I’d like to submit the following evidence, from least-rad to most-rad:

1) I’ve been sick all week and the Bear has played patiently and quietly by herself whenever I’ve needed to lay down. Most days, she’s let me sleep in until 8:30, only coming in to check on me or let me know if she couldn’t wait for breakfast anymore. Awesome.

2) Today I had to go buy some undergarments because mine are some 7 years old (what? Victoria’s Secret makes durable bras!) and are hanging off of me at this point. Every time I tried on a new one and turned around to look in the mirror, the Bear would exclaim, “You look like a MODEL!” and “What?! How you’s a model aGAIN?!” Excellent.

3) On the way to “The bra store”, she wanted to hear Iggy Pop’s “The Passenger” on repeat so she could sing along. Amazing.

4) On the way home from “The bra store” she wanted to hear Focus’s “Hocus Pocus” on repeat so she could sing along. F*#king rad.

…and I am happy to use these small examples to rub noses in the fact that I knew my kid was blessed and special the whole time I was carrying her “in spite of God’s Will”. (I’m not bitter; just joyfully vindicated.)

(Actually, I hate it when people finish a statement with, “I’m just putting that out there.” Obviously you’re putting that out there; that’s why you said it. Just like when people say/write “I feel the need to express/say/state.” Yes. That’s obvious. Just say it.)

Two things:

1) Since publicly posting that image of myself at a smaller size, I’ve received a number of random-as-hell-and-unexpected emails from male figures from my obscure, platonic past (thanks, Facebook!) that’ve basically been “Ohbtw! I’ve totally always thought you were hot, but now you really areOMG!” in theme. Now, while I do appreciate the sudden, unsolicited compliments, I’m having trouble taking them seriously from these sources because come OOONNN, dude.

Really. You’ve aaalways thought I was hot, huh? How strange, then, that you’d wait until I dropped a crapload of weight some 5-10 years after meeting me to inform me. Was my weight inversely proportionate to your courage in sending me a simple compliment all this time? And what if I’d never lost the weight; would you have just never shared this information with me? (Any way you choose to answer these will be lame. There’s no need to risk it.) Also, no; I’m not going to start thinking of you sexually, no matter how many times you mention that my “husband is a lucky guy…” (I do, incidentally, get what that means… because it’s transparent.) The only real validation of my new body that I’d seek is with him, actually, and that’s not going to be tough because he loved me when I was pregnant, leaky, and 95 lbs. heavier than this…

…which leads me to my Real Point Here: The compliments of those guys/girls who thought I was attractive before a few months ago are all suddenly validated in light of these new flagrantly-hormone-driven perspectives that’re coming in. If you’re reading and you ever bothered to try to hand me a compliment about my looks (usually for me to cower away from) allow me to sincerely thank you now. And apologize for letting my weird self-esteem cloud your opinion. (I get it. I’m a little slow on the uptake.)

2) This is mostly addressed to the Universe (assuming the Universe checks in with the blogosphere.) but I’ve been aching for inspiration recently. I haven’t written anything in a while and that’s weird for me. No short stories, no personal essays… Hell, even my blog entries have been short, stunted, uninspired and really just relaying-of-information instead of exploratory and exciting [to me] like they’ve been in the past. I hate it. I miss writing and the feeling that I HAD to write. It’s been months and months of dry nothingness and I can’t stand it. I can’t even try to wring emotion out of prompts these days and I don’t get it; I’ve never had a problem just freewriting until something of substance (even if it was tiny and relatively temporary or only significant to myself) came out of me but recently… nothing. I’ve sat down and tried to pummel substance out of words at least a dozen times in the last couple months and I’ll get three pages in and realize I’m rambling about nothing and I’m just forcing verbiage because of this habitual drive and my restless fingers. It feels wrong not to write; I feel like I’ve just been living in stagnation because I’m not writing. Even when I’ve sat down with a clear objective/subject in mind, it all just sort of fizzles before a form or concept can congeal… even in bloody rough draft form.

