Shooting the Black Dog, Part 6: Completely MENTAL

OK, this is a pic of a black dog I'd never shoot (even though it doesn't do her lovely eyes justice). Figured after the way I've dissed dogs, I should include a pic of a couple of dogs that I truly love, Rock Star & his big sis Ebbie, the dog who changed my mind about dogs. Rock Star is the canine equivalent of Lucky--as utterly lovable, cute and entertaining (and exasperating), but smarter.

Today's subtitle comes from a favorite Brit phrase referring to one being out of one's mind while still allowed to roam free of legal or medical restraint. It applies to roughly 90% of the English women I've known (and the ones it doesn't apply to know who they are ;-); there is a reason I've had a number of Brit boys in my life. American women are insane, but at least we're up front about it.

But enough about cultural differences.

"Completely mental"... Jim Jefferies brought that phrase back into my lexicon; it's not a phrase I'd ever used often, but like a lot of things that get stuck in the junkyard of trivialities that is my brain, it's been there. As I mentioned in yesterday's post, I'm struggling with accepting that I really am bipolar--that the original diagnosis was correct, and I'm going to be one of those lucky, lucky people who has to deal with recurring episodes in my life when the bipolar is pronounced and when it hides in the background. And that it is intimately tied to my artistic life.

"Completely mental" sums up why this idea is bringing me down like a sickly zebra under a pride of hungry lions. See, when the diagnosis is there and other people are aware of it, there is a label applied to you, and then come the dismissals. "Oh, she has problems." Followed by a knowing look.

Fights at home... yeah, I've had it thrown in my face that I was crazy because I had been diagnosed and was taking medication for it. Told that everything I was saying, every observation I had made, was invalid because I had a disorder and was under treatment.

Welcome to life in a working class Irish family--it's OK to be a drunk and swilling away your wages and destroying other lives and being a miserable, horrible, abusive piece of shit, but it's NOT OK to take responsibility for yourself and get help.

*slams head on the desk*

Even in "educated" circles, it's still a reason to belittle someone, still a reason to treat someone as less than worthy of being taken seriously. I hate it. I hate having my intelligence and psychological acumen dismissed, my ideas and aspirations dismissed, simply because I have a disorder that I have accepted and sought help for and been honest about.

Because I am honest about the shit I deal with. I know that as soon as any man even vaguely interested in dating/bedding me reads this, I will be out of the running. I know that. Because who wants to deal with a woman who is "completely mental"? Who wants to deal with someone who "has problems"? Who wants to deal with their own shit plus someone else's?

So why talk about it? Because I have to, I guess. Because I was taught to stand up and speak up. Because I have met too damn many people in this world suffering alone, unaware that they weren't alone in this. Because I know how I felt on Thursday, sitting in Starbucks, writing about how I was feeling, trying not to weep, and a friend, without asking, wrapped me up and held me because he understood completely how I was feeling.

Because I am tired of being misjudged and I hate that there are people in this world who inflict their disorder on others and never take responsibility for their own actions and responsibility to face and control their disorder, but feel it's completely OK to denigrate others for their efforts.

Yeah, I'm a judgmental person--I pass a LOT of judgments on others. What most people don't get, however, is the evaluation process that goes into it first. I watch how people treat others--I pay attention to all the details. And I don't give a pass unless you've earned it. I don't give myself any, either. (And yeah, I know, that may be part of the problem. Ah, well.) It may sound harsh, but at this point in my life, I don't have any room left for unnecessary pain. I don't need people who are going to inflict more pain than pleasure; what that means is if the shit you bring to the tables doesn't balance out with the quality you bring to the table, sorry, no time, no energy. I don't mind giving time to my friends; I don't mind listening when someone I love and care about is going through a hard time and needs a shoulder to cry on or an ear to bend whilst they vent. And I also don't ask for what I won't give--to anyone in my life, and I certainly don't want anything I haven't earned, be it loyalty, forgiveness, or a break.

People find that so hard to believe, especially men. I mean, why would I ask you for something I wouldn't give to you in return? Where is the fairness in that? Where is the justice, the correctness? Where are the ethics in that? It's just so damn weird. I don't get it.

Whatever. Onward, I guess.

