Split Second Memories

A memory passed in front of my eyes today. It was as real as the poison ivy on my legs.

My mind has not visited there in a long, long time. I have just about trained it to not go in that direction. Seems that area of my past causes bumps and bruises and other assorted boo-boos.

It was a wonderful memory for a moment, until that split second when your mind jumps back off the track to nowhere and you remember that it was only a memory.

It smelled wonderful; tasted delicious. It was just wonderful to every one of my senses.

Some have written that we should not be sad about what we've lost, but happy that we ever had it to begin with. That little ditty, along with the saying, "Abscence makes the heart grow fonder", I think is bulllshit.

Dental Phobia

I cannot ever remember NOT being afraid to go to the dentist. When I was a kid I used to hope we would have a wreck on our way so I wouldn’t have to go.

My dentist growing up was so mean. The room he did the work in was tiny and had one door leading to the lobby and another door leading to the back area. He would walk in and close both doors and I can remember my stomach feel like it was shrinking.

He always hurt me. Every filling, everything he did hurt. Now keep in mind growing up I was not allowed to cry at home. There was (still is) something about crying that would set my mother off. She would get very angry and yell and scream and tell me how big a baby I was for crying “about every little thing”, whether it be a bee sting or a boyfriend lost. I learned very young not to cry.

At this dentist, who I will refer to as Dr. Satan, if I cried he would hold his hand over my mouth and pinch my nose closed and tell me that when I stopped crying he would let me breathe again. Now when I say I was crying, what I mean is that little snuff snuff you get when you’re crying and trying not to. I never cried in such a way that I couldn’t hold my mouth open for him, nor did I make any noises other than the snuff snuff, still he would hold my breath every time.

Once, after my mother and I got back in the car, I told my mother what he did. Her response was, “You better be glad I didn’t know you were back there showing your ass or I would have come back there and whipped you”. I never mentioned it again.

From a child onward, until about 3 years ago, I would get diarrhea and be sick on my stomach weeks in advance of a dental appointment. About three years ago I began getting nitrous when they have work to do. That in addition to the kind understanding dentist I go to, has helped me tremendously.

I had to go this week to get prep work done for a crown. When they walked me back from the lobby, I could tell they were rushed. The dentist came and got me himself rather than the assistant who usually done that. He sat me down and immediately began giving me injections. They had ALWAYS started the gas before the injections, but he didn’t even mention the gas this time. It is written on the outside of my file that I use nitrous, but they never mentioned it, and I felt since they were rushing they must be behind and I didn’t want to inconvenience them.

I will never do that again! I am usually not a pussy when it comes to pain or much of anything really. I am not a scaredy-cat by nature. I am a former cop. When I would go after work I would lie there in my uniform complete with a S&W 40 on my hip and tears would fall down my face. It is something I cannot control. The nitrous however made it tolerable without tears.

This visit was horrible. I laid there for over 2 hours, shaking so hard the chair and tray and everything else shook too. When they were doing the molds, the assistant pressing them in place was shaking from my body shaking. I felt panic coming up in my throat several times and felt I would suffocate. Somewhere inside me I went back to my Lamaze from 26 years ago. It took a great deal of effort (and that is a huge understatement) but I didn’t make them let me up like my brain and body was screaming at me to do.

I have paid for that little bravo since Tuesday. My stomach has been torn up, I have had a headache off and on this entire time, and my back has throbbed. (The back pain is from lying in the uncomfortable and awkward position for so long.. I have 24-7 back pain from two blown discs, but it is manageable – this has been close to not being.)

I will ask for my gas from now on. That is the last time I will allow myself to suffer because I think the fact that they are running behind is more important than my comfort. Hell, I pay extra to receive nitrous that my insurance won’t touch. They say it is “unnecessary”. I know the lady has to sit right there with me the entire time I am receiving it whereas if I am not she can flitter between rooms and get more work done. Tough shit – I’m paying for it. If it is a problem they should not offer it.

I am also making it a point to not listen to the voices that continue to remind me what a big cry baby I am.

Fuck you very much Dr. Satan.