And I’ve been reading and changing up my reading selections to keep my mind active (I went from Michael Pollan to Hilary Winston to Deepak Chopra to Harlan Ellison, all in the last 4 months) and loose and open to new strains of mental activity but still… nothing.

I don’t want to say something obnoxious like comparing this to torture, but I’ve found myself at 2 a.m wandering the house/internet looking for inspiration. The energy to stay awake till all hours and create is still there, but the muse isn’t and it’s a bizarre sensation, like breathing but not retaining any oxygen. Instead, however, it’s me wanting desperately to write, but sitting on MentalFloss.com until the sun comes up. (That’s a true story that happens about twice a week.)

Hell, I don’t even care if I’m writing anything worthy of publication at this point - just something that I can complete would be nice. I’m past self-criticism or fear-of-not-living-up-to-expectation; I just want to put the pen to paper and have something come out of it that isn’t a grocery list.

So, Universe, I’d really love it if some inspiration fell into my lap. Just putting that out there.

Hi, s’me again,

Look, you remember that agreement we made where you can let my mental illness run rampant for a few weeks every spring and I get to make the joke about being the only person on the planet with SAD in the spring? Enkay, we already did that. So the fact that I feel worse than death right now is not cool with me. Especially because it is literally the best time of year for me.

I’m seeing double all the time. I’m too unstable to walk down hallways without crashing into the walls. My brain won’t stick to any task, no matter how insignificant. Hell, it’s taken me ten minutes to write this much because my head won’t brain today. (That was a joke, God.) I can’t talk unless it’s in a slow pant like that anorexic girl in “Drop Dead Gorgeous”. I could barely drive my kid to school today and have had to call my husband in for reinforcements. I’ve been trying to read but, again, double vision. And, worst of all, I’ve been involuntarily acting on impulses I gave up a long long time ago. THIS ISN’T COOL WITH ME.

I’m exhausted just from writing this and am going to have to rest… again. Fix this. Please.

L P-S

Look, I’ll be the first one to shamelessly tell you that Facebook has been great for me. Aside from allowing me to keep up with my close friends on a weekly basis (something that never manifested through emails for some reason), I’ve found old acquaintances from my past turning into actual friends through our shared ideas and discussions, I’ve sought out people from my very very distant past to find that many old friends have grown up to be incredibly kickass adults, I’ve had the opportunity to make amends with certain people and close doors on long-outdated conflicts and misunderstandings, and I’ve even treated myself to petty validation by laughing at the fat drunken messes many of my adolescent antagonists have become and then gleefully plastering my public photo albums with evidence at how awesomely my life has turned out - even without comparison - just to add to my own sense of vindicated contentment! (Hey, I’ve never claimed to be classy, folks.) When I was at home all day every day for the first year the Bear was alive (IMMEDIATELY after having a totally full social calendar in the years prior), Facebook helped me feel connected with the outside world and, if nothing else, to my thinking, observational, wonderfully joyful friends.

So yeah. I’m a fan. I’m glad it’s here.

However, the worst part about Facebook isn’t getting friend requests from people you may have no more than breathed in the general direction of during your time attending the same educational facility, nor is it having to “block” creepsters you may have drunkenly had interactions with at some point. It’s not even having to block every Farmville-esque invitation that gets sent your way.

No, the worst part about Facebook is finding old friends with whom you once had a very special bond, elatedly catching up with the other, and then immediately realizing that these humans beings have turned into caricatures of everything you hate about America as it is right now. And, sure, caricatures of certain demographics are eeeverywhere, but these were people you knew and loved and would never in a million years be able to predict the insufferable stereotypes they’ve somehow morphed into since the last time you spoke. YES and FINE; we’re all stereotypes to some degree. Agreed. However, when someone you knew at one point resurfaces as a completeandutter polar opposite of who she/he used to be, it’s disconcerting. And, sure, I’ll play along; I’ve had this happen where someone I knew lived the lifestyle of a married straight man for decades until his wife died and then he came ah-runnin’ on out of the closet, to the shock of many of us. But, even in that case, those of us who knew him were able to look back in retrospect and see where it all sort of made sense all along. With some of the “friends” I’ve reacquainted myself with via Facebook, the changes are so drastically unexpected and completely contradictory to everything they originated from and were instilled with that was good and cool about them that I’ve started wondering if they were lobotomized.

