A Cautionary Tale

Whether you've been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, thyroid cancer, or have never had a funky day in your life, this kind of thing can happen and does, all the time.  Without advance directives you may be at the mercy of the ER and hospital, should a serious emergency arise, and you have no one present who will speak up for you to say, "She's bipolar.  Here is a list of the medications she's on.  Here is her psychiatrist's name, here is her primary care physician's name and number.  She has a DNR"  Everyone of us should carry a card that says at least this much about us.  Because if you have family that feels shame or denial about your mental illness or any illness and those people can speak for you in a situation where you can't speak for yourself, their shame and denial can kill you.

I know a man who has been overseeing his elderly sister's bipolar disorder.  Due to his diligence to get her the best possible psychiatric care, she was on the medication necessary to control her bipolar psychosis and other bipolar symptoms.  Anyone on her cocktail of drugs might seem a bit slow on the uptake, a bit casual about disorder and mess.  To a religious and disapproving sister who didn't believe her sister was psychotic, only uncooperative and lazy her sisters psychosis would seem like another kind of illness altogether.  The brother was out of town when the bipolar sister had a crisis in the presence of her disapproving sister.  Psychosis was misdiagnosed at the ER and her medications were not administered making her psychosis worse.  She was admitted to the hospital, but not the psych ward.  She was six weeks in the hospital developing strange symptom after strange symptom that eventually developed into pneumonia and then something that made them think she needed her gall bladder removed, or some other surgical procedure, and then an infection and then, death.

The man was notified of his sister's hospitalization, probably by the sister who did not believe in bipolar disorder.  Because of HIPPA laws and the strange politics of family dynamics he was not given authority to intervene in any decisions about her care.  He watched helplessly as his psychotic bipolar sister died inch by inch. 

Her funeral came a couple of days after the funeral of Wayne, his friend, the pianist who died in a car crash after the Salt Lake Jazz Festival.  I can't begin to imagine his grief.  But I can imagine my own death in circumstances where I have a stroke or accident that lands me in the hospital with no family at all,  and my friends are unaware that I'm in need of their help.  I'm a solitary woman who seldom leaves home.  But when I do, anything could happen.  Life's messy like that.

When I finish this I will type up a list of my medical conditions, all medications I take on a daily basis, the names and numbers of all my doctors, the name and number of the friend to call in case of an emergency.  I will keep copies on me at all times, just in case.  I don't fear death, but I do fear mistreatment in a hospital if they do not know my history of bipolar disorder.  I also fear mistreatment in a hospital if they do know I'm bipolar.  Medical professionals are not immune from mistreating the mentally ill.  I know.  It happened to me in a much less serious circumstance when I was in the hospital with diverticulitis.  There are people who have no compassion for the mentally ill in every ER in the country. I know,  I had a roommate who worked in an ER and for most ER staff, someone who is crazy and needs emergency medical attention is seen as much less deserving of sympathy than almost anyone else.  We are just a pain in the ass.

GOP Liars and the Lying Lies They Keep Telling

I suspected that the economy was unraveling before the election was over, but had no idea how bad it really was until Bush, himself, the Decider in Chief, asked for Billions to bail out his buddies on Wall Street, the very guys who got the big beefy tax breaks, and the obscene bonuses for ruining the economy, just as Bush himself was heading out the door, pockets bulging.  That worked well, didn't it?  The Republicans seemed to have no problem bailing out Wall Street,  and then blaming Obama for TARP, but when it came time to hand out a few paltry dollars as a stimulus to the economy to bail out those of us, lowly middle class taxpayers who'd lost our homes, our pensions, our life savings in the Wall Street melt down, well that was a different story.

The Republicans are still at it.  They don't give a flying fuck about the middle class.  They keep voting against extending unemployment benefits for those hardest hit by this deep recession, the lowly middle class.  They are telling the ignorant teagaggers that unemployment benefits are a form of welfare for the lazy.  Once again, they are wrong.  A wage earner who has worked his or her whole life and is now unemployed due to the contraction in the job market caused by the recession, has been contributing through payroll deductions to an account that is just for this kind of event, is now being insulted on a daily basis by the GOP.  Unemployment Insurance is just that.  It's insurance in the event that one will be unemployed due to no fault of one's own. If you don't know this you've never punched a timeclock.

The New Black Panthers and the Old White Men

The discussion centers on whether the Justice Department's civil rights division mishandled a lawsuit against members of the New Black Panther Party, which was filed weeks before the Obama administration took office. The suit was focused on the party and two of its members, who stood out front of a polling place in Philadelphia on Election Day 2008 wearing military gear. They were captured on video and were accused of trying to discourage some people from voting. One carried a nightstick. 


This is an except taken from a piece in the Washington Post dated 7/14/10 and written by Krissah Thompson

It begins: A 2008 voter-intimidation case has become a political controversy for the Obama administration as conservative lawyers, politicians and commentators raise concerns that the Department of Justice has failed to protect the civil rights of white voters. 

Abigail Thernstrom (a member of the Bush Civil Rights Commission) said that she did not find testimony convincing and that the facts of the case raised doubts in her mind, noting that the Black Panthers were standing in front of a majority-black precinct that had voted overwhelmingly for Democrats in previous elections -- not a prime spot for intimidating white voters. 


There is nothing more disgusting to me than hearing whites complain that they are being discriminated against on the basis of race when they are attempting to deport every brown person in this country who wasn't living here a hundred years ago and has a birth certificate and passport to prove it when they're asked to show their papers to some beefy red faced jackass with a gun strapped around his bulging belly who calls himself a teapartier and a patriot.  Frankly I'm ready for the uprising of all of us with some native or African DNA to deport all those racist idiots.  I'm so sick of them and their fake indignation over "illegals."  You are all illegals in my book.  My DNA dates back three thousand years of living on this continent.  Go fuck yourselves, you lilly white idiots.  Go back to the Old Country wherever that is.  Get a job cleaning someone's home or gardening for them.  Then you can start complaining about how good things were in the USofA when you were the boss of everything.

Politics: Why I Blog

When my young friends from New York were visiting in January of '08, just after I got my Imac so I could finish writing my first novel, they insisted I needed a blog.  They had to explain to me what a "Blog" was.  Web log?  WTF?  Why would I ever want to do that?  What a pointless endeavor, no one would ever read it.  And aside from working on a difficult manuscript, I didn't really have much to say.  Or so I thought.  1,365 posts later, I have discovered my voice.

It was a political season and I am a political animal.  There could not have been a better time for me to start a blog.  In the beginning of that political season, I was a Hillary supporter, but as the season progressed, I became an Obama supporter. I had begun to have readers and some of them were outraged that I, a feminist, would abandon Hillary.  It was our turn, as women, to put a woman in the White House and not as just First Lady, a term any feminist worth her salt should hate.  We are not "Ladies" we are women.  But it became clear to me that Hillary was not well served by the advise she was getting and that advise was coming from people she had chosen to run her campaign.  She was making rookie mistakes, acting like she was entitled to the nomination, as if it were a coronation and she was the heir apparent.  She was leaving States she'd lost without thanking her volunteers and supporters for their generous help and forgetting to congratulate the victor, her current boss.  She began to seem boorish and rude to me.  And I worried that if she won, she'd do the same thing as President; she'd put the same lousy advisers in positions of power, and she'd still be getting bad advise.