But seriously... This is NOT a relationship

So, I've mentioned Potential Paramour. This gent is the latest "catch" from Plenty of Fish.

I'm not going into his details--inappropriate--but I am going to talk about the whole "internet dating" thing.

Because I fucking hate it.

Now, let's be clear here: I am not a bar hopper. Never have been, never will be. I learned a long time ago that, due to my anxiety issues (and solid common sense), I prefer to hang in a place where I know the crowd, know the staff, and am close enough to home that I can either walk it or grab a cab if there's no designated driver. Well, I preferred that back in my drinking days. Now... post gastric bypass and post-everything else, I really don't have to worry about it.

I was also never a clubber, again, for some pretty obvious reasons. One, I am painfully shy. Two, I HATE being touched by strangers. I've almost slugged people for bumping me (back in my less-self-aware days; now, I do breathing exercises to keep myself calm in situations). Three, fat chicks... fat chicks don't do well in club situations. I never wanted to be the "pity fuck," the one who was last choice, y'know? I dealt with that enough on the playground as a kid because I was so hopeless at sports. Four... I hate listening to music that I don't know and don't like with people I wouldn't associate with anyway.

Understand, that I am one of those people who has all the presets programmed on the car radio; I keep it set to WFNX--hit the "5" button on the dash before I shut the car off--no, it's not #1, because I have a touch of OCD and LIKE THINGS IN ORDER! This is why I am a good cataloguer--I have a natural obsession with keeping things in order, either numerical or alphabetical. 92.9 is the #1 button--2 clicks to the left is The River, then two "seeks" to get to 93.7, 2 clicks to get to 94.1... #2 takes me to 'AAF, #3 is Mum's station (I skip this one), #4 is 'ZLX--2 clicks left, 2 clicks right gets me the NH stations, #5 is 'FNX, #6 is MIX [used to be 'BCN. *sigh*], and then, depending where I am in metro Boston, the "seek" will get me anywhere from two to five stations. If I'm awake enough and need contemplative music, I'll hit the #2 button and seek to the classical station. If all of this button pushing hasn't found me a good song or a Red Sox game, a quick flick of the finger sends the adaptor into the cassette slot and the Zune goes live. I will NOT listen to crap music. Life is too important to listen to shit.

This habit drives people crazy. This is why I do not usually play the radio when I have people in the car--a) I can't focus on conversation if I am singing along to the radio; b) I like the music LOUD and can't focus on conversation because I can't hear both; and c) it's rude. The only person who's ever been able to deal with it is Captain Strap-on because he does the same thing (or tried to, on my radio, and almost got his hand taken off. DRIVER'S CHOICE! Touch my radio without my permission, I'll kill you. Or throw you out of the car if the first warning is ignored).

But I digress.

About the only place I "hang" these days because of time commitments, etc., is Starbucks where I have met New Crush and Old Crush, and because I like both of them, of course, I haven't had the cojones to ask either out. Yeah, yeah, I know. Chickenshit. I own it. Goes back to Fat Girl Syndrome. I'm trying to overcome it. Besides,I hate awkwardness. I don't usually feel it--I mean, hey, you're not feeling the attraction that I am, no problem. I don't take it personally--I know how it goes. NO WHOOPER! (This is why the whole thing with Jim Jefferies didn't faze me--I can't imagine how many women proposition him, although he lists himself as "gay" on MySpace. That was a little weird, but hey, gotta check and see if people are paying attention.) But guys get weird in those situations, and I'd hate for anyone to avoid getting coffee because of fearing to run into me. The problem with Sbux is that the crowd in there is a little young--a lot of scenery, but I'm not into cradle robbing. Otherwise... WOW. I mean, it's not like I have a rating system like the movies--"No one under XX may date this woman"--but I also have a grasp of developmental issues. You don't stop growing and changing because you hit the age of 18, and we all develop and change and grow differently. However, I am 42--I've seen a lot of shit, and while I have a lot of compassion and understanding, I also have a limited amount of time and patience.

OK, back to Potential Paramour. Now, he initiated contact via POF (Plenty of Fish). We exchanged a few emails via the site, I gave the wahoo email address, and he sent his picture (normal pic, not a dick shot, thank the Gods). We started chatting via wahoo. It was fine--normal convo exchange, flirting, bit of sex talk. It was fine--normal for these things. He has been very complimentary, very sweet--he thinks I'm cute. OK. And beautiful.