And, naturally, this sort of dynamic changes everything about this resurrected “friendship”; conversations become awkward because of your inability to relate, you tend to cringe at most of what the other promotes in his/her daily lifestyle, etc. The thing is that, if this was ten years ago, you’d run into each other at a high school reunion, realize how much the other person sucks now and just don’t bother to see them again until whenever you choose to reunite. However, because of the advent of Facebook, you get to see and hear from that person all the time now (which is the exact thing you’re excited about doing with the rest of your friends) and it’s like your friendship is sorta “back on” in a sense and, you know, because you were actually really dear friends at one point (and because you were raised with manners) you don’t wanna just come out and say something lame like, “Hey, um, you’ve grown into the most obnoxious version of my least favorite type of person and I just don’t think we have anything in common anymore, so I’m officially removing the ‘friend’ label here because Facebook has us running our social interactions with literal labels and official relationship statuses… Heh. So, anyway, take care of yourself!” because that’s just lame and, dammit, grownups should be able to cut off people they don’t like without any sort of discourse, but now there’s all this etiquette and complications in subtleties because of this one stupid website and it blows. ::inhales:: (I tend to get run-on sentency when I’m frustrated.)

So when are we allowed to kick old-and-dear-but-expired friends to the e-curb without it causing any hurt feelings or other such juvenile drama? Or is the whole “juvenile drama” thing the one stipulation to which we must all adhere as members of Facebook? And, if that’s the case, am I willing to walk away and to strip myself back down to sharing photos solely through emails and getting news updates from HuffPost?

Speaks for itself, really.

So, I made a few hundred stickers I’ve been slapping on things I deemed required attention. I sent a few to John Waters, I handed out a few to friends and I’ve started getting requests for them in bulk. Actually, a LOT of requests for them in bulk. So, I thought I’d make it easy on everyone and just get a PayPal button like a normal person would in this situation, so I’m not all “Well, gimme twenty bucks now and then I’ll ship it to you when the order comes in in a few weeks” like I have with friends.

So this is it. Right here. This post is the official “This is Ugly” sticker store. For now.

This is Ugly Sticker Packages

1 Sticker $1.00 12 Stickers $10.00 30 Stickers $25.00 50 Stickers $35.00

Today, the Bear accompanied me to a consultation with my OB/GYN, followed by brunch at Whole Foods (she had pancakes, bacon and a biscuit; I had sushi), and an hour trying out everything at the BeneFit counter at ULTA before dancing in the aisles while wearing hilariously oversized hair accessories.

During none of this was there any complaining, any need for a changed diaper, any miserable tantrums or outrageous demands. In fact, there was nothing but giggling and genuinely hilarious insights on her part and, when we got home, we were both ready for a nap.

It was perfect.

I feel like I’ve finally gotten to that part in parenting when she’s not just a cute blob who is completely dependent on me for everything and, thus, has become her own little person. She’s at an age where she hasn’t been influenced by the stupidity and meanness of other kids and she’s still young enough to think that I’m cool and wants to hang out with me all the time. (She also really likes Jimi Hendrix and the Black Keys, although she’s not that into 90’s grunge/alt. Ah well. Gotta start somewhere.) Although we definitely have tantrums when she’s just exhausted and her incessant curiosity has lead to an ongoing refrain of “Why?”s, she’s become far far more wonderful to hang out with on a daily basis than I ever thought a kid could be.

