I’m having a rough time with my body this season. It’s exhausting. That’s nothing novel or new, but it feels harder than normal lately.

For those of you unaware, my sister died of an eating disorder…and you’d think that by itself would be motivation enough to avoid the worlds of diet and weight loss. However, it’s a realm wherein I have struggled for my entire life. Maybe that’s not surprising, being the sister of a woman who died far before her time of self-starvation. Maybe there’s no-one immune to the pull of not-enough-ness. Maybe body dysmorphia and the innate dislike of one’s own shape and size is impossible to avoid; but lately my doubt and loathing are screaming in my head. It’s maddening, and uncomfortable, and awful.

Don’t get me wrong, some days (rare but existent) I feel lovely and ever so hot, and the selfies flow like milk and honey. On those days, I’ll catch myself admiring the reflection in the mirror, effortlessly and joyfully. More often, I’ll look down at my body, or at a reflecting surface, and reel at the wrongness and discomfort. I’ll spot a thousand horrible flaws, and each one lingers and burns.

Of course, the things we know by logic and reason don’t always reach our hearts. I know that I know better; that doesn’t change the feeling of it all. I’m aware that, were I anyone else, I’d have no issue with my looks, my weight, my body type, and my features. But being terminally unique, somehow the rules don’t apply inward, and I feel a deep, terrible wrongness with myself…and a snide, awful loathing that I’d never feel for someone else. I would never in my life be as mean to another as I am to me. It’s extremely unfair.

This isn’t to say that I have no confidence (it’s there sometimes), or that I can’t recognize the things I think are pretty and appealing parts of my body. It’s just…ephemeral. The satisfaction is so fleeting. It doesn’t stay, it doesn’t last, it’s unreliable as all hell. I have to talk myself into belief, which is quite a tricky task for a resolute agnostic. Understanding that my self-image is distorted is the easy part. Accepting and granting myself the grace to be worthwhile as a human despite the distortion is agonizing and takes active, hard work.

Thank goodness for a wardrobe of clothing I know fits me and presents a put-together image to the world. It’s my armor against judgement of myself; if I wear something I know is objectively appealing and attractive, and it fits according to the standards of the occasion, then I’m covered (literally) and acceptable. Dressing up, to be clear, doesn’t make me feel pretty so much as ensure I’m proactively fighting my own doubt. I know objectively that the clothing is nice; and if I look nice to everyone else, maybe it’ll sink in.

As you may have guessed, this inner debate is probably a large part of the reason I have extensive tattoos and piercings as well. Taking back my skin and making it a canvas for wonderful artworks has been a comfort and saved my life on more than one occasion. Body modifications, hair dye, stylish clothes, nails on-point, all help immensely and put the work of feeling ok back in my court. And while I appreciate the compliments I get, knowing that I made myself look this way, knowing I own these choices, is worthwhile entirely on its own. I suggest you consider that fact when you see someone out in the world whose fashion choices you don’t personally enjoy. Maybe they’re more comfortable than they’ve ever been before. Maybe it’s the way they survive.

To note: I hear you when you tell me nice things about the way I look. I appreciate your opinion and your kind words. I cannot say I wholly agree or can even perceive what you do. Still, it’s nice to hear and it helps, a teeny bit. Please don’t be discouraged, and please don’t worry. The battle of me vs. me is nothing new.

Hello, big sis.

It’s been a while, and I’m sorry for that. The pace and intensity of my schedule doesn’t allow much time to write…well, doesn’t allow much time to be still and think of what to say to you. So let’s get the hard part of of the way: I’m still absolutely furious that you’re not here. I’ve needed you so many times and for a resolute agnostic, it’s extremely difficult to believe you are still somehow, even in some small way, involved in my life. Occasionally I’ll see a dragonfly, and then I feel an inkling of belief. Hope has never been my strong suit; but I do wish you comfort, and lack of the pain you felt in this world. I hope, if it isn’t too much to bear, that you visit sometimes. When you do, I hope you are proud of me.

