One of the things T said to me the other day was that it sounds to him like I'm not Bipolar II but actually Bipolar I - and Doc had mentioned something about this when I asked her for the reevaluation.  I kind of shrugged it off at the time because it didn't seem terribly pertinent.  Boy was I ever wrong!  I'm trying to recall exactly what she said now - something about when I was first diagnosed they were leaning towards I but then decided it was more in line with II - I don't remember exactly.  Anyway, T thinks I should be getting that second opinion from a non-biased psychiatrist, and soon.  (Must remember to talk to Rob about that.)  At this point I don't know what the hell I am other than majorly confused about the whole issue.  I'm obviously Bipolar, that's a big DUH, but which flavor, who the hell knows?

So back to the meds - I started researching Abilify, the first drug in my cocktail and lo and behold the first thing it says is that it's used for the treatment of Bipolar I Disorder.  WTF?!?  It also looks, to my untrained medical eye, like it does a lot of the same shit that lithium does, which I also happen to take.  I haven't gone looking at the Topomax yet because I know I'm not taking it for one of the "normal" reasons, at least that's what I've been told.  I need to take a fucking notepad with me on Tuesday when I go to see Doc and make her tell me exactly what I'm taking each med for and how soon I'll be able to stop taking them.  My goal - which I just decided on this very instant - is to be drug free by my anniversary next year.  If I can't get Doc to agree to trying it, I may just have to see if I can find a doctor who will, but I'd really like to stick with her - she's been very good to me.

But yes, drug free by 7-18-09, doesn't that just sound wonderful?

Inte en helt enkel grej att göra. Speciellt inte när man dövar allt vad impulser, känslor och tankar heter med alla små vita piller. Vad gör man då, när man inte orkar sålla i tankesurret, inte kan känna vad som är äkta känslor eller kemikaliemodifierade signalsubstanser? Det är inte lätt. Det var det visserligen inte innan heller för mig, för hur skiljer man på sjukdomen och det som är ens sanna essens?

Trött. Tankar och ögon går i kors, men min hjärna är vaken. Klarvaken. Kan bero på den halvlitaren med Ben&Jerrys jag satte i mig i ett ångestanfall. Eller den litern med cola som jag svepte. Eller kanske de 4 prillor jag orkade stoppa upp under loppet av två timmar.. Jag vet inte... *suck* Men jag vet en sak. Mitt hjärta slog dubbelslag när Jycken med stort J kom och satte sig framför mig på divandelen av soffan och lät mig krama, luta mig, pussa, snosa och klappa. Jättelänge.. Precis så länge som behövdes för att den där kletiga onda massan i bröstkorgen skulle släppa. Gudars vad jag älskar honom. Min bebis, som fyller ett år på måndag...

After a two plus hour nap I felt restored. Read for an hour and played for two or so. I think the singing is coming along. I also hunted up my Dremel Tool, which I probably hadn't used in at least five years and probably more. The case was right where it was supposed to be. The actual tool was buried under years worth of crap in a utility room. I just dropped it where it was when I was done and forgot all about it. An impossibility in early lives. Typical in more recent ones. Normally I would have lost my mind when I couldn't put my hand on it instantly. Didn't bother me much today. I just looked for a little and luckily it wasn't as lost as it could have been.

Tonight I think I'll restring my guitar, which I hate doing with a passion. Maybe read some more or even blog a little. Doesn't feel like the world is about to crush me today. Somewhat surprising considering the previous two. Maybe there's something to this bipolar diagnosis after all. (More on the later.)

when I am on my high, I am extremely happy. I am on that high right now. I was dancing for a while.

being bipolar makes you exceptionally creative. that is because you are so sensitive to emotions - one tiny slip up can make you extremely sad or angry, and one gesture of kindness can bring feelings of religious bliss.

it is a curse and a gift.

when I am unhappy, I am really unhappy. unhappy to the point that I will burst out crying and throw things and yell at people and swear, and hurt myself and the people around me. I feel the most depraved emotions that any human can feel - extreme isolation, persistent suicidal thoughts, anger, pain, fear and anxiety.

when I am happy, I am really happy. I feel like I am president of the world. I feel like I am the richest man in the world. I feel like I am God. I feel the pleasure of a thousand orgasms. It is an unbelievable feeling that can only be explained religiously, because I am often in tears at just the beauty of all the things in the world.

of course I have been taking medication for many months now and all these things have dampered down. the thing is, while bipolar disorder comes with many caustic symptoms - depression, anxiety - it also brings indescribable joy and creativity. when I am happy, it is literally like being on drugs.

some of the greatest minds in the world were bipolar. but on the other hand, most of these greatest minds suffered for their work - committing suicide.

Ela estava internada no Hospital São Lucas, em Copacabana. A atriz era famosa por suas entrevistas irreverentes

Very low mood. Very low self opinion. Very low everything. Or at least everything attributive to how bad I'm feeling. I can't give details. Mainly because someone might know me or somebody and it could get bad. I let someone touch me today. Not in an awfully bad way. This is probably worse in my head. I really like this person. Really really do. I guess it just went a little to far. Now I'm not saying I didn't like it. Or that the person over stepped the mark. I just don't think it's right. The person is 20 years older than me. Lovely and witty; they don't care that I'm a little mad. I'm still with D. I'm paranoid about his trip. I feel inadequate, pushed aside, worthless. But mainly because I am all of those things, today might've been my fault.

I've been in my fog-filled glass box today. I haven't really thought or had to think. Only thought about D briefly and in doing so, wished either him or L (his ex) would text and give me reason to run off and not get on the train home. A push in the right direction. A push in front of one of the pretty trains. Something to kick my arse in to gear. Boot it over the edge. There are two Boots and one Superdrug on the way up to the station and another Boots and Superdrug within. We're averaging at 16 aspirin for example from each store. That's 80. Enough? Or maybe at the bigger boots, I could've got a bottle instead. They have bottles of 100 in my local chemist. Could've spun them a line about going backpacking and needing supplies or something.  Students are leaving uni/college now, it'd be plausible. Easy. I still could.

More signs today. More sights. When watching the telly earlier, there was something to do with fire, it flashed for a few seconds bright green. I asked my dad. He didn't see anything unusual.

"Yellow-green can indicate sickness, cowardice, discord, and jealousy."

I'm ill, was a coward about my pending suicide, cannot be described as anything close to harmonious and am jealous of D and L.

Awful as it sounds, right now I actually want him to cheat and tell me in all the gory details. I'm stuck in this insidious despair. Everything is too much. Too much effort. I need some energy, some passion, something. I don't care what. I want be able to get this over and done with, yet now I'm pretty much bed bound. All I can do from here is will nature or some freak incident to cut this existance short. I don't even have enough energy to take my exit. I should've sooner. Before I got to this point. The point my parents worry. The point the eyes close in on me and the checks frequent.

"Quite often, a person who is severely depressed and contemplating suicide may not have enough energy to attempt it."

That's me.

I don't want to be told to exercise. To eat certain foods. To think positively. To have a bath. I want to fucking drown in it, not come out smelling of the bloody lavender.

