Blog Shog: Black Dog Fading to Grey

A very quick update for those of you traipsing along in the wake of my Black Dog posts...

The experiment with the meds seems to be working. Cutting back the Effexor dosage has definitely made a difference, and I'm feeling more like myself.

I don't know if I'm fully out of the woods, but I would be over the fucking moon if this was just a case of nine months of too much medication. Sadly, not unheard of, especially with psychopharmaceuticals.

Be safe out there and have an awesome weekend. To quote Jake Blues, "EVERYBODY GET RIPPED!"

Shooting the Black Dog, Part 7: Mother's Little Helper

Well, I may have jumped the gun on the bipolar issue, and I gave myself the clue I may have needed to solve the problem.

I commented earlier in one of the Black Dog posts about medication--the fear of the loss of efficacy of the meds because it has happened before. You want hell... being at war with your own mind and every thing that you try to fix it stops working after a while... it's why the idea of needing the Xanax more has had me freaking. What had me even more upset was the idea that the Effexor's efficacy may be earing off. I've been on Effexor XR since 2003--it's been the best fucking drug I have ever taken for this mess that is my brain.

Well, I had a little brainstorm the other day. My doctor upped my dosage last February after the suicide attempt, from 150 mg to 225 mg., and lucky me, they didn't make a caplet that size, just a horse pill. So, after a bit of an argy-bargy with the doctor, I got him to prescribe three capsules per day to make up the dosage. (Didn't help that the fucking 226 mg horse pills, even though generic, weren't covered by my worthless health plan, so instead of $10/month for the generic 75 mg or 150 mg capsules, it would have been $45. I shit you not. May not sound like a lot of money, but when you add in the money for the inhaler, the Singular, the levoxyl, the other inhalers... the supplements that are no longer covered by the fucking tax-free account... Yeah, the meds cost keep climbing.)

One of the things that can happen with broken switches in the head, because they are chemically activated, is that too much medication is as dangerous as too little. I have gone through this before, usually with the thyroid.

Yeah, the thyroid. That which has fucked up SO MUCH. *slams head on the desk*

So, if the thyroid--which has dicked things around so badly before--has stabilized, perhaps, just perhaps, thought my thinking brain, perhaps it's the OTHER head med that's off now. *BING* Lightbulb appears over the redhead. And because of the way my med is being administered, I can do this without involving the doctor to see if the hypothesis is correct. (And go back to the higher dosage if the lower causes problems.)

And the other part of this is that I may have to vary the dosage at different times of the month. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am the living chemistry experiment, and with the exception of the occasional indulgence of marijuana, all of it legal.

Sad. But better than another attempt to check out. I came too close to success last time, and succeeding would mean failing at world domination, and that would utterly fuck things up. ;-)

It's not even that I fear Death; I met him once, back in '95, while I was dealing with the aftermath of the miscarriage. The ex was being his completely utter dickhead of a self, I was going through hell, housesitting for a friend (which was what kept me from checking out--the thought that she'd have to come home to a corpse. Just a complete violation of hospitality, and when having to chose between relieving extreme soul pain by violating the most ancient of courtesies and honoring hospitality, well, I just had to take the course of honor. Because I'm funny that way). Anyway, the episode got so bad, I started hallucinating. Or perhaps I was seeing what was really there, who knows? I know enough about the subconscious and filters and the human need to deny reality to believe that anything that can unhinge the modern mind is screened out, which would make the mad people really the sane people because they had a real grasp of what was there, but then... that's crazy talk. ;-)

ANYWAY... at the lowest moment, when I was right on the edge, Death was there in the doorway, waiting like a lover, arms open, a figure of light, and I knew that if I stepped into his embrace, there would be no more pain. It would all be over--the pain would finally end. And this was the only lover I could ever trust 150% not to hurt me. All I had to do was surrender.

I am not good at surrender. You may have figured that out about me. While I do have a submissive side, I am definitely on the equal footing/dominant side of the sexual spectrum. I wanted to cross the room--I wanted the release he was offering. But I also knew the price of surrender. I have never, ever been so perfectly poised in balance between life and death as I was at that moment. Of course, I chose to fight on. Because I'm like that--I never take the easy way.