Still, I’m so mad. You never met Cormac, you barely knew Dante, and that generation of my babies isn’t even alive any longer. It’s not right and it’s not fair.

Despite the secrets and the sickness, I did know you pretty damn well. We’re very much alike in so many ways. So I know you’d want to hear about the important things. Namely, the ridiculous animals with whom I share my home and heart. So here’s the latest in the world of my familiars.

1. Poe is getting so big! He’s the current littlest and yet bravest of the bunch. Oscar has a lot of energy and quite a jealous streak, but Poe refuses to cower at intimidation (or loud barks). He’s very affectionate and loves to share space in the kitchen; the boyfriend gave him the nickname T.H. (for Trip Hazard), because he’s so often underfoot. I was worried about getting a third pet of the four-legged variety, but he fits an empty spot in my heart of which I wasn’t even aware.
2. Etti is her usual aloof and lovely self. She spends quite a bit of my evenings at home watching the other two hellions from her perch on the top of the cat tree. She’s much less cuddly that Poe, much calmer than either other one, but those rare moments of affection are treasured. She’s lost a bit of her New Kitty, Extra Treat weight, most because Poe will literally shove her away from a bowl of food, but still fairly plump. I’m not one to fat shame animals, but if anyone has the potential to CHONK, it’s Etti. Right now she’s enjoying the quiet of the morning with me, cuddled up on the loveseat in the writing/crafting second bedroom. Oh! and she’s officially my ESA. She reminds me to be mindful and also to take my meds in the morning…after filling a second bowl with cat food when, inevitably, Poe steals her first one.
3. Oh god…Oscar. As you may have seen, Oscar grew up with big brother Dante, and yet has absolutely no chill with the new kitties. He’s jealous and protective and a bit of a pill sometimes. I’ve been taking him out more often and there’s a teeny few people he’ll actually greet. When he does, he’s a slave to pettings and a master of getting treats. He’ll still worry about my perimeter and woe betide the man who tries to touch me without permission…but he’s learning, slowly, to trust a few good friends. I’m pretty proud of that. The generation of covid babies growing up right now aren’t the most outgoing. Still…he’s my favorite. Don’t tell the others.
4. The fish, the snail, and the crabs are fine. Yes, I collect animals. It’s a thing. You can relate to that.

I’ll try to write more often. It’s not the easiest thing to do. Maybe it’s a pointless exercise in wishful, magical thinking. But, who could ever know? I assume I’ll find out eventually. Until then, I remain your loving little sister. I’ll always hope you have a way of reading or hearing this. Always.

Remember Remember the 23 of September, the birthday of and anniversary of reconnection with the Shitty Ex (TM).

Most people I see on a daily basis, (meaning my coworkers and clients, as well as my boyfriend and most SLC theater besties), never met the fuckwit who ruined my confidence, abused my heart, head, and various other body parts. Most would most likely find the shell-that-was-me as an unrecognizable wreck. Furthermore, most would have avoided making social ties with the wife of a slovenly, lazy, spoiled, cruel and yet otherwise unremarkable racist. Because I was the worst version of myself; he was dug into my brain like a tick, and I had no idea how poorly I was tolerating my life.

Now, this blog has been, admittedly, a source of sorrow in many ways. I began to write it while in residential care, and the entire point of the damn thing was to recall my own life. Fugue states and psychosis tend to rob you of your memories; some come back, other pieces of your life are simply gone. If you’re quite lucky, like me, you have gathered a circle of trusted friends and dear family to help with recall of the important bits. However, there’s no record in my head of much of the thoughts and words I’ve shared on this page. I can read the entries and feel a kinship with the author (me)…but trust me, I wouldn’t know much of this stuff without assistance. So reading back can be very difficult and sad. I was not a healthy lady.

Also, since it’s been 14 years since that fateful early autumn afternoon in Chicago wherein I traded my soul for ‘love’, there is a belief that I should somehow be ‘over it.’ I should have moved on (I did), I should try to forget (oh honey, I have), I should should should…

There are a few things, however, that woke me from a dead sleep at 3 am this morning, which I consider important to remember and to note.