It's all just too much. I've been here before. I know I'll come out of it, be all high for a few days/weeks at some point along the line. But I know these depressions last and that this is where I'll be again sooner or later and worse so as the trend in my mind goes. 1 step up, 3 steps down. Falling further and further away from everything.

Taste of zopiclone at the back of my throat for a reason. G'night.

I'm a blip. A dot in the far distance. Watch me disappear.

I know that this isn't true (except perhaps for the make-over part) so that's what makes it paranoia and not delusional thinking, if labels must be applied. My therapist says that this is yet another survival instinct held over from childhood. That I had to be constantly vigilant in order to protect myself from my father's anger. However, this survival instinct has no place in my adult life and is only causing me grief. I think about this while walking and it helps to push the fear and anxiety back down even if the fear keeps coming back every time a car drives by.

I have never dealt well with anger. Either others or my own. I tend to stuff it way deep down where it waits for years for a moment to free itself. I tend to be pretty easy going about a lot of things. However, when I do get angry it's a wrath of god kind of thing. I feel omnipotent and will lay waste to anyone in my path. I have destroyed friendships, cowered police and made my big fear-inducing father near tears. If you guessed "manic" you're right. I absolutely hate myself afterwards and am glad that these instances are rare.

Anger directed at me from others I have a hard time with as well. If it's a work situation then not so much because there are rules that everyone tends to play by. Outside of the work place anger tends to make me shut down. Even on the anonymous Internet I pretty much refrain from posting on sites because I fear the potential backlash against me. Which is again, rather paranoid. Strangely, it doesn't bother me to blog knowing that there are people who don't like what I write. For the most part people have been nothing but supportive in their responses and I have mostly had only positive experiences on boards and even in meeting some people in real life. But the fear remains and I continue to work on it through therapy, blogging and challenging my thoughts.

There is a interesting discussion regarding anger going on over on Salted Lithium's blog.

He talked to me for a long time and I explained that I had be anxious all week.  Not agitated, but anxious.  I didn't want my son to go to Boy Scout camp.  I didn't want my husband to join him later in the week, I didn't want to drive my friends down to Family Night at Scout camp.  I didn't want my daughter to have a sleepover that night.  And by "didn't want to" I meant I was freaking out about all those things.  Working myself up.  Even though I could tell myself there was no logical reason for doing so.

I told Kent that I think one of the problems is that even though I'm technically getting at least 8 hours of sleep each night, that I think my CPAP machine needed to have the pressure increased because I was always really drowsy in the afternoons.  I mean, dropping off to sleep while on the computer without realizing it, drowsy.  And, since sleep is my trigger, I was not able to fight things off like I usually do.

Kent was quick to tell me how far I had come.  He said, "In the past, you would have done anything to avoid doing those things that made you anxious.  But this time you pushed yourself and did them anyway.  That's a big step.  You recognized that your fears were not really justified, so you tried to not listen to those voices telling you "You shouldn't do that."  "Yes, you should"  "No, you shouldn't."  Let me be quick to point out that I didn't REALLY hear voices this time.  It is more like the cartoon with the devil on one shoulder and the angel on the other.

I had also said I thought I might be doing too much, and that other people might tell me so.  And, since I'm trying to please people, I didn't know what to say to make everyone happy.  He gave this great piece of advice.  This is the nugget of information that I want you all to think about when you are trying to decide whether or not to take something on.

SWOT

Strengths

Weaknesses

Opportunity

Threat

This is to help you with decisions about desires you may have.  For example, the driving the friends down to Family Night could be broken down like this:

Strengths - I like the women I am driving, I have a van and no one else had a car available, I usually don't mind driving.  I wanted to go see Mark.

Weaknesses - I don't like to drive at night.  I didn't know where I was going, really. 

Opportunity  - This is a one-time deal.  I can't go another evening.  This was it.

Threat - I could get in a car accident.

So, after considering all those factors, it made sense to go ahead and go. 

Here's another example.  I desire to play major league baseball (hypothetically, of course!).

Strengths - I like to play baseball.  I have a good arm.

Weaknesses - I cannot throw a 90 mile an hour fastball.  I'm a woman.

Opportunity - Virtually none.

Threat - None, really.

After review my SWOT, this would not be a good desire to pursue.  It would be better to go play catch with my son in the backyard.

I left Kent's office feeling better than I had all week.  I had told him that I didn't want to back out on the sleepover for my daughter.  I didn't want her to always think of her mom trying to sleep off the "bad moods" or moping around.  Or drugged up.  I mentioned that I had thought about inviting a friend over to scrapbook while the girls were here.  He thought that was a great idea.  He also mentioned having the girls go swimming to release that energy early in the night so they would more likely go to sleep quickly.

Last night worked out just great.  My neighbor across the street came over and she is SO low-maintance, that we just talked (and talked, and talked) and scrapbooked until the girls went to bed.  It was perfect, really.  Of course, I SWOTed the idea before inviting her.  It was obvious that I really should give it a go, and it worked out perfectly.

We are headed to Dallas next week, and I'm not anxious about that one iota.  Kent said that was because in my mind I knew that it was ABSOLUTELY the right thing to do.  Amen to that! 

It's weird to me how quickly he can calm me down and help me analyze what is going on and why.  And, how to deal with it.

So, tune in for our next VISIT WITH KENT the second week of August!  Same Bat Time.  Same Bat Channel.

As I think about my day, much of it has music involved in one way or another whether this be while driving or when on my computer (I always have iTunes playing) or even while stealing some happy moments with my Playstation 3 and rockin' it out with Guitar Hero.  Then, of course, there is my hobby of playing guitar.  Music is all around me, no matter which way I turn.

I have dabbled with guitar since I was 18, but my introduction to music, or at least playing an instrument, goes back to when I was about 8 years old when my parents signed me up for organ lessons.  I give them a lot of credit for I don't believe there is anything more frustrating than trying to get a young child to sit down and practice a half hour a day, but they did it.  I think I was about 11 when they stopped, maybe 12 and it was likely due to my stubbornness as I much preferred to be out playing than to be sitting at some silly organ practicing songs nobody else knew.

Even though I took music lessons at 8, my exposure to people and instruments started... well the minute I popped out of the womb and into the big wide world as my father has always played guitar.  In fact, my whole family - aunts & uncles, and even my grandmother (she lived with us) all played musical instruments, and in most cases, several different ones.  I can remember many a family gatherings where the banjo, ukulele, accordion, autoharp, and guitars were all pulled out... a whole room of people playing and singing - gives me goosebumps just to think about it.  I also have some very fond memories of my grandmother playing her organ, singing and playing "You are My Sunshine" (not the original version, but I like this one... I can take writers latitude if I want!)  for me.  <brief pause while I go all warm and fuzzy thinking about it now>

We don't seem to have the big family gatherings any more; my grandmother has passed on but . . . this wonderful thing called music, and the gift of being able to play an instrument has been handed down to me and all my brothers.  My one younger brother is a very talented musician and he is the one I attend the Farmer's Market with.  Every Friday night we get together and practice some of the songs we will sing on Saturday, but mostly I think I frustrate him in my inability to learn the bridge to "Tequila Sunrise."  LOL.  My other two brothers, each play the guitar, the oldest not so seriously, and the other younger one seems to have gotten more into playing the last couple of years.  I absolutely love it when he, and the brother I play with on Saturdays and I can all get together to sing and play - each of us claiming a different octave, and belting out some old standby's.

