It’s All in Your Head

Good Bi-brations.

So, if you can’t laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?

Well…wait. I guess you can laugh at comedians. Funny movies. The People of Wal-Mart website. OK…so when I think about it, there are actually a lot of people you can laugh at, but anyhoot, let’s stick with us.

The other day, I was yacking with ma (go figure) and I told her I had a GREAT run that day…so good, that I was dancing along a bit while running. The following conversation then took place:

“You were…ummmm…dancing? While running?”
“Yes, ma.”
“How were you ‘dancing?'”
“Well, for example, when YMCA was playing I did the arm stuff.”
“Well…OK! (BIG pause) So…ummmm…did anyone see you? Like…you know…people?”
“Ma! I have fucking bipolar! I can get away with it!”

We started laughing so hard and she agreed with me! I realized then with all the crap that goes with having this mental illness, sometimes you have to just laugh about it. It’s survival.

Sis and I love to eat lunch out together, and here’s a common conversation:

“OH NO (said in a very dramatic voice)! T, I know it’s my turn to pay, but dammit…I forgot my card and don’t have any cash on me!”
“Again? You forgot it again?'”
“Uh, yeah. You know, T, I do have bipolar.”
“Kristi, I’m well aware of that. However, I’m a LPN who has worked on the psychiatric floor of a large hospital and I don’t remember ever hearing about how forgetting your debit card is a symptom of ‘bipolar’.'”
“Oh. Well. It’s like a ‘new’ symptom. You know. A rarer one. That I happen to have.”
“Sigh.”

See what I mean?

So, confession time: I’m in love with Simon Cowell. Let me say it again because it just sounds so damn yummy: I’m in love with Simon Cowell. As such, I’m always watching X-Factor and American Idol videos on YouTube. There is nothing more I want than to be belting out a song on that HUGE stage on X-Factor and have the audience give me a standing ovation.

“Son (O), I wanna try out for X-Factor.”
“Why?”
“Uh, duh. Because I want to be a star. You know, I gave up that dream when you were born, but maybe now it’s time.”
“Ma. You have no talent. You can’t sing. You can’t dance. At all. And from what dad says, you couldn’t when I was born either.”
“So O, what are you trying to say? You know, I’ve been feeling pretty depressed lately. ‘Cause of my bipolar and all.”
“OH. Well. SSSUUURRREEE…you’d be great on it!”

Or…

“Dammit, O, the yard needs mowed.”
“Uh huh.”
“Really BAD.”
“Uh huh.”
“Wanna mow for me?”
“Ma, I’m working on some stuff and I thought you loved yard work.”
“Son…I’m feeling depressed and don’t think mowing is a good idea for me right now (isn’t that the biggest load of bullshit you ever heard?)”
“OH. I’ll go do it then.”
🙂 MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

Please don’t give me a lecture on using bipolar this way. Look grasshoppers, sometimes you use what you have and this is my way! If I was beautiful, I’d use my wiley ways to do the same. Get it?

Now, when I’m manic, I can’t do enough artsy fartsy stuff. And I get in moods in terms of what I want to make. I’ve gone through Zentangling, acrylic pour painting, crocheting, sewing, beading, water coloring, book folding and decoupaging. And when I do it, I do it! For a while, there was literally NOTHING I wouldn’t decoupage.

13592376_10157105851195082_8742606666467863492_n — A quilt I entered in a show! P.S. I didn’t win anything for it.

Some things turned out really well and I loved them (until I came down, that is). And others sucked ass. Big time. When I went through my crocheting stage, EVERYTHING in my house that was the size of a breadbox or smaller was covered in some sort of crocheted “wrapping”. I have a picture of me with a crocheted ‘purse’ and it’s horrendous. Too bad I can’t find it to show you. But you know me…my bipolar makes it hard to get my old pics out. Just sayin’.

92955591_10163265955380082_4130272638981373952_n — Edward helping me bead in my studio!

I have so many beaded bracelets that I’ll never be able to wear them all (a slight exaggeration) and my son says the number of quilts we have could be lined up to go around our entire neighborhood block. My paintings cover my walls and when I get out my brushes, NOTHING is safe. And PLEASE don’t say I should open my own Etsy. Been there…done that. My profit? Zip. Zero. Nada. ‘Nuff said.

Now we all know how creativity is linked closely with bipolar: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Walt Whitman, Sylvia Plath, , and Vincent Van Gogh just to name a few. Not that I’m comparing myself to these people…just sayin’. But my mania really does let me explore my creative side and I let go. I’m not concerned with the process or the result or being afraid something isn’t going to turn out. I just do it and even if the end product is ass ugly, it was fun!

60084786_10161705687865082_4417430222496858112_n — I love this ooooops painting that turned out so cool!

Another great thing is that when I’m manic, my confidence and charm explode! I was up for a full-time tenure track position at my college in 2000 and was passed over as a candidate the first time around. When the search committee couldn’t agree on anyone, I was considered the second time interviews were set up! I was teaching as an adjunct already and was doing the work they wanted, so this was something I really really really really desired! So, I was in the President’s Office for my final interview with about 7 other muckety mucks and knew this was my only chance to nail it:

“Kristi, tell us what your biggest weakness is. Your biggest negative.”
“I don’t have any. Next question?” (Remember, I said this in a very charming way.)

My colleague tells me that’s what set me apart from the others. My confidence!

When my son was a little guy, I was never too embarrassed to really play with him: get dirty, be on the playground equipment, take him cool places, try fun things with him. Who gave a fuck what the other moms were thinking? We had a ball!

18274744_10158588564510082_7364312475645208443_n — My son and I still have so much fun together!

When I set what others might think of as unrealistic goals, I meet ’em. Like registering for a marathon after not being able to run an 8th of a mile. I had 6 months and I did it! My mania and energy got me there!

In the classroom, my mania can sometimes be a bit hard to reign in, but it’s really fun for my students! We learn a lot (I can give a hell of a lecture in an hour), but we also laugh and that makes it a comfortable environment that all my students respond too. There’s nothing I like better (except maybe…you know…ahem…sex) than hearing my students say “I love this class!” while walking out the door. Makes me smile every time.

79288045_10162622565895082_8886445750997745664_n — I love being in front of an audience.

I’m not scared to speak in public at all. I’ve been graduation speaker 3x and LOVE giving my speeches in front of the 1000 people there. When I’m manic, I have the LOOK AT ME syndrome going on…I want to be the center of attention!

I can get excited over the littlest things. Sometimes I have a feeling people think I’m ‘faking’ a reaction to something, but I’m not! I can actually get REALLY excited over seeing a deer on a hike or going to a stage musical or finding a turtle on a path. Things like that make my day! And Christmas? I LOVE to give and open presents and everything I receive excites the crap out of me!

Now, I don’t want to brag on this one, but let’s get it out there: people with bipolar tend to have higher IQs, particularly in verbal areas. I love to learn. LOVE IT! I read anything and everything I can get my hands on, and theorizing is actually fun to me. That’s why I think I love teaching psychology and sociology so much…you can never ever learn it all! (I also think that’s a big reason I chose to teach: I can use my ‘verbal’ abilities to yap all fucking day).

60010395_10161706393445082_7830050964898840576_n

And of course there’s also the fact that we’re sensitive, empathic, and in tune with other people’s feelings. This makes us good listeners…good people to talk too since we can relate to others so much. We’re the huggers. The comforters. The ones who people will seek out because they know we truly care about what they’re saying. I’ve literally struck up conversations with people in Wal-Mart (much to my ma’s and O’s chagrin) and after 5 minutes, I’m hugging them while they spill their life story out in the make-up aisle.

You know having bipolar sucks, and whatever mental illness or mental health issue you are battling sucks too. But I’ll tell you what: you’re going to have days that go on forever and you’ll wonder what the fuck you’re doing here; and you’ll have good days that make you understand what you were put on this earth for. And trust me, grasshoppers: if we can’t laugh about it…maybe until we cry about it… then we are going to let these mental illness bastards win.