I know, that’s pretty domestic-housewife gross of me and, truthfully, I can’t even believe I’m admitting that out loud/in print, but her simplicity is therapeutic and her genuine curiosity for the mechanisms of society is refreshing and lends itself to pondering my own personal definitions of reality. And her joy - oh, it’s just infectious and addictive. It takes me out of whatever “problem”-that-isn’t-really-a-problem-but-is-just-a-stressor-of-adulthood-and-doesn’t-really-matter and demands that I return to the present, where there is dancing and hours of dress-up to be had. The gigantic hugs for no reason, the random comments about our day-to-day habits, the desire to be around me and cuddle as a means to cure whatever is ailing me… it’s impossible to feel alone anymore.

Which is a huge step from these last 3 years when, even though she’s been developing into her own person, I’ve still been exhausting myself with changing diapers and feeling alone during the day to the fickle demands of someone I barely relate to and like a faceless servant the rest of the time. Somewhere in there, there’s been a shift and now I have a friend who gets me out of bed and demands that I enjoy my life as it is immediately before me. She pushes me to researching where we can go ride horses and pick strawberries and she wants to help with any project I take on, from painting walls to “growing flowers” to folding laundry. She’s the sidekick I never anticipated and I want to freeze her at this age forever.

Tomorrow we’re going fishing and taking a canoe out on a lake close-by. And, no offense to the friends I have around here, but I’m looking forward to it being another day with just the two of us without any sort of adult/societal crap to get hung up on. It is, incidentally, more of Exactly What I Need.

For Allison, who listened to me cry and whine about being an insecure psychopath until 4:30 this morning and thought these were hilarious.

Sometimes when you’re having a low point, unoriginal people try to help by saying colloquial idioms or sayings. Here’s what to say when people say such dumb things, which will, in turn, allow you to giggle about how stupid the whole thing is and, thus, cure your terrible mood.

You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.
Ah, yes you can. After you eat it, you have it in your tummy, which is way better than just having it on a plate because, after a while, it just turns into a moldloaf and then you can’t eat it OR have it because it’ll make you sick. So you should eat the damned cake. Always.

It’s always darkest before the dawn
What kind of messed up science class did you go to? It’s darkest when the sun is on the other side of the planet.

Remember, rainbows only come after the rain.
Uh, not if you have a sprinkler system.

Only when it is darkest can you see the stars
Unless it’s overcast. Then it’d REALLY be at it’s darkest.

When God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window
Why? He’s God; wouldn’t he have central air? And how do you know his personal climate preferences? And if he wanted natural air, wouldn’t he have just left the door open to begin with?

Actions speak louder than words
Unless the words are “I’m pregnant.”

You’d only eat an elephant one bite at a time.
False. I do not eat elephant.

Curiosity killed the cat.
It also gave us literally every invention and progressive revolution in the history of man. So fuck the cat.

You drink like a fish
Fish don’t drink. They breathe water. The latter is called “drowning” when people do it.

Every cloud has a silver lining
No. No they don’t. They just have thinned-out water particles.

Excuse my French
I don’t have a problem with the French, but “fuck” is English.

Looks like someone got up on the wrong side of the bed
Oh, I’m not OCD, so I don’t designate correct sides from which to dismount a mattress.
OR
Well, some guy was sleeping on the other side, so…

She’s like the town bicycle; everybody gets a ride
Holy crap! We have a town bicycle?!

Great minds think alike
Actually, everyone we consider to be “great” was given that title for being unique.
(This one time? We were being pestered by an obnoxious sales girl who said that to Allison? And Allison goes, “And sometimes we do, too.” Heh.)

Idle hands are the Devil’s tools
So are well-organized hands of cult members.

Rome wasn’t built in a day.
That is correct. Thank you for such pertinent and valuable information. Tell me - how long did it take to build Rome?

Third time’s a charm!
Except for Thomas Edison. And that Hershey’s guy. And Heinz. And Lincoln…

A penny saved is a penny earned.
No. No it’s not. It’s just saved. That’s basic economics.

She really wears the pants in this family.
Wow. What a dyke. I mean, what kind of woman wears pants these days?

That’ll go over like a lead balloon.
Who the fuck would make a balloon out of lead?!

It’ll be like taking candy from a baby.
So, a total dick move, then?