Music has saved my life on many ocassions.  When I was 18 and fell on the chainsaw, the rehab for my arm (I had severed my thumb tendon) was piano - but - playing the piano was also therapy for my injured soul and self-esteem at that time.  When totally and utterly depressed, I have been able to pick up the guitar and express myself through music.  During the episode of depression that I experienced 5 years ago, I had developed a nasty stutter (due to medications we found out later,) but picking up the guitar and playing offered me some release - I did not stutter, and I could vent. :-)

So, it would be fair to say, that music permeates just about every area of my life.  I'm pleased as I think I can finally appreciate how much of a gift music is - the ability to enjoy it, the added blessing of being able to play an instrument and sing.

I am a lucky lady.  I must remember to thank my parents for the gift of music they gave me.

Bye for now.

PS.  While looking for youtube video for You Are My Sunshine, I came across this little gem.  I almost fell off my chair laughing as I watched it.  I had to share :-)

Weren't we cute?  Rob did wear a tie and sport coat for the ceremony, but took them off just about as soon as the judge disappeared.  Did I mention it was HOT?  Anyway, it was a lovely time and I remember it very fondly.  If I could find my wedding album I'd regale you with more pictures of the blessed event.  But I can't, so I won't.  Instead, I'll bore you with pictures from the mini-trip.  :)

We had a BLAST!  We stayed at the Ameristar Casino Hotel in Council Bluffs, Iowa which is right across the Missouri River from us - about a 15 minute drive from our home.  The room, well, see for yourself...

That's right, a whirlpool bath sized for 2 right in the room.  It was NICE.  Although Rob likes the water rather warmer than I do so we had a wee discussion about tub etiquette.  Very relaxing though.

The boat looking thing below is the actual casino and I believe it does make trips out on the river a few times a year.  Most of the time it stays docked though and you can't even tell that you're on a boat while you're gambling.  In the distance is the Omaha skyline.

The very nice king sized bed and Mr. King's not-so king sized ass.  ;)  What I think I failed to get any photos of was the equally king sized flat screen TV across from the bed.  It had to be 36" at least.

We had the most stunning dinner at the Waterfront Grill last night.  I had succulent lobster tail and Rob had this spicy pork tenderloin.  And dessert - which you can see in the photo - was warm chocolate amaretto tartlets with some kind of chocolate mousse and a coffee ice cream.  Sinful.  The manager was nice enough to take our photo and buy us dessert when we told him we were celebrating our anniversary.

In all we've had a great time.  We did a little gambling - we play the penny slot machines - and I got carded last night getting into the casino because the security guard didn't think I looked 30!  I told him he made my night - he said I looked 25 if a day.  I could have kissed him.  Anyway, we came out of the casino with $27 so it wasn't a total loss which is nice.  We always take in only the amount of money we can afford to lose and figure if we lose every bit of it then oh well, it was entertainment.  If we come out with money then it's a bonus.  If we come out with more than we went it with, we buy lottery tickets on the way home.  ;)

Y'all would be proud of me, some more than others, but I haven't had a drink since Tuesday.  I'm going to try to clean up my act a little and not drink so much or so often.  I figure if I'm going to be trying to get off some of these meds then I need to have my system as clean as possible, so booze is going bye-bye.  I'm sure my liver will thank me for it.

Time to do some research.  There's an evil plot a-brewin' and I need to do my homework for it.  BWHAHAHAHAHAHA!  ;)

Entre os autores brasileiros mais admirados pelos leitores apareciam Vinícius de Moraes (5º. lugar), Cecília Meireles (6º. lugar), Carlos Drummond de Andrade (7º. lugar), Mário Quintana (11º. lugar) e Manuel Bandeira (14º. lugar) e Castro Alves (21º. Lugar). Todos poetas do cânone. Em outros gêneros o primeiro lugar é uma surpresa: o autor mais admirado é Monteiro Lobato. Seria ótimo se não fosse o fato de Lobato não ter livros nas livrarias quando da pesquisa – a lembrança veio do programa de televisão e das histórias em quadrinho. Depois de Lobato seguem Paulo Coelho, Jorge Amado e Machado de Assis; depois dos três poetas já citados aparecem Érico Veríssimo, José de Alencar e o quadrinista, Maurício de Souza. O resto da lista pode ser visto no site do Instituto Prolivro, que organizou e financiou a pesquisa.

         É verdade que não aparecem poetas contemporâneos e vivos, mas sem dúvida os citados estão entre os melhores da poesia brasileira moderna e o condoreiro fica sempre bem.

A surpresa se manifestava também pelo fato da “subida” da poesia na preferência dos leitores ter sido significativa, não tanto na posição, mas sim na quantidade de leitores que declaravam essa preferência em relação à pesquisa do ano 2000. Naquela pesquisa, respondendo à pergunta se tinham “consultado, folheado ou lido nos últimos 12 meses”, a poesia aparecia em 6º. Lugar, com 19% dos entrevistados masculinos e 26% dos femininos respondendo afirmativamente.

         Quando perguntados (em 2000) sobre suas preferências por gênero de livro (resposta única, naquela ocasião), a poesia aparecia em 5º. lugar no geral, com um total de 4% dos leitores fazendo essa afirmação (1% dos leitores homens e 5% dos leitores mulheres).

Em 2008, a quantidade de entrevistados que declarou ter lido pelo menos um livro nos últimos três meses anteriores à pesquisa foi de 95,6 milhões de pessoas (55%) da população estudada. Mas, importante ressaltar, 47,4 milhões desses leitores são estudantes que  lêem livros indicados pelas escolas, incluindo aí os didáticos. Portanto, os leitores que declararam sua preferência por poesia como gênero (não exclusivo) seriam 26,323 milhões, dos quais a metade estudantes.

         Destaque-se também, para referência, que o universo da pesquisa de 2008 incluía toda a população acima de cinco anos de idade, independentemente do nível de escolaridade.

No ano 2000 a situação era diferente.

Em primeiro lugar o universo estudado era diferente: foi pesquisada a população acima de 14 anos de idade e com pelo menos três anos de escolarização.

Nesse universo a preferência por gêneros de leitura era assim:

Para matizar um pouco mais o quadro vejamos como os leitores do ano 2008 se dividiam por sexo.

A pesquisa do ano 2000 não tem uma tabela idêntica (e nunca esqueçamos que trabalha com universos diferentes). Entretanto apresenta outra tabela também interessante para ser vista. É a tabela formada pelas respostas dadas pelos entrevistados a partir da pergunta sobre se nos últimos doze meses tinham tido contato, folheado ou lido algum livro dos gêneros, com a possibilidade de respostas múltiplas. Ou seja, uma pergunta um pouco mais parecida com a feita em 2008 na primeira tabela.

Note-se que alguns gêneros, ainda que declarados como preferidos, não foram mencionados entre aqueles lidos ou consultados nos doze meses anteriores (técnicos, fisiologia, jurídico, saúde e sexo/eróticos)[1][iii].