Kristi xoxo

99, 44, 100% Pure Love. (Eddie Rabbit)

So, my ma and I were yacking yesterday, and we got on the topic of men. I was telling her how I was still missing my ex and how I didn’t know what I did to my 2 date wonder to make him run so fast. She said: “How do you know it was something you did?” Hmmm.

As my logical brain (not huge, just sayin’) tried to process this information, my emotional brain automatically blamed myself for the end of not only those, but all my relationships. Now here me out: 3 divorces (shutty the mouthy), an ex partner (who I thought was my soulmate), and some fizzly dates that probably never should have happened. And, my sweet grasshoppers, who was the common denominator in all of those? Go ahead and shout it out, I can take it: ME. Blech.

It’s been 6 months since ex and I broke up. Wait. Wrong choice of words. It’s been 6 months since ex broke up with me. And yes, he wasn’t the best to me during our 3 years together. Y’all have heard that before. Along with having had a really bad childhood, he has BPD and PTSD and I cut him a lot of slack because of all this. The cheating, frequent abandonment, lying, gaslighting, rages, and you get the point. I overlooked these or minimized them because of feeling sorry for him; because of how I was wanting so bad to make his life better than it had been. Because I wanted to fix him.

black claw hammer on brown wooden plank — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Is that what we women do? I know there are so many women out there that don’t feel this way, but I think those of us who are overly sensitive and/or strong empaths do. It’s kind of what’s inside of us. How can I say how ‘sensitive’ and ’empathic’ I am if I don’t show this to the men in my life? To ex? He served 3 grueling tours in the Middle East. Didn’t he deserve to fuck up? He has mental health issues with documented damage in his brain because of an explosion he was in during his time in Iraq. Didn’t he deserve forgiveness from me for doing the things he did? God knows I’ve made a LOT of mistakes because of issues with the mania or depression I’m cycling through. Don’t I want the same treatment?

Well, maybe there’s a difference. First, he was consciously aware of every single thing he was doing because he spent so much time covering it up, lying about it, or making me feel I was nuts for thinking anything was amiss. If you are able to have that much insight into your actions, are they still the product of a mental illness you can’t necessarily control? Hmmm. That’s really one of the hallmarks of BPD, isn’t it? The instability of the person in every area of their lives. And with me, I know my impulsiveness has especially caused me to do and say things completely and totally wrong. That’s part of bipolar.

So what gives? I feel so much remorse after I’m in a better place, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself a fraction of what I’ve done. I also take full responsibility. I always blame myself, bipolar be damned.

rule-of-a-relationship-double-standards-dont-work-in-relationships-22325066

Is there another explanation for why I stayed then? I think because of my drawers. NO! Not my knickers…but my brain compartments. Like a lot of people, I’m very good at putting things in boxes. You put the abuse, infidelity, horrible words in a drawer and try to forget about them, while allowing the drawer of good times to be open. Remembered. Looked at.

Ma asked me if I would ever go back to ex. I truly, with all my heart, wanted to say no. But to be brutally honest, I don’t know. Not long ago, I really wanted another chance at our relationship and responded as such after he texted me. He shot that down. For him, it’s dead. For me, some embers are still burning.

After J ‘broke’ up with me, I dated a lawyer for a couple of months. Educated. Suave. Fun. And I thought, OK…this could work. And then, after a truly small issue that HE brought up, he got so mean with me (verbally…on the phone) that I couldn’t believe his venom. But in retrospect, I know where it came from. He and his ex have fought over their daughter for more than 10 years now. They have been back and forth to court scores of times for such ridiculous things (and it’s the poor girl that’s in the middle of this mine field). He talked about his ex-wife in such scathing, hateful, and cruel ways that it was always easy to see that anger about her in him. I just hadn’t realized the anger was now a permanent part of him.

Then I had 2 dates with another boob. We met for drinks one Saturday, and the conversation was good and he even hugged me goodbye. When he did this, I ‘thought’ I felt a hand on my ass, but figured it was probably my imagination. The next date was at his house. When I got there, he hugged me and when I left, he hugged me, with his hand on my (guess!) ass both times. OK, dude. You are almost 60 years old, and it’s obvious (from other things he said…and let me tell you, that second date ended VERY early) you want a hook up. Class act.

Then, my friend of 20 years that I asked out not long ago confounded me too. I had so much fun on our couple dates together…I really did! We had been such good friends and I thought building a relationship on that foundation would make for a great thing. Obviously, it didn’t (shocker, huh?). I could see us together, and I was really surprised at how his rejection of me hurt so bad.

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Here’s what I’ve noticed that pisses me off. In my life (and many other people have seconded this to me from their own experiences), men seem to have the upper hand in relationships. In terms of me, why is it that when they wanted it to end, it ended? Just because J (ex) was wanting to break up, why did we? Why did HE get to make that decision? I went to his apartment a couple of times to talk, and he literally would not let me in. So, I looked desperate, needy. But, if he came over here? I would have the courtesy to listen to what he’d say, and others might see him making that step as being so humbling for him. Men are pursuers, women are stalkers. Men are ‘ready for an emotional attachment’, women are needy. ‘Nuff said.

My friend decided he didn’t want a romantic relationship right now (better get off that dating site then, buddy), but I did. Once again, his decision prevailed. Ma asked me if I had talked to him about things, and I said no, not after that last text. Why? Because I would look too desperate. Right?

But maybe this isn’t about gender (now don’t send me crappy messages about not liking men: for fuck sakes, I’ve married 3 of them and gave birth to one), but about those of us who are overly emotional vs. those who aren’t. The over-emotionals don’t handle rejection well. We expect that others will treat us like we treat them, and understand relationships aren’t (or shouldn’t be) disposable. We grasp the insight that relationships take work, time and effort. Why is this so rare? Shouldn’t this be the ‘rule’ instead of the exception to the ‘rule’? Shouldn’t both people be part of the break-up like they were for the initial start? Why can’t both sides have input without judgement?

If one more person tells me it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I never have a partner again (thanks for the optimism, peeps) I’m literally going to punch them in the face. OK, not literally. And not even a tap. BUT, they will get one of my shitty looks…that’s for sure.

Look, I know it wouldn’t be the end of the fucking world. I’m a bit smarter than that. But I like having a partner. Actually, I love it. There are so many people that don’t admit that anymore. Maybe they think it makes them look weak. Or needy. Or pathetic. I’m not any of those. How does wanting someone to love and have them love me back weak? Needy? Pathetic? Isn’t that what life is all about? Building those intimate connections that make us feel loved, secure, and content, with the knowledge that someone out there is crazy about us. There’s even a phrase called “Poverty of Attachments”; according to this, I’m definitely poor.

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Maybe I am just asking for too much. Maybe I will be alone. But, maybe a guy will come into my life wanting me. Not wanting what he can get from me, or take from me, or do to me. But just wanting me. With all that comes along with me being me. Is my soulmate out there? Does that even exist? I don’t know the answer to that. But I do know I’ll keep giving 100% in any relationship I’m in and work my ass off in it. Maybe that’s good…maybe that’s bad. But to be honest with you, that’s all I know to do.

Kristi xoxo

Definitely Underwear. From K-Mart. (The Rainman)

So, I’ve been thinking a lot about change lately and what all can we change in ourselves, if anything. There is a lot of change we control: we change our underwear, our taste in clothes, our skin with tattoos, our body with piercings, our brand of deodorant, our hair style or color or both, and the list goes on and on! (P.S. If you don’t change your underwear, we need to have a natter.)

But, can we change who we are? Parts of our personality? Our ‘core’ to where the changes are actually set, and the old ones washed away? Hmmmm. Here’s what I think: change is a possibility, but not a likelihood for a lot of things.

I believe our personalities are developed during early childhood and are very much influenced by our parents and early experiences. Yes, we are born with a temperament and have hereditary traits which can impact this development, but I am convinced that nurture outweighs nature by a significant amount.

I also have to think about the impact of mental illness. Can we change parts of us, or do our mental illnesses dominate so much of who we are it’s just not possible. Take my impulsivity (I mean actually take it away from me and toss it in a bin). I hate it because it makes me blurt things out without thinking or do things without taking into consideration the consequences.