I'm not always sure Obama is all that well served by some of his adivser, but one person I'm positive he's getting and honest advise from is Hillary.  It was a brilliant move to offer her Secretary of State.  So we, the voters got a three-fer:  We got Barack, we got Hillary, and as a tripple player, we got Bill Clinton, the man we quietly call on when we need some charming arm twisting done in the troublesome South.

The Death of a Local Jazz Great

Wayne Christiansen was killed in a car crash on his way home from the Jazz Festival.  He was a monster talent.  He was a great pianist and composer.  I knew him from the time Tom Burton and I lived together up Emigration Canyon.  They played together for awhile.  They'd played together in the 60s at The Quarter Note.  It was the only bar in town where you could go almost every night and hear really good Jazz.  David Harrison owned it at the time.  Wayne was one of the few musicians I really liked personally.  I know that sounds harsh, but harshness seems to be what I'm left with.  My last encounter with Wayne was at a small club on State Street.  It was a complete surprise to find him there, and I went up during a break to say Hi and to make a request.  I asked him to play Round Midnight.  And he did.  If I were anyone else in the world I would have said, "Thank you, that was lovely."  But I'm not that nice a person.  I wanted the classic Round Midnight and I got a virtuoso bebop version instead.  It was a great deal more than I deserved.  But my reaction to it was to give him shit about overdoing the virtuosity.  It was the last time I saw him.

David Harrison just called to tell me, and to ask for Tom Burton's phone number.  And it shocks me how careless I've been with every man I've ever known.  I no longer have a way to get in touch with Tom.  But I gave him Pat Zwick's numbers (another man I've finally completely alienated with my anger). Pat will know how to get in touch with him. There will be a memorial for Wayne, and I've been told when and where to go. And then there will be The Bastille Day Reunion.  I won't be able to go to either event.  There are men from my past who I want to avoid and for perfectly good reasons, not just because I'm bipolar and careless with my insults.  But I have been unforgivably careless of Tom's feelings and for that too, I'm sorry.  To bad I won't have the chance to make amends for my past bad behavior, but any contact with people with whom I've had a long relationship and have bailed on, is another opportunity for me to be cruel and careless, or to be hurt again myself.  I'm a coward when it comes to close quarters with the past.  It's been too painful.  And much of that pain has been self inflicted.

So, goodbye Wayne.  I'm so sorry I was so awful.  And I waited too long to tell you.

One Night of Missed Pills Equals Two Lost Days, So Far...

It doesn't take much to topple this bipolar person from her delicate balance.  I've worked very hard to achieve "normal."  Normal is for me a very hard-won balancing act.  I teeter here, on the balance beam of sanity, a bit wobbly but still standing. One missed dose of antidepressant and the two mood stabilizers made me stay up all night and spend yesterday watching old movies and lying in bed trying to stay out of trouble.  I tried to tweet a bit, write a place holder post, and clean up my dresser, but I couldn't type.  Words tumbled out like letter salad.  I now think I know what it must feel like to be truly dyslexic, the brain moving like lightning, too fast for the fingers to keep up.  My one little cleaning project expanded as I moved the mess on top of my dresser from one surface to another, expanding chaos rather than taming it.

Today I thought I'd be back to "normal," but I'm slow and disinclined to do anything but stay out of trouble.  Monday is a day I usually grocery shop, but I'm not inclined to trust myself to stay out of trouble in a store of any kind.  Shopping is potentially dangerous.  And I'm not in desperate need of anything yet.  I can feed myself today.  I have plenty of dog food.  Nobody needs a treat, so sending myself off to the treat store is just flirting with disaster.  If I really want to see what shopping is all about for me, I'll clean the cupboard and fridge.  I could probably feed a family of four for a month on what I have stashed away.  I'll thaw something for dinner.  I know from a cursory glance that I have ham steak, pork chops, rib eye steak, pot roast, ground lamb and more.  In my pantry I have rice, potatoes,  grits, cereal, two back-up jars of mayonnaise; what the hell do I need?  I have greens for salad, cabbage for slaw.  I have honey yogurt and blueberries.  I will not starve.

I'd love to work outside, but the temperature is climbing toward the high 90s so I'm going to spend another day just chillin'.  If my brain were in good functioning order I'd read all day, but a page of words is like trying to read word-salad.  Typing is easier today, but still not as natural as it should be.  I could retweet all day on twitter, but I'd have nothing original to add to the conversation, so I'll give it a break for one more day.  The world won't wobble off it's axis without me.

Oops

Today it's Sunday.  There.  Now I'm anchored.
Last night I missed a dose and now it's like an acid trip, almost.
Last time I looked at the clock last night it was 4:00 AM
It was the most important dose.  The Sinequan would knock me out eventually
It wasn't on board. I take two 800 mg Neurontin every night along with the Sinequan
Then the half a Lisinopril and the double dose of Loveistatin to keep my veins open and unclogged
And finally the rhythm keeper! Flecainide!  It keeps my heart beating in my dreams.  I took none of it.

I can barely type. I just came in from trimming the Virginia Creeper along the sliding gate and fence at the very back.  It's where I hide.  It's how I get in and out in my mommy mobile.
Invisible on the streets of Salt Lake
It's where I store my bricks and future gate.
It's where one Aspen's dying.  I'm watering now.

I took a 25 mg Sinequan and an extra Neurontin this morning or rather early afternoon.  I'm coping.  I'm staying in and out of sight.

The charming, somewhat glamorous boy and girl returned late today. They've been traveling. There will be parties ahead.

Dartmouth stayed home and worked like a Cholo with borrowed power tools, cords hanging out
the dining room window.  Screen removed.  Always barefoot.  Suntanned barefoot beautiful boy.
I avoid the front of the house and so the weeds grow,
The lawn burns, the flowers need deadheading.
I need to get the blower out.  But first I'll get the dust down.

Ms M brought Roscoe over for a three day visit with overnights.  We three, Roscoe, Marly and me (that's the problem with her name) watched movies and ate popcorn until the wee small hours and not once did I think about my pills.  I take a handful every night.  They're all lined up in morning and nighttime doses.  I know better than anyone how important they are.  It was an accident.  I've heard it said, "There are no accidents."  I don't buy that.  No one would deliberately destroy the balance that keeps her on her feet, her brain working, her life from devolving into chaos when she's worked so hard to create a bit more order this year.

It's 7:00 PM and I'm taking my pills.  I'll go to bed early, hopefully get up early and get things done.
I'm not oblivious to the fact that I just wrote a piece about what it's like to be bipolar and not medicated correctly.  I know the dangers.

Shopping's a Symptom?

Show me a woman with a real serious shopping compulsion and I'll show you a bipolar woman.  If that woman's mother found her life's greatest pleasure shopping, I'll show you the closest genetic link, though there will be many in the lineage of that family. It's probably the most under-diagnosed of the mental illnesses and yet it seems everyone's bipolar these days. It's one of the few genetic illnesses with two genetic markers, which means that if there is one bipolar person in your family, there will be many more, diagnosed or not. 