Another Missing Piece of My Heart

Two days ago, my younger dog found a baby chipmunk.

I was getting ready for work when I heard Luke barking and carrying on like a mad-dog on crack. Pulling my gown down as far below my ass as it would go, I went to see what he was throwing around and jumping at. When I saw the little creature, I picked up the mad-dog and took him in the house, grabbing a paper towel on my way out.

I picked him up with the paper towel, (because you KNOW Bounty is tuff), not knowing what it was or how it might react to me. The poor little thing was soaking wet, cold as ice and bleeding from somewhere. For several hours I assumed he was a squirrel. In the shape he was in you couldn’t tell. You could tell he was a baby, though his eyes had opened and he did have all his fur, he was still very young.

I didn’t want him to die in the cold grass all wet and scared and alone so I brought him to work with me along with an eye dropper I keep around for occasions such as these.

When I got to work I mixed up a little warm water with sugar, just to see if he would take anything. He was so cold. The only way I could think of to warm him up was to stick him down in the empty space in my bra cup (doesn’t everyone have a bra that doesn’t fit properly) but my boss didn’t know I had an animal at my desk and I was trying to keep it that way. Then it occurred to me…my FOOTWARMER!

I keep a foot warmer under my desk, because although I am the queen of hot flashes, they only affect me from the ankles up. My feet, on the other hand, tend to get chilly from the fact that I keep the ac turned down to 40. So into the nice and cushiony foot warmer he goes.

About two hours later I take him out to offer more sugar water. He barely sips a drop or two, but he is looking better. He is almost dry and I can tell I was wrong about him being a squirrel.

For 56 hours I kept Chip with me. I bought enough puppy replacement formula (suggested on every website I found pertaining to abandoned or injured baby animals) for 100 more Chips and was giving him that every 3 hours. He was looking better a little at a time. This morning, he actually jerked his little head up and looked at me and grabbed the dropper with his two front paws and sucked like there was no tomorrow. When I got him out 3 hours later, he didn’t look too hot. Wouldn’t take any formula.

I kept him in my lap after that and just 20 minutes ago, he died.

I have questioned whether it is good or not that I have this “thing” about animals. I absolutely cannot leave an injured animal. All my life when I have seen a turtle in the road, I have to pull over, get out, pick it up and move it to the grass so it won’t get run over. I made my former husband pull over once when I saw a dog on a chain and it had some kind of bucket stuck on its head.

He was a big dog, and dogs kept on chains out in the yard can get mean because of the sheer misery of being lonely, (please, if you can’t keep your dog inside, don’t get one) but I could not keep going and not try to get that bucket off. It was hot and the poor baby couldn’t even get a drop of water.

So husband #1 pulled over and I walked real slow up to the dog, telling him how I was his friend and please don’t bite me when I pull the bucket off and if he felt he had to bite me to please not bite me in the face.

I pulled the bucket off and threw it away from the dogs’ reach and ran like a bat outta you know where back to my car.

When I was very small I used to just cry and cry at the movies when the cowboys would get shot and cause their horses to fall down. My mother would get on to me and fuss that I “care more about the animal than the man who just got shot”. (Don’t ask me to make sense of my mother.)

It is not that I cared more about the animals; or then again maybe I did. My pets were the one "constant" and safe thing I had in my life growing up. Besides, I figure people have a mind and can take care of themselves and not put themselves into precarious situations. Animals for the most part depend on us to help them be safe.

I guess it goes without saying that I have a special place in my heart for animals. All of them. Animals know it too. Not trying to sound like a Dr. Dolittle here or anything, just saying that animals will take to me in situations where nobody else could get near them. I’ve seen this happen many times over in my life.

I am so sorry my dog found this beautiful creature. I had picked him up out of the wet grass that morning just so he wouldn’t die alone and cold, but I guess that part of my heart kicked in without my even wanting it to.

Brains That Lie

Edwin Leap wrote a wonderful post about the patients he sees in the ER who suffer from depression.
Find it here http://edwinleap.com/blog/?p=158

He has written several posts about this subject...about the people like me who live in "this world". His posts are so accurate as to the thoughts that go on in our heads, it is amazing.