Money is a good example! I see something…I get it! Then later, I worry about the spending and feel guilty. So, how do I change this? This impulsiveness is much much worse during manic cycles, and I often feel so ‘high’ I can’t see anything else but the minute I’m living in. Last summer, I painted my big, wooden, expensive bed a God-awful color and glued glass stones from the Dollar Tree all over it. After I came down, I thought: What the fuck did I do??

I would really love love love to change how sensitive I am. How I react to things so strongly, when others can simply brush them off. Hearing a criticism is devastating to me. I might have 20 students give me perfect reviews, while another writes a scathing one. I cry over that one and can’t see the positives. Mouthing off to someone makes me feel so bad, I ruminate over it for days and apologize to them again and again. Relationships are the same way: when I love, I love way too hard and am so sensitive to my partners moods, comments, and behavior. As a result of this, I am very good at taking personal blame for things…even when logically I know I shouldn’t.

77BAEDA3-3467-43E1-9A4FD8F0ED43AD83_source — From scientificamerican.com

Now, the question is this: can I change my sensitivity? Is this a genetic trait that’s pre-wired in me? Or, is this a result of my bipolar (which also is centered in my brain)? And if so, is change possible? Can I just turn off that switch in my brain labeled “Kristi’s Emotion” and be done with this piece of me that causes so many of my tears to be shed?

And let’s say I find that switch and turn the damn thing off. Is it REALLY off? Will it come back in times of stress? Is the ‘shut off’ permanent, or can it be flicked on again easily?

What else do I want to change in me? I think it would be my ineptness (thank the lord for the online thesaurus I use) in forming friendships. I can’t do it. I’ve said it before: I’ve always been different from other people. I felt it in Kindergarten…truly. I’d see the girls playing with the kitchen set and I’d go join in, but I felt like an outsider. Like I was looking through a window at what everyone else was doing and then would try to imitate their behavior. I’d be invited to slumber parties throughout elementary and Jr. High and all of the girls would have their besties there. I never had one. It would be just me; so to be noticed, I created this HUGE personality! I’d be the loud one who would do any dare. The funny one. The weird one.

I had a couple of good friends in High School, but I wasn’t their bestie. As an adult, I can honestly say I had 1 really good friend for about 7 years. We did so much together but her bestie lived about 60 miles away, and when she would visit my friend, I was put aside. Ouch.

So how can I change this? Am I truly different inside, but could change it with enough work? Is this feeling of being different a part of my bipolar and anorexia? Obviously, both of these make me very different! Or is this difference just something I feel, but isn’t true in the eyes of others? If I take off the mask I see in the mirror, would it change my awkwardness?

oval brown wooden framed hanging mirror — Photo by Nadine Wuchenauer on Pexels.com

But I also wonder this: do we really need to worry about if or how we can change, or instead just learn to live with who we are? Be happy in our own skin? Accept our challenges?

I feel like we live in a society where being different is bad. Right? It’s almost like there’s an expectation to look a certain way, emote a certain way, act a certain way. And anything that deviates from that is ‘WRONG’. But, what if those of us that are different are the ones that are RIGHT? What a kick in the ass that would be! What if I’m just brave enough to show my sensitivity? Isn’t it a good thing to be sensitive (maybe not to the degree I am, but still…)? And my impulsiveness? That’s helped me accomplish a lot of things in my life I might never have done. And being different from the other girls and people in my life as an adult might mean I’m not a sheep following the herd. Maybe I’m the sheep that’s taking my own path through the meadow and sees flowers the others have trampled on.

So, maybe instead of asking about whether we can fundamentally change, we should be asking: how do I celebrate these things in me and just try to have a bit more control over them. Doesn’t that make more sense? Wouldn’t it be great if all of us with mental illnesses could look in the mirror and say ‘Hey, I am what I am.’ Use our differences to educate others? Let people see we accept ourselves, illnesses and all? Isn’t that a HUGE step in them accepting us too?

I’m 53 fucking years old. I don’t think I’m going to be able to radically change this Kristi that I am. However, I think I could change the way I accept this Kristi who’s been with me on my journey in this life…through the good and the bad. When I think about it, she’s taken care of me pretty well. Maybe I’ll take her shopping for new fancy underwear today; I think she deserves it.

Kristi xoxo

Paper, Plastic or Burlap?

So, I’ve mentioned before that Anne Tyler is my favorite author, and I love her book “Breathing Lessons” so much. In this, the main character works in a nursing home and a resident there tells her that he believes when you go to heaven, you will be given a big gunny sack with all of the things you lost or miss from your life. He talks about a red wagon, meeting his wife, an old pet, etc. It started me thinking about what I would like in my own sack (if I make it to the pearly gates, which I’m planning on), and the realization this sack is going to be ginormous.

One thing I have lost over the years of moving so much is a sweater my grandma knitted for me when I was a teenager. Of course then I didn’t appreciate the work and time she put into it, but it really was beautiful. Soft green fuzzy yarn with a v-neck. I’d love to have that again to wear (does it get chilly in heaven?) and feel that softness against my skin again.

il_570xN.2077529204_k1u5 — I think this speaks for itself. I think I’m going to buy this on eBay. 😉

Grandma also made these God-awful yearly sequined calendars, which my mom actually had to help her with every December since she never got them done in time, no matter when she started them. Every year was a special ‘motif’ such as cardinals, tea pots, flowers, etc. And need I remind you, these were all made with sequins. Oh grandma, these were so hideous, with the calendar dates so small you needed a magnifying glass just to be able to read them, but I tell you what…there’s nothing I’d love more than to have one hanging in my office right now.

By the same token, grandpa used to make a lot of things too. One year, he made my sister and I stilts. A high pair and low pair with the high pair being about a good foot off the ground. They were made from 2×4’s (impressed with my wood knowledge?) and would be outlawed in a minute today! But for a few years, my sister and I clomped around the neighborhood on them all of the time! He also made T and I buckeye necklaces after gathering buckets full of them. I thought they were my jewels and wore them proudly! I’d pretend that I was a beautiful princess wearing my diamonds, ready to meet my prince Charming (by the way, still waiting…just sayin’).

I’d also love my first library card in my bag. I can still see it now: the size of a recipe card, pink, with my signed name on it! Every Saturday my mom, sis, and I would traipse to the bookmobile and check out armfuls of books. I liked to read anything and everything, and I know I get that love from my ma…she’s an avid reader and definitely passed that trait along to me and T. I really loved it when I finally qualified for my ‘Young Teen’ card and could check out books by Judy Bloom! I finally got to read about periods, french kissing, and, GASP, sex!! I wonder how many of us learned about all of these things because of Judy?

Me at the lake…look guys, I look great in a swimming suit (just sayin’)!

When T and I were little, our family went to a lake not too far away and had a room in a small motel with the beach right there. I know I was pretty little, but I remember the smell! That sort of musty, watery, buggy smell and for some reason, I still love it today. I’d love to have that smell in my bag.

My mom gets jealous when I talk about this, but I had a HUGE crush on the speech teacher I had for 3 years! She taught me how to speak so people could actually understand me, and she had ‘treasures’ we could earn for doing well. One time, I earned what I had my heart set on for weeks: a blue canister that had cow sounds when you turned it upside down. I loved loved loved it! I also earned Fruit Strip gum once, and never tasted anything so good…it was from Ms. D!

I also remember matching nightgowns T and I had; for some God forsaken reason, mom thought we were twins and dressed us accordingly. We are 3 years apart. Anyhoot, they were red plaid flannel and we wore them so much, they became soft and comfy! I was also into ‘Little House on the Prairie’ at the time, and envisioned myself as the reincarnated Laura Ingalls. My nightie made me look like it!

One Christmas, when I was probably in the 6th grade or so, my aunt gave me a clear make-up case with lip gloss, mascara, and some powder in it. I loved that so much! I’m sure mom and dad spent a lot more on me at Christmas that year, but this was my favorite! It’s the first time I felt like I was really growing up!