I can't say I regret the choice; there will come a day when he returns, and it will be my time to surrender, and I hope I'm at the age where it's been so long since I've had it, I welcome the attention of a young man. ;-)

(Yes, I find my own drama highly amusing. I have to. If I didn't, I'D BE DEAD. So laugh along with me, will ya?)

But I digress...

Since the gastric bypass, I am not supposed to take large tablets because my stomach tissue is a bit delicate: the bottom part, where all the acid lives (the stuff that breaks down everything), is cut off, so it's harder to digest things. It's why reputable gastric bypass programs require you to go to a nutritionist and attend support group meetings--so you learn the proper way to eat after surgery so you can stick to the program and actually have some weight loss success, not just in the short term, but so you can keep the blubber off.

Of course, with my elevated stress level over the past few months, things have fallen by the wayside. Like it or lump it, I'm going to have to cut back my coffee intake. (My internal four-year-old is on the floor, throwing a massive tantrum at the moment, kicking and screaming, and insisting this will not happen. I will spank the little bastard and knock 'im into line. Because it's my INNER four-year-old. :-) I'm also going to have to get back on an eating schedule--I've skipped breakfast too much of late, completely gotten off my Greek yogurt kick, and we won't talk about all the missed supplements.

Argh.

And the insomnia. And the headaches. And the mood swings.

Argh.

And it's winter time, so all I am craving is comfort food. Luckily, my idea of comfort food is stuff that I've worked pretty hard to adapt to healthier versions, and I happen to be an amazing fucking cook, if I do say so myself. (Can I just say how flattered I was when one of my baristas, when I was talking about holiday baking, raved about the Guinness mac 'n' cheese--an experiment, the very first attempt. You know you're good when... ;-) *sigh* So it's time to put up a bit pot of beef stew and Guinness mac & cheese (with three cheeses & Greek yogurt mixed in, and don't forget the grilled chicken... now I'm hungry, dammit).

So, my game plan... because I am not going to let the Black Dog win...
1. Cutting back the Effexor dosage to 150 mg a day & taking it ON SCHEDULE.
2. Remembering my multi-vitamin. ON SCHEDULE.
3. Eating a PROPER breakfast. BEFORE 11:00 a.m.
4. Ass BACK in the gym.

Four easily achievable things, the combination of which should get me down to a size 20 by April and a smaller bra band. Provided I can get my brain to function through the fog of anxiety and residual depression and stress. *slams head on the desk* So tired of being told how strong I am, and that if anyone can conquer this, it's me. I'd be good with Prince Charming rescuing me right now, even if it was just for a weekend and a long, hard shagging. Seriously. I'd never be comfortable with a permanent rescue--I really prefer standing on my own two feet, and don't trust anyone trying to solve my problems for me. Life doesn't work that way.

But I'd take a short-term rescue... a little pampering... possibly involving a hot tub, champagne (optional), lots of Lush bath bombs & massage bars, a king size bed and a lot of sex... Yeah, that would work.

*sigh* IF ONLY!

Although... going to the gym means exposure to... muscles. Muscles. On men. Oooooooooo... *swoon* *dreamy smile* Sweaty, hard working muscles... Lickable, kissable, delicious MUSCLES... OK... motivation acquired. Most women, offer 'em chocolate for motivation. Me? SCENERY. Loooooooove muscular arms... forearms and biceps. And thighs... *sigh* Rugby Boy... The thighs on that man... (we won't talk about his other parts and the great ink; there's a reason I kept the pics. And the vid!) *swoon* Yeah, I can forego carbs for the joy of muscles. And the chance of getting a nice set of 'em nekkid!

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.

Shooting the Black Dog, Part 5 - WHY WON'T THE BASTARD DIE?!?!

If you are someone like me who has dealt with some form of brain-chemistry based depressive/anxiety disorder for most of their life, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

You take the meds. You go to therapy. You watch yourself CONSTANTLY, you monitor, monitor, monitor... and sneaky bastard STILL manages to get in and dig up your garden. Or piss on your oriental carpet. Or hump the purebred next door. Whatever "naughty dog" metaphor you want to use, the bastard still sneaks back in and fucks up your life.

