The Bipolar Diva

Just To Get My Mind Off Of It

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Sat, 26 May 2012 14:13:58 PDT

Stolen from Sunday Stealing

1. Have you ever peed your pants as an adult? I can confidently say no thanks to Dr. Drake.

2. Who do you have a celebrity crush on now? Johnny Depp always

3. Would you date someone you met online? I've met people that I've met online

4. Do you wear underwear always? well of course not

5. Do you hate yourself at times? I've hated things I've done at times

7. Do you like dirty movies? You mean like the DVDs that are covered with sticky paw prints?

8. Could you believe Josha Ledet was voted off Idol? who?

9. When was the last time that you bought a car? That would be December 2007

10. Have you ever been camping? Do I look like I'd camp? Truth is I wouldn't be able to get off of the ground.

11. How many times a day do you go on facebook? how many hours in a day again?

12. What was the last movie you saw in a theater? probably RED

13. Have you ever worried that you'd cut off a limb? I'm pretty sure I still have all mine.

14. Where did you get your last email from? that's a silly question. my computer

15. Favorite website? The Bipolar Diva...duh

16. Are you down with ghetto? I'll slap that shit off my kids faster than they could blink

17. Will the world end in fire or ice? I guess Ice, that would mean the glass of gin is empty

18. Do you believe in the afterlife? yeppers

19. Would you be upset if facebook stopped working? but of course

20. How did you start your blog? one thought at a time

21. Have you felt that life is like being on a roller coaster? are you kidding? I sell tickets

22. Favorite year so far? 1991

23. Do you consider yourself religious? not religious, faithful

24. How do you dress to impress? depends. Am I on the Harley, out on the town or at Starbucks? on the bike it would have to be leathers, on the town would be short dresses and stilettos, and at Starbucks.....eh, jeans?

25. Have you ever been to Connecticut? no I have not

26. Do you eat sushi? I love it!

27. Would you smoke pot providing there was no risk or driving involved? where did it come from?

28. What do you think of Idol Winner Phillip Phillips?? who?

29. Do you believe that animals have souls? have you ever looked into the eyes of a gorilla? that pretty much answers it.

30. Who did you last talk to? Share, if you dare. boring. to my husband about a check from a client

31. What is one thing that always annoys you? rudeness and the scraping of teeth on a fork

32. Do you believe in a higher being? yes

33. Have you ever fallen in love with a neighbor? eh, not

34. Any plans for this weekend? leaving to drive to Texas in the morning for two and a half weeks

35. Would you like to rule your country, if you could? I rule my household, that's enough for me

36. Do you like watching films about the nature of animals? I find them incredibly boring

37. What's the difference between lust and/or lust? somehow I think this question was written incorrectly

38. Do you have a soul? the last time I checked

39. One best friend or many good friends? I have one best friend and lots of good friends

40. Do you believe in spontaneous combustion? I've wished for it at times.

Unimaginable

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Thu, 24 May 2012 22:58:41 PDT

The day started out gloriously. I sat in Starbucks chatting it up with my beautiful cousin as I sipped a latte and had some oatmeal. I had a list of things to get through since I'm leaving on a 2 and 1/2 week road trip to Texas on Sunday morning with my daughter Nikki. I was getting prepared to begin the "checking off the list" day and make dinner for my family.

Then I got the call. The call that informed me of something that will fundamentally change our family forever. For some reason it hit me exceptionally hard even though it doesn't really affect me personally per se, but it did affect me. It affected me because of the people involved. I took on their pain, their shock, their torment.

My husband had to tell me several times before the words, the terrible words, sank in. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't think. All I could do was to cry, cry for my family and cry for what I thought at first had to be a horrible, horrible mistake, all had to be well, but it's not and it won't ever be again.

As Jeff's words slowly sank in I realized it was indeed real. It happened. The worst imaginable thing did happen. But still it wasn't real, not then, not now. But I've seen it. I've seen the news, I've seen the articles, I've seen the pictures. I read the words, the unthinkable words, and I know that we've all been changed forever.

For some reason I went into crisis mode. The panic began and the anxiety was at an all time high. I had to call my psychiatrist to tell me what to do. I couldn't even fathom how to get through the panic and the anxiety that I've fought for so many decades.

He walked me through maximum dosages and tried his best to calm me. The meds calmed my physical symptoms, but my mind won't, it can't, stop.

My heart for my family is bleeding. Their lives have been sent on a path that no one could have ever imagined, that no one should have to endure.

In an instant things can change and your life can change forever. Love what you have while you have it. The future is never to be trusted. The unimaginable can happen.

I Wonder If She Ever Thinks About It

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Wed, 23 May 2012 21:00:43 PDT

It was five years ago today that I was in a motorcycle accident where I was hit by a woman who was on her cell phone and although I lived, my bike was totaled.

I ended up with a broken foot, a concussion and a messed up back and neck. The thing that stands out most to me is that the officers had to beat on her car window to make her get out and make a report.

She didn't call 911. She did not call 911. She called her attorney. How do you hit someone, leave them lying in the middle of I-205 and not care enough to call 911? I don't get it, I just don't get it. I'm going to re-post what I wrote five years ago this week. I hate to sound vindictive and ugly, but I hope she remembers what she did every day that goes by. I hope she puts her phone down, I hope that she'll have more compassion with others in her life. I hope she realizes she changed my life forever

I was ecstatic. On the spur of the moment we decided that we would take four days and head out on our Harleys. Jeff was on his Road King and I was on my brand new Heritage Softtail.

First we would ride to Crescent City from Happy Valley and rest up to do the Redwoods. Next we would be on to Santa Rosa and ride the sweeping country roads of the beautiful Napa Valley and Wine Country. Everything was packed. The bikes were washed and ready.

Our first stop was the Harley dealership. Jeff wanted to get some new road glasses and of course I found a shirt that I had to have. We were there a while chatting with everyone before we rolled out. The day was beautiful. The sun was warm and bright. We were ready for a wonderful mini vacation on the road.

As we entered the highway I glanced at Jeff. He was looking at me. We were both smiling and enjoying thoughts of the days to come. We made the turn on I-205. Traffic was backed up and slowing. Crap. We were anxious to get on our way. We slowed; it was stop and go for about 5 miles. That stretch of 205 is beautiful. The Willamette River is to the south and a there is bluff to the north. The trees are tall and dense. It wasn't so bad being stopped there.

We had just passed the 10th street exit. Again traffic came to a standstill. I was watching the car in front of me when suddenly my bike jolted forward. I saw pieces of my back signal light fly past my left eye. I was thrown forward. I hit the highway. I remember trying to hit in a way to minimize injury. I remember trying not to hit my helmet. I loved my helmet. I didn’t want it scratched. It seemed like forever, it seemed like seconds.

I was on the ground and unable to move. I knew not to move my head so I couldn't see what I was looking for. Where are my husband and my bike? I remember thinking that if traffic had been going faster I would have been run over. I saw Jeff and another man. They were talking to me. Even though I could think I don't remember understanding them. It was surreal. People were moving and speaking. Nothing was in sync. Voices were swirling. People were hovering. I wasn't sure what was happening. There were so many faces. I didn't recognize any of them.

I can remember asking Jeff to call 911. I told him my leg was broken. I asked him to call the kids and call my father. There was a woman. She was an ICU nurse. She came from nowhere and she was standing at my head. A silver convertible stopped and a man came toward us. He was a doctor. God was with me. Still I heard no sirens. Where were they? I was lying in the middle of the highway, was anyone stopping traffic? Suddenly people were everywhere. They were all asking if I had been wearing a helmet. I thought that was funny. "It’s Oregon law and I'm not that stupid" is what I was thinking. I didn't remember that my helmet had already been removed.

The asphalt was searing my shoulder and arm. I was crying uncontrollably. Where was my bike? Was it ok? Where's my husband? I want my dad. Who the hell hit me and where were they? Why weren't they there? Were they hurt? Did they even care? My foot was really hurting from my ankle up to my hip. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t understand.

A shadow fell across my face. There was a man with Smith and Wesson glasses standing above me blocking the sun. He had great hair. Where did that thought come from? I think he was an EMT maybe. Then I saw a State Trooper. His shirt said K-9 unit. Where was his dog? Is someone stopping traffic? I want my mom. I want my dad. Please don't let a car hit me. Someone please block traffic!