And my first 10 speed! Baby blue with black taped curved handlebars and I paid for most of it myself! I don’t even remember who took me to pick it up because I was just too damn excited to ride it, because it was like a ticket to freedom for me. I rode everywhere around our city and loved the feeling of going fast with the wind on my face. I still love riding anything on 2 wheels still; and yes, I’m cool enough to have had a Harley! Oh yeah!

s-l640 — This is the bike, which can be found in bicycle museums. ‘Nuff said.

I was in 8th grade when I really wanted to learn to play the flute because my best friend played it so well! So, she gave me her old flute and I learned on that, and had a ball in marching band, music camp, and just feeling a part of that band-geek community.

When my sis and I were in grade school, my dad surprised us by picking us up from school, taking us to a local shop for greasy bags of buttery popcorn, and then going to a theater to watch “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”! I’ll never forget how good that popcorn tasted because I was with dad and T doing something so special! Dad would also call T and I every morning on our birthdays while he was at work. Back then, getting a call from your dad was truly an awesome thing…we loved them!

OMG. Ma won’t believe I’m including this, but she had this UGLY outfit comprised of flared capris and a button up shirt in a patchwork quilt pattern. Go ahead and gag…I’ll wait. Anyhoot, to be a smartass, I told her how much I loved it, so guess what? She believed the compliment and bought me one of the damn outfits to match hers. Fuck. So, I had to wear it at least a couple of times in front of her, and did so for the first time when my son, his dad, and I met mom at church one Sunday. I got dressed and asked hubby how I looked. His fashion sense was not great, but he said: “My God, you look like a freaking quilt. Are you really going to wear that in public?” Unfortunately I did. Twice. But having mom buy it for me, and seeing her face when I wore it makes me think I’d wear it again (once) in heaven. Just to give Jesus a chuckle. (NOTE: I tried to find a pic of this, and they all must have been burned or banned).

Taken on the way home…AFTER the weather moved on!

When my son lived in Fort Worth for 3 years, ma and I drove down one Christmas and it was the WORST weather possible! Sleet, flooding, crawling traffic, ice and as I was driving, we’d hear radio reports saying: DO NOT TRAVEL IN THIS! Well, were only going 800 miles, so what the hell. Anyhoot, I’d love to have that time back because we laughed our way through the weather, stayed at the dumpiest motel you could possibly find in Oklahoma where there was 1 towel the size of a notebook, no kleenex (that was an extra amenity not offered), and a man behind bullet proof glass taking cash only in a town of about 3. But, we barricaded the door, got to Texas, and I got to show ma this awesome state for the first time. We had a blast!

And there are so many things from my son’s childhood I’d love to bag up! His sweet smell on his little bald head, and how he’d give me a slobbery, toothy grin when I’d get him out of his crib in the morning.

The little outfits that were his faves and how cute he looked in them. Him coming home and handing me a gluey, glittery valentine made out of a doily. The smell of the ball field for the many summers I watched him play in little league. The look of him in his swimming trunks yelling at me to watch him jump in for the 100th time. His getting older and going through that awkward stage where he had a face I still loved despite the fact he refused to cut his CURLY hair for a year and he looked like he had a bowling ball on top of his head. Getting to know him as his adult self where he developed an individuality and independence I’m so proud of. His hugs even now. His sweetness that is still there that shines from his face.

When I think about it, there are so so many things I’d love to have! The old green love seat in our basement when I was a teen where I made out with some guys…and I know T did the same because I was her look out! The gold shag carpet in my bedroom that would be actually really funky to have today. My first car: a 1980 Chevy Chevette complete with racing stripes and a luggage rack (this bag better be really big). The Mickey Mouse ears I got when we visited Disney Land when I was in the 4th grade.

asimov_trs — It took 20 minutes to boot this gem up.

The smell of a grade school classroom: crayons, glue, freshly sharpened pencils, markers, books, etc. The feel of my graduation robe when I got my Masters. My mom’s brown (shit brown) Monte Carlo that my sis would take me riding in…we actually found a street where if she went fast enough, we’d get off the ground (sorry, ma). My first computer, a Tandy with about a .0000000000001 size gig. My first sewing machine. The smell of my first dog, Scooter. And my gosh, the list would go on and on!!

Looking back like this makes me realize all of the special memories I have and how could I ever make this list complete? I’ve talked a lot about some bad things that have happened to me in my life, but there are so many good things too! Sometimes, when you are battling a mental illness, it’s hard to see them because we have to focus so much on getting through the day at times. But we are so much more than our diagnosis. We are complex, loving, funny, smart, interesting people who have so much more to us than these…wait for it…fucking bastards of mental illnesses. I think it’s nice to remember that.

Kristi xoxo

“Sorry Seems to be The Hardest Word” (Bernie Taupin)

So, the other day in one of my posts, I talked about how guilty those of us with bipolar often feel because of the strain it can place on others. After reading some messages from you Grasshoppers, I know that others feel this in relation to their own mental illness. In fact, in an article published by the National Institute of Health, it states: “The stigmatizing attitudes toward mental illness held by both the public and those who have a mental illness lead to feelings of shame and guilt, loss of self-esteem, social dependence, and a sense of isolation and hopelessness.” Basically, any of us can experience guilt based on what we have, and not just necessarily by what we do.

Some of you commented that one way to combat the guilt tied to actions/behaviors/words/etc. was to apologize to those who were hurt by these things. I’ve been talking about this very issue with my counselor, and I totally agree. I’ve been wanting to apologize for a long time. But, my problem (among many) is how to go about it.

How can words possibly convey the burdens and hurt I’ve inflicted on others during my life as a bipolar? Will the words sound genuine if I speak them? More ‘real’ if I write them? What exactly do I apologize for? Being mentally ill in the first place? What I’ve ‘done’ during the course of this sickness? Both?

blue cabinet — Photo by Bruno Thethe on Pexels.com

If I were to list all of the people I should apologize too, the list would be too long for the gigs I’m allowed on this site. Seriously. I have tons of family members I know I’ve hurt. Ex hubbies. Friends I’ve had. I’d have apologize to entire classes for the times I was down and not totally ON for them, which is what each of my classes deserves every time I’m in front of them. And, sorries should go to people I haven’t been kind to since I was so far down to even be able to care like I should.

When I try to apologize to family, I can’t do it verbally. I get so choked up at the hurt I’ve caused that talking is difficult. Just writing this is making the tears begin. But, that’s no excuse for not apologizing…period.

My mom has taken the brunt of this illness. It was really starting to show itself when I was a teen, and the acting out I did during manic times and the anger I expressed to her during my depressive states is shameful to me. Mom was my scapegoat for everything I was feeling but couldn’t describe or handle at the time. I remember sitting at the table when I was around 16 or so, and she had made me an Italian sausage sandwich…onions, peppers, the works. She served it to me and I threw it across the kitchen, hitting a quilt she was hand-quilting while yelling and crying. Mom had no idea what was wrong, but instead of yelling back and punishing me, she hugged me. I’ll never forget that.

Another time in high school, I called my mom a ‘bitch’ for no good reason. Actually I screamed that word to her in her face. Right after, I stormed out of the house and rode my bike to my grandparents house. My grandpa was waiting for me in the kitchen with some food for me. Mom had called him, just to tell him how upset I was and what I said. I started nibbling, and grandpa sat down at the terry cloth covered table with me and told me he had never been disappointed in me during my entire life, but today he was. I sobbed. Having my grandpa say that told me how far I’d gone in hurting my mom. I apologized to her when I got home, and she accepted it with no further mention. That, my Grasshoppers, is forgiveness.

During the breakdown I had, mom took care of me everyday for a few weeks. Everyday. I know what an incredible burden that had to be and the guilt I feel for putting my 73 year old mom through such a trial haunts me constantly. She saved my life and never once said anything to make me feel responsible for what was happening. The words “I’m sorry” don’t even say a fraction of what I want too…but other words don’t exist that do.