I personally have never been to an ER because of my depression. It is not because I have not felt I needed to though. As I have gotten older, the depression has grown so much larger.

It is almost totally consuming now. So far I have held onto my job. I am fortunate that I work in an office with only two other people, so when I cry and absolutely cannot make the tears go away, I don't have to try and hide too much. I worry about my job though. It is getting more and more difficult to concentrate on what I am doing. Without my job, I am not sure what I would do.

For me, and many others like me, the meds stop working after a while. In my case, the meds stop working after a shorter and shorter period of time now days. It is exhausting to even think of going back to the shrink and telling him they no longer work. I feel as if I disappoint him when I tell him that. I fear seeing a look of anger on his face.

When you see my type walk through the doors, or you see them in the church, or beside you on your job, try to remember this is not something we asked for. We are not weak. We are not lazy or just wanting pity from anyone.

I remember when I was very first prescribed Prozac back in 1992. It was a miracle. It didn't make me happy. It simply made me me again. That's it. It worked for over 3 years. I have not been in that good of a shape since.

During the rare good times, I remind myself that just like it comes, it will go away again even if for only a short time, because when I am in the midst of it there is no thinking straight enough to remember.

I keep a little card on my desk that says, "Remember that if you ever feel like killing yourself, it is your brain lying to you". That simple sentence has helped me more than you can imagine. Maybe if you ever run into someone like me, you can tell them that.

Black Dogs Disgust

The Black Dog and me were sitting on the couch tonight watching TV. I was on one end of the couch kind of twisted up on there sitting on one foot while the other leg was bent with my foot on the couch. Black Dog had curled up against the back of my thighs.

I had butter beans for lunch today. I had pintos yesterday. Okay boys and girls, does anyone know where we’re going with this?

Well I have been feeling my gut complaining for hours. I honestly didn’t know how much longer I would be able to hold it. To make it worse, I was watching Worlds Most Outrageous Moments and every time I laughed my butt threatened to give up the entire façade. It wanted relief and it wanted it now, unfortunately now was not an option.

Hubby and I do not fart in front of one another. Matter of fact, as far as hubby knows I don’t fart at all. Its funny, my first husband and I had farting contests, but the one I have now is so very proper I just can’t bring myself to cut a hot one when he’s around.

Finally he went to take a shower. Soon as I heard that shower turn on, I hauled off and cut some cheese to go with them air biscuits! I had barely got that one out when Black Dog raised his head up, looked at me, and got up and went to the other end of the couch.

If Black Dogs are capable of feeling disgusted, I swear that is the look I saw in his eyes. That made me laugh way more than I should have considering I hadn't emptied my bladder in several hours.

Sorry ‘bout that Black Dog.

Water Bras and Full Flavor Menthol

I have decided that if I can lose 40 pounds, I can start back smoking. I came to that conclusion by doing some research on the dangers of smoking, and on the dangers of being overweight.

I also found that if I throw in 8 -12 ounces of orange juice per day, I won’t even have to go back to the Menthol Lights, I can go straight for the Full Flavor!

Not only can the orange juice help reunite me with my former "best friends", but according to the most recent facts on Green Tea, once I do start back smoking not only can I go back to Full Flavor. All I will need to do is consume 24 ounces of Green Tea every 24 hours and I can smoke up to ¼ pack more than I was smoking when I quit. Damnnnnnn! (The mechanism of this effect is uncertain, but it is possible that catechins in green tea may play a role.)

Once I resume smoking, I will probably drop an additional 8-15 pounds over the course of that first year. When that happens I can then begin socking away all the money I’ll save by no longer needing anti-hypertensives, anti-diabetics, CPAP supplies anti-Hyperlipidemias, and of course, because I’m not…ahem... “getting any”…I certainly don’t have that pesky little birth control expense any longer.

(I will still need the anti-crazies, but I think those are worth splurging on...although..if I think back to some prior material I have read, the nicotine does hits those same receptors on the brain that prozac does. I may have to do a tad more research on this.)

I figure once I start saving all that medication money, even considering the trade-off there will be with the cost of the cigarettes, I’ll still have a nice little booty tucked away.