More to come…

I am repelling people and I don’t know how to fix it. I know the motivations for some of the people who have left recently (although I hardly think their [over]reactions are justified/warranted, given how clear my communications and attempts to remedy the problem have been) and I know that me being a basket case for the last little while has caused some people to feel that I’m being negligent… But some people I care about are disengaging and I don’t know why.

And it really, really hurts.

Look, I know I have more close friends than any one person should. I know I’ve been blessed with copious love and compassion. But I like feeling closeness with others and sharing the sentiments of kindred spirits. I hate when that is taken away without explanation.

And now I am feeling rattled and vulnerable, which is hardly the position I wanted since I finally feel like I’m back on my feet again. Finally. I’m finally not sitting around in “victim” role, which is such a light, liberating feeling.

Dammit.

WARNING: THIS IS MORE ABOUT MENTAL ILLNESS AND ITS INHERENT FUCKWITHERY. IT IS ALSO ME WHINING. NEITHER OF THESE THINGS ARE NOVEL EXCEPT THIS ENTRY PERTAINS TO PHYSICAL REACTIONS TO THE FORMER.

Last Thursday, I wrote a poem on a little slip of paper beside my bed. It went like this:
——————
Today
I lay
In bed
All day

And twitched
And twitched
And twitched.
—————–
Now, if written as the first two lines of a stanza, it’s very Emily Dickinsononian, so, um, I guess I could be proud of that? But what I think is the most appreciate-able of this personal achievement in literature is that it was literally the only thing I was capable of doing outside of the bare essentials from that day until yesterday, capping up a week of slow mental deterioration. (Chloe and I had “Pajama Day” a few days last week… she’ll only think it’s weird when she’s in therapy in a couple decades and realizes what it actually was) Thanks to New Drug #4thirty’leb’m, I’ve just endured the single most physically excruciating week of my entire life… And, thus, feel the need to publicly share it, if only for those other people out there who have told me that when I write about the lifestyles of the mentally ill, they appreciate the candor and the relate-ability. Also, I really felt I should document it for myself for future reference.

So lemme get you up to speed as though you’d never read anything I’d written about my breed of The Crazy before: I have chronic (until we find a cure) depression; it tends to kick up in the spring for inexplicable reasons; I have it under control for the most part otherwise. Well, this year during my annual Bout o’ The Crazy, New Doctor #7 (because I’ve moved in the last year) decided to start tinkering with my meds, which has lead to at least two extra months of BAAHHHHSTOPITCRAZY with the added bonus of my very first mania! WOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

Aaaanyway, after “Well, let’s try you out on _____ for a couple weeks…’see how you do, umkay?” for four solid months now, I told my doctor to suck it; I’m stripping myself back down to the minimum, (which is the dosage at which I’ve been happily sane for 85% of the time for the last couple years) and I’m not screwing my brain up with any more of his chemical experiments that I’ve told him since their beginnings wouldn’t help anything in the long run. And I told him that if he was going to buck me on that, I’m looking into taking my humble dimes elsewhere anyway.

And this is why.

In the last week-and-change, due to 2.5 mg/daily of the drug Abilify (oh yeah, we’re calling it out by name. After the Vyvanse debacle of 2009, I’m calling anyone out where needed… for um… legal reasons? Igotnothingmumblemumble…), I’ve experienced the following:

~ Insomnia like whoa
~ Lethargy like whoa
~ Aching, gnashing pain in my limbs like fucking WHOA.
~ More-vivid-than-when-I-was-pregnant dreams including the most fucking horrifying nightmares imaginable (no, seriously. These made Kubrick look like PBS.) on the one night I opted out of the drug.
~ The complete inability to find a comfortable position.
~ The complete inability to remain in stasis.
~ 95% of the inability to move without inexplicable, aching, throbbing pain.
~ Increased heartrate.
~ Increased body heat (NOT fun for my husband, who isn’t a fan of keeping the house as chilly as I’d like.)
~ Bloating/Gas/Indigestion. Like whoa.
~ Seeing shit out of the corners of my eyes. (I’d say “hallucinations”, but saying “seeing shit” makes me sound more human and more lucid in that I have the wherewithall to be legitimately freaked out, right? It’s an affectation I’m trying on.)
~ Hearing things; either my brain completely misinterpreting a sound or fabricating sounds entirely… like children playing or bells chiming…
~ Exhaustion along with shaky fidgets.
~ Inability to focus (This entry has taken me three days to write. Not kidding. I’ve edited a lot.)