A man appeared with a collar and put it around my neck. I was now on my back and I was so sleepy. I wanted to drift off. I closed my eyes. I just wanted to sleep. Please, just let me sleep. Someone kissed me, someone with a moustache. I opened my eyes and looked at the three men above me. I was trying to figure out who kissed me. They must have seen the confusion in my eyes. One of them said "It was your husband. We don't offer that service". I remember thinking that was too bad because these guys were hot. They got me situated on a board and I was put in the ambulance. My mom had been in an ambulance the morning she had died. I couldn't breathe. I don’t want to be in an ambulance. Memories of my mom being killed were flashing through my head. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to forget.

I heard Jeff’s voice. “Don’t cut those chaps, they have snaps. The boots have zippers.”

Why was someone trying to cut my chaps and boots?

Someone gave me oxygen. I can remember looking at the eyes of the EMT above me. They were beautiful and golden. I told him how amazing his eyes were. I don't think I'd ever seen eyes that color. Why did I say that? Where’s my mom? Where’s my dad? Why wasn’t my husband with me? Reality had been suspended. Mom couldn’t be there. The hospital killed her. Would they kill me? I couldn’t control the thoughts. They were assaulting me. I wanted them to end.

I could hear a woman’s voice traveling with the breeze but I couldn't see her. I only wanted to sleep, they wouldn't let me. My eyes were heavy. I couldn’t keep them open. Someone was grabbing my face. A voice was telling me to wake up. Where was I? What was happening?

My sense of time was off. I felt that I had been in the ambulance for hours, at the same time it seemed only seconds. We were at the hospital and I was in a room. How did I get there? What was wrong? My mom had died in the ED. Mom can’t be here. She’s dead. I couldn't breathe. The room was spinning, it was closing in. Blackness was taking over. I began try cry uncontrollably. I want my mom, I want my Dad and where is my husband? A nurse gave me Ativan and I eventually calmed.

Questions were coming at me from every direction. The lights were bright. My arm hurt. My leg was throbbing. More medicine was put in my IV. Where did the IV come from? The pain eased. A man named Won came and took me for x-rays. He was a very nice older gentleman, very sweet. Two ladies took my x-rays and I was back in my room. I don't remember how I got back, but I was back. I wanted to sleep.

The doctor came in. I remember thinking that he looked like he was a liberal. What the hell does that even mean? He was about my age, nice looking with salt and pepper hair and rushed. I knew that he didn’t want to be there. Nothing was broken, only sprained. "Yeah right" I thought, dude needs to look again. It hurts so bad, I can't move my toes. But the x-rays showed no broken bones.

I had been so worried about having surgery. Not because of surgery, but because just before I was hit Jeff and I had McDonalds. I never eat that crap but it was close and we had a long ride ahead of us so I ate a Quarter Pounder. I didn't want to see that Quarter pounder again. Thank Goodness there would be no surgery.

My husband walked through the opening of the curtain. Where did he come from? I thought he was with me. He said that he took his bike home and brought the Jaguar to take me home. How in the freaking hell can I get into the Jaguar? Where was the Land Rover? It would have been much easier to get into.

“Where’s my bike?”

Jeff drew in a lung filing breath before answering. “It had to be towed. It’s totaled.”

Those words seemed to bounce within my skull. Totaled? Why didn’t they let me see it? I felt a new wave of tears filling my eyes. What even happened?

“Please, take me home; please get me out of here.”

Finally I could sleep.

There would be no Napa.

A subsequent MRI showed that I had a crushed heel bone. I couldn’t walk for four months. The woman that hit me had been on her cell phone. She never got out of the car. She didn’t render aid. She didn’t call 911. She called her attorney. A state trooper had to beat on her window and threaten to arrest her to get her to open her door.

The van that hit me.

New bike!

Yes, those are my lip prints.

I kissed the tank and the painter

clearcoated it.

I love my skull!

Freedom

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Sun, 20 May 2012 22:15:58 PDT

I wish I could explain it, I'm not sure I can. I'll try, but I'll do it no justice.

Yesterday was the third annual motorcycle Freedom Ride. It was to honor those that give and have given their lives for our country.

I love being in the middle of a bunch of bikers. The leather, the long braided hair, the tattoos and of course the bikes. Being in the midst of such a group I'm able to see something that most, or I assume most, people outside of the group don't see.

I look past the preconceived image and I see the brotherhood, the honor, the genuine friendliness, and people that are real, there is no pretension. Bikers in general are usually looked upon by outsiders as rule breakers, outlaws, drinking, brawling heathens. Yes, there's some of that in the biker "subculture," but it's the exception, not the rule.

In the biker world there is no back biting, no gossiping, no self righteousness. It's a far cry from many of cliques of today in neighborhoods, corporations, the church and the world in general.

We began our day in the parking lot of a Harley dealership in Vancouver, Washington. Jeff, his bike and Isabella and I were surrounded by about 200 other bikes as we started out on our day long journey to Albany, Oregon to give honor to our fallen troops, our veterans, our lost and unknown.

If you've never ridden in a pack of bikes, it's a wonderful feeling. The roar of the pipes is an amazing sound, especially when several hundred bikes are together riding down I-5, or a country lane. We did both yesterday.

In honor of all our troops many of the bikes flew full sized flags behind them, many others had smaller flags. It was awe inspiring. We had wonderful road guards, whose job it was to block oncoming traffic at red lights, on ramps and intersections so that the group of bikes could stay together.

We rode the back roads through Canby, Silverton, and Scio on our way to Albany. In all of the towns were police officers and deputy sheriffs blocking traffic so we could pass in safety.

In Silverton there was a lone officer blocking traffic at the main intersection in the tiny town. He stood at attention and saluted as hundreds of motorcycles roared by carrying the Stars and Stripes of our country. The diva that doesn't do tears, cried at the sight of the young man and his honor for our country and the troops we rode for.

On the back roads for as far as the eyes could see there was a long line of staggered bikes snaking it's way through the beautiful Oregon countryside. I wish I could have gotten a picture of the site but since I was riding myself there was no way I could get pictures while on the bike.

We made a stop and picked up about a hundred more riders and their beautiful machines before making our way to the Albany Memorial.

When we arrived at the memorial we walked the memorial touching the names on the stones for the fallen. We traced the names and the dates with our fingers. We cried at the memorial for the POWs and the MIAs.

After about a half hour hats were removed, the Pledge of Allegiance recited and the Star Spangled Banner sang. It was a beautiful and moving site to see all of the big burly bikers with their hands over their hearts and tears in their eyes.

It was a wonderful day with several hundred of my closest friends. One that I won't soon forget.

Two Little Words

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Wed, 16 May 2012 19:15:42 PDT

This was written a couple of years ago. Many of you have never read it. It kind of seemed appropriate today.

I find it odd that two little words changed my life forever. Oh there were more words spoken at that meeting, but none as powerful as those words consisting of just 15 letters. They were about to impact my life in ways I could have never imagined.

As I sat in the doctor's waiting room I surveyed the photographs she had chosen for her walls. They were black and white photographs of people of all ages. Some were happy, some were not. Some were on the beach and some lying in the grass. If you've ever watched the Sopranos you know what I'm about to say. Just as Tony did, I looked at each picture carefully trying to find the hidden meaning the psychiatrist was trying to convey with each choice. Were there hidden meanings, or was I just being paranoid from sitting in this office?

I flipped through magazines while wondering whether to stay or to run. I knew that this meeting could provide me with life changing information and I wasn't sure I was ready to deal with it. On the other hand I was curious. Was I my own enemy? Did I have an enemy? Did it have a name?

My life has been anything but calm. From my early days I remember the turmoil as it sometimes surrounded me, pulling into its depths. At the time I wondered why these tumultuous times wouldn't release their grips on me, now I wonder if I was I that couldn't release my grip on them. It's strangely funny how introspective I became waiting for the verdict.

In my primary care doctor's office, I chat with the staff, look at magazines, play Sudoku on my iPhone and look forward to seeing the doctor that we have become friends with. This time was different. I was nervous. I was a little bit afraid and I was certain. I was certain of the verdict she would issue and it would be a life sentence.