The dog metaphor is a good one, too, for this, especially for someone like me who has a love/hate relationship with the hairy, crotch-sniffing barking lunatics (the problem of using all-natural, yummy-smelling Lush products--I smell good not only to human males, but also to their canine counterparts). See, on the one hand, I hate dogs in general--y'know, the ones that never stop yapping, the stinky, needy ones, the ones that are so vicious they'll rip your arm off before you can put a bullet through their elephant-thick skull... Y'know, the Cujos and Big Fidos of the world. Because, on the other side of the canine coin, there are the Ebbies, Rock Stars, Rubies, and Sashas (I miss that dog; she was fucking brilliant and the best--nothing like a huskey you can share a coffee and banana bread with)--still a bit needy, still hairy, but really awesome to have around. Still need to be taken for walkies regularly and shit like there's no tomorrow, but still... an enhancement to life.

Bipolar is like that; ditto, PTSD. I was trying to explain this to a dear friend the other night, the friend who has been sort of avoiding my company because she's non-confrontational and I have been a manic pain in the arse of late--needy, moodswinging, stress bunny. There IS a positive side to both of these disorders, the one I was born with and the one inflicted upon me.

See, bipolar provides the manic performing part of me--the insane creative genius who can write 15,000 words in 48 hours while working full-time; throw herself up on a stage in front of a room full of strangers and riff for eleven minutes without batting an eye; emcee an event and have people laughing or weeping, depending upon what's called for; reach out to someone in pain and offer them solace, or at least some empathy.

The positive side of PTSD? Yep, there is one, but you have to let yourself be open to it. Here's the secret: the good stuff flashes back too.

Yeah, you read that right: the good stuff comes back, too. It's why I can feel so much joy in a moment: every other time I've felt that level of happiness triggers the pleasure center of my brain, the same way the bad stuff triggers the fear center. It's why sex is so utterly intense for me--I can have an orgasm that lasts, in little bursts, for hours. Happened the last time I was with someone--sitting on a rock on the beach, smoking up, and suddenly, I was trembling--call it an "aftershock." It's really fucking cool. It's also what powers some of my best writing--I can go to those places, walk the paths of cognitive and sense memory, and evoke the moment.

The problem is the crash afterwards. These chemicals, the brain chemicals involved in the pleasure part of all this, in cases of mania, don't have a shut-off valve, or the meter that triggers the shut-off switch attached to the valve is faulty. (I'm using mechanical terms because that's the only way I can understand how it works.) If I'm "normal," then I feel things pretty much like everyone else does, but a little more intense. Actually, "Riz Normal" is everyone else at +4 intensity. "Riz OK" is more like a +6--that's when I'm at my creative best; "Riz Not OK" +8--that's when I'm shouting and ready to throw things because my brain is moving too fast and everything is distorted--good, bad, indifferent, it's all aimed at me and Out To Get ME; "Riz-Find-a-Fall-Out-Shelter" is +11--that's when I'm on the edge of checking out.

Last weekend I was definitely +8 to 10. I had an hour or three of +11 (yes, that IS a bad Spinal Tap joke there). When a confrontation-hating friend comes out and tells me that I've been manic and then two other confrontation-hating friends confirm it... *sigh* It means it's back.

Bipolar is like that. It's such a vicious bitch of a disorder--it CAN come and go, depending on the state of your body, and because it can't be officially diagnosed/pinpointed, because there's no blood test and there are a myriad of factors--biological as well as environmental--PLUS there are other disorders and diseases that can MIMIC it...

Shit, I wish I was joking. At first, I thought it was thyroid, but my thyroid has (allegedly) stabilized. I still want it retested (yes, I will allow them to stick a needle in me again in less than two months, *shudder*), partly because I am stupid and have hope, partly because I know how sneaky my thyroid can be. Stress is factoring in--I have never, EVER been as stressed out as I am at the moment, not even during the horrible high school years, not even while I was married. Then, I had a partner in madness and was too young, stupid and thick to get what was going on. I was loved and had hope, even though I knew he was going to kill me. Stupid, but true.