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And my son? For all of his growing up years I tried so so so hard to hide my mental illness. His dad and his family don’t believe in ‘weakness’ and being ‘sick’ isn’t an option. How could I admit what was swirling through my brain and how that was affecting me to someone who rebuffed anything that had to do with mental illness? Plus, I wanted my son-shine to have the best childhood possible. So I wore the tightest masks I could find; I’d be damned if I’d let him see my illness. There was no way I’d have wanted him to carry any burden of it around as a kid. My job was to be a mommy and make his growing up years happy and stable.

But when I decided to ‘come out’ with being bipolar, which was a necessity after my breakdown, my son (26) became such a support to me. To be honest, it took him a while to accept this unmasked me since he had never really seen it before. But now? He handles all of my moods, cycles, insecurities, crying, quietness, hyperactivity and everything else with support, care, and understanding. He’s been my rock, which makes me feel like I’m failing him as a mom now. But he says he’s supposed to take care of me (since I’m an elder…WTF?) and says that just how it is. I don’t agree with that, but him doing it is more than I can ever thank him for. And not being the mom he still deserves is something I’ll never be able to make up for. He’s going to be moving out in a couple of weeks, but only 2 miles away so he’ll be close if I need him.

And these 2? They’re just the tip of the ice burg. What about apologizing to my ex-hubbies? I know my sensitivity, impulsiveness, strong emotional reactions, periods of depression and the list goes on, affected each of them. Would I still be married to O’s dad if I wasn’t bipolar? Would I have saved my son from going through a divorce had I been honest with him about the severity of what was happening to me? I don’t know. But the question makes me ruminate often.

My sis and dad have been so affected by this too. Both have their own struggles with mental illness (hello…genetics anyone?) and so many times when I’ve wanted to support them, I can’t because of the state I’m in. How can I apologize for this neglect, when I know how important support really is?

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So yes, apologizing is necessary, at least for me. I’m not going to say I’m sorry for having this brain disorder. That I can’t help. But to my family, friends, students, and so many other people that have been affected by me having this fucking bastard (you didn’t think I’d leave that out, did you?) of an illness, I am so sorry for what I’ve put you through. So very sorry. Please forgive me for all of these overwhelming burdens I’ve placed on your shoulders. I don’t know any other words that truly reflect how shamed I am by this. I hope you understand what I’m trying to say.

Maybe Elton John was wrong. Maybe sorry isn’t the hardest word to say. Actually, finding the words that will convey the depth of this apology is much more difficult. I just hope to find them someday, because I owe them to a lot of people.

Kristi xoxo

“It’s coming for you. It’s got your scent.” (Stephen King)

So, for the last couple of weeks as more people have discovered this blog, I’ve been getting a lot of messages from readers about their own struggles with mental illness. The last 5 I’ve received have had to do with eating disorders.

These disorders are so hard to understand, and although I know bulimia (binge-purge cycles) and binge eating (bingeing with no purging) are very serious disorders, I’m going to talk about my experience with anorexia since unfortunately, it’s what I know.

I’ve talked before about how it started after I decided to diet to get rid of some of the puberty (blech…I hate that word) weight I gained in the 8th grade. It was just me wanting to lose a few pounds to look better in high school, where bodies were being scrutinized like never before. Along with dieting, I also started running again, something I’d done in elementary school a lot. To chart my progress on what I was losing, I would study myself in a full-length mirror everyday and weigh myself often as well. Every time that needle went down, I was elated, and every time it went up a bit, I was crushed. I was failing myself…or so I thought.

What was confounding to me was that even though the scale numbers were going down for the most part (except around the time Aunt Flow was visiting), I was more and more dissatisfied with what I was seeing in the mirror. How could my belly be getting so much bigger instead of smaller? Why were my thighs growing in direct proportion to what weight I was losing? No matter how much lower that number on the scale was getting, I was still convinced my body was disgustingly fat.

So, I started limiting my food intake even more, and then running at least 4-5 miles a day. For breakfast, I’d nibble on my usual pop-tart, but would throw the majority of it away while mom was curling her hair. At lunch, I’d toss my sandwich in the trash and have a couple of chips or part of a fruit cup. I ate very minimally at dinner, directing the conversation away from food, and moving stuff around my plate to make it look like I was eating much more than I was. After showing off my bod more when this all started, I’d begun wearing baggier clothes since I realized how horrible I still looked in spite of these measures.

This was after I started running again to lose my baby weight. It’s hard to tell, but all of my back was just bone.

I think this distorted body image is the hardest thing to understand for those who have never experienced it. When I’d look in the mirror at my -100 pound body, I wouldn’t just think I was still fat, I knew I was. I could see it! It was staring back at me as clear as day! Having people tell me I was getting too skinny made no impression on me at all (it still doesn’t), they had to be lying just to make me happy. We now know that a distorted body image actually has to do, at least partially, with an abnormality originating in the parietal cortex of the brain as well as issues with the serotonin system. So what we see is what our brain is telling us to see. It’s kind of like a visual hallucination someone with schizophrenia might have; those images they see are a result of their chronic brain disorder, and not something they can control unless meds are used to suppress these.

Running more and more, walking to school and back, doing aerobics, and fidgeting all of the time (to burn even more calories) was exhausting, but necessary if I was ever going to have a body I was happy with. I knew the body ran on fuel, and I’ll never forget one night when I was in the basement watching TV and I had an Oreo in front of me. One Oreo. And even though my stomach was empty and I had ran that day so all of my energy was depleted, I simply could NOT eat that Oreo. I’d put it up to my lips, get a ‘taste’ of it, and then put it back down, just looking at it. I literally found myself unable to eat that damn Oreo no matter how much I tried. The next day, with nothing in me, I started running my 4 mile route, and halfway through I didn’t think I could make it home since I was so weak. I dragged myself those last couple of miles, and when I got into our large backyard, I actually crawled the rest of the way home. That’s not an exaggeration; I actually crawled. If anyone would have asked, I’d have said it was a special stretching method. Anorexics are very good at deceiving others in terms of what they eat, how much they do, and weird behaviors they might engage in.

It was around this time that people started noticing how thin I was. I reveled in their recognition, something that was positive for me after all I’d done to get that way, even though their comments were negative. “Damn, Kristi, eat something!” “Hey scarecrow!” “Don’t blow away in this wind, Miss Anorexic!” I had 1 friend my freshman year when this was going on; if you look at my yearbook, there’s only 1 autograph and it’s from her. It’s very difficult to make or maintain friends when you are concentrating only on food, weight, and dieting.

Me running the Disney marathon. My thighs are the same size as my calves. All I could think about that day was how many calories I was burning.

Once, I was playing basketball at my grandma and grandpas house, and when I went in, all skinny, sweaty and smelly, my grandma told me that the neighbor had called her (this woman was a billion years old, could barely use a phone, and probably half blind to boot) and told her how beautiful her granddaughter was. I knew this was a lie (see above description), but it was grandmas way of telling me to stop this nonsense, because I was fine.

I wasn’t though. You are never ‘fine’ with anorexia. You’re never satisfied with how you look, and when you see the perfect models in the mags (I read Seventeen all of the time, and my sis and I would sneak my moms Cosmos), it just reinforces how you need to measure up to these impossible standards.

When my mom could see what was happening and realized I needed some intervention before I got much worse, she made an appointment with a psychologist and we all know the story there (if you don’t, you can read it here.).

Yes, I got ‘better’ in that I was able to start eating more and got to a healthier weight, but I knew this made me look horrible. I’d never been a ‘pretty’ child; I had buck teeth, acne, plain brown mousy hair, and you get the picture. But now my body was ugly too. Great self-esteem, huh?

I firmly believe that anorexia is a chronic disorder with periods of time where it’s ‘less active’ and then it’s reappearance again. And I believe this return is often triggered by a stressful event, a depressive episode, an ‘innocent’ diet where you want to just lose a few pounds, or a time when you are questioning your worth in general. At least that’s been true for me. After all 3 of my divorces (shutty the mouthy), I’ve experienced an exacerbation of this disorder, finding myself becoming more and more unhappy with my body and the start of restrictive diets and extensive exercise again. And, since anorexia has a biological basis (along with environmental beginnings that trigger this abnormal physiology – once again, my opinion), this resurgance of behaviors triggers the start of the brain feeding (no pun intended) into the full blown condition again. (I only have pics of more recent times. I don’t have pics from high school).