Within minutes, that seemed like hours, the door opened and the doctor appeared. She was about my age, 45 or so, attractive, tall and thin. Her blonde hair fell to her shoulders and flipped up slightly on the ends. She was casually dressed in black pants and a red long sleeve shirt. She didn't wear much makeup, but she didn't need it, her big blue eyes captured my attention at once as I'm sure they did with everyone that saw her. She most definitely didn't fit my stereotypical image of a psychiatrist.

Her voice was soft and calm as she called me into her office and introduced herself. Her name was Linda and she had been referred by my regular therapist, another Linda. Her office was done in neutral colors, but stylish with its classic furniture. Though not small, it was cozy and comfortable. There was no couch, no butterfly net and no straight jackets. There were shelves filled with books, kids' toys and boxes of tissues.

I looked at the chairs trying to decide which one to choose and if that might mean anything in the evaluation. I mean, if chose the chair on the left am I psychotic, if I chose the chair on the right was I a hypochondriac? I decided to choose paranoid and took the chair in the middle.

I sat down scrutinizing my posture. How were my hands? Was I sending off uncooperative body language, or was I too eager for a diagnosis, making it invalid? I thought I'd better calm down before she called in the men with the nets, who I was sure were in the other room. I could feel anxiety-induced beads of sweat forming at my hairline. They were beginning to drip down my neck and to the small of my back. I needed to calm down before I sealed my own fate, a fate worse than death, the fate of being admitted to the Adventist "Behavioral Center" otherwise known as the Cuckoo's Nest.

She began with asking me the usual questions about childhood, parents, siblings and then the more difficult ones regarding present experiences and traumas. The entire meeting took almost three hours. As she spoke, I became much more comfortable with her. I calmed considerably and stopped looking for hidden syringes and various other torture devices.

She focused on my shopping, my forgetfulness, irritability, depression and mood related issues over all. In the third hour of the evaluation she turned at her waist, put her notepad down on her walnut desk. She then turned back toward me, leaned forward, folded her hands and uttered the life changing words: Bipolar Disorder. I believe her exact words were "I feel comfortable with the diagnosis of bipolar disorder II."

Well I'm glad someone's comfortable, but it certainly wasn't me. I was thinking of that nice big check I had just written her and thinking "No, shit you're comfortable!"

Bipolar Disorder II, not the classic disorder everyone associates with manic-depression. There are no delusions, no psychotic behavior, none of the serious things usually associated with the condition. But there is shopping, irritability, severe depression, mood swings and all that shit. Wow, I'm feeling more comfortable every second.

However the more I think about it, the more I agree with the diagnosis. When you know your enemy, you can fight them offensively. I like that my enemy has a name and it's not Diva. It's going to be a challenge, but really I'm the same person I've always been, just now I know why things get so skewed sometimes and why my moods can fall so quickly. I wasn't going to tell anyone, but I am the same person, I'll keep the good and work on the bad. And now you'll know when I disappear for awhile or am quiet, it's not you, it's me and I will be ok. Yeah, I think I'm getting more comfortable every day.

Quiet

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Tue, 15 May 2012 14:31:09 PDT

The feelings are overwhelming today, the sensations engulfing. I don’t know where to turn or who to trust.

I feel words of attack are being shot like arrows and they pierce the inner most core of my being. I’m not sure why a small dispute can cause me to spiral out of control sending me into the pits of hell.

All I want is to disappear, to vanish from this reality. Or is it reality? Why is it so difficult to just be?

I want to run and hide from the world. I want a quiet, dark room where no one can reach me, where no one can enter the cocoon I want to spin and crave to live in.

I don’t want the physical sensation of another human’s touch on my skin. I want no contact at all. I just want to be. I just want to be left alone. I don’t want to hear another voice. All I want is quiet and solitude.

I Should Have Known

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Wed, 09 May 2012 12:38:00 PDT

In an instant the word "diva" flashed though my mind. I looked up shocked and into my husband's blue eyes. I'm quite sure he was thinking something else.

His twinkling eyes had this all knowing look with a little bit of smile buried in the twinkle. It wasn't an "I love you," smile, but rather a "you're SO busted," smile.

I had no agenda, I simply reached into the dishwasher for a gin and tonic glass and noticed the dishes were still dirty.

Jeff was standing behind me watching as I attempted to start the dishwasher. There were all of these buttons staring me in the face.

Seriously, there are like twenty buttons on the top of the damned door. I didn't know which one to push. I didn't know how to turn on my dishwashers! Yes, that's plural....lots of kids means two dishwashers.

Jeff poked me in the ribs and laughed as I stood there embarrassed by the fact that I had no freaking idea how to turn the thing on. I haven't done dishes in decades. Our kids all have chores. Being part of a family means helping out. Doing dishes is one of the chores so *head hanging* I haven't started the dishwashers in years.

My kids range in age from 14 to 30 so that's A LONG time that I haven't had to do dishes. Although, I shall not be totally tarnished, I DO hand wash dishes, sometimes, as I'm cooking dinner.

I swallowed my pride and asked Jeff to help me figure it out. After chiding me for several minutes he put on his glasses. He took one look at the buttons and called for a kid.

Seems I'm not the only one that had no clue how to start the dishwashers!

Totally Honest....Honestly

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Mon, 07 May 2012 22:46:32 PDT

It's been a long three years and I think I'm at a point where I'm not sure what to do, what to think, how to behave. My panic attacks are worsening and the anxiety is killing me.

Being a business owner has it's perks....when the economy is good, but when it's bad, it's really bad. We've never had to advertise because, well, my husband has an excellent reputation and word of mouth spreads like wildfire.

We've been lucky enough to have fantastic clients, although I DID tell him NO MORE taking jobs for single women in their late sixties unless I interview them first, long story there and it ain't pretty.

We've been one of the lucky few to have held on, somewhat, in this economic downturn. Many have closed shop and are no where to be found. It's all been because of Jeff's reputation for honesty, integrity and never cutting a corner....ever. It's how he's wired.

He builds as if he were going to live in the home and he puts our clients first on the list. I always feel a little funny saying that because I assume people, as I would, will think, "he's your husband, what else would you say?" But it's true. Jeff would die before doing a sub par job for anyone. I have no problem saying our clients would agree with that assessment. Yes, he's more expensive to a point, but still within market standards, and it's true, you get what you pay for.

Bottom line here is that we've been on the verge of losing everything for the last three years. Now it's looking us square in the face and the panic is relentless. My youngest son is constantly asking if we're going to lose our house and I can't tell him with certainty that we won't.

Yes we just got back from Vegas, but I paid for that trip over a year ago when it seemed as if things were turning around. We decided to stick with our plans and go since we would lose the money if we didn't go and with Jeff not working why not? Turns out it was a good move. He lifted his spirits some.

It's so serious that he's been APPLYING for jobs out of the country. My husband working for someone isn't something I think he could do. It's unfortunate, but so many people don't hold themselves to the same standards that Jeff has set for himself, and in large corporations so many times the bottom line is what speaks, not the client or their needs. I don't think he would be happy working for someone besides individual clients.

So there is the root of my attacks. They, the attacks, scare me because in the midst of them I think more on the dark side, not the bipolar side, but the side that says, "that insurance policy would really help out the family." Those are thoughts that must be banished, but they creep in and gnaw at me.

As for me getting a job, thought of that, but I haven't worked in 24 years and truthfully it would cost us more for me to work than to continue to work the "business" end of our company. If I didn't do it we would have to hire someone and that alone would defeat the purpose of me working.

Jeff scared me tonight. He looked at me out of a dead sleep and said, "No matter what may happen, you have to know I have loved you with everything I've had." He was speaking in past tense, as if he's made his mind up that it's no longer worth the fight.

So the possibility of not only losing everything we have, but also my husband, is causing me to be in a constant state of the deepest form of fear.

And if all that isn't enough to send me to the outer edges of panic, I swear to God that, today, on my 50th birthday, I had a damned hot flash! What the hell is that shit? A very cruel joke I've decided! What are the damned odds that today, of all days, that would happen? I think I'll blame it on not eating, the warm weather and anxiety. A freaking hot flash, give me a break!