Now, loyal readers of this strange little blog know the story. They mostly haven’t heard details of the sexual abuse, because even in my barest moments of vulnerability, I have the good common sense not to trauma-dump on the internet. Suffice to say, such things happened as to ruin my love of most casual touch and severely hinder my ability to trust a partner, and bless the boyfriend’s heart for coping with that. These readers may also recall the financial burden that remains from the divorce decree, wherein the Shitty Ex was mandated to pay half the debt he incurred in my name: he owes me over 17000 dollars. I’ll most likely never see that money, and although many, many people have pointed out it’s a fair price to never deal with the bastard again, it’s a thorn in my side. Oh, and the readers certainly know the gaslighting, coercion, and mental beating I took, especially those of you who stuck with me throughout the marriage, because I was brainwashed as hell.

So, do I forget these things? Nope. Do I forgive? That’s the complicated part. Mostly I choose to show myself grace for the things I did and the person I portrayed in my life to survive. Still, the very hardest part, the part that wakes me in these early morning hours, is the lingering and nagging doubt that’s never left my mind; the completely awful thoughts of ‘I got what I deserved.’, ‘I’ve lost the ability to love as deeply’ and that ol’ chestnut, I ‘should have left’ years before I finally did. These are the things that keep me up. These are the reasons I do not, as I’ve been advised so many times, let it all go.

For those of you who are the worrying type: please don’t. This is not an exercise in self-harm or rumination. If anything, cleansing myself of the those terrible thinking errors is a practice; it won’t be done just once, and the efficacy doesn’t last forever, but I need to. For those of you who wonder: feel free to ask. I still won’t share some of it, but I’m willing to run through the basic structure and downfall of the marriage. I’ll start off with a trigger warning, but if you want to know, I will tell.

Now, since I’ve gotten my regular 6 hours of sleep, and I’m wide awake, I might even write an entry that has absolutely nothing to do with the anniversary. Wouldn’t that be something?

Etti is officially a big sister!

Pardon the pause, Poe (new kitten) was being a cliche little cat and walking across my keyboard. In any case, my current animal headcount is 7…a snail, beta, two hermit crabs, two kitties, and one very jealous Oscar. I am nothing if not a prolific pet mom. Yes, they all need to be here, and no, I don’t have any more space.

Oh, and I suppose, with the bird feeder, I have a few other half-pets…they can certainly live without me, but they also empty the feeder within two days. So that counts, kind of.

Summer is upon us, and the week before last brought with it a brief but terrifying (as always) bout of mania. I managed to get it under control fairly quickly with half from the boyfriend and the support circle, but it tired me the hell out and I spent the majority of my pre-planned 5 day weekend coming down from the manic high. the nice thing is, I know exactly what happened this time: I ran out of meds on a Sunday (well, had a half-dose left), didn’t call to refill until too late on Monday, and didn’t get the actual meds until later on Tuesday when I was already not feeling great (aren’t understatements cute?).

What does mania feel like, Jady? Hmm. How to describe. You know the jump-start, heart pounding feeling you get when waking from a nightmare? Imagine that level of discomfort except it doesn’t dissipate in a few quiet moments, but instead, snowballs downhill, gaining force and speed. Your pulse is racing, your head is spinning with every horrific fear and worry that the brain can conceive. Sometimes, for me, paranoia comes forward and plucks red pieces of reason away from my skull. I get giddy, wired to the gills, and frightened of everything, everyone, and every scenario my impressively large imagination can conceive. It’s quite the experience, one that’s immediately familiar and yet foreign. There’s no high like a manic high, and getting high ain’t my jam any more.

In short, my little sister gave me the advice to put a marker in my schedule to note when mania happens, so I can look back on the last year and see what to expect. My bipolar is mostly seasonal, manic summers and depressive winters, and although I know that intuitively at this point, it’s nice to have written proof as a reminder. It’s also wildly difficult to blog in an episode, so that’s a continuing struggle. I always INTEND to get my life on a schedule, blogging included, but we’ve seen how well that works out, haven’t we, loyal reader?