Beautiful I'm OK with--to me, that word has deeper connotations than "cute"--it implies not just physical beauty (and I am pretty; I KNOW that), but something within the soul that shines through. It's why I notice eyes--New Crush hit me like a lightening bolt because of his eyes. (Yes, he's cute--noticed that AFTER--but his eyes... WOW! This has always been the way it works for me when I feel something for someone I meet face-to-face. That was what happened with the Mighty Lucifer--I noticed his eyes before anything else, immortalized in a short story as being like "burning suns"... Jim Jefferies has those kind of brown eyes. Mmmmmm... )

But cute? I am so NOT cute. I mean, I am acerbic, sarcastic, funny... but adorable? Nah. So NOT me. I mean... CUTE? "Cute" comes with a button nose, perky little tits, and a cheerleader attitude. Me... SO NOT cute. And I find that word such a diminutive when a man says it to me when I'm grouchy. I AM NOT CUTE when I am grouchy. I am a PAIN IN THE FUCKING ASS when I'm grouchy.

There is NOTHING CUTE about stating I want to thin the herd of Cambridge bicyclists. Ditto for wanting to execute stupid people. Nothing cute about that--I'd be disturbed if someone I barely knew made statements like that, especially via IM. There is NOTHING cute about me when I'm ranting. I'm funny--hell, yes, I am funny if your sense of humor skews that way--but I am funny only if you are present for the rant and can hear the tone of voice and see the outrageous facial expressions.

I never found George Carlin "cute" when he was ranting; ditto, Celebricrush Jim. (THAT'S a good nickname! I like it better than invoking his full name--I really worry about coming off as a stalker/obsessive fan. I'm not. Following on Facebook is one thing; I have no plans to go to California or the UK over the next few months, nor will I be writing any "fan fic," because, although I do write amazing fucking porn, I prefer for it to be from direct experience.)

I find both of them scary during certain rants; that's what great comedy should be--you're pissing yourself laughing and shitting your pants in fear. VISCERAL. As unsafe as unprotected sex with an African hooker. (Yep, goin' to hell for that one. Join me at my private table by the fire, will you?) It's why certain comics never appealed to me... there were no risks in their material, nothing personal about it. I'd like to find the idiot who made a comment after Carlin died on his material that his earlier stuff was so much better--*SLAM* Louisville Slugger to the head for being an idiot. Or to the balls to make sure he doesn't reproduce. I mean, who would take the Hippy Dippy Weatherman over the Two Commandments? Really? Moron.

This is all a part of my "Sacred Fool" theory of theatre and comedy. I wrote a paper on it years ago; I need to dig it out and expand on it. No, I am not "selling out" and applying to Harvard or Yale or wherever for a Ph.D. (although I'm still toying with the Masters in Counseling/Psych--Dr. Panetta will howl with laughter over that one, if I ever ask for the recommendation. You know you've got something when your therapist wants you to be a therapist. Hey, I'm a director--you've GOT to be an armchair shrink to direct Shakespeare and get your actors throught it without them losing their shit or you losing yours).

Wow, I'm REALLY digressing and avoiding discussing relationships.

OK, back to Potential Paramour: the IMs have been intense. Sexually, we're on some of the same pages (he's a bit traditional; definitely wants to be the one "on top" as it were, which is OK to a point). What's bothering me is that we haven't met face-to-face yet; we've never even heard each other's voice, and he's pushed for a commitment.

*SCREECHING OF BRAKES*

Yeah. And I had to put my foot down.

Look, while I'll own to being a royal slut extraordinaire in the bedroom, I am NOT a whore. I don't play the field--even when I've had the option to, I haven't. I mean, I've been given permission to cheat and couldn't do it. Not my style. I mean, a threesome is one thing (and it's been years and years and years and I doubt it's something I'd ever do again. One man is enough, y'know? If I really want to go for the DP experience, there are toys for that, and another woman is out of the question. Been there, done that, booooooooooring), but cheating? Multiple discreet partners? *shudder* Gods forbid something slips and I end up pregnant. I don't think I could deal with the shame of not knowing who the father was. (And yes, I would be ashamed and embarrassed.) Hey, I think about these things.