Panic Attacks and Overdoses

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Fri, 04 May 2012 20:31:50 PDT

These last few weeks I've had increasing panic attacks. The intensity and the duration are beginning to scare me.

I've taken a lot of meds today and have been searching on the net for the max non-lethal dosage. Seems the drug companies don't like to give that little bit of information out. So I guess I'm on my own tonight.

The world is closing in and my heart is pounding out of my chest. I can't breathe and I feel as if I'm about to bite my tongue off.

Emailed the doc, but since he's Jewish I doubt he'll get his email on the Sabbath. So I'm winging it here. Trying to distract myself and gain some time by writing.

The lost feeling is consuming me and the attacks are scaring the hell out of me. I usually only have an attack every six months or so, but it seems as if I'm having one several week long attack. I can't get it to stop.

I've been trying to breathe through them and chill, but today there's no way out except medication. That alone scares me and only adds to the attack. I want to take enough medication to get me though the night and hopefully gain some relief, but not enough to do the Heath Ledger exit.

I guess I'm on my own here and only time will tell. The morning light will be a welcome sight and I can only hope that the attack will be quelled.

I usually am able to write beautiful poetry in the midst of an attack, but my thoughts are scattered and my movements slow.

I probably should go to the hospital but I'm too tired to do the whole work up thing.

So tonight I sit, I type and I try to ignore it. but now it's time for the meds and hopefully a good night's sleep that brings me into tomorrow alive and much calmer.

Goodnight my friends,

No. Thank. You.

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Fri, 04 May 2012 16:00:03 PDT

I was just on Facebook, surprise, surprise, and on the side bar where they have all the links you can "like," there was a link for "liking" cuddling.

There were like six million people that "liked" it. It gave me shivers! Serious shivers.

Now I "liked" Santana, Vegas and Sean Hannity, but cuddling? Not just no but HELL NO!

While I do hugs, and kisses and all that crap, I am NOT a cuddler. I don't like it one bit. The only thing I want to cuddle is a pillow.

I want all hands, arms, legs off of me at all, or most, times. Seriously, the thought of cuddling creeps me out! I'm still amazed so many people "liked" it. No. Thank. You.

Don't Wake Me Early

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Thu, 03 May 2012 17:26:52 PDT

I should have known that asking to be awakened early would have been a mistake, I just didn't know how much of one it would be, or let me rephrase that, how it would begin the day.

Since we were in Vegas we didn't go to bed early much so asking Jeff to wake me at 8 was a big deal, especially for me.

I woke groggy. I was stumbley, which isn't good on a marble floor, and was in a haze from the night before, my sleep meds didn't much help either.

I stepped on the marble threshold that separated the bathroom from the bedroom and nearly fell and busted my butt. Still not so bad.

We went for the breakfast buffet at the Wynn, which is phenomenal, and went back to pack for home. I began packing and Jeff was frantically looking for something. He couldn't find his passport. We looked everywhere, in every drawer, in ever suitcase compartment, in every nook and cranny. It was gone.

In my still foggy state I panicked, he couldn't have cared less. I knew we needed to cancel it, he wanted to wait until we got home. I found the number for the State Department and was routed through to the lost passport section. Of course they wouldn't talk to me for privacy concerns. Give me a break, I know his birth date, where he was born, his mother's maiden name, where he went to school and I know every tattoo and mole on his body and they want to cite privacy concerns. What ever.

Jeff got on the phone and preceded to tell them what had happened. He thought he had left it on the plane on the way into Vegas. He reported it as lost and they told us we had to completely reapply for the passport. When you renew your passport you only have to send in a renewal form, a check and your old passport.

Now I have to find his social security card, his birth certificate, fill out a crap load of forms and pay some big money.

I was trying to keep my cool and be supportive. I kept packing. I fit the last few items, I thought, in his carry on and stood it on end. That's when he remembered the secret compartment on the back of the carry on. He unzipped it and there was the passport.

We called the State Department back, but it was too late. They'd already deactivated his passport. Dammit! I was pissed, mostly at myself for being so quick to cancel it, and a little at him for putting it in a hidden compartment. Now we have to go to City Hall and start the process over.

We grabbed our bags, checked out and waited for the valet to bring our car around.

Then we returned the rental car and it had a ding in it, also it was a convertible and the top wouldn't work. We mentioned it to the guys at check in and it went down the first time they tried. Of course.

We made our way through the maze of people, busses and trams to the ticket counter at the airport. I went and checked us in. Then I got back in line and looked in my purse for my passport. It was gone.

Sheer panic set in. My panic isn't usually a quiet panic, it's a shrill panic, a "everyone knows" panic. My passport was no where. It wasn't on the floor, it wasn't in my purse, it was no where to be seen. Being in panic mode I couldn't think straight. Thankfully Jeff had the presence of mind to check the kiosk that I had checked in at. There was my passport.

I had taken it out when I checked in, and being so upset about Jeff's passport, I'd forgotten to put it back in my purse. Thank God he found it. I was playing out all kinds of scenarios in head, mostly thinking about the big bucks we were going to have to pay and the hassle it would take to get both passports re-activated.

He found it, I was embarrassed at the scene I'd made but I popped a Xanax or three and got through it.

Finally we got on the plane, after losing twenty more dollars at the airport poker machines, and found our seats. I was stuck in the middle. We decided to ask the person that had the window seat if she wanted us to just move down. I like to be by the window so I don't have to get up for people getting up to go to the bathroom. She said yes.

Then I was at the window seat and I had to pee. I was determined to make it to the airport in Portland before going to the bathroom. When we got to the terminal and unloaded after the two hour flight I made a bee line to the bathroom.

Finally relief. Until I reached for toilet paper and there was NONE! BLEEP BLEEPING BLEEPIT!
Luckily there were those paper seat protectors above my head or I would have been totally livid.

When our son picked us up and I got in my car relief flooded over me. The day was over and there wasn't much else that could happen.

That was until I went to brush my teeth. My Sonicare toothbrush was missing, as was my razor, my shampoo, conditioner, scrubby and who knows what else, I quit looking.

So after a fantastic time in Vegas we had a less than stellar homecoming.

And now things are pretty much fine. The lost, then found, passport has been re-applied for. I've replaced the toothbrush, shampoo, razor and scrubby.

Now I'm looking forward to my return to Vegas in three weeks. Lets all hope it goes a bit more smoothly than the last one did.

Freemont Street

Really big drink

During the really big drink

Jeff after the really big drink

Me after the really big drink

I loved the ceiling

Gondola at the Venetian

Cheesy tourist at the Venetian

Lost

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Sun, 29 Apr 2012 22:16:53 PDT

It's difficult to describe, this feeling I have.

It's a feeling of being totally off the path in my life. It's an incredible burden and overshadows every move I make.

I know some of it is work and the economy. The normal worry of financial and family matters play into it, but this is more than that. This is complete darkness and fear.

It's not bipolar, it's not depression. My anxiety level is high and almost uncontrollable. I feel alone and separated from the people I love and those that love me.

The shadow that has fallen over me is suffocating. It's sucking the oxygen from my body and the energy from my soul.

The light has been hidden and the road to freedom blocked. I'm unable to see, or sense the future and am paralyzed by the past.

The bondage from this sensation controls me and my actions, it guides my steps and chains my thoughts.

It makes me want to hide from the world, to shrink away and disappear.

I wish I could put my finger on it, I wish I could control it and not allow it to control me. But I can't, not yet.

Just A Few

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 23:43:33 PDT

Just a few pics from Vegas. Lots of fun so far!

Ok, so I love my dress!

Jeff and me

Le Reve

The living room in the suite

LOVE oysters!

Me and Jeff

Yes, I have the key

This was a cool place

Why does he look so much taller than me?

BB King's Blues Club

Just me

Bedroom of the suite

Le Reve

In The Air

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 14:04:05 PDT

In the plane on our way to Vegas. Was going to post about that BUT this new blogger interface has pissed me off!

You know how I have my signature at the bottom of the page? It takes me forever to get it moved down so I can even begin to write a post! Not happy. Not happy at all, and a not happy Diva makes for a not happy time!