I may just go to Wal-Mart and buy me one of those new water bras.

Mother's Not Speaking...maybe for the last time

I called my mother on Mothers Day to tell her “Happy Mothers Day”. She said she was busy getting ready to go somewhere. She was very “short” with me. “Yes”…”No”…one syllable answers. After about a very long 90 seconds I gave up trying to make small talk. I told her I’d talk to her some time when she wasn’t busy and that I loved her. Her response was, “Okay. Bye”.

I waited 47 years to do it, but a few weeks ago I finally sent my mother a letter asking some questions about my childhood and our family tree.

None of the questions were asked in an accusing or negative way. I really went out of my way to be sure they were asked in as gentle a way as possible.

I asked her things such as did she ever have a “nervous breakdown”. I asked her did she ever have to take medication because of her “nerves”.

I asked her about my uncle who hanged himself when I was very young; what was his diagnosis, about his hospitalizations, etc.

I asked her about my sister who is 10 years older than me, about why when I was in 1st grade I came home from school one day and both her wrists had bandages on them. When I asked back then I was told she cut them washing dishes.

I asked her did she know if the reason for her affairs was because of an intense need to feel loved or accepted by a man.

Finally, I asked her was my “daddy” my biological father. Maybe that’s the one that pissed her off. I have always wondered though. As long as I have been old enough to fathom such a thing I have wondered.

I remember a man coming to visit during weekdays sometimes. I remember he drove a truck. He would help me crawl up in the truck and take me to the store to get a bag of candy. I cannot see his face. All I can remember is the truck and the fact it was about midday and that my daddy was always at work when he came.

I never once asked why she hit me in the face my entire life with any weapon that was handy. I didn’t ask why she would kick me with her very expensive cowboy boots on. I didn’t ask why she choked me. I didn’t ask why she told me I was an accident. I didn’t ask her how she could walk out on me when I was 6 years old to “run away” with a new boyfriend. Nor did I ask her how she did it all again when I was 12 after daddy allowed her to come home after the first time.

There are no answers for such things. I just figure she had a horrible temper and never learned how to control her anger. I don’t hold any grudges towards her. I truly don’t. That is why I didn’t ask her anything about those things, only the other questions. Only because I think somehow the answer might help me to get through the depression I live with.

I stopped going around my mother about 9 years ago even though she lives just a few minutes up the road. It is rather easy since she has only visited me once in approximately 12 years. I always write her letters…innocent innocuous letters…because I want to be a good daughter and stay in touch, but every time I am around her I come away feeling really bad about me. Somehow I thought the way that I wrote the letter, and the way I tried to ask in such a light hearted way, that surely she would understand that I needed to know some of these things and not get mad about me asking. She is getting up in age and there is no one left who could answer most of these questions.

Looks as if I won’t get any answers.

Silence = Depression ?

I’ve been trying to observe myself from “outside myself”. There is a word for that, but I can’t think of it right now. I find I have lost my words a lot lately.

I seem to have decided that talking takes more effort than I am willing to put forth. Unless someone says something to me – I don’t talk. I have noticed that my husband does not seem to be a talker either. I guess that means I have been initiating all the conversing, along with all the sex, for the past 7 years? I had no clue.

I don’t want him to think I am mad at him. I’m not. I just have nothing to say. It is not just him either. I don’t talk at work except when I have to.

I think sometimes I would prefer to live alone. If I lived alone, neither he nor I would feel any pressure to speak.

I wonder if he hates being with me. It cannot be easy being with someone who is down so much of the time. I used to try to put on a front and pretend to be “up”. Like talking, that just seems to require more energy than I have anymore.

I wonder if my first husband of 24 years thought I was weird or if we were just weird together and had grown so accustomed to it that we no longer noticed it.

I wonder if there is such a thing as Sudden Onset of Adult Muteness?

Dreaming

I dream of a man. I imagine him as being tall, not necessarily a gorgeous guy but a man with nice smiling eyes and an easy laughter

I imagine him as he walks past me in the hallway reaching for me, pulling me to him and squeezing my butt between his hands and kissing me.