Compulsion (mania and psychosis) and the complete absence of compulsion (depression) are the two poles of bipolar disorder.  With compulsion comes boundless energy.  The joy of having both energy and the purpose of compulsion feels great and no one in a slightly manic swing will want to come back to earth.  The compulsion to shop takes me when I'm transitioning into hypo-mania.  That's when I have boundless energy and feel a strong sense of well being and optimism.  "Money's like a river; it has to flow.  Spend it and more will come."  It's the "zen like" place where I have absolute faith that it will all work out and I need those Gucci high heeled boots. It would be great if I used that energy to clean my closet and scrub all the floors since I don't have enough money to quite pay all my medical bills.  The impulse to shop, especially shopping without a list (for things I don't really need) should be a signal for me to check in with my therapist and see if I need an appointment with my shrink for a med check. Problem is, it feels so good.  Hypo-mania is like the very best drug.  This is how life is supposed to feel.  I feel charming, but I'm probably a little too intense, a bit too loud for most people.  It might be that's when I start thinking that my sex drive isn't dead after all.  Another red flag for those with bipolar disorder is an intense and perhaps inappropriate sexual appetite that might lead to disastrous sexual encounters.  Yes, encounters with an S. Yes, without protection. Yes, with much younger men. Yes, possibly married younger men. Yes, maybe married to your sister.

A lack of impulse control and a high tolerance for chaotic disorder is a another symptom of someone in the hypo-manic phase of the illness.  All these things might seem to you like personality. And yes, there might be a narrow line between being a charming, flirtatious, fast-talking smarty-pants, but then if you have no boundaries at all, and you feel compelled to fuck your sister's husband, you are probably at risk of driving the bullet-train that is your "personality" off the cliff.  We can be incredible drama queens.  We can be very destructive and self-destructive.  But then our lives have probably been quite trying, not to mention embarrassing for our families.  As children (if female) we are the ones who get bullied and abused.  We may be the family's scapegoat.  We might be the child who is sexually abused.  And as we grow into our teens we will likely become the ones who cut ourselves so we can feel something, so numbed by stress and psychic pain are we.  That's not to say that every child who is bullied at school and abused at home is going to be bipolar.  But a high percentage of female bipolar adults had that kind of childhood. We are the vulnerable ones, no matter how brash we may seem.

So what does this have to do with you?  Bipolar disorder is under-diagnosed, and if diagnosed, often kept secret.  And in the early stages of depression you do feel sick.  Depression may begin with a strange fatigue, a headache that won't go away, a low grade fever that lasts for weeks.  You ache all over.  These symptoms have sent me to the doctor many times, and each time tests have been run and one of the things they check is my thyroid.  Before any doctor diagnoses depression other things have to be ruled out.  And in the testing phase, they may find a thing or two.  I once had a one-time sugar spill in a urine sample.  This was so perplexing to my doctor that she had a complete endocrine work up done.  I was desperately hoping that it would be an endocrine problem, anything but another depression.  But there is nothing wrong with my endocrine system.  I do have heart problems, but they have never been mistaken for bipolar symptoms.  Depression is serious.  It can't be dismissed as just laziness.  If you're the only one in your family who's ever been seriously depressed, it might be that other members of your family tend to be a bit on the manic side.  If mania is the predominant side of bipolar disorder for those in your gene pool, chances are those folks will never be diagnosed.  Because who ever thought dynamism was a bad thing? Those who mostly swing towards mania are energetic, fun in a breathless sort of way, and productive powerhouses.  They are often greatly admired.  And they can be mean, so woe to the depressive bipolar child who lives in a family of manics, for there will be no sympathy there.  We just seem terribly lazy to the rest of our lunatic relatives.

Bipolar disorder can be managed quite well with the right drugs.  But finding the right drug might take a bit of trial and error.  And once the right drug is found compliance is often a problem.  Few bipolar drugs are weight-neutral.  I carry forty pounds of drug weight.  Zoloft makes me lose weight, but I tend to get a bit manic on it.  Wellbutrin can help you quit smoking but made me psychotic.  Most bipolar drugs keep me from dreaming, and for me, dreaming is one of life's little miracles.  So I'm willing to trade being thin for being able to time-travel in my sleep.  For most women the weight gain may make compliance problematic.  For men, just admitting that they have a problem that needs medication is astonishing in itself.  Men experience bipolar disorder differently than women.  Or at least they shop for different things like cars and boats and tools and such.  Men may be violent when manic. The high of a manic stage can manifest as aggression for both men and women, but men express their aggression more often with fists, and most bipolar men think having an insatiable sex drive is the ideal anyway so what's the problem there?  Inappropriate sex?  Are you kidding?

I've been in a lot of group therapy for bipolar disorder and I have never seen a man in any of those groups. And it's not because they were women-only groups.  Men don't seek treatment unless repeated incarcerations find them negotiating further jail time for therapy and enforced drug treatment.  A lot of men would rather do jail time than admit they have a mental illness and have to take drugs that take the thrill of risky compulsions out of their lives.  Because the compulsion for risky sexual behavior is a lot more fun than feeling just normal.

We still live in a time of shame when it comes to mental illness.  Many of us just self-medicate to try to feel normal.  We smoke cigarettes (which are a mild antidepressant) and drink too much.  We smoke pot and drink too much.  We do meth so we can have the energy that depression takes away, and drink too much.  We will try damn near anything to feel "normal," except take an antidepressant or anti-psychotic that will stigmatize us as crazy and make us gain weight.  But remember, along with a high degree of creativity we also have the highest rate of suicide for any illness.  It is our leading cause of death before the age of fifty.  After that we're the real experts on the illness.

The Dog House

This doghouse was Roscoes.  When Ms M first got him, he was an adorable puppy.  But as he grew his behavior, when left alone, caused her to have to relocate often.  He would tear up her stuff if left inside alone.  If left outside alone he would howl and bark incessantly, driving neighbors nuts.  If given half a chance he'd escape his solitude to end up chased around the neighborhood by the dog catcher.  She got him a dog run and he'd just howl his outrage at being behind bars.  Then she and he boyfriend at the time made Roscoe the world's sturdiest dog house. The idea was to give Roscoe shelter that was so heavy that when leashed to it by a study cord attached to the doghouse, he'd be safe and have shelter. He was never happy with this dog house. He hated being leashed to a dog house he'd never go inside.  He'd still howl and carry on, attempting to drag the dog house behind him as he tried to get away from it.  So moving in with me was her last chance to find a way to keep Roscoe.  He was always happy here, and there was never a need to chain him to his unused doghouse.  So, the doghouse has remained empty.  I think of it as a warning to possible intruders that you may not see the huge dog, but he sure has a very big doghouse, so buzz off.

Marly is the only dog to show an interest in it.  No, she doesn't ever go inside and curl up like a contented dog, but she does poke around it now and then.

"...His Injury Here, With Her Punishment There..."

It's All In My Head

I'm Bipolar.  I'm crazy too. And to make matters worse, my pedophile dad was a psychologist.  So, even though it was important to the family that I keep my piehole shut about what my daddy had been doing to me, my daddy was always telling me that my seething fury and the self inflicted wounds of careless "accidents" was all in my head.  And it was, in the sense that I might open my mouth and spill my guts to a sympathetic stranger, and what would come out might just put my whole family in jail and me in the looney bin for life.  My mother would scream, "Snap out of it!"  My father would say, "It's all in your head."  It never helped, and though it was all in my head, I could not snap out of it.