Why does damned thing have to change? It wasn't broken so leave it the heck alone. Geesh!

Anyway back to the trip I guess. I really don't have much to say, for me that's kind of rare, but today it's true.

I decided I needed a refresher on my rules and checkpoints for leaving my kids alone in the house for a week so I re-read my post "Before You Pack That Luggage." Since I can't figure out how to link to it with this new interface I'm just going to re-post the handy tips here.

Ready, Set. Go.

Raising a ~~pack of wolves~~ big family has taught me what to do before, and after, parental vacations. I feel it's my obligation to pass along these handy tips, all gathered by personal experience, to parents everywhere considering a getaway.

Before leaving:
Always inform neighbors and give them written permission to call police. Drop hints of this in casual conversation with kids.

Count number of children and pets before leaving.

Note mileage, gas level and radio station of the parental vehicles.

Always take note of the level of garbage (and recycle) in the outside can(s) before leaving and upon return. If there’s less when you return you can be certain that someone has some 'splainin' to do.

Give kids your itinerary showing you'll return one day later than you actually will.

Be sure to leave emergency money/credit card and check receipts against change/statements.

Hide all duct tape and rope.

Upon return:

If kids are overly anxious to greet you, suspect that they're engaging in a distraction technique.

Make sure parental TV lock has not been hacked.

Look through digital cameras, cell phone pictures and Facebook pages. Kids tend to be dumb and will take pictures and post evidence of their dirty deeds.

Always check to see if those little indentations in the carpet from the furniture are showing. If they are the furniture has been moved. In my house that usually means they've set up Ultimate fighting in the living room. They've chosen names before and thrown the victims in the middle of the room to fight when they ring the dinner bell.

Search all cabinets and walls, even behind plants, for signs of cherry tomato fights.

Check grout lines, and beneath items on kitchen counter, for flour that was most probably used in a flour fight.

Check youngest kids for bruises, rope burn or loss of hair or eyebrows.

Examine all picture frames to see if they've been changed out. Yes, it's happened, more than once.

Search the house for new bottles of Super Glue. Yes, I have found things super glued together upon my return. Usually in the living room where the kids seem to believe is some sort of indoor sports arena.

Make sure dogs still have whiskers and eyelashes. My poor, poor lab.

If house is sparkling clean, you know that something's up.

Always peruse mugshotlist.com.

If all else fails pay off the weakest link.

Well that's my list. I may or may not post while I'm there, but I'll try to at least post some pictures. Sun, pool. alcohol and gambling......I'm ready.

Hasta la vista!

Panic!

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 18:09:28 PDT

I was running low on one of the meds that helps keep me from ripping heads off of the minions, Xanax.

I went to the pharmacy website and submitted my order for 1 mg. tablets of the miracle drug. There were no refills left so the pharmacy had to fax the doctor. No biggie, I thought.

I went to pick them up this morning and they were for, deep breath, .25 mgs! That's 1/4 of what I usually rely upon to keep me sunny side up. I almost fell dead right there in front of the diabetes paraphernalia and the condoms! Side thought: Why do they have the diabetic stuff and the condoms next to each other?

I composed myself and as soon as I crossed the threshold of my house I emailed the doctor to see if he changed (insert heart flutter) my prescription. By that time I was in a cold sweat.

He's the most awesome doctor in the world and emailed me right back. The pharmacy made a mistake. Whew! I thought he thought I was being a crazed drug seeker. I guess after my reaction I kinda was.

Anyway he offered to fax over another prescription but I didn't want to seem desperate for it so I counted out what I had and decided the miniscule tablets would get me through until my next appointment on May 15th, that is if no major panic attacks come my way.

I don't take Xanax that often, usually only when a panic attack sneaks up from out of the shadows. I rely mainly on Ativan and Valium. So I think I might live, even though the very thought of being out of Xanax sends me over the edge of all reason.

Drug seekingly yours,

My Daughter Told Me To

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 22:34:11 PDT

I was wasting time on Facebook when I saw my daughter posted something to my timeline.

It said, "You need to write, Mother." My kids only call me Mother when they're annoyed with me. Maybe she's annoyed because I tell her to write all the time for therapeutic reasons. She called me tonight and told me not to read her latest post, that it would "upset" me.

Being narcissistic and all I thought she wrote something horrible about me. She said, "No, it's about Isaiah dying. There are things written that I don't think you're ready to read."

I think she's right. Isaiah died in 2004. I still can't look at his pictures for more than split second. Losing Isaiah was probably one of the two most difficult things in my life. I won't read. I won't cry. I won't re-live it. I just won't.

The other most difficult thing I've faced was finding out my mother had died, and then finding out she had been killed by physician negligence.

I remember my cell phone ringing about 4 in the morning. I let it ring. It was probably a wrong number at that time of night I remember thinking. If a message was left I would retrieve it. A message was left. When I heard the tone I climbed out of bed and stumbled to get my phone from the charger.

It was my aunt that lives on Cape Cod. I called her back. She said, "Teri, your mom is in the hospital. She's in grave condition. You need to call your uncle."

I was stunned. I couldn't comprehend what she had just said. I punched the numbers into my phone to call my uncle. When he answered he said, "Oh Teri honey, I'm so sorry. Your mom just died." I sat on the edge of the bed for a couple of minutes. My mind wouldn't take in the information.

After a bit I got up and went into the kitchen where Jeff was making coffee. I calmly told him my mother was dead. I remember thinking about those true crime shows where the police tell someone that a loved one had been killed and they show no emotion, therefore they must be the perpetrator. I had no emotion, I would have been arrested, I thought, had I been questioned about the mysterious conditions surrounding my mom's death.

My brother and cousin work for American Airlines and one of them, or both of them, had passes waiting at the ticket counter at the Portland Airport for Jeff and me to make the flight to Texas.

I don't remember the flight, I don't remember seeing my dad or my brothers. I do remember picking out the casket and flowers. I remember choosing the grave site with my dad and brothers. That's all I remember of the days surrounding her death.

Sometime during those first days I found out one of the doctors had told my dad that he needed to talk to the coroner about how my mom died. Mom had fallen and cut her chin. Dad called the EMTs to take her to the hospital for stitches. The next thing he knew was a doctor came out and simply said, "She's dead."

The doctor that whispered to my father to talk to the coroner had theorized that when mom was sent for scans of her head and neck a contrast was used that shouldn't have been used with the medications she was taking.

That turned out not to be the cause of her death. The reason my mother died, and the reason I say she was killed, is that when she was in for the scans the tech noticed she was having trouble breathing. She called the ER doc and told her, the doctor, she thought she needed to get mom back to the ER. The doctor said to finish the scans.

The tech called several more times and each time was told by the doctor in charge to finish the scans. Finally the tech defied the doctor and rushed mom back to the ER when her breathing became even more difficult. By that time it was too late.

Mom was suffocating and went into something called DIC, or Disseminated intravascular coagulation and began to bleed out everywhere. Her throat was so swollen that she couldn't be intubated. She died. Dad had taken her for stitches and she died from negligence.

That was July 3, 2006. I can't look at her pictures either. I do have pictures of Mom and Isaiah around my house, but I avoid them at all costs. I can look at the pictures of my dad and I can smile when I look at them. You see, Dad's death was expected. He was sick, we knew it was near. It was his time. I'm at peace with that although I miss him terribly. But with Mom and Isaiah I can't do it. I can't face it. I don't want the tears to start, I fear they'll never stop. I fear they will unleash emotions I try too hard to keep buried deep inside.

I guess my daughter was right, I needed to write. But as I was writing this I realized that I've distanced myself even from this piece. My feelings aren't engaged. They can't be. I have to keep them buried until one day maybe I can handle them. But tonight is not the time.

So I'll step back, I'll write from afar. I'll push what memories I do have away, I'll bind them and bury them deeper. Maybe one day I'll be able to feel what I need to. Maybe one day I'll be able to truly mourn. Maybe one day I'll be able to look at the pictures, to remember and cry, but not today, not today.

I'm Not Sure What To Say

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 08:08:28 PDT

Rarely am I at a loss for words. If you know me at all, you know that I say what I think and sometimes not in the most appropriate way. But tonight I can't think of how to start, of where to start. I can't decide how much to tell or how little to tell.

