It’s hard to keep to a sleep schedule when your husband is watching Dr.Who all night. But I have to, so I’ll keep this post short. 

Wake up.

Go to work.

Work. Lunch. Work. 

Go home.

Clean and hide embassing things before the party.

Relax, if possible.

Sleep.

Wake up.

Work. Lunch. Work. 

Clean more and pray to whichever God is listening that someone comes to the party.

Relax, ha ha, totes not possible. 

Sleep.

Wake up, gather party supplies, clean more,stress out. Arrange food and beverages in appealing manner. Stress some more. Get dressed up in inconspicuously cute clothing and makeup and hair. 

Stress for the fun of it. 

Party!

That’s the plan, people. Give me strength. 
Goodnight, loyal reader!

Wolves in the woods  
I had a manic episode. 
Now, if the average manic episode were a raging, foaming at the mouth Tyrannosaurus rex, this episode would be more like Little Foot, but we’re not making rash judgement here on the magnitude. The point is, if you don’t know who Little Foot is we can’t be friends, good day sir.
I said good day!
Seriously, I had a little episode and although the most dramatic things I did was fall off my diet and dye my hair, the point is that I was a bitchy little brat and I apologize. If I contacted you and you went to Chris to discuss me instead of addressing me directly, I forgive you even though you’re kinda a wussy. If you’re reading this now and thinking, huh, what the fuck is a manic episode and how can I detect one, well, fortunately for you, I can write a list of symptoms! You lucky lucky bastard. 
Lack of sleep. When I go manic I don’t sleep much, I don’t need sleep because I’m magical and different from everybody else, right? Right.

Mood changes. I’m happy one moment, I’m miserable the next, and don’t you worry about figuring out where I’m at because…

Rapid speech. I have ever so much to say on a variety of topics, which really don’t relate to each other but by god, I can jam them together like a pro. 

Irritability. Fuck off, you all hate me. (This one is particularly good at alienating friends and peers)

Rash decisions. Liiiiiiiike dying my hair. It came out really cute, but that’s not the point. 

So many, many others. While I’m still bitchy, I will say something: you know someone who’s bipolar. Someone other than me. The statistics are on my side for this one. So if you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about…guess what, the Internet does! Look it up. It means a lot to us. Or speaking more personally, it means a lot to me. 

For many bipolar people, me included, there are wolves in the woods. They may eat your loved ones and they may try to kill you too, but remember, they started out by simply suggested you smell the flowers and take your time enjoying the forest instead of hoofing it straight to grandmas house. They’re tricky. Especially for a person like me who values and cherishes their creative soul, it’s hard to tell the good flower-smelling from the wandering off the path. Even scarier is how appealing it is to frolic in the forest of mania forever. When I was fully manic, I was skinny and blindingly happy and confident, and that shit is regrettably hard to let go of. Of course, I almost lost my husband….but that’s a different story for a day when I’m not quite so brittle. 
For real, loyal reader, it would mean a lot to me if you spent a few minutes googling my condition. You never know when someone else’s bad day is something more. Knowledge is helpful. 

7:40AM.

What a brilliant time for a dentist appointment. 

I’m a goddamn genius. 

Sweet dreams, Loyal Reader. 

 

I have a bad habit of feeling awful about things that are out of my control.  

Actually, I have a habit of feeling bad about everything. I’m surprised I’m not a vegan or something like that. 

In any case, I will either be proud or pissed off tomorrow, and possibly both, so it’s bedtime. Need my emotional rest, loyal reader. 

I love the Husband, and the Husband loves me.

Sometimes we fight, and they are the most heart-wrenching fights I have ever experienced in my life, because he knows me so well.

I’m not going to tell you all, loyal readers, about the fights we’ve had lately, because it’s none of your damn business. Suffice to say they’ve been agonizing to me. We’re nowhere near ‘breaking up’ or anything like that, but there’s definitely more distance to cross between us than there usually is. I hate fighting.

All I know is, I want one night this week without a goddamn raised voice or barb.

I’ll delete this if he asks me to, but not because it’s an evil or wrong thing to fight sometimes. If nothing else, it sheds light on things you need to work on to be a better person for yourself and your loved one.

But seriously, I’m so sick of this, loyal reader.

G’night.

 

  

You have friends and family that love you. 

That’s what people say when they have no idea what else to impart when I am in a moment of anxiety and panic. 

And it’s sweet, it makes me smile (if I have the capacity to smile), and it’s truly a lovely sentiment. 

It is not, however, a cure for anxiety. There is no cure. That’s the thing that’s so hard to explain when I am losing my mind, sometimes this shit happens no matter how well-balanced my meds or how awesomely I am coping. Sometimes my brain chemistry goes all pear-shaped and there’s nothing to be done but cope. Mostly, that is done by living through those horrible minutes, not do anything stupid, and MOST IMPORTANTLY, do something smart. For me, and I can only speak for myself, daily panic means I need to see a therapist again. Ugh. I generally hate therapists. 

My problem is that I met the therapist love of my life in San Francisco. He is fantastic. He never spoke down to me, he didn’t give stupid advice, but he called me on my bullshit every time. He was sweet and sassy and clever and almost always right about what I needed to work on; he never hesitated to applaud my little victories, either. 