         Antes de examinarmos o conjunto dos dados para tentar entender que leitores brasileiros gostam de poesia é importante acrescentar mais duas tabelas, referentes à pesquisa de 2008. Mas desta vez só transcrevemos as informações sobre os leitores de poesia.

Esses resultados estão tabulados por escolaridade, idade, nível de renda familiar e classe social[1][iv]

O que nos dizem esses números?

         A pesquisa de 2008 mostra que os leitores que declararam sua preferência pelo gênero poesia são em sua maioria menores de 14 anos e estudantes (48,3% do total). Pelo perfil de renda e socioeconômico é provável que a maioria deles esteja na escola pública. Esses leitores estavam fora da pesquisa de 2000.

         A tabela disponível que permite especular um pouco sobre as duas pesquisas é a que distribui os leitores de poesia por gênero (masculino e feminino). Em 2000 a proporção era de 19% dos leitores masculinos e 26% dos leitores femininos. Já em 2008 essa proporção era de 22% para os homens e 32% para as mulheres.

         No perfil demográfico da amostra de 2008 a população com menos de 14 anos de idade representa 20% do total. Entretanto, é nessa população que se concentram 48,3% dos leitores de poesia.

         O que os números nos mostram, portanto, é que a escola é a grande fonte dos leitores do gênero. Mais importante ainda é que esses jovens declaram que a poesia é seu gênero preferido de leitura.

         A partir desses números, entretanto, não se sustenta a idéia de que “os brasileiros” em geral estão lendo mais poesia. É impossível comparar com precisão os dados das pesquisas de 2000 e 2008 a respeito, mas as poucas porcentagens que vimos mostram que as diferenças para a população acima de 14 anos não são tão significativas quanto poderiam parecer.

         A persistência da preferência pela poesia na idade adulta desses jovens que estão com menos de 14 anos hoje é algo que só poderemos ver quando fizermos, no futuro, novas pesquisas do gênero Retratos da Leitura no Brasil.

         Até lá os poetas têm que trabalhar – muito além de escrever as poesias – para que essa preferência não esmoreça. Ao contrário, que se consolide. Para isso é importante que os poetas sigam o velho chamado de Castro Alves e se dirijam ao encontro de seus jovens leitores nas escolas, nas feiras de livros, em festivais de poesia.

         O animador é que existe essa receptividade para poesia. E lembrem-se que há trinta ou quarenta anos atrás os poetas lidos pelos adolescentes se mediam pelo padrão J. G. de Araújo Jorge. Acho que já melhorou, e pode melhorar ainda mais.

         É preciso ter esperança de que não apenas os índices de leitura de poesia cresçam, mas que aumentem os índices de leitura em geral, para todos os gêneros, em todas as idades e situações sócio-econômicas.

         Se os livros estiverem mais disponíveis para todos e se o nível educacional da população continuar melhorando é certo que isso acontecerá, e isso define nossa equação para que o Brasil seja um país de leitores:

         Mais livros disponíveis = mais bibliotecas + mais educação de qualidade = mais leitores.

[1][i] RETRATOS DA LEITURA NO BRASIL ver em www.prolivro.org.br

[1][ii] Resposta estimulada ao questionário da pesquisa em que o leitor podia escolher mais de uma opção.

[1][iii] Essas incongruências mostram uma das características de pesquisas de opinião. Os entrevistados respondem a todas as perguntas, mas quando as respostas puxam pela memória – no caso, lembranças de um ano – nem sempre elas correspondem entre si.

[1][iv] O critério de “classe social” é o da Associação Brasileira das Empresas de Pesquisa - ABEP

Felipe Lindoso é editor, antropólogo, e estudioso do mercado editorial e das políticas públicas para o livro no Brasil. Tem vários artigos publicados sobre o tema e o livro “O Brasil pode ser um pais de leitores?”. Trabalhou em instituições da área cultural e do livro, e hoje dá assessoria sobre a questão. Criou e desenvolve um projeto que, apoiado pela Lei Rouanet, instala Bancas-Bibliotecas por todo o país.

Dear Dr. S,

Today my mom admitted to me for the first time that:

a. She knows that she's Bipolar, and has been since about age 8 and gave me many examples of high and low situations from her childhood;
b. She's struggled w/this for many years, why didn't anyone in her family help her;
c. She's done things she is ashamed off;
d. She's ready for help;
e. She thinks my brother is Bipolar too, and that he needs help and that something is really really wrong with him and is scared for him and feels bad she never recognized he had these problems since childhood.

My head is spinning, and I've tried to get her to admit/talk about this for years. I knew my mom was Manic Depressive by about age 8 and told her so, and that I had been acting as the adult in our family since I was 6. I'd love for her to get diagnosed and for her to find help, and if it was possible, get her on Disability/SSI.

Do you know of any affordable/free places for diagnosis and treatment for her and any suggestions for us to bring up to Michael that he needs help ... you know, I've always considered him dangerous ....

I'm going to begin my internet search on this, but thought since your "In the business" of Psychology you may be able to point me down the correct path faster.

Of course, my eternal thanks to you in advance on this matter. Oh, and by the way, she quickly apologized for the way she treated me as a child. Wow, her first ever sorry. I so needed to hear that!

So, a quick recap for those of you who haven't known me/read my blog:

My mom got pregnant @ age 18 after having sex two or three times with my dad, who had broken up w/her by the time she found out; She got sent to a home to give me up for adoption; Gave birth to me at 19; and kept me with the help from her uncle and then eventually my great-gramma. She was going to college, trying to be a nurse, and we were living with her gramma, and she was struggling with a bitch selfish mother who didn't care to help her or acknowledge that her daughter, my mother was bipolar. Boom, my mom meets my evil step-dad and gets knocked up w/kid #2. She married him, he abuses her and me, she fights back, and she abuses me, and my brother fights her and me, but I'm not allowed to hit back. Vicious, crazy cycle in the house, cops are always there, my mom had a social worker for as long as I can remember, and, oh yeah, my step-dad was an alcoholic pot-head with some major hate for me. He divorces her, bankrupts her, and she goes catonic with plenty of manic moments thrown in for comedy relief, then lays on the couch until my brother turned 18 and welfare kicks her off the $6,000 a year gravy train. I was poor, desperate, and lived in a house crawling with mice, semi starving, weighing in at my most hungriest time @ 116 at 5'10", lacked medical and dental attention, and was deprived of my basic rights as a child. Oh, and yeah, the first year I went to MSU, I had to count that $6,000 towards my own income and it took away from my grant money, even though it was barely enough to keep the three of us alive in 1989.

Even though I had to learn how to do everything by myself, I'm not bitter, just happy to hear my mom FINALLY say that she IS BIPOLAR. This is the damn most important thing she could ever do for me, the only thing I ever wanted and needed her to do. ALL I CAN SAY IS WHEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And, if you live in the Detroit area, and can help me find her and my brother free/cheap diagnosis and treatment, you would be forever in my debt....

The Girl from the Ghetto

So I thought I would dedicate this song to her today.  She needs to hear it.  Her voice is being healed each and every day.  And its a beautiful voice.  The world wants to hear it.

