this just sort of happened. We didn't have a plan. Yeah, right. Nick and I? He tied me down by knocking me up, and even that almost didn't quite work. But Angel I was actually planning on the happily ever after, despite the cheating and the undercover lesbian action and him trying to fit me into a cookie cutter mold at 20 that I'm still uncomfortable in at 31. So him being over me for realsies, as symbolizes by exorcising my demon wine glass, stung. But good for him. He found his perfect woman. I'm happy for him. And it means I can stop carrying the guilt of having broken his heart on my shoulders. Which is awesome since carrying two kids did a number on my spine. Besides, the pair of glasses looks so much cooler in my cabinet than the solo glass did. Score!
Friday, April 15, 2011
Waa..Catherine Zeta's Life's Better Than Mine
Normally I'm really not into celebrity gossip. I don't find their lives any more special or exciting than the rest of us and I don't see what the hype is about. If they're not entertaining me on the big screen, they're not entertaining. But I did find this one bit of news interesting on a personal level. So Catherine Zeta Jones checked into a mental health facility to treat her Bipolar II disorder. This was on the heels of six months of the stress of being by the side of her husband while he went through cancer therapy and court battles with his ex-wife. And right before she's set to star in two upcoming movies. So it's a pretty stressful time for her, I'd imagine.
I was rather impressed with the dignified and public way in which she handled the ordeal. She didn't hide behind dark sunglasses and scoot off to a foreign county or have her publicists lie about what she was up to. She wasn't having a "relaxing spa vacation". She was having mental health treatment, openly and publicly, for a disorder that's pretty often stigmatized. Think about it. How often do you hear about bipolar people when they're not off going into a rage and shooting fellow employees or mothers going into delusional depressions and killing their children? Being that I was diagnosed as Bipolar I as a teen the way the media portrays the bipolar person as some seething lunatic just waiting to snap is an issue near and dear to my heart. And I think Ms. Jones is to be commended for her openness. My opinion might be a bit bias being I have a full on crush on her and this just makes her all the more sexy on the crazy/hot scale, but hey, you can't fault a girl for that. I mean, have you LOOKED at Catherine Zeta Jones? Seriously? If you're even a little lezbo you want her. If not, you might consider changing your mind.
Anyway, I have a friend, Mike, who I went to high school with and now we just sort of randomly chat on Facebook. Apparently, at some point in the last 10 years he was diagnosed as bipolar. I'm not sure when. I really don't care when. Because, just by his reaction to what happened with Catherine (I'm going to call her Catherine. She'd want me to.) he's apparently a whiner. He's one of those people who has received his label and, upon receiving it, has decided it's his "reason" for everything bad that he ever does and every bad thing that ever happens to him. One of those people. I can spot those people from miles away, over the internet, in chat rooms, in support groups, during my own hospitalizations. I HATE those people. Those people are the reason there is such a stigma for the rest of us. His reaction to Catherine was that "she's making bipolar disorder a fucking joke". When I inquired as to how he went on an angry rant about how one does not check into a rehab for it and one does not get better in five days and one does not do so because one is stressed out and one does not do so in order to get better to make movies.
Oh? Really Mike? Well, being that I'm a veteran of bipolar I felt I could educate him. My credentials? I was diagnosed at 14 after years of cycling through hypomania and depression finally topping out at a full blown psychotic episode complete with visual and auditory hallucinations which nearly caused me to jump from a second story window. I've been doing the therapy and medi-go-round ever since. I've been hospitalized for both depression with suicidal thoughts and attempts as well as full blown manic episodes at least six times I can remember ranging anywhere from 24 hours to two weeks. I've read every single thing I can get my hands on regarding bipolar disorder since my diagnosis, from internet articles to scientific journals, and watched countless documentaries and attended support groups and talks. I've been the subject of published articles by some of my therapists and college professors. (I won't ever reveal which ones. I never kept copies.) I've been studying psychology formally since sophomore year in high school when the teacher invited me into the class earlier than usually allowed because of my interest and knowledge. I have my BA in Psychology with an emphasis on Developmental Psychology and studies in Abnormal Psychology and was just shy a minor in Early Childhood. I also have a son who's most likely suffering from a mood disorder, most likely early onset bipolar. And, when my kids are old enough, I'm going back to school to continue my education so I can help others with disorders to live a fulfilling life. I don't claim to be a doctor. But I think I have a pretty good handle on life with bipolar disorder.