I’ve never had a therapist so goddamn perfect for me, and I seriously doubt I will find another like him. But I have to mourn that loss and try again. Or else I will keep having anxiety attacks and I will be mentally crippled by my own brain chemistry. I have to be brave and allow myself the possibility that I can find someone new. 

Great God above I am feeling shitty right now. Meds are helping a bit, (just took my anti-anxiety meds) but my good heavens, I feel like the world is caving in around me. I really need/want a gentle evening. I really need to calm the fuck down……I’m really glad the hubby is here, but it’s not enough. My brain chemicals are winning. 

No.

No no no no no no. I refuse to allow them to win. 

Pardon me, loyal reader, I have some fucking DBT excercises to do. 

Today I had an anxiety attack. By which I mean I felt like I was crawling out of my skin for hours, my meds did just enough to hold me down to earth enough to get by at work, and I spent the majority of the day contemplating every horrible mistake I’d ever done. I wanted to go home and crawl into bed, but I knew being home alone would just make me feel worse. Even after eating, water, and rest with the husband, I feel fucking awful. 

You can’t fix this, loyal reader, but it does help that you listen. 

Some days my brain is hell bent against me. 

It’s raining, it’s pouring. Doing work at home because your head was out of the game all day is boring.

 

Today I did the unthinkable…I took work home with me. Not figuratively, I do that shit all the time, but literally. I have a big honking binder full of insurance info for long term care on my dining room table, marked and highlighted in a way i’m pretty sure my boss told me to do so. (I say pretty sure because his instructions were terribly confusing, and then I asked him to explain it a second time, and it was slightly less confusing, but I’m still rather certain that I’m doing it wrong.) In any case, I worked for a couple of hours doing what i THINK he told me to do, and now I’m done, and my head hurts.

Anyway, it’s done now, so hopefully I don’t get yelled at for being bad at something I’ve never done before.

Did I tell you guys I did two improv shows this month? and a podcast? and just got the script today for a project that I’ll tell you about when they make announcements about it in a few days? Well I did, and that’s awesome, because I was feeling pretty dead in the water when it came to performing comedy, then a rush of opportunity came upon me all at once. This is great for my confidence, since my writing goes mostly unnoticed or unread, and I need a creative outlet. It’s no excuse for my horrible lack of writing lately, but it is a nibble if not a meal.

The podcast was pretty awesome, recorded in an actual recording studio, with two very funny gentlemen whom I’ve known since I was 16. It made me, wait for it, reconsider doing standup.

“but Jady, doesn’t standup scare the shit out of you?”

Yes, but what doesn’t?

“but Jady, don’t you have horrifically low confidence in your own abilities to be funny on your own, which is why you started doing ensemble-based improv in the first place?”

Shaddup, you sickeningly accurate observer. I’m awesome.

“Awesome? or Awe-ful?”

I said quiet, you!

 

…….

 

And just like that, I’m out of things to say. A slot at an open mike is like 5 minutes, loyal reader. I better get writing on my manuscript and/or on my routine; either way, I have some work to do.

Oh, and work. I have work to work on too.

Is it seriously only Wednesday?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have I used this blog title before? it’s a punny joke, so probably. I suppose I could search my blog archives, but that sounds like work. Enjoy the blog title folks, it’s staying.

Anyway.

Lately I’ve found myself leaning on my disabilities, if you know what I mean. I’ve gotten bitchier and less-sense-of-humor-ish with my family and loved ones, and blamed my bad humor on the bipolar brain. I’ve been clumsy and slow with chores and blamed it on the hand. I’ve been moody and needy and a general pill and that’s not ok with me.

I have only been diagnosed bipolar for under a decade, but I was a fetal amputee, i’ve always had a weird hand. A lot of people don’t think about how that shaped my childhood. how could they? Apart from the medical commitment (I had surgery on my hand a dozen times before the age of 9), I felt different from the other kids because I was, and that’s very stressful stuff for a kid. I’m a very self-conscious person, and even though I have friends now and am outwardly outgoing, I care so damn much what people think of me. The husband tries to coach me on not giving a damn what people think, but he’s also really tall and handsome and two-handed.

(It’s my right hand. So i know immediately while someone will react well to me based on their first handshake. If they accept my flawed hand with a warm handshake, we’ll probably be cool. If they flinch, probably not so cool. If they switch to left hand, well, that’s kind of a draw.)

I probably think more about my hand than any person on the planet. I spend more of my time, however, worrying about my bipolar brain. Why? my hand is harmless. My bipolar brain, on the other (hah, wordplay) hand, is a dangerous little bitch. She can hurt people.

In the winter I get depressed, and moody and irritable, because winter.

In the summer I get manic and CRAZY, because SUMMER!

I’m pretty sick of both, but looking forward to spring.

Anyway, I’ve been letting myself get away with being a asshole because I’m bipolar. Not. Cool.

So if I’ve been terrible to you lately, i apologize, you’re awesome for still reading my blog, and I probably love you, loyal reader.

 

  
Got cormac a droid. 

Moro flinched during a nail trim and got her claw cut to the quick. She’s now wearing a duct-taped sock to keep her from licking the wound open. 

I’ve been eating healthy except for part of a cheeseburger last night. 

Ok, I blogged. Get off my back about consistency, loyal reader;-)