Now, I've been in enough long distance/internet-based relationships to know that the person you deal with via IM is NOT the person you deal with in person. I am who I am--totally WYSIWYG. The crazy shit I say in this blog is the crazy shit I say in conversation. I am this person. I'm good with it. However, what you do not get via the blog is my voice--it's a big voice, loud when I laugh or get pissed off. You don't hear the revolving accents--from Standard American to Brit Posh to Thick Boston to Atlantic Canadian to Irish Brogue to Aussie to California Surf to wherever. You don't get the bouncing moods, from utterly manic to serenely calm to utterly outraged and furious to Writer Mode to grouchy to happy... this is normal me. I'm An Experience.

Not everyone can deal with the Empress Experience. I mean, I'm actually a fairly easy human being to be around, as long as I'm allowed a certain degree of control over myself and immediate surroundings. I let people be who they are and accept them. I only get contentious when someone tries to impose unnecessary demands and during the 36 hours of PMDD. (And then I take half a tab of Xanax, have a good cry, and sleep.) But I know that not everyone can deal with it, especially men.

So... I have not made a commitment, and I didn't allow myself to be manipulated into making one (which is raising a red flag already). We'll see how the face-to-face goes, but I honestly don't have a lot of hope. I'm going to give him a chance, but...

Ah, well.

Empress Abroad: I Drive Like a Demon...

A sweet kiss to whoever can identify the quote (well, the song and artist) bastardized in the title of this post. (Sorry, cash strapped ATM--on vacation. Although I might be willing to supply a particularly violent and well-armed Dust Bunny instead.)

Although the song that is really summing up how I feel at the moment (which is what I mean when I use the abbreviation "ATM"--not automatic teller machine OR the porn translation. *shudder* I have limits) is "Better Days" by Bruce Springsteen. It came on the shuffle on the Zune just as I spotted the sign that read, "Sackville - 50 km." I was singing at the top of my lungs (voice is shot from almost eight straight hours of singing along in the car--only way I could stay awake). Such an amazing song, and the live version from the MTV Live and Plugged In (I think that's the album) also has one of my ultimate theme songs, "Red-headed Woman" on it--the live version is so FUCKING AMAZING and electric, I can't hear it without singing along and feeling utterly euphoric. The timing tonight helped, too (although anyone observing me would have thought I was utterly insane, but then I'm a Masshole at large in the nicest place in the world, Nova Scotia). The line that always puts a grin on my face and tears in my eyes:

"Tonight this fool is halfway to heaven
And just a mile outta hell
And I feel like I'm comin' home!"

Perfect sentiment to sum up the weird, wired state I'm in.

Christ, I'm in brain overload right now. Eight straight hours in my own company with nothing but the road and the occasional text message (before I crossed the border; suddenly, my smart phone has no G3 connection. Argh) at rest stops can make one a BIT reflective. The adventures of the past week have had no small affect on me, either.

Still reeling from the New York trip. *shakes head* I wish I understood why things affect me so deeply. For the most part, I don't give a rat's ragged arse about most shit. I really don't--I hate celebrity culture, think the imbecilic gossip rags need to be burnt en masse (ditto all of the WRETCHED women's magazines... Christ on a crutch, WHAT IS THE POINT OF COSMO EXCEPT TO MAKE WOMEN TRULY STOOOOOPID AND SHALLOW?) However, ATM, I feel too euphoric and too fucking tired to do my usual slam of the head on the desk. I find crushes so bizarre. Life-affirming--the fact that I can find anyone attractive these days for any other reason than looks is reassuring that I haven't completely lost all faith. And that I can feel something other than black cynicism (and actually made a pass... Lawdy Lawd, WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING?)... a good thing. Maybe my heart isn't dead.

I don't want to think about sad things right now. I actually feel good right now. Calm. Safe. Happy. I'm home. Oh, mercifcul Gods, I made it home and for the first time, I drove it.