My dad's dad was a famous surgeon here in Salt Lake City.  He was Chief of Staff of a couple of Salt Lake's finest hospitals and a high up muckymuck in the Shriners.  He too was a pedophile.  I found this out when he died and his elderly only daughter (another crazy woman) got all Doc's films and photos.  As she and her children were watching the first of Docs carefully numbered films they were surprised to see two kids, ages ten and seven, having clumsy sex with one another.  The little boy was the seven year old and he grew up to become my daddy.  The little girl was the old woman watching home movies with her children.  It was a little awkward.  The man with the movie camera was Doc and the director was his wife, my Grandmother.  And so begins the problem that would disguise my bipolar disorder with all the symptoms of an adult victim of child sexual abuse.  Turns out that's not uncommon in children with bipolar disorder.  Pedophiles either create their own victims or find them.  But the kids with underlying bipolar disorder are often also the victims of child sexual abuse precisely because they're vulnerable.

It is rare for the bipolar child to be unscathed by other victimization.  We are bullied, we are withdrawn, we are moody and sometimes full of a rage so fierce it can only be safely turned within and we are often the teens who cut ourselves or have frequent "accidents."  It is also rare for the bipolar adult to be without substance abuse.  We are mostly self-medicating, trying desperately to find a place within that feels "normal." If I'm describing your childhood here and you have been diagnosed as "depressed," that may just be your predominant pole in the bipolar swing.  It was mine.  I spent years so depressed I couldn't get out of bed.  And depression almost always begins with symptoms that seem like a serious sickness.  You ache all over; you feel so tired movement seems like walking through molasses; you might have a low grade fever, a headache that won't go away; you lose your apatite; you go to your doctor certain there will be a diagnosis and a pill to fix it.  And eventually, after a series of expensive tests that find nothing, you'll get put on an antidepressant. And there are pills to fix your symptoms.

There are so many drugs to treat depression and the mood swings that go along with it, like the occasional psychosis.  But first everything else has to be ruled out.  My thyroid was almost always suspected since my eyes are prominent, or were before the upper lid began to droop.  But, if after a month or so on a new drug, my symptoms aren't getting less debilitation, I probably need to try another drug.  There is one that will help.  And it needs to be a psychiatrist who works through that process of finding the right drug, so I can live in a place of emotional balance.  It's a process of trial and error.  The errors can feel like a full blown psychosis or a lobotomy.  And most bipolar drugs are not weight neutral as it is so genteelly described in the inserts that come with a new drug.  I gain up to forty pounds on certain antidepressants, and no amount of dieting will get rid of it.  This is one of the reasons so many women won't stay on their antidepressant.  Would you rather sleep for a couple of years or live your life with a bit more weight?

At the depth of a depression is a coma-like sleep that is dreamless and very difficult to come out of to eat, bathe, and then make it back to bed.  Eating, bathing and walking across the room all take enormous energy when in the depths.  Sorrow resides there as well as oblivion.  Regret is sorrows twin.  And it doesn't help to have a family member shout "Snap out of it! I don't believe in depression!"  That's probably just a family member who is in the hypomanic phase of bipolar disorder and hasn't been diagnosed yet.

The Stupidity of Burning Money: Fireworks!

We, like many municipalities, are in a money crunch.  We're cutting programs for kids.  The arts are going, parks programs are cut, sports programs for kids are cut, and so, in an effort to keep some of those programs the Sugarhouse Fireworks display was cut.  To me this is a very sensible solution to saving money.  What is a fireworks display but the literal burning of money in a very ostentatious way, with a lot of noise and a certain amount of risk of life and limb to the idiots blowing things up. "... it costs more than pocket change to put on the show: $55,000 to be exact"  according to the article in the Salt Lake Tribune.  So some idiot with more money than brains began a private effort to raise the money to put on the blowing shit up program in Sugarhouse Park.  And it was wildly successful.  So, fine.  We can raise the money to blow shit up, but we can't afford a summer arts program.  This private effort to raise funds is laudable.  But if we, the citizens who feel so burdened by taxes can raise money for fireworks, why can't we do the same for our public schools, or summer programs for kids from poor families?

I have many reasons for hating fireworks and not the least among them is the damage they do to lives of animals who are terrified by the noise. It is the glorification of "bombs bursting in air" symbolized by the sight and ground-shaking sound and smell of smoke that fireworks is all about.  Surely we can find a way to celebrate the Fourth of July in less costly and dangerous ways than blowing shit up.

The Summer of Loss

I hold myself together during the hours of a crisis.  I cried a bit when I knew it would be the day I couldn't go on thinking Cyrus was okay, thinking he could make it through another day.  And  I'd been told he was on the maximum dose of pain medication. The level of antibiotics was as high as it could go.  Finally nothing was helping.  It was all getting worse.  And maybe he'd been suffering too long.  Maybe I was just selfish in keeping him with me to fill my need to have him here.

Every day since his death there has been the oddly timed firecracker popping off somewhere on the block, or just behind the house in the alley.  And the reflex holds to not react, so as not to feed his terror of anything that sounds like gunshot.  I look over the bed to see how he's doing.  It's just a reflex.  But I will always hate the Forth of July for all the terrified dogs. 

The orange and cream Tibetan rug that was under his tempurpedic mattress and cedar bed on top of that is now bare and visible.  It could be a treasure exposed, but it just seems like an absence, a loss, a minus in my life.

Yesterday I spent most of the day crying.  Loss is always my fault.  I cannot grieve, it seems, without believing that somehow, if I'd done something differently, Cyrus would have made it through another summer then a fall and then...  I know why I have to blame myself.  It's the phantom pain of the scapegoat.

I have a few more days of dog-sitting Roscoe.  He spent last night here.  We had a little slumber party.  It's probably the last time I'll sleep that soundly for a good long time.

Say Goodbye To Cyrus

I've known this day was coming for a very long time.  I knew when I got Cyrus that I wouldn't have much time with him.  He was kept alive in a shelter all of his first nine years under less than ideal circumstances.  He came to me with medications for the pain from his blown hips and shoulders and his terrible arthritis,  He's also on a pill for his thyroid problems.  In the past year and a half, he has developed a skin disease that baffles my vet.  We keep him on a prophylactic antibiotic to deal with the skin disease, but it isn't working anymore.  At this point I don't know what is hurting the most: his legs and hips or the sores that won't heal on his face.  But it became clear very early this morning that the pain is becoming too bad to bear.  He has been whimpering since 3:00 AM.  I can take the whimpering but I know it won't be long before the whimpering turns into screams and I can't do that to him.  He has suffered enough.

His time with me has been good for us both.  He has been, from the moment I got him to this moment, one of the sweetest, most loving dogs I've ever had.  He has been the strong noble silent type.  So I know this constant whimpering is a sign that he isn't that strong anymore.