So, Mike the whiner, now that you know who you're talking to, let me explain something. Catherine is not making this a joke. She didn't check into rehab. That's something the papers say. She checked into a mental health facility that also happens to treat celebrities who need rehab. But a mental health facility nonetheless. It's what people do when they're being responsible and adult enough to admit they're having a serious issue with their mental health. And I applaud her for being open about it and therefore taking away some of the stigma. You're right. One does not get better in five days. But one might only need five days to get their meds adjusted correctly to feel better. Or to get the talk therapy they need to cope and feel ready to go back out into the world. Or feel they've been away from the stressful situations that led them there long enough that they and their doctors feel they are ready to handle being back outside. And don't forget, she checked herself in. If she's showing all signs of being mentally competent she can check herself out. No one said she was all better. She said she's feeling better. You can feel better when you're bipolar. It doesn't mean you're better forever. You never will be. But if you never, ever feel good at all, you're not bipolar. You're clinically depressed. Whole other disorder. Go find a better doctor because yours obviously doesn't know how to diagnose. One does go into inpatient because one is stressed out. Why the hell else would a person go inpatient? For the hospital food? I have episodes all the time, even on meds. Some for days and some for weeks, some worse than others. And I'll tell you there is almost always a trigger, even if it's just a small thing like a stupid argument with my husband while I feel fat. I'd say her husband having cancer and being in court battles while she had to be the strong one the whole time was probably pretty fucking stressful. And, now that he's feeling better, she can break down for five god damned days. Leave her alone. And your issue she's doing it to come out and make movies? Well what the hell dude? If you or I go into the hospital why do we go? So we get better to come back out and go back to work and keep living our lives as normally as possible right? Well, her job is to make movies. She went inpatient to get better to come out and...do her job. So...in conclusion...shut the fuck up. You're just jealous that she has a better life than you. Just because she's bipolar AND managed to have a pretty great life and you're bipolar and want to sit around and use it a crutch for all the bad crap that has ever happened to you and an excuse as to why it'll never get better doesn't make your illness any more valid than hers.
Guess what? My life is better than yours too. Sure I get into my episodes and I blame my messy house and the fact I haven't washed my hair in three days on my "mood swings" at times. And sometimes it feels as if the entire world is going to crash down. And more than once I feel like I should have been sterilized before having children because now I've probably passed this horrible thing on to my son. And then the realization hits that this is FOREVER and I am ALWAYS going to be mentally ill. And it sucks. It sucks more than anyone can possibly understand who is not living with this illness. But I refuse to let that define me. I am a loving mother. I am a devoted wife. I am a loyal friend. And, yes, I am a raging psychotic. Sometimes bipolar disorder has me, but more often I have bipolar disorder. And I have a whole lot else.
Now stop talking shit about Catherine or I'll get all crazy eyes and cut ya. You know how us crazy people can be Mikey. I know where you live. The same place you did when I wouldn't date you in high school. Oh, do you blame that on the bipolar disorder too? Because that wasn't the bipolar disorder. That was because you skeeved me out.
I was rather impressed with the dignified and public way in which she handled the ordeal. She didn't hide behind dark sunglasses and scoot off to a foreign county or have her publicists lie about what she was up to. She wasn't having a "relaxing spa vacation". She was having mental health treatment, openly and publicly, for a disorder that's pretty often stigmatized. Think about it. How often do you hear about bipolar people when they're not off going into a rage and shooting fellow employees or mothers going into delusional depressions and killing their children? Being that I was diagnosed as Bipolar I as a teen the way the media portrays the bipolar person as some seething lunatic just waiting to snap is an issue near and dear to my heart. And I think Ms. Jones is to be commended for her openness. My opinion might be a bit bias being I have a full on crush on her and this just makes her all the more sexy on the crazy/hot scale, but hey, you can't fault a girl for that. I mean, have you LOOKED at Catherine Zeta Jones? Seriously? If you're even a little lezbo you want her. If not, you might consider changing your mind.
Anyway, I have a friend, Mike, who I went to high school with and now we just sort of randomly chat on Facebook. Apparently, at some point in the last 10 years he was diagnosed as bipolar. I'm not sure when. I really don't care when. Because, just by his reaction to what happened with Catherine (I'm going to call her Catherine. She'd want me to.) he's apparently a whiner. He's one of those people who has received his label and, upon receiving it, has decided it's his "reason" for everything bad that he ever does and every bad thing that ever happens to him. One of those people. I can spot those people from miles away, over the internet, in chat rooms, in support groups, during my own hospitalizations. I HATE those people. Those people are the reason there is such a stigma for the rest of us. His reaction to Catherine was that "she's making bipolar disorder a fucking joke". When I inquired as to how he went on an angry rant about how one does not check into a rehab for it and one does not get better in five days and one does not do so because one is stressed out and one does not do so in order to get better to make movies.