I guess I should start at the beginning. About 12 years ago a State worker pulled up in front of my house. With him were two boys that had recently been taken by the State of Oregon. Those boys, Taylor was 10 and Jeremiah was 18 months, would become my sons.

A few years ago Taylor went through a rough patch and we didn't see him for years. Last week Jeff and I ran into him at a restaurant. It was a restaurant we weren't even headed to. It was a spur of the moment, "turn here," time.

Jeff let me off and went to park the car. I was standing in the lobby waiting for a table when a young man approached me. It took me a moment to realize the handsome young man was my son Taylor. I hadn't seen, or talked to, Taylor in over two years and only a handful of times since he was about 18.

He was smiling and had his arms outstretched. He said "Mom!" He hugged me and didn't let go. I was in shock. I didn't know what to do the only thing I knew was that I was happy to have my son in my arms again.

Jeff came in and Taylor went and hugged him. I thought the hug would never end. We stood there for what seemed like an eternity in amazement that we were face to face with our long lost son. Soon our name was called, we said our good byes and went to our table.

As he was leaving Taylor came and found us. He sat and talked as if he'd never been away. He then asked if we would be home today, Easter, and said he wanted to come by.

"Of course we'll be home and of course you can come over," I said not really certain that he would show.

Yesterday I got a text from Taylor saying that he would indeed be over today. About 3:30 my prodigal son walked through the door of his home, into the arms of his family. I couldn't have been more overjoyed. I've missed him so much.

I was hurt through the years that he made the decision to avoid us. But I can understand being taken by the state and plopped into a new family would give a kid all sorts of things to figure out.

Today, holding my son in my arms, was incredible. To hear him call me "Mom," was the most joyous sound I could imagine.

He leaves later this summer to go to school in Santa Rosa and play football. I'll miss him. But to have him back in my life is amazing. I've missed him, I've cried for him and I've hurt for him.

The best thing of all is that my daughter told me she saw him after we did that night at the restaurant. She told him how happy she was that he approached us and he told her how happy he was to have his mom back.

The missing piece is back. The hole has been filled. My son is home.


Taylor meeting his nephew, Jax, for the first time.

My son and his Mom. My baby's back.

Because I Scared Myself To Death....

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 23:26:23 PDT

I always look back on these things thinking, "What in the hell was I thinking?" "Who in the world, besides me, would do a google search on the Manson murders late at night?" And, "How much valium will be needed to get into a much calmer state?"

I scared the hell out of myself tonight googling Manson stuff. Now I'm the only one awake, it's dark and I'm too afraid to close my eyes. So I'm going to do a few Sunday Stealing questions to take my mind off scary knives and crime scenes for a bit.

Hang in here with me, it's therapy after all, cheaper than a midnight call to my psychiatrist and much more safe than a handful of valium.

So shall we?

1. What is your origin of your first name? What about any nicknames?
How mean is this? My dad always told me when I was little that I was named after a cow. What kind of crap is that? The year before he died he told me the real reason for my name. My middle name is for his favorite dancer of all time, Cyd Charisse. So he chose my middle name to be Cherise and he thought, being all intellectual as he was, that my first name, Teri, had the right amount of syllables to go with Cherise. How sterile is that? The only nickname I ever had, that I know of, was 'Penelope," from my uncle Tex when I was a wee one.

2. Have you any claims to fame?
I think being part of the forming of a non profit corporation aimed with policing big, bad car dealers in the State of Washington, helping to change the State's auto leasing laws, and all kinds of cool TV, radio and print interviews kind of count. That, and also I'm a Diva.

3. If you were famous, how would you introduce yourself to someone who had never heard of you?
Maybe something fun and quirky like "Hello."

4. Which of your country's achievements do you hold in highest regard?
The Constitution

5. As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?
An adult

6. What was your most prized possession as a child? Do you still have it?
It was a green striped clown with a plastic face, and no I don't have it. My dad threw it away. Traumatized me for life.

7. What would you change about yourself, if you could?
Most people would probably think I'd change being bipolar. But that only makes life more interesting. I'd probably add a touch of OCD, of the cleaning variety.

8. What are you obsessed with?
shoes, like you didn't know.

9. What is your greatest achievement so far, or the high point of your career?
Raising eight kids and staying sane in the process. Oh, wait, I'm not am I? Oh well I tried.

10. When/where were you happiest?
That, I'm sorry, is a secret

11. And the lowest point in your life thus far?
dealing with the killing of my mother, and the deaths of my grandson and my father.

12. What was the best decision you ever made?
To get pictures of myself with my kids. I have none of me with my mother. Funny how seemingly little things come to mean so much when you can no longer have them.

13. If you have any body modifications, which was most painful, or which do you regret the most? If you haven't got any, do you have any planned, or would you ever consider getting any?
"Body modifications?" That's funny. I have a few. I've had cosmetic surgery twice and I have lots of tattoos and I'd do them all again.

14. What is the most idiotic thing you have ever done while intoxicated?
Sorry, pleading the fifth.

15. What is your favorite joke?
I have to take the fifth on this one as well. Or one my brothers' know....."So I said to this emu".....long story there.

16. What is the coolest/most impressive thing you own?
The coolest is my Harley Heritage Softail and the most impressive would have to be, uh, I have no idea.

17. When did you last cry, and why?
I don't cry. It releases emotions I don't care to deal with yet.

18. What's the best piece of advice you've ever had?
Listen to your parents.

19. Similarly, what's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for you?
Married me when I was crazy and had two small children.

20. Have you any vices?
Well, I don't smoke, I rarely drink, but I LOVE to shop and to gamble.

21. Do you regret anything?
Leaving my son with a certain babysitter when he was one. He was beaten.

22. What is the best invention ever?
The Mac Book Pro....duh

23. How would you describe your relationship with your family?
incredible

24. Who is your biggest inspiration?
my grandmother, my dad and Ronald Reagan.

25. What are you going to do when you've finished Sunday Stealing?
try to find something else to do to keep my mind off murders, creepers and freaks.

The Gun Was Touching Her Skull

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 21:02:01 PDT

If you're not one of my Facebook friends you probably don't know what happened last night about 8:30.

I answered the phone about 9:15 to a hysterical, sobbing, incoherent daughter, The Bipolar Princess. It took me nearly a half hour to forty five minutes to figure out what had happened. I knew it was serious.

The thoughts running through my head were horrible thoughts of one of her kids being killed, or her husband dying. I never would have imagined in a million years what had really taken place.

Karli was at the bank filling out a deposit slip when there was a knock on her window. She thought it was the police. She looked up to see two masked men with guns pointed directly at her.

She went to put her car in reverse and one of the men shot into the air and screamed, "You don't think I'll kill you bitch?"

He told her to open her window. As she cracked it open he shoved his gun through the window and into her skull.

My daughter was robbed at gunpoint as if she hasn't been through enough in her 30 years....rape, stalking, having a son die and having another son sexually molested by her ex husband plus having to deal with the insidious disorder with the name of Bipolar I.

Now she has one more terror to add to her list of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

My. Daughter. Was. Almost. Murdered.

She couldn't identify the men, only that they had Mexican accents.

Today she's been pretty well medicated and much calmer due to the amount of medication she's on. I cannot begin to tell you the out pouring of support she's received. The money the men took was all the money my daughter's family had until the next pay day and they had no groceries or gasoline.

A friend of mine, an angel, sent her a check for every penny that had been taken, my brother sent her some money as did my son and daughter in law, and when Jakob came home from school he was carrying with him a gift card to a grocery store here in town.

Not only am I angry she was robbed, I'm angry she was there. Does that make me a terrible parent? I'm also angry that everyone's telling her what she should have done.

The truth is that you have no idea what to do when you're in that situation, you can't think, you can't form a plan. You can only comply.

She complied and she's alive, traumatized, but alive. My daughter is alive.

In case any of you are thinking this is a case against the second amendment, it's not. Guns did not rob my daughter. Illegal aliens did, said the police. If more people were armed fewer people would chance coming up on someone that could kill them first. What's the saying? Oh yes, "If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns."