I see me standing at the sink washing dishes. He is coming in the door from washing my car. Still wet and hot from the outdoors. He walks up behind me and puts his wet arms around me and in each hand grabs a boob and massages them, while pushing into my butt with his crotch.

As I begin to turn toward him, he takes my face in his hands and pulls me to him and kisses me with the yearning a man might have for something to drink after being lost in the desert. His tongue finds mine and kisses me that deep kiss that only can be appreciated by two people who have that one special bond.

By the time supper is eaten and showers are taken, we both know what is next for us. We’ve been headed this direction all day. Our big bed, so soft and warm, is just the right place for two passionate people like us. He lights one candle, peels his underwear off and hesitates just long enough to give me a good look at what I am about to enjoy, then he crawls in bed and immediately turns me over onto my belly so he can run his lips across that most sensitive part of my neck. From that point on he has my motor running. In the end, we drift off to sleep, tangled in each others arms, hot, sticky.

Every day, he appreciates my femininity. In some way whether it be grabbing my ass, or kissing my breast while I am dressing in the mornings, he shows me how much he enjoys my body even with its’ flaws.

He knows I don’t want flowers. He doesn’t have to worry about buying me jewelry. A phone call during the day to tell me he loves me is worth all the diamonds in the world. He knows my contentment comes from our love and our passion and the bond we possess.

Better

I am feeling better.
Looking back, when I get in that "place", it is almost unbelievable.
Thank you for caring - it means more than words can express.

Make it go away mommy....

I sat in my bedroom this evening, 2 foot from where my gun lay. I must have sat there and stared at it for 40 minutes. I could imagine it's weight in my hand, the coldness of the barrel as I pointed it in center mass. I stared and I cried and I stared. I told myself all the things they teach you at times like that.
It worked this time. But I am so tired, So very, very tired.

Mental Hospital

I feel like I am losing my mind. I can barely make a decision. Any decision. I just want so badly for this to go away. I feel like I need to be in the hospital, but having never been there, I'm not even sure they really help. I would hate to risk having a huge bill to pay not to mention being out of work and not be any better when I get out.

This too shall pass is my mantra, and it has been for years and years but I am getting so tired. I can't imagine ANOTHER 16 years of this.

Mental Health Care & Fat Rat's Ass

Are there really people out there who can afford the minimum of $90 per visit to seek counseling? That is the minimum! They won't let you make payments either - I've asked every one I have contacted.

Sliding scale doesn't help unless you're destitute. Forget the "Government Mental Health Clinics"...they are so busy they can only see you every 3-4 months, and they use that same sliding scale.

What pisses me off though, is I know if I didn't work (which so far I am hanging onto my job by the skin of my teeth as long as they don't mind me crying on and off throughout the day), didn't pay my bills, sat around popping out babies, and didn't give a Fat Rats Ass, I could get it all for free just by holding out my hand.

Kidney Stones: Labor With No Baby

I just had a kidney stone blasted to smithereens by way of Lithotripsy. It had made it to the lower part of my ureter then screamed, “screw you ... I’m staying right here”. I had been having minute amounts of blood in my urine for 5 weeks so I figured it was only a matter of time before a stone made itself known.

I had Lithotripsy about 14 years ago for a stone that was lodged ½ down my ureter. Nothing like having pains that meet and exceed the pains of labor but without a cute little baby at the end!

The first Litho I had, they used general anesthesia. This time they used sedation. I was very nervous about this sedation thing, having never experienced it before. I just knew they would let me “wake up” and I’d feel something, but I didn’t. Plus, and a HUGE plus it was, I did NOT wake up hurling like I do with general anesthesia.

Now if they could find a CT or an x-ray that could locate the depression, and find a way to blast it to smithereens so I could piss it away, wouldn’t the world be a better place?!?

I am the Captain of my Crazy Ship

I attempted to explain my bipolar today to a new friend of mine but I couldn't. I'm going to try here where I am not under so much pressure.

First off, I HATE the term "mood swings". That term has always been associated with nutty women or PMS or menopause. What else could you use though? That is what we have...mood swings.