Perhaps the timing of this crisis is a good thing, because the most difficult time of the year is rapidly approaching.  Cyrus is terrified of loud noises that sound like gunfire.  So the fourth of July and the twenty fourth of July are two times of huge fireworks extravaganza's of human stupidity and economic waste on an ostentatious scale.  I don't approve.  Cyrus is just undone by the noise.  He will not have to go through that again this year.  But I'll never hear fireworks that I don't think of his terror and the terror of so many other dogs when idiots are burning money with a big bang.

Creepy Jenny and I Are Having A Fight. So Far, She's Winning

Okay, call it Virginia Creeper or Creeping Jenny, but it's strangling my Mormon Plum tree and tugging on the phone line.  I don't care much about the phone line since no one in the main house has a land line, but I do care about the plum tree.  I have been working on getting as much of it cut from it's source and pulled out of the tree.  But still it's attached so high up in the tree, I'll need a much higher ladder or a cherry picker to get it all out.

I climbed the ladder leaning against the trunk and did battle with the biggest strands of it choking some limbs to death.  I removed a lot of dead tree along with some mighty long ropes of vine.  And in the center of the tree, as I stood on the top rung of the ladder I was torn to shreds by the thicket of deadwood at the center.  I have wounds to prove that this was a battle royal.  The vine won this round, but I'm far from done.

Can you blame me for hugging myself?  I obviously need a hug.  I just climbed down from the inside of a prickly tree, it's 5:30 and I've been working in my sleeping boxers and wife-beater.  I haven't combed my hair in two days.  I don't even think I washed my face today.  That's a gawd-awful picture of me hugging myself to show my wounds.  But it's the me I live with.  Obsessed in everything I do. And without any modesty at all.  I might as well garden naked.

The Boys

While the Eastern Boys are repelling down canyons in Southern Utah, I'm still laying brick and digging up lemon mint.  Anyone want some lemon mint?  It's crowding out the spearmint.  It's done-in the peppermint.  I've had it with the lemon mint.  Oh yes, it does sound as if it would be lovely.  But it only takes a couple of years in the garden to crowd out damn near everything else. And sadly, it's a pale imitation of a mint with a faint scent of citrus.

I'm still opening up vinca covered swaths of ground beside the gazebo to add more patio space.  My brick laying has taken a drastic turn from widening a pathway to creating a whole new patio. I hope I have enough bricks.

I've tried to explain to the Dartmouth boy (who is the one around the place during the daytime) the formula for keeping the main house cool through the summer.  It involves keeping sunlight out of the house.  It involves keeping the house all shut up during the day except the two farthest windows upstairs which should be just opened a bit to create a place for the hot air to go as the cool air from the swamp-cooler whooshes through the house chasing that flow of hot air out those two small openings in the upstairs bedrooms.  A lifetime of living with swamp-coolers has taught me how to make the best use of them.  Just by closing the shades on the side of the house that sun is shinning on will lower the temperature in the house five to ten degrees.  By opening the house at night to the canyon winds that blow from east to west, you can sleep comfortably with just the ceiling fan on low. 

But the Dartmouth boy has other things on his mind.  He's starting a new business in the food service industry and it's all new to him.  He hasn't worked in the restaurant business; he hasn't any construction experience.  So his firm timeline seems to be slipping away.  He's tried to hire several tradesmen to do the conversion from bus to rolling restaurant in a specific length of time.  Things are scheduled and don't go as planned.  I could have told him not to count on contractors to give you an accurate timeline.  There are always things you didn't factor into your plan that drag time out way past your prior deadline.

So he is worried about his bus and his timeline.  He can't concentrate on what the old woman is saying about keeping the house closed up in the daytime and dark.  He didn't hear me tell him about the way a small opening at the bottom of a window is enough draft to draw the cool air from downstairs upstairs to chase out the hot.  I know. It's counter intuitive.  And I am just a talkative old woman.

The boys are already a big hit in the neighborhood.  Neighbors know their names and all the girls and women find them charming.  They are eye-candy for the ladies.  And they're friendly in a breezy sort of way as they rush from one sport to another.  Seems they do it all, from mountain climbing to rowing.  And they have copious amounts of sports equipment for every imaginable sport.  I'm impressed and yet a bit annoyed that there are five specialized bikes in the fireplace room leaning against various unused pieces of furniture. 

The William & Mary boy comes from a military family.  I met his dad briefly when he was here for a fishing trip with his son.  He's a semi-retired high ranking naval officer, and he's a magnificent hunk of a charming man.  I had the pleasure of an introduction.  He told me the house and neighborhood remind him of places in Virginia.  He told me the boys love the house and neighborhood.  His son is a snappy dressing organized and orderly young man.  He's going places.  He's got his life as well ordered and organized as his bedroom and office. His clothes are hung up or put in drawers.  His bed is carefully made.

The Dartmouth boy is living in chaos.  His room is a mess.  It appears he needs a cleaning lady or a wife. Clothes are strewn about the floor like a thirteen year old.  Bed unmade and shoved against a wall, so making it up will be harder than necessary.  The drawers of his chest of drawers are haphazardly open. I'm so tempted to pick up is dirty clothes and make his bed but I resist the impulse. I know it will be taken as criticism, or worse, snooping.  And I don't want to be any one's cleaning lady or mother.  Yet I want to warn him not to take his girlfriend into that messy room.  I must resist this impulse.  I hope the chaos is a temporary problem that's related to his stalled business plan, because I like the boys.  I want them to stay awhile.

Draculanculus Vulgaris

I was shopping for dill weed at Traces and saw a huge version of this flower.  This is the only one of mine that has flowered so far, but if I give them the slightest care I might get more blooms. 

The Dragon flower (Dracunculus vulgaris) is an interesting member of the Arum family and a native of the Mediterranean region. The plant's name is associated with its resemblance to a dragon's tongue. This unusual plant is also called the Voodoo lily, Black dragon, and Dragon arum.

Its dark purple spadix emits a most unforgettable foul odor smelling of rotten meat. Fortunately, this rotten odor occurs only when the flower is mature and lasts long enough to attract a few flies, approximately one day. Flies are its chief pollinator of the Dragon flower.


So far I have noticed no scent of rotten meat.  I was told at Traces that theirs hasn't propagated, but mine has and mine is small in comparison.

Considered huge in every way, mature dragon flower plants reach heights of 18-30 inches tall. The 10-12 inch flowers range in color from deep maroon to nearly black and last for 7-10 days. You can expect to find the unusual Dragon flower plant blooming in late spring to early summer.

I can hardly wait for mine to get that big.  The woman at Traces said she has a collector of rare and unusual flowers who is in the market for one.  I may follow up with this, since I have several.  But first I'm going to give it a little care, since: This plant grows in either full sun or light shade and prefers moist, humus-rich soil.  My soil is far from rich and mostly hard as rock clay.  Oh well. 

Alien Life Force or Common Weed?

I can tell you this about it: It grows like a weed, self propagating and rooted in poor soil.  It tolerates dry soil up to a point.  And no matter how abused, comes back year after year.  I have shot it from every angle possible and also taken a shot of the spotted stem.  Anyone?

Domestic Archeology

I've been doing some digging, laying brick to enlarge my walkway and give me a bit more patio for the little house.  And in my digging I'm discovering river rock and slate.  These are a couple of photos of this work so far.  Most of the slabs of slate I've uncovered are too big for me to budge from their resting places, so I am using river rocks and brick to incorporate them into the patio I'm building without disturbing their resting places.