"Silent All These Years"

This morning I laid everything out on the floor in front of my recliner, like the pieces of a model airplane, read the sheets of instructions, and very tentatively prepared for my first injection. (I didn't inject last evening because I had taken one of the old medications yesterday morning.) For someone who can't stand to watch as my blood is tested, this went very well. There is no blood to see by poking the needle in and then gently pushing the plunger (pen cap). It went fine but it's going to take awhile before I can just discreetly slip into a washroom during an evening meal, peel up my shirt and plunk a shot into my side. (We decided the only place I could possibly find enough to pinch for the injection is on either side of my abdomen, parallel with my belly-button. My weight, stretched over a 6'3" rack of ribs, is only 130 pounds!)

I was a little freaked out yesterday but 24 hours has eased my anxiety somewhat. So three scoops of ice cream for everyone! :)

(José Alcides Pinto, 10/09/1923 — 03/06/0 oito)

Quando morre um poeta o mundo fica lastimavelmente mais pobre.

Terrivelmente mais triste. Inevitavelmente mais feio.

Às 11h15min de um sábado, dia 31 de maio de 2008, um imenso dragão, disfarçado de motocicleta, atacou impiedosamente o velho poeta, de 85 anos, José Alcides Pinto, em plena Rua General Sampaio, bem em frente ao palacete conhecido como Vila do Barão, de ladinho da Praça da Bandeira, nos arredores da Faculdade de Direito do Ceará.

O rapaz da banca de revista próxima disse que ele havia passado cedo com alguns envelopes na mão, “dessa vez não vinha com a moça loura”, completou; no envelope iam os dois livros recém publicados, mas ainda não lançados, que despacharia para alguns amigos do Rio e São Paulo. Voltava devagarinho (talvez ainda não recuperado do cobreiro que o maltratara meses atrás), esperou debaixo de uma árvore o trânsito acalmar, apressou o passo e... Parou no meio da pista ainda molhada pela garoa de fins de maio, quando finalmente avistou o pássaro enorme em vôo rasante, ainda deu pra notar o vermelho dos olhos da fera, as teias de aranhas das asas e o barro seco das garras, que era com certeza lá das coroas do rio Acaraú.

O poeta saiu quebrado numa ambulância, o motoqueiro foi manquitolando atrás; a moto esquecida na sarjeta. 40 minutos depois sua filha passa tranqüilamente na mesma calçada; o rapaz da banca grita para avisar do acidente, ela apressa o passo fugindo do enxerimento. Quem deve ter lhe contado a triste notícia?

No dia 02 de junho a alma, também magérrima, do nosso saudoso poeta maldito foi, na frente, esperar pelo corpo que já ia em cortejo rumo a São Francisco do Estreito, Santana do Acaraú, Fazenda “Terras do Dragão”, comboiado por Sérgio Braga, Lustosa da Costa, Audifax, José Teles, Carlos Augusto Viana e outros amigos do peito. Deu tempo ainda de pôr os últimos números em sua lápide, que havia sido meticulosamente preparada por ele anos antes. Não havia tido coragem de adivinhar o último algarismo. Reencontrava enfim seu pai, sua terra, sua paz...

SOB O SIGNO DA POLÊMICA

Na juventude freqüentava a casa de Otacílio de Azevedo, convivendo com os filhos do pintor e poeta, Rubens, Miguel Ângelo (Nirez) e Rafael Sânzio; já tinha um jeito despojado e falaz.

Sua alcunha entre os estudantes era “Alma de Gato”, talvez pela magreza exagerada.

Sua ida para o Rio, sua volta à terrinha, sua saída do emprego na Universidade Federal do Ceará, seu uso de um traje franciscano, sua adesão ao nascente concretismo, seus amores e desamores, enfim, seu comportamento de uma vida inteira foi marcado pela polêmica.

Enquanto os outros grandes poetas de sua geração vestiram o paletó e(ou) a camisa da oficialidade e(ou) o da reclusão, ele arriscou a jaqueta surrada da marginalidade e da maldição; enquanto uns cavavam prêmios e condecorações e outros se fechavam mais e mais em seus casulos, ele corria calçadas, mexendo com as moças, instigando jovens poetas sujos e cabeludos, espalhando boatos difamatórios sobre si mesmo. Criou uma imagem tão forte e polêmica sobre ele próprio, que às vezes ele mesmo esquecia quem realmente era: um sujeito frágil e religioso, bom pai, que ia à missa toda semana e rezava antes de dormir. E tinha uma das gargalhadas mais sinceras que conheci.

Sempre estava cercado (e ajudado) por uma leva de boas almas, mas também por uma corja de parasitas, cujas benesses (e elogios) ele sabia manipular com maestria; todos admiradores de seus poemas e de seu comportamento arrojado. Sobre os de boa-fé quase sempre despejava injúrias, não raro alguns de seus melhores amigos e colaboradores saíram magoados de seu convívio; em cima dos oportunistas jogava iscas, elogios falsos e prefácios não escritos. Sempre esteve acima do bem e, principalmente, do mal; todos debitavam suas ações polêmicas ao seu gênio literário. Os ofendidos perdoavam sempre; os canalhas engordavam à sombra de suas asas negras.

Estava acima do bem e do mal: tanto fazia engendrar um poema genial (e pendurá-lo no arame do varal) como caluniar um amigo que tanto o ajudara. Todos o perdoavam com um rizinho de escárnio.

Estava acima do bem e do mal.

UNS ALTOS MUITO ALTOS, UNS BAIXOS...

Ao amigo que me dizia que ele tinha altos e baixos, eu retrucava: “— E qual o poeta que não os têm!?”. Depois lembrava que para cada poema fraco dedicado a Lady Diana ou Chico Mendes (ou algumas rimas escatológicas) ele tinha no mínimo uma dúzia de versos endiabrados.

Precisaríamos de alguém com muito talento, coragem e ética para fazer um inventário de sua vida e obra; alguém com isenção estética e moral para mapear suas forças e fraquezas.

Talvez com a devida distância do corpo físico.

A CAVERNA DO DRAGÃO

Na minha “Crônica da Gentilândia”, do livro Fortaleza Voadora, digo: “...e o velho dragão Alcides Pinto sobrevoando as copas das árvores, com suas asas negras — quando ele se cansa de resmungar sozinho em sua caverna e sai para assustar os últimos bêbados da Gentilândia”.

À sua casa corriam as mais diversas faunas literárias; escritores de várias idades, ideologias e estéticas, principalmente os mais jovens, que ficavam embevecidos com as atitudes despojadas, estridentes e loquazes do velho poeta.

Sua residência mais famosa foi a da Rua Rodrigues Junior, casa grande, sempre muito freqüentada; ainda hoje muitos contas histórias e causos nem sempre verídicos, muitas fantasias e traquinagens ficaram no anedotário boêmio-intelectual dessa nossa loirinha desmiolada pelo sol, tão pródiga em tipos populares e bodes YoYôs, literários ou não.

Já o conheci na Vila Cordeiro, na Av. Tristão Gonçalves, bem próximo à vilinha em que ainda hoje mora minha mãe. Habitava uma casa conjugada, numa pobreza franciscana mas digna, com sua querida filha Jamaica. Também conheci seu filho Antonin Artaud, um rapaz magro como o pai, porém de temperamento calmo, com uma timidez oposta à tagarelice do seu progenitor.