Criminals don't care what the laws are, they'll find ways to get guns regardless. Police don't carry guns to protect you, they carry them to protect themselves. Self defense is our best defense.

I do realize that my daughter would have had no choice had she been armed in this instance with two men with guns pointed at her. But if they thought she could have been armed it would have never happened.

Criminals prey upon people they think are defenseless whether it be by gun, by knife, tire iron, or their hands. It's not the gun, it the criminal.

But bottom line is my daughter is alive.

Maybe There Will Be A Day

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Sat, 31 Mar 2012 23:45:13 PDT

It would be nice to have a day where I can be off, tired, burned out without having everyone watching me. They wonder if I'm on a downhill slide. They wonder if my meds are off. They wonder is depression is looming.

Maybe, just maybe I'm having a bad day, just like typical people have. Maybe I'm tired from the week, maybe I'm worried about the future.

Not every mood change I have can be blamed on bipolar disorder.

Maybe, just maybe it's just been a bad day.

I Remember It Well

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 06:00:01 PDT

September 12, 2007. My husband and I were at a biker's event drinking beer, laughing, drooling over the gorgeous motorcycles and laughing with friends when the call came. It was a call that would change one life for eternity and the lives of the others that were left behind forever.

My daughter called. Through the music, the laughter and the roaring pipes of the Harleys, I couldn't hear her well, but I could tell she was hysterical. I walked far out into the field and put an ear plug into my free ear.

Her 18 month old son, Josiah, had fallen down the stairs at my house. They were at the hospital and the news was grim. He had a severely lacerated tongue and scans showed a broken leg, a fractured skull and bleeding in his brain.

Josiah was immediately transferred by ambulance, lights flashing and sirens screaming, to the children's trauma hospital in Portland. I couldn't think. There was nothing I could do but wait and call my dad.

I rarely write of my faith on this blog because it's personal to me and I don't want to offend anyone with differing beliefs. Tonight's an exception to my rule.

I made the call to the only parent I had left since my mother had been killed the year before. In one phone call I had been transported from a mother and grandmother into a child needing my daddy. My dad had no faith in anything he couldn't see, that he couldn't touch. We were raised in an atheistic environment, but I always had this feeling, this faith deep inside my soul.

When Dad answered the phone I began crying as I told him of the events that led to Josiah's hospitalization and what the scans showed. My dad had always been my rock. He hadn't been a good father while my brothers and I were growing up, but since my mother had been tragically taken from him he changed, our relationship changed. He had softened, he grew to know how to give and how to receive love.

He told me not to worry, that Josiah would be fine. He calmed me as I waited for the next call from my daughter. When I got off the phone with him he called Karli. The words he spoke were not the words of a man that refused to believe in faith, in something bigger than himself, they were the words of a believer.

He told her to do what she had told him to do every day since her grandmother was killed 13 months earlier. He told her to pray. He told her that God would not allow a second child of her's to die. The three of us, Karli, Dad and I exchanged many phone calls that night. In each call Dad assured us that Josiah would be fine, that God would hear our pleas. He firmly told us not to worry, but to know the baby would be fine.

A very good friend of mine is a pediatric neurologist. I called her and she jumped into action. She was at the hospital in a flash and was on top of his case. She told me the scans were bad and they didn't know what the outcome would be. His injuries were severe and the bleeding on the brain was at the top of the list.

Soon Josiah began to vomit and he was rushed for emergency scans. When my friend came back into the room with the scans she had the first scans as well and was followed by nearly a dozen awe struck doctors.

She put the first scans up for everyone to see. The scans were horrible. The fracture was clear, as was the blood pooling within his tiny skull. His leg was broken badly. Not a word was spoken as she put up the second scans, there were only gasps.

The second scans showed no fracture, no bleeding and no broken bones. The only thing they could find wrong with the tiny child was his lacerated tongue. She called me as soon as she showed the scans to Karli and her husband. Her words were "I've shown a team of doctors the first and the second scans and we have no explanation for what isn't shown in the second set of scans. Teri, the scans are perfect, Josiah is fine. I have no explanation."

The first thing that next morning I called my father and told him the news. He simply said, "I know." He said it with the conviction of someone that had a hand in the process, he said it clearly and knowingly.

That was the second to the last time I ever spoke with my father. You see, that night, September 13th, 2007, my father died.

When my brother entered my dad's house to check on him that morning he saw Dad's oxygen machine. Dad never went to bed without it. He found his cell phone, something else Dad never went to bed without. He found bowls of water scattered about the house for the dog, bowls that had never been there before.

My brother made his way into the bedroom and found my father dead. He was in a kneeling position beside his bed.

It's my firm belief that my father made a promise that night. My brothers, Karli and I firmly believe, based on our last conversations with him, that my dad made a trade. That he made a deal with God. A deal that if God would spare Josiah's life he would accept Him and would trade his own life for the life of the child.

When I next saw my Dad he was cold and lying in his casket. I kissed him, I hugged him and I thanked him for the trade he had made. I didn't lose my father that night. I gained an eternity with him.

There Are Some Things You Should Just Keep To Yourself

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 18:08:46 PDT

I know this is one of those things but since I've already written about such topics on my blog I'm going to tackle it anyway. Besides, since when have I ever kept anything to myself?

Yes this is going to be about Starbucks and their non flushing toilets.

I had to go to the bathroom this morning during coffee and there was someone already in there so I waited. As soon as she opened the door and I saw her face I KNEW what she had done in there.

The pungent odor confirmed it, but I was determined to do my thing and get out of there before I had to breathe much at all.

I was doing ok until I unzipped my jeans and looked into the toilet. Oh gosh, I can feel my stomach rising as I write this. There was brown stained toilet paper floating in the water. I promptly threw up.

Then the thought of throwing up in a toilet with poop stained floating paper in it made me puke more. So there I was looking at crap stained toilet paper covered with fresh latte and coffee cake vomit. The more I thought about it, the more I barfed. There I stooped....looking....barfing.....looking.....barfing.

Finally I was able to stop and I tried to compose myself. I went to wash my face. Thank GOD there was a sink and mirror in there! I had mascara dripping down my face and my hair was a wreck. I looked as if I'd just come from that scene in the Exorcist.

Ok, I need to stop now. I'm feeling the need to up chuck again.

SHOTGUN!

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 22:02:33 PDT

No, I do not want to sit in the front passenger seat of the car. I'd rather be in the back being driven about by some guy with a cool name and a British accent.

What a day, what a term, what a year. If you're expecting something brilliant in this post you can click out now because I have nothing left this week.

I thought I'd take a "shotgun" approach to this post, well, because my life is all over the place right now. Nothing of substance, just pellets flying through the air and hitting me square in the face with a few in the ass.

First of all I'd like to know why parents don't teach their kids manners or respect any more. We were at my son's basketball game the other day and these four little shits about 11-12 pushed me out of the door and ran by never acknowledging they'd hit an almost old lady.

It was one of those days, ya know the days when you can't keep your mouth shut? Maybe you don't have them but I do. I told the kids it's customary to say excuse me and then said they were rude little things. Oh now that started some shit. The dad heard me and came back and fronted my husband. He totally ignored me which showed where his kids got their disrespectful, rude-assed attitudes.

My first thought when the guy fronted Jeff was "Oh shit!" If you know my husband at all you know he doesn't back down, especially when he feels he's right. I was sure Jeff was going to give him an elbow shot (he can't punch any longer because of his arthritis). He didn't but he didn't back down either.

Finally Mr. Parent of hellions backed down and took off. Dodged that bullet.

Then today I held the door open for a woman that was right me at Starbucks and that royally pissed her off! She was pissed because she thought I held the door open for her because she was old. Eh, no. I held the door open for her because it was the right thing to do. Then she nastily told me, "You go ahead since you were HERE FIRST!" Whatever. I'm sick of rude people. I should have pulled her cane right from beneath her and beat her with it.

After all that I had to come on and work on my taxes for the last two years, no not 2011, but '09 and '10 because they got royally messed up and have to be done all over again. So I've been staring at bank statements and trying to make sense of Quickbooks all day, popping valium along the way. Fun times.