I feel so pulled apart right now--remember those stupid Stretch Armstrong dolls? I feel like one of those with four people pulling on my limbs in different directions--gotta finish the rewrite, gotta finish the first draft, gotta make stuff for etsy, gotta clean out the house, gotta help Ma, gotta read this, gotta get the job done, gotta get the SRAC stuff done, gotta gotta gotta gotta gotta...

*INSERT LOUD SCREAM HERE*

And honestly, all I want to do right now is go home and curl up with Piddy (whose vet informed me has kidney disease; luckily, just the very, very beginnings, so she may see 20 yet in good health), listen to her purr against my heart and fall asleep in the warm dark under the blankets. I don't even want to watch movies or read or *gasp* watch Alcoholocaust again. I know, I know, don't die of shock. My celebricrushing has not waned, I'm just that fucking worn out that even Jim couldn't rouse more than a giggle and a nipple to half mast right now. Shit, I'm so emotionally exhausted I don't if the real thing, naked, horny and waiting in the bed could get more than a wan grin and a "let's just cuddle zzzzzzzzzzz" right now. I'd even turn down the real life Hal Randall.*

The problem is, when I get home, it will be, "AREN'T YOU GOING TO DROP OFF MY LAUNDRY?!?! I NEED CLEAN CLOTHES!!!!" And then, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" And the Idiot will find a reason to come slamming around downstairs, knocking shit over and swearing at me (or near me--he doesn't dare swear directly at me). Before that, however, I have to get some coffee and get to my writing group. And sometime around 1:00 a.m. , Potential Paramour will send an IM to my phone looking for IM sex, despite the fact he hasn't gotten any of that from me since September. (Evidently, I give awesome IM sex. Who knew that was a talent? Although, considering a male friend's reaction to the sex scene I wrote yesterday... a pity the porn industry has changed so radically. There was a time when you could make money from writing great porn. Damn you, interwebs! Although I shouldn't complain--I like a free, hot wank as much as the next person. More, probably.)

*slams head on the desk* And I wonder why I'm depressed.

And there goes my memory again. Another one of the factors involved that could either be a trigger or a masquerading symptom: I'm pretty well convinced I'm working in a sick building. Four sinus infections in ten months, plus the return of my migraines (and now no longer limited to PMS, but happening all month long)... PLUS the building is full of asbestos (abatement's been here every time there's had to be any construction), an office down the hall keeps flooding, the ductwork is disgustingly filthy, and we won't discuss the strange smells that keep arising. That, and the stress involved in this job at the moment... yeah. Suddenly, being a phone sex operator doesn't sound so awful.

Waiter, may I have a new life, please? This isn't the one I ordered.

Fuck it, I'm getting coffee and going home. I need sleep and a heating pad on my back.

No, I'm not. I'm going to writing group and suffer like everyone else.

G'night, kids. Be kind to each other.
Love,
Your Manic Exhausted Empress

*Rebecca's boyfriend in the Kinsale Chronicles. He's modeled on an ex.

At Least I've Been Forgiven

Piddy is purring on the floor, nomming turkey & purring.

I am FUCKING exhausted & would rather be exhausted from fucking. 7k words managed for NaNoWriMo with 27 hours left. Yay, let's hear it for being totally manic!  And, after convos with 4 members of my cabal who all have told me that I have been EXCEEDINGLY manic over the past 6 months, I have to man up & go back to the doctor because either my thyroid is utterly fucked, or the removal of the bipolar diagnosis was premature.

*sigh* Merde.

Of course, it could be stress. And lack of sleep. And stress. And lack of sex.

Or i could actually be bipolar.

Waiter, this is NOT the life I ordered.

We will not discuss the parental sitch. Or that Potential Paramour has suddenly decided that we MUST meet. Amazing... I get bored, he gets interested. *slams head on the desk* Will someone explain this to me? Because it makes no sense.

I need a joint, a drink, a hot & hung babe with a perpetual erection, & a vacation.

In lieu of that, I am getting some shut eye.

G'night, Gracie.

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.