Oh? Really Mike? Well, being that I'm a veteran of bipolar I felt I could educate him. My credentials? I was diagnosed at 14 after years of cycling through hypomania and depression finally topping out at a full blown psychotic episode complete with visual and auditory hallucinations which nearly caused me to jump from a second story window. I've been doing the therapy and medi-go-round ever since. I've been hospitalized for both depression with suicidal thoughts and attempts as well as full blown manic episodes at least six times I can remember ranging anywhere from 24 hours to two weeks. I've read every single thing I can get my hands on regarding bipolar disorder since my diagnosis, from internet articles to scientific journals, and watched countless documentaries and attended support groups and talks. I've been the subject of published articles by some of my therapists and college professors. (I won't ever reveal which ones. I never kept copies.) I've been studying psychology formally since sophomore year in high school when the teacher invited me into the class earlier than usually allowed because of my interest and knowledge. I have my BA in Psychology with an emphasis on Developmental Psychology and studies in Abnormal Psychology and was just shy a minor in Early Childhood. I also have a son who's most likely suffering from a mood disorder, most likely early onset bipolar. And, when my kids are old enough, I'm going back to school to continue my education so I can help others with disorders to live a fulfilling life. I don't claim to be a doctor. But I think I have a pretty good handle on life with bipolar disorder.
So, Mike the whiner, now that you know who you're talking to, let me explain something. Catherine is not making this a joke. She didn't check into rehab. That's something the papers say. She checked into a mental health facility that also happens to treat celebrities who need rehab. But a mental health facility nonetheless. It's what people do when they're being responsible and adult enough to admit they're having a serious issue with their mental health. And I applaud her for being open about it and therefore taking away some of the stigma. You're right. One does not get better in five days. But one might only need five days to get their meds adjusted correctly to feel better. Or to get the talk therapy they need to cope and feel ready to go back out into the world. Or feel they've been away from the stressful situations that led them there long enough that they and their doctors feel they are ready to handle being back outside. And don't forget, she checked herself in. If she's showing all signs of being mentally competent she can check herself out. No one said she was all better. She said she's feeling better. You can feel better when you're bipolar. It doesn't mean you're better forever. You never will be. But if you never, ever feel good at all, you're not bipolar. You're clinically depressed. Whole other disorder. Go find a better doctor because yours obviously doesn't know how to diagnose. One does go into inpatient because one is stressed out. Why the hell else would a person go inpatient? For the hospital food? I have episodes all the time, even on meds. Some for days and some for weeks, some worse than others. And I'll tell you there is almost always a trigger, even if it's just a small thing like a stupid argument with my husband while I feel fat. I'd say her husband having cancer and being in court battles while she had to be the strong one the whole time was probably pretty fucking stressful. And, now that he's feeling better, she can break down for five god damned days. Leave her alone. And your issue she's doing it to come out and make movies? Well what the hell dude? If you or I go into the hospital why do we go? So we get better to come back out and go back to work and keep living our lives as normally as possible right? Well, her job is to make movies. She went inpatient to get better to come out and...do her job. So...in conclusion...shut the fuck up. You're just jealous that she has a better life than you. Just because she's bipolar AND managed to have a pretty great life and you're bipolar and want to sit around and use it a crutch for all the bad crap that has ever happened to you and an excuse as to why it'll never get better doesn't make your illness any more valid than hers.
Guess what? My life is better than yours too. Sure I get into my episodes and I blame my messy house and the fact I haven't washed my hair in three days on my "mood swings" at times. And sometimes it feels as if the entire world is going to crash down. And more than once I feel like I should have been sterilized before having children because now I've probably passed this horrible thing on to my son. And then the realization hits that this is FOREVER and I am ALWAYS going to be mentally ill. And it sucks. It sucks more than anyone can possibly understand who is not living with this illness. But I refuse to let that define me. I am a loving mother. I am a devoted wife. I am a loyal friend. And, yes, I am a raging psychotic. Sometimes bipolar disorder has me, but more often I have bipolar disorder. And I have a whole lot else.
Now stop talking shit about Catherine or I'll get all crazy eyes and cut ya. You know how us crazy people can be Mikey. I know where you live. The same place you did when I wouldn't date you in high school. Oh, do you blame that on the bipolar disorder too? Because that wasn't the bipolar disorder. That was because you skeeved me out.
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