Other things in my life include, in no particular order:

Doing a donations-based, half-scripted/half-improvised show for the fringe festival. Rehearsals have been long and frequent, but the cast is full of delightful humans and the improv part is my particular favorite…the script has been tricky, since I’m the understudy for the entire cast, and that means knowing the entire show. I’m nervous and yet eager to cover for any performer that I might, but my goodness, it’s a lot to know.

Doing a leadership development thingy at my job, I’ll devote a post to it when it really kicks off, but believe me, I;m so excited. I get some pretty impressive mentoring and professional attention, and I feel both special and delighted about it. It’s also extra, over-the-call-of-duty work to be done, which y’all know I always opt for. My perfectionism will be a concern, and taking feedback without taking it personally will be a challenge, but this is a job I hope to keep for a long, long while, and it’s very gratifying to see that the desire to invest in my career is mutual. Yay!

Doing art projects infrequently and really want to focus on C’s baby gifts…I mean, she’s already given birth, so my timeline is fairly freeform, but it’d be nice to get them done. I’ve been using a combo of watercolor, sharpie, pastel and collage for these pieces, and they’re quite lovely…will post pictures when completed. Oh, and collage is deeply time consuming. Just so you know.

I’m happy to branch off from a basic diary to further discussions and topics if you’ve been missing my writing, feel free to make requests. For now…yeah, I need to cut and glue paper before Sunday washes over me and I lose all motivation. I suppose we will see.

Springtime is here, and as per Jady-esque trope, I’m feeling lifted up and bright, with the inevitable fear of nigh-imminent hypomania and ensuing maddness. Life with bipolar psychosis (or schizoaffective disorder? but really, 6 of one…) is a study in taking them lemons of ‘interesting’ brain chemistry, adding a flavorful dash of old trauma, tempering the sour with coping and compassion, and making the least acidic lemonade you can manage. Turns out, loyal reader, you can’t make lemonade without getting a drop or two of bitterness in your eye. How does my bitterness manifest and make me cry angry tears tonight, the nicest night of the year so far? Ruminating on a few things, actually. For instance, I accept and yet I mourn the following:

1. I take daily meds that hurt my stomach, are oft-adjusted and don’t always adapt to hit the quick-moving targets of stress and dysregulation that turn a pleasant day into a desolate minefield. Fine, throw that shade, universe…I have an excellent, compassionate and responsive care team with MVPs that rival (insert famous and wildly talented sports team line up here).
2. One of my meds is specifically aimed at harnessing psychosis, and there’s a big ol’ world of triggers out there, especially in the warmer months, so I have to mind my proverbial step in the spring and summer, and letting myself go is simply not an option I’m willing to entertain. Well dammit…ok, also fine, I’ve had my fill of wild summer party-months. The 20s were a hell of a ride. Bygones.
3. I’ve not had my last traumatic day, and knowing that is at times exhausting. Especially now, in my career, in my studies, thinking that ‘the bad times’ are behind me simply isn’t an option. There indeed is more yet to come, and the more you live, the more you realize how very statistically impossible it is to be happy All The Time. Hmm. Also also fine, acceptable, the meaning of life is the journey, etc and so on.

The biggest lemon, the bitterest, most acidic and sharp to the tongue, is the memories I’ve lost. Between my psychotic fugue states, my PTSD mind-games of blocking out bad AND good experiences (I’d rather have both, thanks), and knowing that although there are ways of accessing these moments in my past, they’re difficult, costly, and not always very effective…most of the time, I accept this part of my reality. Sometimes, however, the grief of what I don’t remember is staggering. I quite literally have Mystery Friends…people I know, some of them quite well, whom I cannot recall meeting. I know them, we talk, but if you asked how we met or in what context they became part of my life, I’d be clueless. No idea where…Chicago, SLC, Oakland, NYC, England, take a guess. It’s one of my most deep-set insecurities, actually…worrying that people think I don’t care about them when I genuinely cannot recollect our past.