Father's Day? Not So Much

I was very unlucky when it came to fathers.  I had two of them.  If only they had been the gay kind, I'd probably have been better adjusted and liked men more.  I'd probably have chosen nurturing, gentle, kind men to get involved with.  But no, like my fathers, the men I married and lived with were selfish, bullying men who drank too much and felt a sense of entitlement just by virtue of gender.  Men of my father's generation did not help around the house.  And so the men I mated with refused to do domestic chores.  Men of my father's generation ruled the family, and women and children should know their places.

My sperm-donor father did not want me and never gave me the slightest attention unless I spilled my milk or spoke when not spoken to.  He was harsh with all of us, but especially harsh with me and my mother.  He never held me.  There is not a single photo from the beginning of my life until the day my mother and I ran away that shows he and I together.

My adoptive father wanted me, he held me, and then he used me to satisfy his sexual needs from the time I was almost seven until I started menstruating, at which point I became a liability.  That's when all affection stopped and he and my mother began to watch me like hawks waiting for the sexual monster they'd created to get pregnant and disgrace the family.  So no, Father's Day means nothing to me but a reminder of the power father's have to shape their daughter's future relationships with men.

Joe Barton, You Sir, Are a Pig

I woke up to the sound of Joe Barton's voice calling the BP twenty billion dollar escrow account, to guarantee reparations for victims of the Gulf oilspill, a shakedown.  I heard something similar from other wingnuts spouting bullshit yesterday after the President's Oval Office speech.  I hope someone is taking notes and keeping track of the senators and representatives running for reelection who are saying this kind of sick shit, but I'm betting that only a handful of the very rich think and those whose pockets are fully lined by the lobbyists for the oil industry, like Joe Barton, share his sentiments.  Joe Barton's district is not one that will be fouled by a black tide since the 6th district doesn't have a beach, but his biggest donor is the oil and gas industry. Joe Barton is a corporatist pig.  Joe Barton is a shill for the oil industry.  He does not represent the people of the 6th district of Texas unless all his constituents are oil men,  Any politician who wants to protect BP, should go down in infamy as a politician who sold his integrity to the only industry which currently has the power to destroy our environment and our livelihoods.  God forbid we give contracts and award the building of new nuclear power plants to private industry.  God forbid we let private industry run nuclear power plants. Industry's only constituent is it's shareholders.  Industries only job is to make more and more money in less and less time.  Safety is only important to industry in so far as it doesn't interfere with profits and bonuses.

Seems to me I have heard some of these same comments about the escrow fund (calling it a shakedown, a slush fund) from the usual idiots on the far right like Palin, Bachmann, Rush and Beck.  But any politician who lives in one of the states that will be devastated by this catastrophe and who refers to the escrow fund established to cover the cost of the clean up and reparations to those whose livelihoods have been ruined as a shakedown, should be run out of town by an angry mob of pitchfork wielding citizens.

The Deep Green Wall

I don't remember a Spring and early Summer when it rained like this.  It's made working outside hit or miss.  The ground under the pine trees, where the Creeping Jenny and Vinca Major covers all but dog trails, is saturated.  The big open field between the border of what is the yard of the cottage and what is the lawn of the main house is so wet it's slimy at the roots.  I've never had a May/June water bill so low.  And it's never been this thickly deep and green.  The "creepy Jenny" and Wisteria have grown wings from the top of the gazebo skipping the tops of the Lilacs and up the trunk of the giant healthy conifer to the west where the Western Tanager made it's nest this year.  The vines have topped the Mormon plumb making a tunnel and dripping tendrils from above that require trimming.  They grow so fast I swear if I sat out there and watched I could see it happening.  Three days and it grows a foot.  Like Kudzu, I think.  I must get a handle on it before it swallows my cottage and locks me in.

Best Birthday Ever

Nick came by a little after noon with two cakes, a card, lovely espresso cups, and good conversation.  Nick cooks.  Nick bakes.  Nick has the right equipment.  Check out these cakes.

Then later in the afternoon, Ms M and Roscoe came by bearing gifts and flowers.  While she was here, Esther, Marsha, Rachel and David came.  At the end of the day there were two Davids in my house.  Both lovely men.  My friend and neighbor supplied and cooked for the party.  And the food was great. There were five dogs visiting my two, so it was a wonderful dog party as well.

I woke late to cold and rain.  I don't remember ever having bad weather for my birthday.  It's one of the nicest things about having an early June birthday.  I began the day cursing the weather until I found my glasses.  Then Nick called and nothing could ruin the day.  It was perfect in every way.

To those of you on twitter and facebook, thank you for the lovely birthday wishes.  I have never had so many people wish me happy birthday.

Western Tanager Chick Down

We've had a series of intense winds and rain storms.  Wednesday morning when Marly and I went out during a break in the storms we discovered a baby Western Tanager on the walkway.  Marly was very respectful of this baby.  She did a very good imitation of a Pointer, just looking at it very intently.  She didn't bark or growl or poke it with her nose.  We watched it for a moment and then I took Marly in, grabbed my camera, and took a series of photos in quick succession.  When we first looked at it, it's head was up, but as I was snapping pictures its head drooped and it's wings began to look less useful.  I hoped if we left it alone, mom or pop would come to the rescue.  Next time we went out it was on its side and seemed to be rapidly dying.  Today I'll bury this baby.  I'm hoping that since Western Tanagers lay from one to five eggs, there will be surviving fledgelings.  This baby looked big enough to fly.  It's wings were very sturdy looking.  I can't imagine what brought it down.  Yes, there were winds and yes, there was rain.  But somehow I can't imagine that sturdy little bird getting downed by wind and rain.  I'll bury it today.  I think it's a boy and would have grown to look like its magnificent daddy.

Thank You Ms M

Roscoe woke me up early this morning whimpering at the door. That's how it always was.  I let him in and we went back to sleep. Now we're up and I'm getting my first cup of coffee, then we'll all go outside for their morning comstitutional.  I'll feed them.  And our day will be off to a good start.  It's so nice to have handsome Roscoe around today.  I'll keep my camera close so I can document everything he does.

Coping

Ms M has decided to keep Roscoe at her mother's house.  I feel as if we're all being punished for being happy.  She said he needs to get used to being alone.  Why now?  He'll have plenty of time to get used to being alone when they move. 

In the years Ms M and Roscoe lived with me I was a generous supportive friend.  I've always cared for Roscoe when she worked.  I encouraged her to go back to school.  I helped her in every way I could.  Taking care of Roscoe was part of my helping her.  Now it feels as if she's punishing me for my generosity.  I wonder how Roscoe feels?

I'm coping.  Marly and Cyrus are coping.  I talked to my therapist, Fred, on Friday.  He's kind enough to do a mini-session on the phone as an assessment.  Do I need to see Dr Isabella or not?  Do I need a change of anti-depressant or not?  "Or not" is the conclusion we both came to as I talked to him.  I have a bad day or two and think I'm coming undone.  Bipolar disorder can get tricky when you're transitioning.  The way down and the way up are dangerous times.  It's then when you have the energy to do real damage or chose the final solution.  I'm not worried about that for myself.  I know that if I stay on top of this illness I can keep myself fairly stable.  It's when I ignore changes that I get into trouble.  It doesn't take much to knock me off this narrow balance beam.  So I'm vigilant and I don't put off checking in with Fred.