Another pic where you can see no fat on my legs or arms. My belly was concave.

Since my early high school years, there’s never, ever been a time where I haven’t been conscious of what food I eat. I ALWAYS restrict myself. Even with all of my education, I still have a brain leading me to believe that 1 candy bar will add a couple of pounds onto my frame. If I’m ‘naughty’ and eat too many carbs, my belly pays for it in that it’s now HUGE and I need to hide it under un-tucked shirts. Sometimes family members will comment on how much food I’m eating. Little do they know that this makes me feel guilt over eating a good meal, while not accounting for the fact that’s the most likely the first meal I’ve eaten all day.

My most recent bout with anorexia showing itself seriously started when I was with my ex. I was significantly older than him (hello…cougar, anyone?) and was already feeling inadequate in the looks department since I was comparing myself with women his age (who were actually the age of the women he cheated on me with). Add to this his comments on my neck wrinkles and other body flaws, I started dieting again to at least have my body look good for him.

Here’s whats so freaking hard, Grasshoppers: never being able to eat anything without scrutinizing myself afterwards and feeling guilty if I did overindulge (as defined by my own standards). Maybe some of you reading this know what it’s like to see food as the enemy, and when you are surrounded by food ads every where you turn, and have to eat it everyday to keep going, how do you ever get these ideas out of your head? It would be like a recovering alcoholic having to live in a bar.

I’ve been writing about what a fucking bitch bipolar is and how hard the battles are everyday to fight it. I also have this other fucking bitch of a disorder that also makes me be in combat mode all of the time. I don’t know why I had to have these, and even saying this makes me feel selfish and small since I realize other people are fighting MUCH larger demons than this. But, just once, I’d like to wake up dictating my own mood and eating a brownie without feeling fat. Just once, I’d like to look in a mirror and like what I see. Just once, I’d like to put on a pair of leggings and not reprimand myself for having such a huge belly. Just once I’d like a day off from all of this. Just a day. Just so I experience how more ‘normal’ people feel. Just once.

Kristi xoxo

Emotion Sickness ~ Silverchair

So, if look up articles about what bipolar is all about, you get the standard definition of ‘cycles of depression and cycles of mania that the person transitions through, with periods of normalcy in-between (what ever the hell that is).’ OK. Got it. But, there’s more: anecdotal (yes, I had to look up that spelling) evidence suggests that people with bipolar are also ‘liars who exaggerate things and are manipulative, along with having a lack of self-awareness.’ Well, spank me hard…I should be locked up!! Of all of these “extras” that we can have, I think the idea of lying hits home for me the most.

We all lie, don’t we? Someone asks how they look in an outfit. You aren’t going to say, “Girl, that outfit is ass ugly!” You’re more likely to say, “Girl, you look fine!” The reason for the lie? You want to protect their feelings (which is what us empaths do). My grandma used to make ham loaf which had to be the grossest food on the face of the earth, except for pickled beets.

But, I would say, “Grandma, this is good!” as I was hiding bites in my napkin. She worked so hard on the dinner, how could I tell her it made me gag? White lies are often harmless, and aren’t used maliciously, but graciously.

But here’s the thing. When people know you have a mental illness, so much of what you say is questioned, examined, and often downplayed as just another wrong opinion, lie, exaggeration, or what-have-you since the person is ‘sick’. We’re often not taken seriously. And because of this, we, or at least I, get very emotional when trying to get the point across. Particularly when I’m accused of ‘lying’ when I’m not.

There’s a TV doc I used to love until last year when I watched an episode of their show that really upset me. A woman was on with her daughter who is with a guy 17 years older than her and they have a tot together. She also had her other daughter with her as well. The mom talked about signs of abuse in the couples home and also stated that her daughter told her the man said, “I’ll kill you if you ever try to leave.” OK. Sounds like abuse is going on to me, since this is a line most batterers use to keep their victim home. And we also know for women that once they do leave, the violence can escalate quickly. The other daughter confirmed that she saw signs of abuse too, and wouldn’t even invite the couple to her wedding because of the toxicity of their relationship. So, here’s what pissed me off: the doc was minimizing what the mom was saying and chuckled at her when she got emotional! He even asked the daughter: “Are you scared of him?” And guess what she said? No. What the fuck is she supposed to say? My God, all of us who have ever worked in DV or know anything about it realize that you NEVER ever question a victim in front of their abuser! The daughter went on to say to her mom (the woman who raised her, had a great relationship with her prior to her involvement with this ass, and did a lot together as adults…something else the other daughter confirmed), “I’m too good to be in your life.” She also said if her mom ever came on their property, she’d have her arrested for trespassing. Hello! Brainwashed much?

black crt tv showing gray screen — Photo by Burak K on Pexels.com

Doc believed the man and daughter in that she wasn’t being abused and berated the mom for getting so emotional about the situation. Are you serious? I don’t know about you, Grasshoppers, but if my young daughter was being abused by any guy, I’d be emotional too, particularly if I’m not being believed! Doc even said that if she was right about the abuse, she was handling it wrong, and if she was wrong about the abuse, she was handling it wrong! Wow. In other words, no matter what, she was in the wrong because she was being so emotional. Consequently, the abuse wasn’t addressed and the woman didn’t get the help for her daughter which was her intention. Oh, did I mention this boob was arrested for statutory rape (he copped a plea)? He was 19 and the girl was 15. The doc went on to say this wasn’t really a big deal because after all, you can’t tell a 15 year old from an 18 year old anymore. What the hell? He snickered when saying this. Hmmmmm.

I bring this situation up for a reason; when I’m confronted with something, I get emotional. Overly emotional because I’m bipolar and a very strong feeler to boot. But, emotions are often tied to lack of control, aren’t they? Think of what we tell little 2 year olds who are throwing a crying tantrum because they really don’t have any other way of expressing the strong emotions they’re feeling at that age: “Stop that right now and get control of yourself!” So next time I have a student in my office crying about a situation and getting emotional, I’ll say the same. Right?

There have been times in my life where I’ve been telling the truth about a serious situation and I wasn’t believed. Guess what I do? I get emotional. I just do. And the tears, red face, and escalated pitch of my voice stymie anything I’m trying to say. In other words, I can’t win. Once, I was being threatened by someone who sent the threats to me via texts which I still have. Despite the concrete evidence of these, I was reprimanded at my place of employment then, and also attacked by his lawyer during an emergency Order of Protection hearing (where the perp and lawyers aren’t usually allowed) where I was told once again, it was my fault he did this. I was so berated, scared, and dealing with other traumatic things in my life that were breaking me down that everything thrown at me made me cry. I was already an emotional mess and couldn’t ‘fight’ back against all of this like I could now. And guess what? My emotionality (is this a word?) convinced these people that I must the one in the wrong. I mean look at me: I’m a mentally ill woman, bawling, not able to get words out, and reacting so differently at that point than probably anyone else would that of course I’m guilty. Lying. Trying to manipulate the system. After all, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

shakes — Methinks this is the first time I’ve ever quoted Shakespeare. 🙂

Look, here’s what I’m saying: situations that bring up some emotion in other lives, bring up huge emotions in those of us with bipolar (and other mental illnesses as well). Hello! Emotion is so much a part of this freaking illness. It shouldn’t minimize what we’re saying or discredit it. We should still be listened too. Given time to explain. Understood in the context of our illness in that we’re often going to express a lot of feeling.

Maybe those extra characteristics of bipolars are true for some. Lying, exaggerating, etc. And maybe we do some of these during times of mania when we are so out of control, but those can also be an anomaly for us most of the time.

Trust me when I say this Grasshoppers: dealing with bipolar is tough enough. Real tough. And then not being taken seriously, being called a liar, and having your emotions used against you is even tougher.

So, how do we fight against this unfair treatment of us? This idea that our opinions, statements, and truths don’t really matter? I don’t know. Gee, it makes me too emotional to talk about, so anything I offer as a solution shouldn’t be taken seriously. Right?