Sometimes telling me stories helps; some memories are hidden under rocks that are easy for someone else to lift, and once they’re describing them, I do have the capacity to recall. Some, however, are just plain gone. Too much trauma in that spot in the timeline, sorry but nope, didn’t keep that moment in my grey matter, even if it was remarkable and quite possibly kept my heart alive.

And tonight, upon the mention of a memory, I’m watching a movie I’ve seen before, feeling very Momento-esque, because I have seen it before and it was significant and I don’t REALLY know why, yet. It might come back. Maybe. Also quite possibly not. I find that part, that not-ever-coming-back part of my memory, only just barely bearably sad right now.

Then again, you don’t make beautiful moments happen just too remember them later, however nice that might be. Making good memories isn’t really a choice to stock up on pleasant things to recall, at least not for me. I consider a good memory with someone you love more along the lines of divine intervention. Not masterminded by a godhead figure, I’m too agnostic for that, but a moment when you were just in the right time, at the right second, at the intersection of two unique and turbulent timelines. While it would be so very sweet to remember the specifics of how that moment fed your love and instilled hope and wonder in your world, well…

I’m guess I’m just glad I was there at all.

I’ve been avoiding writing this blog for a few reasons. I keep sobbing when I try. My Dante has passed on. It was quick and he was in my arms for those last minutes of corporeal existence in this life.

Dante was my companion, my familiar, my soulmate and dearest friend. He was the universe’s benevolent gift of a baby to love.

Now, keep in mind the insufficient nature of descriptions of wonderful memories and joyous times. I could never share what Dante did for me, and meant to me. However, he deserves a few words. I’ll do my best.

Dante and I met the day after Ashley died, the morning after my red-eye back home to Salt Lake City. I remember moments of this time period, not a straight narrative; possibly because my heart was shredded to pieces, my head was spinning, and my soul was in so much pain.

I remember taking Ashley’s car to her apartment to feed her cats, and I remember her older kitty Figaro hiding under the bed when I got there, and glaring at me. Dante, on the other hand, a wee little baby tuxedo kitten, ran up to me crying. I picked him up. We cried together, and he became my little ward, and I became his person.

Dante was quite an accomplished gentleman. He helped me raise two dogs, Cormac and Oscar. He lived in Chicago, Oakland and Salt Lake City. He was both a big city apartment cat, and a neighborhood roaming outdoor kitty. When we lived in Oakland, he found me mice and dropped them in my shoes occasionally. When we lived in Salt Lake, he would kindly and generously leave me a rat or two on the front porch every spring time. Clearly, I never went hungry with him on the prowl.

But despite a impressive and yet unsettling streak of rodent violence, Dante was a lover at heart. His favorite places to stay warm and cozy were lounging in the Boyfriends lap, and in my arms at night, purring me to sleep.

Dante is doing well, I would guess. Cormac, I imagine, is currently stealing his canned food in Cool Heaven, where the cool souls go. He gets to see Figaro, and Jacob (Ashley’s pup), Cassie the dog and Blackie the Cat and even ol’ tripod pup Liam. He finally gets to cuddle OG cat-mom Ashley, again and forever.

Dante, my love, you were always so good to me, you were unforgettable and unique. I believe we will meet again, I believe you are safe and warm, and I certainly know you are loved. Safe travels.

Well, it’s officially autumn, and you know what that mean, loyal reader…winter depression is a few small months away. I’m headed to the doctor this morning to do med adjustments, as well as check if I have a gluten allergy, and ask for advice on getting my deviated septum fixed. I’m also going to let them weigh me, which I usually don’t because I want praise from my APRN on the weight loss (25ish sustainable pounds this year). He better have gluten free cookies that I can eat while mouth breathing, am I right?