Convivi por um bom tempo com o poeta (era meados dos anos 1990), através dele e de suas muitas visitas fiquei sabendo dos subterrâneos de nossa literatura, tão pródiga em fofocas e vaidades. Ali tive um curso intensivo de como transitar, e sair sem arranhões (embora eu não tenha tirado boas notas em algumas matérias) da famigerada guerrilha literárias e suas disputas por farelos e migalhas.

Um dia me pediu para que organizasse seus contos, que estavam dispersos em um livro, Editor de Insônias (1965), e uma miscelânea, Reflexões, terror, sobrenatural (1984), além de alguns inéditos datilografados em folhar amarelecidas. Em 1997, o Dr. Martins Filho publica essa edição de seus contos completos, Editor de Insônias e outros contos, pela Coleção Alagadiço Novo.

Depois soube que ele andou criticando umas palavras que inseri como “Nota do Organizador”, ou sugerindo que eu estava querendo aparecer às suas custas. Nunca passei recibo nem tomei satisfação, apenas me afastei um pouco de seu convívio. Depois disso ele sempre repetia para mim ou para alguns amigos: “Se não fosse você, o livro não teria saído”, no que eu sempre respondia: “Pois não é, poeta. Quem sabe se um dia a gente não tira uma 2ª edição, não é!?”. No seu último livro tem um poema dedicado a mim (quem sabe ainda resquício de uma consciência pesada) e a Nilto Maciel, a quem levei, depois da volta definitiva deste ao Ceará, à sua casa e anunciei alto da porta:

“— Poeta, tô aqui com o maior contista do Ceará!”, no que ele perguntou lá de dentro: “— Quem, poeta, o Airton Monte?”, acabando de vestir as calças; caímos na gargalhada.

A última vez que o vi ele estava saindo da sua vilinha com a Jamaica, cumprimentei-o e ele me perguntou onde era o “Buraco da Gia”, pois estava querendo arranjar uma empregada e lhe deram um endereço, falei que era na Princesa Isabel, vizinho à minha casa, e fomos caminhando devagar. Quando chegou perto do beco ele parou, receoso, e disse que só entraria lá se eu fosse com eles, depois puxou uma pequena faca de mesa, dessas de cortar bife, e disse que estava preparado (mas que era bom eu entrar com ele, disse assombrado). Olhei para Jamaica, que também estava rindo, e disse que não tivesse receio que ali só morava gente de bem, e me despedi alegando ainda ir pegar minha filhinha no colégio.

Não tive coragem de ir vê-lo em seu velório na Academia Cearense de Letras. Queria ficar com a lembrança dele vivo, alegre e brincalhão.

E parece que estou vendo aquele sujeito magro (“tão magro que parecia estar sempre de perfil”, como bem disse, em seu A Guerra do Fim do Mundo, Vargas Llosa), com sua gargalhada sempre sincera, dizendo — e apontando pra si mesmo — para os muitos anjinhos (ou demoninhos, tanto faz) que lhe cercam em algazarra:

“— Agora quem manda aqui é esse poeta ‘Viadão Pós-Moderno’!”

“Eu sou aquele que come as flores do aniversário.”

(José Alcides Pinto, 10/09/1923 — 03/06/2008)

Pedro Salgueiro tem dois filhos, dez irmãos e derrubou algumas árvores para fazer diversos livros. Faz uns continhos que, de tão curtos, estão quase desaparecendo. Tem uma mãe que faz o melhor capote da cidade. Sente muita saudade de um pai que era sapateiro de chinelos e idéias.

Triste... é assim

meus olhos choram

cinza... o jasmim

refletindo a cor do céu

cinzas no jardim e em mim

O que fazer agora

com o resto da minha vida...

ouvir Bill Evans, por horas

a tristeza escorrendo, se deixando levar

rio abaixo, tempo afora

O piano deixa cair um plim

notas musicais em seqüência

lentamente caem também de mim

são folhas da memória descendo

calmamente do rio ao mar, e ao fim

O que fazer amanhã

com o resto da minha vida

passear no parque envolto em lã

sentar num banco, mirar passarinhos

ver na pedra Bashô e o salto da sua rã

O piano convida e eu vim

emprestar o ouvido à emoção

a lágrima pulando do olhar assim

mais do que rio, ela é o barco da alma

reflexo musical, um acorde: meu plim

O que fazer na próxima semana

com o resto da minha vida

papéis antigos, fumaça na cabana

neste inverno rigoroso revejo amigos

um bom vinho pode me levar a Havana

Triste... é assim

meus olhos choram

cinza... o jasmim

refletindo a cor do céu

cinzas no jardim e em mim

Quando a revolução interromper vossas orgias,
Regadas a vinho cujo preço
De alguns milhares de reais é o máximo requinte,
Não sofrereis com o clamor dos “peões”
Pelo fuzilamento imediato
De vossos corpos vestidos do glamour
Que o trabalho exaustivo e acachapante
Da manada humana propicia.

Quando a insurreição incendiar-nos
E a liberdade iluminar a Terra,
Quando perderdes a “celebridade”
E a adoração abestalhada e inciente
Das mentes hipnotizadas
Pela vossa oca e envolvente “mídia”,
Não vos desesperareis, tanto,
Na falta do escravo assalariado,
Com a extinção de vossa vadiagem chique.

Vós sofrereis, sim,
Por não poder
Pisotear mais as cabeças de bilhões,
Nem gozar, histéricos, babando,
Com a tortura e o aniquilamento
Quotidiano das nossas vidas simples,
Que desgraçais, tornando ocas e infelizes,
Com o sádico tacão de vosso mando!

Last night things were back to moving round my room, fine I can cope with that. It was when I was lying down that a face appeared in the darkness and I began to hear whispering. I tried to go get my mum but I couldn't move, I could feel myself moving but all I could see was the view from my bed no matter where I moved to. I know I was awake through this. That it was real. I could hear the traffic outside my window.

Eventually I managed to crawl upstairs to get my mum and she came rather worriedly to stay with me for the night. By this point I could see again but was terrified of being on my own again and at the prospect of closing my eyes to sleep. Up until the point I must've fell asleep, I could see the face. It was human based but bigger with large white slashes for eyes.

This morning I just feel detached.

I'm spent. Turning in early since I can't really do much else. I read a little of an interesting novel one of you turned me on to but it's very busy, character wise, and I'm having trouble keeping them straight. If I turn in now, and can sleep, I'll have nine and half hours of trap time by 6 am. If I'm in the midst of my little depressive bursts, it won't matter how much I sleep, it'll never be enough. Fortunately there just happening two or three days a week right now. I wonder if that's some facet bipoloar. In past lives when I got depressed it took days or weeks to set in and weeks, months, or even years to run it's course. Do people go from clinically depressed to bipolar? Do I even remember the past correctly? Shit.