The main two components of my illness are depression and I suppose the second would have to be a tie between rage and just feeling like the most super, smart and funny woman in the world.

The depression: that one is easy to describe.

• For me it is waking every morning and wishing you hadn't. Crying while you're getting ready for work regardless of whether or not you have already put your mascara on - that is IF you're even bothering with your make-up. About half the time I don't even touch the stuff.
• Crying as I am driving to and from work. Wishing someone would run a red light and kill me so that it could all be over with but without the shame of suicide.
• I cry during work. I DETEST with RAGE the damn phone ringing right when I am in the middle of what I know will be a period of crying that I cannot stop even by biting my tongue. I know the guys in my office think I have the worst case of allergies in the entire world. They see the red eyes and the tissues...I just say allergies. Who understand crying without a specific reason or excuse?
• I go to church with my husband the deacon who everyone admires and looks up to and I sit there on my fourth row seat and cry, sometimes sobbing quietly. I am so embarrassed, but my choice is to stay home. I hide as much as possible. I don't want to see people because they all shake your hand and say, "Hi. How are you?" How do you say, "Oh I'm fine and how are you?" when there are tears streaming down your face pushing your eyeliner alone with them. I try to be invisible. I love preaching but I won't go to Sunday School because the classroom is little and they sit in a circle where everyone looks at everyone and I look down at the floor and feel stupid. I know they're looking at me and wondering why I'm not friendly and oh if they only knew just how badly I wanted to be friendly. If they only know how badly I needed friends and how much compassion and love I have for people, but I can't show it because it is just too hard to wear the mask.
• I cannot concentrate at work. I look at the computer where I do my work and find myself staring at it as if I am clueless as to what to do next. I've only done this job for 7 years. I never go out to lunch with everyone else. Again, I hate having to put on the mask and pretend everything in my world is hunkey dorey.
• I have a plan in place at all times. I have letters written to loved ones begging their forgiveness for my whimping out and taking the low road.
  
• I never see the depression coming. It just slaps the shit out of me right from the blue! Bam...I'm down. Reminding myself several times a day why I shouldn't stop this pain. Literally naming on my fingers all the people. Wondering how much longer I can hang on for other people when the pain inside my chest is about to overcome my caring that they not be hurt.
• I wrap myself inside my head and don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to look at anyone. I don't want to leave my house. I don't want to get out of my pajamas. If there was no spouse here I would sleep. Period. Just sleep.
• 
  
• Depression is black and ugly and hideous and I get so damn frustrated that no one seems to be able to find the answers and fix this. I know that every time the veil lifts and I feel like I will survive, that it will be back. It always comes back. It has come back for me since 1992.
  

The Bipolar...the manic side...second part: the rage and the super smart woman:

• The rage is something that has only in the past year or so been added to my plate. I don't do anger well. If I am just totally mad at you, I turn it inwards. I will think bad thoughts, I will consider beating the shit out of someone, and the rage from holding back will make me shake and sweat and grit my teeth. I won't, however, hit anyone.
• The rage can be something as simple as the phone ringing at work for the 6th time in 3 minutes. There are four other people in that effing office. Is it because they all have penises that they cannot lift their effing hands to answer the damn phone!?!?!
• The rage can also be the idiot person behind the counter at the fast food place who when you walk up to her window she acts as if you are there just for the sole purpose of ruining her day. Well screw you bitch.
• The rage can be against my spouse. Oh my how ugly that one can get. enough said.

The other part, where there is the funny and incredibly smart and artistic woman:

• I can write such poetic and easy to understand articles.
• Short stories that people can really get into and feel what I am saying.
  
• I can draw the reader into the scene I have created with my words.
• I can sit and make jewelry, popping out complete outfits in a couple of hours.
• I can paint a picture that is good enough to enter competitions.
• I can walk with my head high with great self confidence.
• I can be incredibly sexy and flirty and just KNOW that I look D.A.M.N. good.
• I can drive fast and flashy and be safe all at the same time.
• I can spend money like it grows on trees.

That is my life with Bipolar. Bipolar's life with me.