Kristi xoxo

To Spank or Not to Spank

This title is catchy, huh? And, I’m wondering how many of you clicked on it assuming it’s going to be a naughty post? Hmmmmm… 🙂

So, a good friend and I were messaging back and forth this morning and had a discussion on whether or not bad acts in our life make us undeserving of happiness, or if bad things happen to us because we deserve the punishment. I’ve actually thought about this a lot over the years.

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First, I have a very hard time with guilt. You name it, and I feel guilty over it. Big things…little things, it doesn’t matter. With me, guilt is guilt. Now, I do come by this ‘naturally’ so to speak: when a bipolar is in a depressive state, we tend to ruminate on situations and feel a great amount of guilt for them (even if it wasn’t our fault), and some researchers are saying that women might do this more than men. I am also a STRONG feeler (I do put stock into the Myers Briggs Type Indicator) and those of us who are, feel lots of guilt for things “simply” because we personalize situations which forces us to take blame for them as well. Unfortunately, these tendencies lead people like me to apologize often for situations that are completely out of my control. Having a bad day…my fault, I’m sorry! Neighborhood dog bit you…I’m sorry! Work not going well…I’m sorry! And we aren’t just saying ‘I’m sorry’ to show sympathy for the situation, we actually feel a sense of responsibility in some shape or way. Trust me when I say this, Grasshoppers…it’s exhausting!

As we all have, I’ve done things in my life I’m not proud of at all. In other words, I’ve fucked up royally at times. Bad decisions, bad actions, bad thoughts. And even though I didn’t really think about these moments as being wicked at the time I did them, but the remorse I felt afterwards was overwhelming.

Now I’m not saying that we shouldn’t feel remorse or guilt; if we didn’t, we’d be psychopathic! But I am saying that an over abundance of these feelings that last for years and years is a tad too much.

During the breakdown I experienced a couple of summers ago, I told my mom over and over I deserved everything that was happening to me. I was being punished for my sins. Me having precancerous cells was my payback for not doing quite enough for friends and family who have had full blown cancer. The man who stalked and threatened me for a period of time? Of course I was blamed (which I was) because I must have egged it on. The abuse I experienced in a relationship was because of my own behavior. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

So, I was punished. I got what I deserved during that time. “You reap what you sow” right? All of my transgressions were saved up for this one big bout of retribution. Hmmm. Maybe my bipolar is a punishment too.

As illogical as this sounds (and I know it does), emotionally I can’t help feeling this way. Look at this quote from Warren Buffett. I GET what he’s saying, but I also KNOW how this isn’t fully possible for me. I can’t wish my emotions away. I can’t just turn off the ‘sensitive’ side of me (I hate that term because it’s used so negatively in our society…why is it a bad thing to be sensitive?) and click on the logical. It’s akin to asking Warren to change his eye color from green to brown.

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Maybe I feel like I’m punished for my misdeeds because I want the consequences. Do they relieve me of my guilt? Pay for things I did? Balance out my scales of good and bad? No.

When I’m depressed, I ruminate on my life and feel that guilt still. Things I did decades ago still haunt me, and I’m a sucker for saying to myself “What if.” What if I had been better to O’s dad?. Would we still be a family together? Or what if I would have stayed with O’s dad no matter what?. Would O have had a better life? (The guilt I feel over putting O through a divorce at such a confusing age anyway will haunt me forever). What if I absolutely accepted all aspects of Hubby 3’s outlaw motorcycle club? Maybe he wouldn’t have found someone who did. What if I had given J even more of myself? Maybe he would have stayed faithful to me. These questions swirl around in my mind.

So, I’ve learned to deal with that. I’m a Christian, and as such, I totally understand that Jesus has paid for my sins and I’ll reach heaven someday. But I also believe that justice can be meted out on earth too. How do I stop regretting the past, so I can move into the future with less burden to carry? Maybe that’s just something I’ll always have to deal with because of my lovely (sarcastically said) bouts of depression and tendency towards sensitivity. But maybe as I learn to love myself more, I’ll cut myself more slack, like I’d do for any other person I care about. Maybe this is just one more battle to fight in dealing with bipolar.

And if that’s the case, there’s going to be a brawl.

Kristi xoxo

“I’m stranded all alone in the gas station of love, and I have to use the self-service pumps” (~ Weird Al Yankovic)

So, I was thinking the other day (I know, that’s a first) while looking at social media and I started counting the number of times people say “I love you”. It was staggering. Now, I’m not saying that’s a bad thing at all, but I wonder if we use it in a casual context so often, that it loses some of it’s meaning. I say “I love you” regularly too, and I know I mean it when I do. But I also know there are so many different levels and kinds of love that I’m not sure I’m expressing what I intend too. However, that intention often times doesn’t have any other words for me to use.

white l o v e led signage — Photo by Loe Moshkovska on Pexels.com

In Russia, the equivalent word for ‘love’ is most often reserved for romantic relationships, and isn’t often said between family members. In Asian cultures, ‘love’ is rarely brought up. Instead, it’s shown through actions and care. Same for Indian culture (which I know is Asian but they are often looked at separately) where ‘love’ is woven into the fabric of the culture as a whole.

I know that some people use the word ‘love’ very loosely. How can a person have true love for someone one day, and then decide they don’t love them the next? Obviously, actual love wasn’t there.

I’ve heard the word love in all of my serious relationships: 3 marriages (shutty the mouthy) and 1 dating relationship. In each, we used the word often, and I’d like to think love was truly a part of these. But, all of these ended, and when they did, that was it. Two ended because of infidelity and the others over issues that could have been worked out had my hubbies been willing to go to counseling. Unfortunately, they weren’t.

So, I guess what I’ve been pondering is this: what word would I rather hear other than ‘love?’ Everyone says the magical words in a relationship are I LOVE YOU…they are apparently the most important to hear, but are they really? If we are throwing around these words so casually, are they truly defining the actual feeling or emotion they’re supposed too?

nicole-90-day-fiance

Take 90 Day Fiance’ (my favorite show…I literally can’t stop watching it every season). The people on it might talk to their beloved once or twice online and suddenly they love them to death and are convinced they found their soulmate! HEH? You don’t even know them yet! You haven’t seen them in person…touched them…smelled them…or actually got to know them! THEN, when they do, guess what?? Often they realize this isn’t their soulmate (go figure) and suddenly, the love is gone. Hmmmm…was it really there to begin with?

Are we so ‘starved’ for romantic love that we will label it, hoping that it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy? Do we think that if we say it, it will have to be? Are we under the impression if we don’t say it, the person will just leave us willy-nilly? Is saying it something that’s simply ‘expected’ but not actually there? Or, maybe we say it to a potential mate who we feel isn’t as interested as we are, so that maybe our declaration will affect their feelings and make them stronger.

I’ve been considering what I would like to hear if I ever (and it’s looking grim) get into another relationship. Do I want to hear the word ‘love’ again? I really don’t know. I’ve heard it used so often, and then thrown away so easily, that I’m not sure I trust what that word really is. Of course I want love to be a part of the relationship, but the words just aren’t enough for me anymore. I guess I want to feel the love, not hear the words expressing love. I want to feel the connection. Experience their care of me. See their work in terms of the relationship. I think those would all be bigger expressions of what we have rather than a quick ‘love ya’ before bedtime.

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When it is words that are said, I’ve figured out what would be so much more meaningful for me to hear. How about “I’m so proud of you!” Or, “Wow, I really missed you today!” I’d like to hear, “You know, I really need you in my life.” Or, “How did I get so lucky to have you?” The real clincher for me would be, “I’d be so lost without you…I’ll do anything I can to make this work.”

And you know what? I haven’t heard these before, and I’m wondering if that’s why my relationships have all failed. The word ‘love’ was there, but did they have pride in me? Was I important enough to miss (apparently not)? Did they feel such a need for me, that without me, they’d be lost? Did they feel enough for me that working on the relationship wasn’t considered a hardship, but a necessary thing they were willing to go through to strengthen our bond (another apparently not)?