At some points during this year it was impossible for me to go to school because of extended time in hospital, but nothing stopped me from doing coursework and I did do some on the ward. It was just so bad that I didn't enter any. When I was on leave from the ward I could have gone to school but instead I chose to lie in bed. I could have sat all my exams, there was nothing to stop me, just my inability to stop crying, pull myself together and get out of bed. I cant blame poor results on a bad school and crap teaching, I cant blame it on a lack of intelligence, I cant really even blame it on mood because there are other people who have been through similar things and sat exams and done coursework. It is my fault that while manic I applied to stupid universities that I really didn't want to go to. It is my fault I didn't think through my ucas form well so now my insurance and firm offers have offered me the same grades.

According to my CPN I did well because the two other people like me who were in hospital for the same amount of time at a similar time of the year have not sat any exams, I almost wish I had done this so then I wouldn't have been in this limbo of desperately wanting to get into university but knowing I don't deserve to because I put in such little work. At the moment there are four options for next year; get the grades and go to Manchester, go to Leicester or through clearing, social work apprenticeship, death. Compared to a few months ago this is a massive change because it used to be Manchester or death. Now I feel torn, different routes going in such different directions. I cant make any plans because I am just in this limbo.

Last line...

Thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday yesterday (and the facebook cake, Alison) it was a really great day. However I swear I am not going to drink that much again (well not until Thursday) I am rubbish with a hangover and it really does nothing for the medication regime.

When I was in rehab they didn't discuss too much about the bipolar, but about the drinking.  I still think if they had treated the depression and bipolar, I might not be drinking.  That's what this new drug does it stops the craving of alcohol so you can calm down.  I hope I get it.  If this works it's been a long time coming.  I'm mad that I spent all that time in rehab and no one treated the bipolar.  Only with all kinds of medications.  People that came to see me couldn't believe what they saw. I was a zombie.  I was in my own little world there and just wanted to be left alone.

I'll be back with more.

....and then it’s gone.

As I sit here typing away to you, I’m fine; my words come when called-usually. But face to face, it’s another story. I open my mouth and the words scatter, slipping off the table, onto the floor- rolling away into a corner, lost forever; My words disappear just as they are about to spring from my lips-as if they've been stricken with a severe case of pre-jump jitters, and they slip down my throat, leaving me stuttering, stammering, and empty. Lately every little word becomes one of about 5 words I use for everything: Cup? Nope. That's a 'thingy’. Book? That’s a 'thingy’ too. Computers are 'thingymajiggies', doors are 'youknowwhatties'. It sounds crazy, and it IS crazy. Perhaps my quack doctor has been experimenting too much with his buffet of behavioral feel good drugs-maybe he's erasing my ability to say anything. Maybe I shall have to carry a pen and paper with me soon, writing down anything I want to say.

Maybe its me-I've always been a bit…preoccupied; I’ve been accused of being too mellow at times, as if I'm under the influence of  some herbal bliss.. But I'm sorry to say-it’s just me. I'm one of two extremes-there's hippy girl, and then there's Kali. I prefer Kali, she gets things done; but others aren’t so keen on Kali.. With hippy girl, 'Like' and 'so anyway', have been staples of my silly vocabulary for a very long time. And I don't mind them, really. 'Like' used to really piss my mother off when I was in elementary school-so I began using it more and more, and now, it’s a word tattoo for me. I shall always be the 'So and Like' lady-even when I'm a 100! I can see myself-in my floral housedress sitting with the other grannies-telling some tall tale-and stammering on about thingies and whatchamacallits- with 'like and so'  being the only words that make sense... But lately, things have taken a turn for the worse, so that a conversation with me is like a conversation with  a very sleepy, stoned Andy Warhol, unless I'm really angry, then it becomes more of a sermon from the Devil.
I begin nearly every conversation around here with "So..." that could be because I'm not friendly with the natives, or perhaps because it gives me some powerful lead, as if I'm going to interrogate them for some random crime they've committed against me and mine. Either way, it never fails to get attention and quiet their babble for a moment or two.
As I said, I can usually write what I'm thinking like a mad mofo, saying whatever I feel like saying. But to have a conversation about something as small as picking up a book for me at the library becomes " So, if you're going out, would you mind stopping by the thingy (library) and picking up a whatchamacallit (book) for me by, you know, the lady that...umm...whatshername?(Amy Tan? Erica Jung?)"
So, it’s causing a few issues with me. Not so much with the natives, due to the fact that their vocabulary primarily consists of: Yes, No, Ain't, Get out, Shut up, Fuck you, and hate. They just stand there looking at me with a scared smile on their face as if they may or may not be in danger. Maybe it’s a puzzled look-as if they're wondering how I became a member of their tribe in the first place. This is honestly a bit entertaining for me, because I often wonder about that too.

When I'm in tough mom  or business mode, it makes things difficult-I become Ozzy O, stuttering, but doing my best to be serious and then I'll call something a 'youknowwhatty', and N smiles, then I lose it and we end up laughing uncontrollably, until I've forgotten the whole reason I was giving him the lecture in the first place.

Maybe its burn out. Maybe being here, away from everyone I know, with the exception of G and N has pushed me over the edge and I've forgotten how to communicate…… No, I'm pretty sure it’s my quack's fault. Never trust a doctor that should be riding a horse and buggy to work and looks up the pills I recommend he try to 'fix me' with in the same prescription book I have at home. That's another thing-why is it that I can tell this pathetic ass what he should give me anyway? Why can't he make a better choice than Lithium or Zoloft? Why can't he do his job and allow me to be the brainless twit looking for his wise guidance? I told him I had thyroid problems, because I have for the last 12 years-he said "No, you don't". I said "check again" he said “Ok, I will” and three days later, I'm on levothyroxine. I'm confident that I could tell him I've been suffering with erectile dysfunction and suggest a pill, and he'd smile his permanent dummy smile while looking up the pill in his worn paperback and then say "Alright, we can do that". Of course getting anything for physical pain is a different story. He'll give you whatever you can suggest for anything else-but NOT for pain-which makes me really want to poke him in the eye or do something a bit uglier to him. I'm sure you're thinking: “switch doctors". But there are 3 doctors here-THREE, and once you belong to one, the others prefer not to touch you-you're another doctor's rhubarb-that means hands off. So I'm stuck with a doctor that doesn't own a computer and hasn't a clue about Bipolar, or spoken word or anything related to the literary world-except his 2007 prescription book of course. So ramble on, I shall for now. And if that makes me seem like I've spent too long in a dark room reading Huxley or hanging with Timothy Leary's spirit, so be it, right?

I have a love/hate relationship with language anyway. I love using words, bending them to fit my own little world. Its great fun, finding new ways to say the same old redundant things, and a few of the people I speak to (or email rather) are from other countries, so my odd vocabulary makes for VERY interesting conversation. I can't tell you how many times, I've had someone say: "Wait a second; you're pushing my knowledge of the English language." Of course, there have been other times when my slippery language has not only gotten me into some serious trouble, but has also saved my ass-in all sorts of ways. You become acquainted with how to say what you're saying to whom you're saying it too-There's a big difference in how you say something to your four year-old niece or a 60 year-old man; [actually those two aren't such good examples because there really isn't that much difference-they both enjoy the same sort of sweet talk.] Still you get what I'm saying, right?