Saturday morning I woke up and decided to cut my hair.  Change can be good.  Change is inevitable.  Embrace change!  I didn't hesitate.  I got my coffee, had a smoke, and hacked off my hair.  I went from chin length bob to short short in less than a half an hour.  I'm good.  I can cut the back of my hair using only touch to feel the length and thickness of it.  I think of the first big haircut change as a rough draft.  But when writing poetry and cutting my hair, the rough draft is often what works.  I'm happy with the result.  I almost have a Rachel Maddow cut.  And the few people who've seen it have been complimentary.

Now I have to take Marly for a walk so she'll stop waiting for Roscoe.

The Incredible Shrinking Woman

I'm fading into the background of my own life.  I'm hardly even here anymore.  Nothing works to distract me from the bleak realities of my everyday existence or the disgust I feel for my bad attitude.  There are no humans in my photos.  That's a result of my having alienated everyone.  There's no one left to offend.  I have driven them all away.  I make no effort anymore.  And aside from the things I've blogged about there are a couple of new things that are now just having an impact on my state of mind.  Yes, circumstances can tip the scales toward a bipolar event.

A couple of weeks ago I found out that my internist is going to work for the V.A.  I think it's admirable that she's willing to work with Vets, but she has been a very good medical professional for me.  She knows me very well.  She was the gate keeper, the nerve center, the one person who could tell me to call my shrink when I got too gloomy.  She didn't nag me.  She didn't judge me.  She seemed to genuinely like me.  I don't get that much.  I know I'm not that easy to get, to like, to care about.  I'm sometimes very prickly, impatient, irritable.  Now I have to start with someone new, who hasn't read my fucking chart, who has no idea who I am or how I think, or what matters to me.  She even shared my political passions.  I've been sitting on this catastrophe as if it hasn't really happened or won't matter all that much, but today as I was filling my pill minder I saw that I was running out of Warfarin.  I called in my refill but the pharmacy will need to contact my doctor to get more refills.  And that's when it hit me.  I've lost someone else who really matters in my life.  Now I have to negotiate everything anew.  Now I have to prove to someone else that my bipolar diagnosis isn't the totality of who I am.  My bipolar disorder is a challenge but it doesn't explain everything.  It's not the only reason I'm a difficult woman.

Last night Ms M came home from Michigan to pick up Roscoe.  Last night Ms M told me she's taking Roscoe with her to Savannah when she moves in July.  Months ago she asked me if I'd keep him when she moved.  I said yes.  At that point I began to think of him as my responsibily.  He's a wonderful dog who has spent almost all of his life here.  This has been home.  This place, these people, these dogs are his familairs.  I was losing Ms M.  But I was happy for her, proud of her.  I was doing her a favor and doing her dog a favor.  Now I'm losing them both.  If you've looked at my photos much you know that Roscoe is the most photographed presence in my pictures.  Roscoe is a big part of my life.  Roscoe has special needs.  He's a dog who hates to be alone.  Now I have to start learning to live without him.  My life is shrinking at an alarming rate.

Stone Work

We had two whole days without rain.  The temperature was in the 70s.  I've been slightly depressed by the news.  Twitter always reports the big news stories a day or two before they hit the news programs so I knew the Aid Flotilla was coming and I knew Israel wasn't going to let it in.  I'm starting to get really hammered by the Gulf oil spill story.  I'm starting to get depressed for President Obama.  The Bush chickens are all now coming home to roost and it's a foul mess landing on Obama's shoulders.  I feel sorry for him, sorry for the people of the Gulf.  I'm horrified by the confrontation between aid workers and the Israeli soldiers.  So I took a couple of days off.  I didn't even check email.  No twitter, no blog, no news.

I started unearthing the stone work I did twenty years ago.  And I mean that literally.  For almost twenty years no one has been clearing leaves and other debris from the alley side of the little house. So all that debris has turned into soil that's been collecting on the old stone walkway.  I began a small archeological dig and took pictures as I worked.  I also began adding stones to the path to the main house, enlarging the area covered by brick.  I have no idea why doing stone work is so enjoyable for me.  When I began doing the this work back here twenty years ago I found it both satisfying and somewhat meditative.  It's hard work but I love the final result.  That's a good thing since I have a huge pile of bricks and all the work I did all those years ago has been shifted as tree roots have grown under the pavers, lifting them and making tripping hazards here and there.  Making my patio area larger and better is going to be my summer project.  Here are the photos of my efforts so far.

Baby It's Cold Outside

It may look pretty, all these shrubs bursting with blooms and berrybuds, the green tunnel of foliage, the soft light of an overcast day, but I'm starting to be seriously affected by this unseasonably cold Spring.  I have had one day of good weather here or there to prune the tunnel of pink honeysuckle, to gather the clippings and dispose of them before the rain comes again.  I should be happy for all this rain.  It means I'll have to water less than usual, since the trees are soaking it up. The weather forecast may be pretty good for a week, but two days into it, it turns to unforecast cold, unforecast rain, unforecast snow, as if the weatherperson is just guessing moment to moment and is surprised by it all. It's impossible to make plans to party or work outside.  Or, if plans have been made, to dress appropriately for the possibility of rain, or snow.  You can start the day with the sun shining, wearing shorts and a sleeveless shirt only to be searching for a warm sweater by midday when the storm clouds roll in with a very chill wind scatters napkins and paper plates across the yard, foiling one more attempt to have a barbeque and a beer in the gazebo.  So far, the gazebo has gone unused.  The cold puddles of rain water have never evaporated this Spring and are probably breeding pools for mosquitos to plague me all Summer long.

I have weather whiplash.  The sun is shining now, but it's 55 degrees outside and the space heater is chugging away beside my bed and I sit here typing in winter clothes.

The Brilliant Bird In the Bush

I usually wake up just before dawn to pee.  Then I go back to bed until 9:00 or so when the dogs begin to get restless.  This past week I've been hearing baby birds chirping for breakfast at dawn.  One morning I lay awake listening to them and then suddenly they went quiet and silence descended on the dawn once more.  It's a lovely sound, that baby bird hunger satisfied, that contented silence returning.

My little house is nestled into a near jungle of trees and shrubs.  The yard of my little house is a mix of untended perenials, some of them planted and some of them just pretty weeds.  If it blooms and is pretty through the hot dry spell of summer, it stays.  I'm trying to conserve water so I only water the trees, but I have so many trees that it's a lot of watering and it pretty much covers the property.  I'm letting the Vinca invade the lawn, since grass seems like an invention to make the manufacturers of lawnmowers rich.  My patches of mown green, small as they are, provide a bit of contrast to the wilderness. But if you sit in my gazebo mid summer you'd think you were in the country, so green and quiet it is, the silence punctuated with the sounds of songbirds and squirrels, the occasional bark of a dog and the laughter of children playing.  I seldom hear the sound of traffic.  I live on a narrow street that dead-ends a block to the south of me.  Anyone who drives down this street has to drive slowly; there isn't room for a car to pass another.  Yet here we are in the middle of a city.  And this year for the first time ever, after the coldest, wettest Spring in my memory, I have a pair of nesting exotics.  They look like they belong in Costa Rica.  And they've nested near my deck; the bush they're currently feeding from is right outside my bedroom window.  I have no idea what kind of bird they are, but maybe you know.  I've seen the female and she's not half so lovely as this guy.  I hope when they leave in the fall they remember the abundance of food here and come back next year.  These photos were taken through my dirty window.  This was the first day of sun in awhile, and knowing the next would bring rain, I have waited to wash the outside of my windows, so imagine how lovely he'd be without the blur of a dirty window.