So, yeah, my last week sucked. I was awake more than any person should be for more than 3 days, I was both unable to sit or lie still and, yet, I was exhausted and in pain every time I moved, and I was legitimately out of my mind outside of the two former factors, so all of it was a cocktail of HOLYCRAPBAD. And I say that it was “the most physically excruciating week of my life” without any intention of hyperbole; at least in the aftermath of my C-section, I was able to sleep and take some pain killers and, in weeks when my body has been exerted and put through the ringer (high school volleyball training weeks/camp, expeditions with collegiate Outdoor Adventures group, etc.) I was able to rest for at least 6 hours a day or site where the pain was, specifically, and nurse it back to health with massage/warm showers/whatever was needed. This last week, my body has ached in ways that aren’t expressible and weren’t cured by the prescription-doses of ibuprofen I kept slamming.

And then, when I stopped taking the drugs because I couldn’t stand the side effects anymore (last Thursday), I had to deal with equally uncomfortable withdrawal symptoms. YEAAAAAAYY!!

I just hated it. And I hated that I hated it. And I hated that I was STILL dealing with psychiatric bullshit 2 months later than I usually do every year. And I hated what it was obviously doing to my family. And I hated that, no matter how much time and therapy I’ve gone through with this mental shit, I was still running into the same crippling physiological horseshit I’ve been dealing with for for-fucking-ever. ::sigh:: But we’ve talked about this before, right? I feel like this is just another redundant entry in the Captain’s Log of my Crazy.

Anyway, after four [expletive unrecognizable in human linguistic patterns and, thus, deleted] months of mood roulette (the ball landing on “Crazy/Bad” more often than not), I woke up yesterday with a feeling of serenity and stable optimism that didn’t quit before I went to bed later that night and, in fact, has continued right up until this very moment. And, I don’t want to get ahead of myself and/or say anything too soon, but it would really really be wonderful if this was The End of the 2011 Psychotics Episode for me. Seriously, I’m ready to turn that corner now and, frankly? I think after this last week I’ve had, it’s owed to me by the Universe at this point. I don’t usually make those sorts of cocky declarations, but I’d kind of reached a breaking point, to be honest, and wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be willing to tolerate writhing around in agony without immediate, intensive medical attention (which, after two experiences with this type of “help”, I’m none too hasty about requesting ever again.) So I’m glad to see the tides turn, even if it’s with such late arrival.

::exhales:: I’ll be turning the “Fasten Seatbelts” signs off momentarily. It feels good to be back at cruising altitudes… and to be of the state of mind that I can get away with terribly overwrought analogies referring to my mental state.

:::exhales again:::

Everybody, I’m fine. Okay, I know that last entry didn’t boast much confidence in the mental department, but I’ve been doing this chiz for a long time; I’ve got a doctor on-call with whom I’m making use and a family support unit that’s unbelievably (maybe naively) tolerant and patient. I’m getting the help I need and, on a personal basis, I’m maintaining from day-to-day (Read: I’ve bathed recently. And responded to emails. And kept the Bear fed/clothed/entertained.) I’m just tired and feel like whining on a blog when things throw themselves in reverse. Nothing a handful of Klonopin and a nap can’t solve…
… I’m kidding.

But, seriously. I appreciate the concern… a lot, actually. i just know it has to be taxing to read the same shit over and over and wonder if I’m actually doing anything to get the funk out. I am. One day at a time. Just, recently, the days have been a bit blurry and scary. But they’ll pass. They always do.

Much much love and light to you, who have bothered to read all this and still respect me anyway. Sincerely.