1. Med adjustments: Honestly, I considered doing this on my own. It’s usually a small boost in my antidepressant, and a little cut-down of my antipsychotic. That’s a bad attitude, don’t change meds without guidance, please. Nary ye be so foolish. With my independent streak and wildly overestimated knowledge of how these meds work, I feel quite often that I could manage this on my own…and yet that’s reckless and I know better. (You know better, Future Jady, reading this back to yourself next year around the same time. You really do.) Also, I took on meds for ADHD this summer, and I honestly have no idea how those get adjusted for winter. So I’m going to my handsome APRN…honestly, so cute, talking with him about digestive issues sucks…to ask questions, get advice, and work things out for the inevitable winter doldrums. C’est la vie.
2. Gluten Allergy: I am sick of my stomach committing the digestive equivalent of war crimes on my tummy and guts every time I eat noodles or bread, and frankly I just need confirmation that I cannot, should not do that anymore. It’s deeply, deeply uncomfortable. But, it took quite a while to even bring this up to my VERY CUTE provider (his brother also works in the practice and is likewise adorable, and telling them about this whole thing suuuucks.) Still, it’s worth not..you know…doing what people with gluten allergies end up doing when they eat improper foods. God dammit, I will really miss bread and noodles. No, replacements are not the same. stop lying to yourself and the world.
3. Deviated Septum: The hits just keep on coming. I have a significant hole in my septum. I was told, about two years ago, when a covid tested struck pure brain matter (ok, maybe not exactly, but sure felt that way) and made me cry during a covid test, that this was the case. I’ve avoided having this checked out, confirmed, and fixed. Not only because I’m deeply embarrassed about how it happened (maybe existed before but certainly exacerbated by my addiction), but because this would potentially be my 14th surgery, and I was so contented with lucky 13. But, once again, BE YE NARY SO FOOLISH, my dears. It’s probably making my sleep apnea happen/worse, it makes it tricky to blow my nose, and every year I get at least one sinus infection/miserable congestion that simply will not go away. I’ve also heard that you could get two black eyes following the surgery, and obviously I want to rock that hot panda look.

So….a visit to the doctor’s office is in order. It’s certainly not my favorite trip, but it’s not as if this doesn’t happen every 3-6 months. My diagnoses are not to be trifled with, and require care. If not now, it’ll be after I start feeling as if the world is closing down, darkening, shutting me out into the shadows, and I’m pretty sure we hate hearing about that whole drama every holiday season. I can make better decisions with my eating habits, however much they may suck. I might even snore less, breathe better, and feel more confident in my body. It’s worthwhile, go figure. I loathe the trip, but I hate the consequences of avoiding it even more so.

Putting on a casually flattering and slightly unnecessarily outfit and heading out. Wish me all the luck, and remember the important take-away from this very belated post…My practitioner is dreamy and he hears all about my poop. Sigh.

It’s been a while since I’ve taken the time to write more than an email or therapy note, and it’s making me a little bit insane. The Hyades, the rainy ones, of greek mythology and in the painting above, made their way into my longest writing, Kindling. They made it rain to the point of flooding, which is why Sam and Tom are having such a rough time getting somewhere safe after Tom’s apartment burned down. I’ve been trying, aching for inspiration. I think, however, that reading my writing will be helpful.

The trick is, honestly, reading has become a chore for me, and I blame the masters program. I read textbooks that were surely interesting, but also long and often painfully dry. My aunt MB sent me a copy of The Girl Who Drank the Moon, and I’ve managed to get through about 4 chapters…but they’re short, it’s hard, and I feel incredibly sad that I don’t devour books like I used to. Furthermore, I keep thinking about a quote from Samuel Johnson, “Never trust an author that writes more than he reads.”

So…what to do today? read? read my own work and get my head in the game? Give up and lie on my bed festering and fuming over my lack of productive activity? (Obviously those are the only possible options.)

I choose to read something, write something, and celebrate myself a teensy bit. If you do have any interest in being a reader with me…which I suppose you’ve done by visiting this blog…I do have pieces, a few snippets of writings of which I’m pretty proud. Finishing something would be nice, and maybe sharing would light a fire beneath me to do so. We’ll see, I suppose.

Do I write more of Kindling (zombies, mental health, unicorns), Kept (based on the Collector, Jonathan Fowles’ opus on the workings of a fictional serial killer), or something shorter that might turn into something lovely? Decisions decisions. Something has to happen or I’ll feel pretty defeated.

Dear reader, what would you like to see me write?