Abuse

I have a friend whose husband very emphatically dislikes me.  In his estimation, I'm very very crude.  I call shit "shit." I don't use euphemisms for bodily functions.  When I had a recent sewage backup caused by the bad kids who stuffed their toilet with paper towels and handy-wipes, the fact that I talked about raw sewage coming up from the floor drain in my solarium caused him to forbid her to visit me.  Raw sewage got added to the list of words that are forbidden.  Since I was having a raw sewage problem, she wasn't allowed to talk to me.  And if she did talk to me, she couldn't talk to him about what was going on here.  He claims he can't trust her not to use those "bad" words when she talks with me.  However he has no problem telling me to go fuck myself.  "Fuck off!" is okay but calling raw sewage "raw sewage" is forbidden.  So all during that crisis in my life, the words raw sewage and shit made me off limits to her because he has a problem hearing about the specific problem I was having.

They pick up my Doxie to walk with their Chihuahua every morning.  I don't ask, but she gives me the lowdown on Marly's "output."  I don't need to know how many times Marly made "output."  Euphemisms for normal bodily functions make me gag.  I have a hard time with people who are too precious to call shit "shit," but who have no problem screaming at a neighbor to "Fuck off!" or "Go Fuck Yourself!"  It all seems pretty crazy to me.  But since I'm crazy, intimating that someone else might be a touch crazy is the like the pot calling the kettle black.  I usually don't go there.

I've been buying beer and bourbon for her for a long time because he counts the beers she drinks at home, so rather than battle it out with him, she comes to visit me when she needs a beer but has exceeded her "allowed number of beers" at home.  I'm astonished by how controlling he is and how much of that controlling behavior she puts up with.  They have "good chemistry."  I think that's a euphemism for good sex.  And I understand the power of good sex.  I lived with Tom for five years longer than I would have if the sex hadn't been so good.  But in the end, good sex couldn't make up for bad communication and a lack of reciprocity in our relationship.  By the time I left him for the last time, I was disgusted with myself for living with a man who never once told me he loved me, but who was a good fuck but not a good lover.  And Tom wasn't a tenth as controlling as my friend's husband.  I'm astonished that she allows him to tell her what she can and can't do, let alone what she can and can't say.

She and I were going shopping today.  She stopped by to show me that ads for Old Navy that made her want to shop there.  But as we were talking she told me about my next door neighbor asking her one morning as she and her husband where walking the dogs "What's going on with Peggy and her tenants?" My friend told my neighbor about the raw sewage problem and it's very deliberate cause.  Her husband stood there calmly listening to the conversation.  But when they got home he was furious that she used the "forbidden words" and told her she isn't a "trustworthy person" because obviously she can't keep her promise not to use those words.  If I were her I'd be choking on words.  Those words would be like bones stuck in my throat.  I'd be strangling on those words.  But his rage over the use of "forbidden words" is like she'd been fucking the mailman on the front lawn and charging admission to watch.  His rage over the words she uses is so out of proportion to the offense that as she was standing in her kitchen with a full quart of ice water she'd just pulled from the fridge he grabbed the water out of her hand and emptied it over her head.  She just stood there.  When the bottle was empty she calmly walked out of the kitchen, picked up her purse and keys and left.  She had to go visit her dying blind mother who lives in a nursing home north of Salt Lake.  On a good day that's a painful visit.  She adores her mother and seeing her in her current state is always painful.  Her mother has vascular dementia.  Same illness my mother died of.  Only her mother was a loving and good mother.  So the pain she feels is terribly poignant even without carrying the pain of her abusive husbands treatment of her.

As she was telling me this story she started crying.  I asked her "Has he apologized?" "No."  Apparently he feels completly justified.  But what he doesn't know is that his behavior has pushed her to make plans to escape and stay elsewhere next time he goes off on her.  And I'm betting he won't have the slightest idea why she's left him.  She does everything for him.  He'll be like a helpless baby if left to his own devices.  He has no idea that he is mentally ill.  And when doctors have tried to get him to take a drug that will help him with his out of control rage and abusive controlling behavior, he refuses to take the pill that would help him.  He doesn't think he has a problem  But I'm the crazy bitch with a potty mouth.  At least I take my pills.

Am I sick or Is It Bipolar Disorder?

I don't feel well.  There are many reasons I might not feel well right now but I can't rule out the possibility that this might be the beginning of depression.

I don't want to do anything.  It might be the unseasonably cold temperatures and the fact that I awoke yesterday to a snow storm.  Or it might be the beginning of depression.  I can't quite wake up.  Things that usually please me, like visitors, make me feel vaguely annoyed.  I'm not exactly annoyed at the people visiting me, but at my own lack of enthusiasm.  I can fake it for awhile, long enough to make it through a visit.  I don't lack interest.  But when the visitor leaves, I'm relieved to be alone again.  Today, though it's cool now, it's supposed to be 71 degrees.  Perfect weather for working outside.  Perfect weather for taking a walk.  But I want to pull the shades and sleep.  I can't quite wake up.  The dogs enthusiasm for their morning routine makes me irritable.  I can fake my way through the morning.  I know what the dogs expect of me.  But I just wanted to sleep another hour or ten, so when I get out of bed, I'm very very tired.  And there is no good reason for this fatigue.

Usually when I wake up one of the first things I do is look in on twitter.  I have no interest in twitter today.  I feel a little bit sick.  This used to confuse me because feeling sick can be cured, but a depression can last for years and there seems to be no reason for it.  I'm a reasonable person, so a bad mood or a need for a nap I can deal with.  But the black cloud of depression can't be dealt with in quite such a rational way as tackling a real illness or just a bad mood.  If I were vomiting or had a fever, I could overlook this lethargy and know why my body didn't want to do anything but lie in bed.

I have congratulated myself for this long period of stability.  It's been years since I had a real serious bipolar event.  I take my medications and check my emotional temperature every day.  If I'm really off, like very angry or very irritible, I realize that I might not really be all that angry or irritible, it might just be a bipolar event.  I can't take my feelings at face value.  My feelings could be quite reasonable given my circumstances.  But if they seem overblown to other people given the provication, I have to consider the possiblity that it might just be bipolar disorder and not my friend's incredible insensitivity.  Fact is, not one of my friends is all that insensitive.  Nick just called to see if I wanted to go to a movie.  And I worry that my lack of enthusiasm for much of anything might seem like I just don't want to do anything with him.  Truth is, he's the only person I'd go out with.  But for now, I'm going nowhere.