At the moment, speaking has become a joke-a sad joke, but I'm able to laugh about it, so I must still be ok.
It reminds me of watching N when he was small, learning to identify things and communicate his needs to me. [Christ, what if I begin saying 'num-num' when I'm hungry too?]
When he was three, he began to hum along with Mozart, which I felt was solid proof that he was a baby genius. One day he overheard mommy say the "F" word when I broke a fingernail while moving a sofa. Imagine my surprise when a few days later at his grandparent's home, he began singing the F-word to the tune of Mozart's Eine kleine Nachtmusik ! It was shocking for his grandma, but hilariously funny for me. I was pleased that he could sing along without missing a single note, convinced that this was even more proof that he was indeed a baby genius. And no, I didn't discipline him, just gave him a warning about dirty words, and NO he didn't grow up to be a riff raff sort of person-as a matter of fact he's quite the opposite-as those of you who know me will agree. Besides, it’s  just words, anyway...

I was just speaking-(typing) to someone about 'words' and colorful vocabularies last weekend. Does it really matter how many exquisitely plump words you can fit into a single thought/line? I prefer to develop my own language when I'm writing-for example-exquisitely plump is fine with me, rather than what Mr. Joe-middle-of-the-road or even Mr. holier-than-thou-writing-class would say. I have zero desire to appeal to either of those types, so I'll say what I want. how I want. (I'll never write an Oprah book-of-the-month story; sure, I may do Letterman, because he's from Indiana too, (I was born in Indianapolis), and besides, I'm well equipped for handling guys like Letterman.)

Words cause too many troubles for us, don't they? I loathe the way words-even when I'm in my right mind-can become distorted, confused, twisted, and one tiny sentence can offend someone or even crush them, when in fact no harm was intentionally meant. I can understand how an email can confuse someone-especially my type of emails with the excessive hyphens and commas and of course those infamous pregnant pauses... (Emails are still easier to follow & understand than it would be if I were speaking to you face to face, believe me).

I think I've always suffered with mastering this language-(when I used to try, that is).When I was a kid, my best friend's parents would laugh at me and my syrupy southern accent. (I pronounced Hills  as Heels), and because they were 'well off', and I was truly from the wrong side of life, I felt foolish, embarrassed and devastated. I began reading dictionaries and practicing saying things differently than the rest of the garbage around me. I worked VERY hard to deprogram myself- just to please others; because as a child, I thought they were better than the fucks I'd always been around. [I now know that was completely untrue, and most everyone (rich or poor) can really truly suck in the same good old ways.]

Then I moved away to a much bigger town, and picked up on some new dialects and I became a 'right hodge-podge' of language with a funny, new accent. Eventually, I befriended a few punks from NY, with names like Eyeball and Germ, and my dialect became even stranger. Later, I began spending a lot of time with a gentleman from Virginia, and once again you could detect this in my accent. But the icing on my 'funny accent' cake was my anglophile phase (which I have a foot in the door of- even now, though not nearly as much as I used to) and then my accent became stranger still. Consider the time spent on lengthy phone calls with a Welsh, an Italian and a few very different English accents, and its no surprise that I've developed a very colorful accent indeed!

I get a lot of questions about my accent: "Have you lived in New York, England, even Australia and Texas?" (Though I haven't a clue about the last one, really). A long time ago, I would have been tempted to fib-and say "Actually yes, I have spent the last few months with my friend Romero in Brooklyn", (which would have been sort of true... in a way. I DID spend several months talking to Romero, who lived in Brooklyn, via phone every single day). But now, I just smile and say "No, I've never been there." After all-'Let them wonder'...

My grandmother left school when she was 14, had a very limited vocabulary-AND she was the best storyteller I've ever heard. Her scary stories could have easily 'whipped the tar' out of Stephen King (and I'm pretty sure he would have agreed if he'd heard her stories). Her emotion, the inflection, even with her limited words, did a far better job telling a story than those people who spend years in college 'learning to write'... And that’s what I want to do: I’d rather  be  a storyteller rather than a writer any day.

I saw my father for the last time when I was 18. He'd spent a decade or so in Mexico, so I was very surprised to discover he still spoke like a Southern Gentleman (a bit like good ole' Colonel Sanders). Of course always the Daddy's girl, (even when Daddy wasn’t there), this made me feel better about my own Southern drawl, which creeps up occasionally- especially when I'm just waking up or I’ve had a second drink. Though hill is now pronounced hill, I’ve realized that there's no use fighting who you are sometimes and that you have to use it to your advantage rather than trying to bury it-which is the way I'm looking at the natives at the moment...Should I bury them or should I keep them around so they can pick up a ‘so and so’ at the’ whatchamacallit’ for me?

Now, to answer the Darkness question, Yes of course I meant to use "She got" (N was concerned people wouldn't realize this was intentional), “She got” is sexier than "she has" AND “she got” sounds a bit more street smart-and trust me, that's sexy too. Speaking of sexy, I've left the song that really inspired the “got” phrasing in Darkness-even though I didn't realize the influence until after I'd written it. This is a VERY sexy song-but it must be THIS version by THIS band-Turn it up VERY loud and listen to those growling vocals and the lyrics that I felt-even at the virginal age of 9- were extremely wicked-because listening to this song gave me the same strange butterflies that watching Gregory Peck or looking at my Shaun Cassidy poster gave me. (And Yes, I now realize that my tender little head was waaaay wrong about the Shaun Cassidy thing)

That's it for now-but my time is my own at the moment, so don't be surprised if I leave several entries over the next few days...or if I don’t. Sugary Kisses~13

'one thing I can tell you is you got to be free'

darklucia13@yahoo.com

- Mania
- Hypomania
- Depression
- Mixed episode

Mania symptoms: In the manic phase of bipolar disorder, feelings of heightened energy, creativity, and euphoria are common. People experiencing a manic episode often talk a mile a minute, sleep very little, and are hyperactive. They may also feel like they’re all-powerful, invincible, or destined for greatness.

But while mania feels good at first, it has a tendency to spiral out of control. People often behave recklessly during a manic episode­—gambling away savings, engaging in inappropriate sexual activity, or making foolish business investments, for example. They may also become angry, irritable, and aggressive, picking fights, lashing out when others don’t go along with their plans, and blaming anyone who criticizes their behavior.

Hypomania syptoms- Hypomania is a less severe form of mania. People in a hypomanic state feel euphoric, energetic, and productive, but their symptoms are milder than those of mania and much less disruptive. Unlike manics, people with hypomania never suffer from delusions and hallucinations. They are able to carry on with their day-to-day lives. To others, it may seem as if the hypomanic individual is merely in an unusually good mood. But unfortunately, hypomania often escalates to full-blown mania or is followed by a major depressive episode.

Bipolar depression symtpoms-
- Feeling hopeless, sad, or empty.
- Loss of interest in things you used to enjoy
- Fatigue or loss of energy
- Physical and mental sluggishness
- Appetite or weight changes
- Sleeping too much or too little
- Concentration and memory problems
- Feelings of self-loathing, shame, or guilt
- Thoughts of death or suicide

Mixed episode symptoms- A mixed episode of bipolar disorder features symptoms of both mania and depression. Common signs of a mixed episode include agitation, irritability, insomnia, appetite changes, loss of contact with reality, and suicidal thoughts. This combination of high energy and low mood makes for a particularly high risk of suicide.

- Ryan Dixon