In the middle of trying to make sense of it all my daughter, The Bipolar Princess, called. She had quite a bit to say. First off she warned me that I might not want to read her latest blog post, that it might "upset" me. So of course I wanted to read it, I mean if she's warning me, it had to be something bad about me, right? Ha, the bipolar mind at work. So I called her on it. She said part of it had to do with Isaiah and she didn't want me to be blindsided by it. Can I get a collective "awwww," now? My baby was thinking of me and didn't want me to have to re-live a horrific part of our lives. I still haven't read it. I might do that in a bit.

Then she went on to tell me something I can't get off my mind. You all know she has herpes and that's why Isaiah died. But what you don't know is that she has a rare blood borne form of the virus. She got some news from her doctor that has kicked me in the gut.

Evidently with the form of the virus she has it can attack any organ in her body and her brain is especially susceptible. She's at high risk of developing dementia. As if the girl hasn't gone through enough, now she has to deal with that fear, and being her mom I'm totally freaked out.

And now for the most disgusting part of my week. I had to TOUCH raw chicken! I DON'T touch raw meat! I know, I'm a freak. I love my steaks medium rare but I can't touch a piece of uncooked meat. Jeff was supposed to cut it for me, but he wasn't home, I think that was his plan. He seems to derive great pleasure from making me do disgusting things. Well, not really, he just laughs and does it for me.

But then something really cool happened. Karli, my Bipolar Princess, found these shirts that say, "I ♥ my mom and her tattoos." So I had to get some. I bought four of them. Thought about getting one for Jeff to wear. His mom is 84 sans tattoos but the thought of the looks he would get made me laugh out loud.

Now I'm in bed finally. I have a sleeping husband and sleeping yorkie beside me and the week behind me. I have two xanax, two valium and a Geodon at my bedside and after I watch Brothers and Sisters those will be ingested and I'll be on my way to the weekend.

"But They Are Only Shoes!"

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 07:00:03 PDT

I'm sure the neighbors think I'm having an affair with the UPS man. He's here all the time and today he showed up again.

This time with a wonderful pair of classic RED pumps!

I was sitting on my bed helping my 20 year old son with a DVD he was making for one of his classes this term when Jeff walked in the room with a brown box.

As soon as I saw the box I squealed with delight! I knew it contained the coveted RED pumps that had been ordered weeks ago. Both Jeff and Michael gave me THE look. Ya know, the death ray vision, I'm going to take great pleasure in disarticulating you look? Yeah, you know the one and I was getting it from BOTH of them!

I asked Jeff to take the sexy shoes out of the box and put them on my feet. I mean, helping with school work while wearing RED pumps makes everything better, right? Well, believe me, it does.

I knew what they were both thinking. They were trying to mentally calculate not only the price of the pumps, but of my entire collection of shoes.

Jeff was rather quiet, he just made sure I saw the sharp blade and the action of his knife as he slowly, but efficiently, sliced open the tape that was sealing the box that was keeping the shoes from their rightful place on my freshly pedicured feet.

I was SO excited looking at them. Skinny jeans, RED pumps....to DIE for!

Michael was more vocal than Jeff. "How much did those cost Mother?" The kids only call me "Mother" when they're annoyed with me. "Well, how much?"

"Well they weren't as much as my Manolos or Louboutins."

"What are those?"

"They're shoes silly. Go to my closet and look at the boxes on the shelves. You'll see them."

Grumpy Grandpa Michael huffed off of the bed and into my closet. All was quiet so I figured he would realize the RED pumps were no where near the price of others in my collection.

After a few long seconds I heard him scream, "$1200 for a pair of SHOES? Mom, you need to get ALL of those and sell them on eBay. You could pay for my college! I guess all those purchases were bipolar moments?! SELL THEM MOTHER! THERE ARE BOXES AND BOXES OF THEM!"

Yes they were bipolar, pre-medicated purchases but silly, silly boy, doesn't he know girls would never sell their shoes?

Tomorrow, RED pumps and skinny jeans! Oh, and I've learned my lesson. $1200 shoes aren't worn often and if you buy shoes that are a tenth of the price, you can have MORE!

Yea me! I have new RED pumps!

Do I Look Crazy?

noreply@blogger.com (The Bipolar Diva) — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 07:00:03 PDT

A few days ago my daughter, A Bipolar Princess, said someone had written her and asked what it was like having bipolar, especially since she didn't "look crazy."

It got me to wondering exactly what kind of image we that are affected with this disorder have. Take a look at this list. How many of the people on it "look crazy?" Well maybe a few of them are pretty well known for their "craziness." But I'm willing to bet that there are also a lot of names on the list that you would have never guessed suffered from Bipolar Disorder.

When I was diagnosed it really surprised me. I thought I was only having an unusually hard time after losing my parents, my grandson, and experiencing other traumatic events during a very short period of time. It took the trauma from all of that, and more, to bring my disorder into the light.

Bipolar is usually characterized as having dramatic and unpredictable mood swings. I can look back on my life and see it now. I can trace it back to about my early teens. I remember when I was about 13 I tried to ask for help. I was depressed, felt worthless and unwanted. Some of that was from parents that did the best they could, but really had no idea how to raise kids and some of it was because of my disorder. Anyway, I circled named of psychiatrists in the phone book. I remember thinking maybe my parents would see it and some how magically I would be taken care of, that they would realize I needed help, that I needed them to care.

My dad saw the circles. He looked at me one night when the family was all together and said, "It looks like someone is trying to make us think they're crazy. What a crock of shit." I was devastated. In my family we didn't talk to our parents, they didn't talk to us. It was the only way I could think of to ask for help without talking and it was shot down. So if my parents didn't care, why should I? Don't get me wrong, my parents loved us, they were just neglectful, emotionally unavailable parents when my brothers and I were young. We had everything we needed physically, but nothing we needed emotionally.

In the family I was the one that was generally thought of as the one with poor judgement and impulsive behavior, not someone that had a condition that needed treatment. I was the one with "attention seeking behavior." Well I wonder why? I got very little attention from my parents and I, like all kids, needed it. I still have the behavior, or so I'm told, and being damn near 50 it's unlikely it's going to change.

There were dramatic ups and downs and poor judgements before, and even after, I was diagnosed. I didn't look crazy, I was just the one with the hot temper and impulsive ways. It took all of the trauma I mentioned earlier to bring everything to the surface.

I tried to numb the traumatic feelings by self medicating and running from reality. On the night that lead to my diagnosis I had taken four, only four, ambien. I wasn't trying to kill myself, I only wanted the noise to stop. I wanted to sleep. But in my hypnotic state I cut my arms. I don't remember it very well, it's all foggy and in pieces. I only cut them enough to see blood. Somehow the physical pain took away the emotional pain which was much more severe.

That night was the beginning of months of instability. My daughter was calling my friends constantly to get them to talk me through things, to help distract me from the realities of the depths of the disorder. But no one that wasn't in my very tight circle had a clue I had a serious problem.

For me, un-medicated bipolar, and the months just after diagnosis, was like walking a tight rope. I never knew which way I would fall or if I could stay the course. It was exciting and fun and then in a flash it was dark and horrifying, not only for me, but for my family as well.

Today is a much different story. My medicinal cocktail is spot on and for the most part I'm doing better than I ever have. I've been told that I promote the usage of medications. Hell, freaking yes I do and I will continue to do so. I might not be here without them, my daughter might not be here without them. So if promoting the usage of medication is what it takes, that's what I'll do.

After I was diagnosed I made the decision that I would grab the tiger by the tail and I would win, that can't happen without medication. I've slipped a few times, but I'm on the upswing. Being controlled by bipolar isn't an option for me. I'm going to control it, I'm going to kick it's ass the best I can. I'm going to help make people aware that we're not "crazy," we're humans with a very treatable condition. If I'm not mistaken there's not one person out there that doesn't have a demon or two to fight.

I've been told that riding a motorcycle and getting tattoos are "attention seeking, bipolar behaviors." Maybe they are, or maybe they're not. Maybe it's just me. I think I'll take me just as I am....flaws, motorcycles, tattoos, medications and all.

If you have a friend or family member with the disorder, educate yourself about it. Get to know what you can, be supportive, not judgemental. After all, what's your demon?