See, I love to drive. I truly, truly love to be behind the wheel. I have dreamed of road tripping before I ever even got my license when I was 18, and the only chance I ever had to do the long-haul road trip involved a dying VW Rabbit, my (now late- ex-)husband, and fabulous cat. That was the last time I saw my Grand-dad, Buck. Horrible trip--the Rabbit's headlights wouldn't stay on, so we couldn't drive after dark, we were broker than sin (thanks to him; happy thoughts, happy thoughts), and everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. The company sucked, too. Trying to put a marriage back together after four months with an entire country between you... stupid, stubborn bitch I was. I paid for it.

But this... this is the kind of trip I've been dreaming of doing FOREVER: just packing up, getting in the car, and GOING. The stop last night at Camp Atherton was (as always) LOVELY. Bill and Jane give me hope: married fifty years, still in love with each other, and just DAMN FINE people. Laura and Ferd... best wedding I ever went to, and you won't find two people who love each other more or who work better together. Again, they give me hope.

Plus, it's impossible to have a bad time at Camp Atherton.

Laura pressed a wardrobe on me; I have to pick up most of the clothes after I get back because, honestly, I couldn't fit them in the car. I MUST clean out the trunk while I'm here; I felt bad for the poor customs officer trying to shut the stupid thing. He was sweet, though, once he realized he was dealing with a daft American librarian in desperate need of a vacation amongst Canadians. Gods, I don't need to buy any nice clothes for forever; she has such exquisite taste. Not that I'm upgrading my everyday uniform of jeans & Woot shirts; I like it. It fits me. I also finally have back in my wardrobe pink Chuck T's. I have missed wearing pink Chuck's--they used to be my signature footware. Finally lost enough that I can wear real sneakers again! YES!

She's also downloaded my novel to her Nook; it was very cool (strange, but cool) to see my novel on somebody's ereader. :-) Soon... Rewrite may start today; doubt I'm going to sleep. Too wound up.

But the dream trip... I really like long haul driving. It's soothing, believe it or not. I love the speed... the road spread out before me, and nothing to do but drive.

Good thinking time. Plotting time, too.

Trying to sort out the men in my life. *sigh* So bizarre... texts from Captain Strap-on AND Potential Paramour. Totally schizoid. I mean, I never date more than one (of course, Potential Paramour hasn't even had a face-to-face yet, so fuck knows if he's even serious) at a time. Part of it is ethics, part of it is laziness--I'm such a bad liar when I have to deal with someone on a regular basis. Cops and meter maids, no problem: can lie like a rug and weep on cue and save my bacon. People I have to see or speak to regularly? Impossible. I'm trying to keep too much else straight to be able to keep anything but the real story straight.

Besides, I hate lying. It's just not fun. It's too easy to fool people. (Trust me, it is--I've convinced someone that something that wasn't there was; it was scary, that. Fun, in a very sadistic sort of way, but scary. No one should be that weak-minded.)

It's all about power, innit? Use and abuse. Been thinking a lot about that lately. The problem with me writing & performing again is that it's all coming up, and I'm remembering things I'd buried for a while. *shakes head*

What a year it's been. Actually, the past three years, if I think about it: the failed engagement, leaving the DW fandom community, the gastric bypass prep and realization, the weight loss, the adjustment, dating again, putting Idiot away, the suicide attempt, therapy, break-throughs...

My head is reeling. I remembered something else about 1996: that was the year I was diagnosed as bipolar II and put on meds. Now, at first, those meds were a miracle: for the first time since I was three, I didn't want to die. My moods evened out. Of course, my health was also going into the toilet because I wasn't REALLY bipolar II, my thyroid was broken. (This is a common misdiagnosis, BTW--the thyroid directly affects mood, and some of the symptons can mirror acute bipolar disorder.) After a while, they also lost their efficacy, and more meds had to be added. Eventually, I went numb--walking through life wrapped in cotton wool and not giving a monkey's toss about it all. Losing my job and health insurance was actually a boon back then because I meant I had to quit all of the meds. System was cleansed and started over with a clean slate.

By then, they'd found the broken thyroid. Of course, I had already gained a gajillion pounds. Eventually, I had to go back on meds, but I found a good doctor who put me on something that treated anxiety and depression, and I finally realized that I didn't get anxious because I was depressed--I got depressed because I was anxious. The light bulb appeared over my head, and I was on the road to making other discoveries...