You know, I love watching American Idol videos on YouTube and today I had one on while washing dishes. It was a couple who sang country songs, and they auditioned at the same time, but sang separately. They both played the guitar, and then each played along while the other sang. Obviously, they were both hoping to get a ticket to ‘Hollywood’ (meaning they were continuing in the show). After each sang, the judges praised the woman for her great voice and then told her husband that he sang well, but at this point in his career, he would be much better as her backup, and not a lead singer himself. Here’s what got me: when they got out of the audition, the man hugged his wife so tight and told her how very proud he was of her. She asked if he was upset he didn’t make it himself, and he said NO…that everything happens for a reason and he was just so damn happy for her.

I was bowled over. I think a lot of people (men & women) would feel a bit of jealousy. A feeling of having ‘lost’. But this guy? He won because she won. Isn’t that awesome?

I don’t know if there’s another relationship on my horizon or not. But I’ll tell you this: I’ll realize it’s the true thing if Mr. Wonderful says: “Damn. You are just it for me. I am so proud to have you.” Doesn’t that just sound great?

Kristi xoxo

Momster in Law.

So, when Hubby 3 (and still best friend) and I started dating, it took a while for him to invite me to his house, and I decided to take matters into my own hands. I knew his address and stopped by one morning just to say ‘hey’. When he saw me drive up, he came out before I could get to the door and he said: “I have something to tell you.” Oh boy, I’ve heard that before. I figured the jerk was married and he was about to tell me, so I braced myself while he sheepishly said, “I live with my mom.” OH! I was relieved but could tell he was embarrassed to be doing this at his age (43). He said he needed to in order to help her pay for the rent, etc. No biggie.

Then, I went inside and met her. She was a large woman, sitting at her table, smoking and looking at me like I was some bonehead her son was hooking up with. Hmmmm. I tried talking to her and she basically grunted at me, and when she did speak words, her voice sounded EXACTLY like Marge’s sisters on The Simpsons. By the way, I can imitate her voice perfectly.

a4720f6677d2435ac3d3134d5aa8fcb0 — Mom’s doppelgangers. 🙂

Because of her voice and attitude, I started calling her “Krusty” or “The Krust” (always behind her back, I swear) and tried to befriend her. I like people liking me and I’m pretty much used to that happening, but I obviously had a lot of work to do. And, just so you know, she had ‘nicknames’ for me too, such as ‘nitwit’ that she thought she was using behind MY back, but for some reason, I was usually within hearing range. Go figure.

One night when I was at the house, she made Hubby and I dinner (she was an amazing cook) so I told her I’d do the dishes. I’m a VERY tidy person and cleaning is second nature to me. She ‘supervised’ my dish washing from her chair, and after I was all done, she told Hubby that she’d have to re-wash all of the dishes since I didn’t rinse them correctly. If she didn’t, she said that she’d have the ‘runs’. Ooookkkkaaaayyyy. Heh? Really? I think I know how to rinse, Krusty.

Through the years, she always came to our house for the holidays, and K loved Christmas! She had very little money and lived on social security. But despite that, she always brought every one of my family a BIG sack of presents. They were all from dollar stores and what-not, but the gifts were picked just for every person. She truly put a lot of thought into it and I was always touched. (By the way, she hated everything I got her…just sayin’).

Something that really surprised Hubby and I was her love for Dottie (my poodle). Hubby said that Krusty hated dogs, but she spoiled Dottie to death! It was so sweet to see her with Dot and showed me another side of her. And, Dottie adored her too (the little Benedict Arnold).

I used to love hosting Thanksgiving and during our first ever, Hubby went to pick up K and I was almost ready to put the meal on the table. I’m not a great cook by any means, but it wasn’t bad. When K came in, she was LOADED down with food, and Hubby trailed behind carrying even more casserole dishes. He also had a brown paper bag. Basically, The Krust had cooked her own meal, and of course, the dishes were completely homemade (insert your own eye-roll here). When I looked in the paper bag, I saw bread. Stale bread. Krusty looked at me like I was an idiot and said: “That’s for the stuffing…I don’t want any boxed crap.” I told her I understood, but our stuffing was done and I didn’t have time to make another batch. (And of course, mine was StoveTop…straight out of a fucking box. She refused to eat any).

About 7 years into our marriage, The Krust was diagnosed with breast and lung cancer, and it was obvious she could no longer stay in the assisted living apartment we had moved her into when we got married, and we had to put her in a nursing home. She didn’t want to live with us. Period. A huge problem was that the nursing home wasn’t the best by any means. She was on medicaid, but we couldn’t afford to place her anywhere else. The only good thing was that the nursing home was only 2 blocks from our house.

Now, Krusty and Hubby didn’t have a great relationship, even though they had lived together for a couple of years. Hubbies dad was EXTREMELY physically abusive to him and K would never say a word about it. She was very neglectful to Hubby and he and his sister pretty much raised themselves. To add to this, the family was dirt poor. The first time Hubby got in trouble with the law was when he took an old cast iron stove out of an abandoned barn during winter (that the owners still used for storage apparently) so they could have heat in their trailer.

Because of all this history, Hubby didn’t want to see his mom in the nursing home much…a lot of his childhood memories had come back to him and he said how she never took care of him (literally…for example, he had to walk miles to see a doctor by himself if she thought he was sick enough, and didn’t see a dentist until we were married), and he just didn’t have it in him to take care of her. I know that sounds horrible, but I can kind of understand. So, I did it. I was with her every single day. Before school, after school, evenings, and weekends. I knew the care wasn’t as good as it could be in the facility; the CNA’s who did the majority of the daily tasks she needed done were wonderful, but they were stretched so thin, it was hard for them to respond to every need. That’s what I did. I did her laundry, brought her food (her fave was hushpuppies from Long John Silvers), combed her hair, decorated her room, helped her in the bathroom, etc. We also had movie Friday, when I would bring my laptop and we’d watch whatever film she wanted. (My family was awesome during this time too…they visited her and brought her anything she wanted which was a lot).

A few months after moving her in, hospice care was necessary. Her cancer had spread and there was no hope that any treatment would lead to more time. One afternoon, we were watching a movie and she took my hand. She asked if she could tell me something and I said yes. I turned off the movie, faced her, and here’s what she said, word for word: “I was raped by an uncle when I was 4. And I was raped again when I was 9.”

I was speechless. EVERYTHING about her suddenly made sense. Her anger. Her aloofness. Her feeling of powerlessness. Her tough exterior. I told her how very sorry I was for having suffered through that and she started to cry. She went on to tell me how horribly Hubbies dad had treated her and how good it felt to be able to tell somebody these things. I hugged her (for the first time) and she looked at me and told me how she hadn’t liked me at first. Then I told her that I hadn’t liked her either! And then she said this in her Simpsons voice: “But I love you now.” I told her I loved her too. And I meant it. I truly did. That was the day I started calling her mom. The first time I did it, she smiled a wonderful, genuine smile that opened my heart fully to her.

The last month of her life was something I’ll always remember. Releasing that burden made her light up. We laughed, we cried, we got to know each other and became friends. She and Hubby made peace as well, and the night she died, he was there. His friend came to the house to get me, and I rushed up to her room. She had already passed, holding Hubbies hand, and I stroked her cheek and told her how much I loved her. I knew she was finally at peace.

The last picture I took of mom. I’m so happy she’s wearing that robe…it was her favorite.

Krusty will always be a happy memory for me. I can laugh at things she said and did those first few years and I cherish the last. Isn’t it amazing how much more we can understand a person by listening to their story? I wish she had told me sooner.

That’s why I blog. To share my story. To share my experiences and memories and life with my own issues and mental illnesses. It’s out there so people can understand that we are all complicated human beings who can be so easily judged for one thing or another. I judged The Krust (and I hope you know I use that with love) without knowing her past…and it was wrong of me. She had a reason for her demeanor and behavior and I wish now I would have really talked to her more when we first became family. Maybe we should ask more about others’ stories while sharing our own. Imagine how many walls that would break down in our relationships.

Rest in peace, Krusty, and I know I’ll see you again. And yes, I’ll let you teach me how to make homemade stuffing once and for all.

Kristi xoxo