But, yet again, I digress and can't even remember what the original point was. 1996, I think. Fourteen years. I haven't been this healthy since before I got married, honestly. Emotionally, I've never been this healthy before. It's weird. Good weird, mind you, but weird. Not quite sure what to do--feel like the energy's going to just explode out of my fingertips.

I have to make a decision, soon, too. Right now, I'm writing and writing and writing... it's crazy what's coming out. I've been playing with the one-woman show thing for a long time; it's a dream, a goal, really. I don't know if I'm cut out for standup; I realize that part of it may be the venue I'm open miking in--definitely not my kind of humor, and there is a bit of a boys' club attitude--inadvertant, but there and off-putting. So I have to find someplace else down at home and see if anything will come of it. The other part (and I think I made this in an earlier post): I'm not a gag-man. I'm a storyteller, and a two-minute shot isn't enough for a proper build-up & sell, and honestly, most of a my stuff NEEDS the build up, the twist, the seeming non sequitur, to get to the final BANG! It's like sex--no one likes a rush job (well, a quickie once in a while is cool, but it doesn't provide a lot of pleasure if it's all you're getting).

And I don't want to do something half-assed. There is nothing worse than a half-assed performance--spending your hard-earned money to see a show and getting crap from the performer. Hey, I know I've been out of the performing game for a while, and it's going to take a bit to get some things back on-line (note to self: start doing the Linklater progression again; you need to restore your vocal range). I haven't lost my stage presence--that's the one thing I've always had and always will, the natural charisma and rapport with the audience. You either have that or you don't, and if you don't, get the fuck out of the game. I've got my timing. What I don't have is the polish. THAT is going to take rehearsal. Argh. I really hate taking direction (surprise, surprise), Feedback I'm fine with, but direction... probably because almost every director I've worked with sucked.

Harsh, yeah, but truth. I've gotten incredible feedback from actors I've worked with over the years, both as a director and a coach, and the bottom line is that I've learned from negative example. Plus, I've got a natural eye for performance evaluation. I KNOW how to tweak. Which means I'm going to have to invest in a fucking video camera, tape everything and analyze it like a sports coach after a game.

Yeah, yeah, I know... I'm continuing with the stand-up. I have to to build up connections so that when I finally get to stage the one-woman, I have an audience and solid rep, as well as face-time with an audience.

Wow. I just tossed down a handful of Cheerios and chased it with iced coffee. Delish. Forgot how good plain Cheerios are. So few things I can actually eat these days, and not get ill or have side effects. Had the loveliest dinner last night--utterly fabulous roast pork (and I do NOT usually enjoy pork in any form unless it's bacon or a Niman Ranch ham steak), roast potatoes (yeah, I know, I'm SUCH a bogtrotter with my padaydahs), delicately seasoned green beans, and a caprese salad with summer tomatoes... blissful food, delicious food, the kind of proper Sunday dinner I haven't had in a dog's age... Let's just say, it was a good thing I was sleeping alone last night. If I could have bottled the side effects, I could have saved myself from at least one fill-up along the road today. I don't wish the gastric bypass undone--I wouldn't trade my life right now or my body for anything--but there are days...

Although, truth to tell, I've always had serious issues with food. I mean, so many things have always made me throw up. I really envy people who can eat anything. I wish I could. I wish I could eat fish and seafood--other people rave so much about it (and it's supposed to be so good for you, if you don't think about the mercury levels). I don't miss the junk food, the fried crap (I couldn't keep it down before surgery, although I still make the attempt at fried chicken... my inner Southerner insists upon it), even ice cream... no whooper, y'know? Pasta... pasta, I do miss, but that's the tomato sauce screaming at me. Alcohol... I can still have an occasional tequila, and I'm getting too old to get wasted. Too expensive in so many ways.

I just wish that healthy food (besides yogurt, cereal, coffee, apples, bananas, fruit in general, salad, and cheese) would stay down. (And please, no "talk to your surgeon" advice. I've done that, I've been given shitloads of advice, none of it works, and I'm healthy otherwise, so... I just have a semi-vegetarian diet. *shudder*) Especially as for the next two weeks, I'm in a place where regular meals happen. (And I will get to help with them. In a kitchen one can move around in. I love cooking...)

Lot of navel-gazing tonight. More thoughts on performing and mental illness tomorrow. Or later today. Plus, I still owe you guys the Celebricrush post.