02 April 2010
8-year-old logic = infallible
So, last night Leif rode to Walmart with me to pick up a few things, and he'd gotten a "How to Train Your Dragon" book from the checkout "BUY ME NOW" section, and was all about it. On the way home we stopped by McD's to get an ice cream cone. We got back to the car after being in McD's for all of about seven minutes and I had to unlock his door (I didn't lock mine). He said, "I didn't want anyone to steal my book." I replied, "Oh, the one dollar book? Not the gps or the camera equipment? Just your book?" His response: "Well, it does have stickers."
26 March 2010
Ladybugs don't bring me luck, it seems.
Boy, am I in need of positive energies. It's been a rough week or six.
Hearing and seeing all of the arguments against health reform during the week in which I have to decide whether or not to enter the Hulk-child into a partial hospitalization program is frustrating.
A lot of conservative-types can't understand that I'm not for a "gubment" take-over of health care, which I think is a very simplified way of labeling what's going on, but that there is no other way for a major health care and insurance industry rewiring without the government stepping in. Medicine has become almost as much of a "big business" as the Insurance industry and it is hurting millions of people who are in need of help.
Luckily, Hulk-child was able to qualify for disability some time ago or he probably would've injured himself or someone else to the point of death by now.
The school has done damage that at this point may be impossible to repair. See, Hulk-child, like Dr. Banner, is very intelligent. The school has taught him that on days when he doesn't want to do his work, he can go "green," and they will have someone come pick him up. He's missed three days of school this week alone, and probably five others in the last three months, when someone's had to pick him up before 11, or he's been asked to stay out for a day.
Yesterday, while visiting the psych office on a regular visit (that just happened to fall on the day when he'd been asked to stay home from school and give the teachers a break), I literally had to keep Hulk-child in a restraint hold for about 30 minutes. Had I not, he would have been throwing chairs and breaking medical tables. When he finally calmed down, he was still so manic that he was running around dizzy, hitting whatever or whoever was in his way.
Hulk-child is taking some serious medication- the kind that slows me to a stop- and his ups and downs are rapid and extreme.
Everyone who deals with the Hulk-child on a daily basis loves him, but they're all also very tired. It's like he has a supply of Essence Drain cards that he can play with no mana (see MTG.)
Tanner Behavioral Health has a partial hospitalization program which will include having them pick him up from school, spend the afternoon with him in a therapeutic setting, then bring him back home at bed time. Mom kept him yesterday after the doctor visit, and she had a talk with him about how going into this program would mean spending very little time with his family and how it would mean not getting to play soccer anymore. But, we're at a point where he's not only a threat to hurting his teachers (which he's done many times), his caregivers (god, the number of bruises I've had!), and now his peers (which he normally doesn't bother, but he did throw some kicks this week), but also himself. When he "reacts," he almost always ends up banging his head against concrete floors or brick walls, and he almost always ends up throwing and breaking things. He IS Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde.
This morning, he woke up manic, even though he should have been overly tired from staying up too late last night. I asked him if he was going to have a better day at school, and he replied with, "N.O." and a thumbs down. I told him that he has no choice but to go to school, and kindergarten work is generally, not only easy, but fun and he just needs to make the most of it. I told him he would have to keep doing a good job at school if he wanted to grow up and be smart and be a Doctor like Dr. Miller (which he often says he'd like to do). I also told him that coming home every day is not an option- (a) I can't afford to quit my job to take care of him, and (b) I'm not equipped to teach him what he needs to learn- I might be semi-intelligent, but I am not a teacher! So, it was on the table that if I got a bad phone call today, I was going to have no choice but to take him to the hospital. He doesn't want that, but as I said in the beginning, the school has not been handling his situation in the best possible manner by sending him home.
As soon as I got to work, the phone rang. It was the school.
I'm out of personal days. I might have two more to use between now and August. Mom is keeping my niece, and it's pretty much out of the question for her to keep Hulk-child and Wee-one at the same time. It's not safe for Wee-one. My step-dad is going to pick him up since he gets off work early on Fridays. I didn't ask Colin to because I figure he would have a hard time handling it rationally; he gets very frustrated with the situation, which I completely understand (i.e., I'm medicated, and that's the only reason I have as small an amount of rationality about me as I do).
My supply of anxiety pills has grown dangerously small.
So, next week, Hulk-child gets to start a new therapy/psychiatric program. I'm not happy about it, and I'm sure as hell not telling his dad about it for the time being (another stress- dad will be coming back to town within a month) because he just doesn't understand and I honestly don't care about and don't want to hear his opinion on the matter. He has no clue what I've dealt with in the last five years, and the few times he's tried to talk to me about it, it's just made me very angry. Any parent with a bipolar child has heard the "Well, you're just not spanking him enough" line so many times their face turns red when someone says it.
This weekend is supposed to be beautiful. I'm going to get some yard work done (god willing), and have a weenie roast over a bonfire with some wonderful friends. Hulk-child may be at my mom's, depending on how things go from here, but his big brother is going to have some friends to play with and we're going to enjoy ourselves. Next week, big brother gets his video game privilledge back, and that'll make him happy.
Right now, I don't need advice or anything like that. Just some good vibes, or prayers if that's your thing. Thanks for letting me vent.
Xoxo
Hearing and seeing all of the arguments against health reform during the week in which I have to decide whether or not to enter the Hulk-child into a partial hospitalization program is frustrating.
A lot of conservative-types can't understand that I'm not for a "gubment" take-over of health care, which I think is a very simplified way of labeling what's going on, but that there is no other way for a major health care and insurance industry rewiring without the government stepping in. Medicine has become almost as much of a "big business" as the Insurance industry and it is hurting millions of people who are in need of help.
Luckily, Hulk-child was able to qualify for disability some time ago or he probably would've injured himself or someone else to the point of death by now.
The school has done damage that at this point may be impossible to repair. See, Hulk-child, like Dr. Banner, is very intelligent. The school has taught him that on days when he doesn't want to do his work, he can go "green," and they will have someone come pick him up. He's missed three days of school this week alone, and probably five others in the last three months, when someone's had to pick him up before 11, or he's been asked to stay out for a day.
Yesterday, while visiting the psych office on a regular visit (that just happened to fall on the day when he'd been asked to stay home from school and give the teachers a break), I literally had to keep Hulk-child in a restraint hold for about 30 minutes. Had I not, he would have been throwing chairs and breaking medical tables. When he finally calmed down, he was still so manic that he was running around dizzy, hitting whatever or whoever was in his way.
Hulk-child is taking some serious medication- the kind that slows me to a stop- and his ups and downs are rapid and extreme.
Everyone who deals with the Hulk-child on a daily basis loves him, but they're all also very tired. It's like he has a supply of Essence Drain cards that he can play with no mana (see MTG.)
Tanner Behavioral Health has a partial hospitalization program which will include having them pick him up from school, spend the afternoon with him in a therapeutic setting, then bring him back home at bed time. Mom kept him yesterday after the doctor visit, and she had a talk with him about how going into this program would mean spending very little time with his family and how it would mean not getting to play soccer anymore. But, we're at a point where he's not only a threat to hurting his teachers (which he's done many times), his caregivers (god, the number of bruises I've had!), and now his peers (which he normally doesn't bother, but he did throw some kicks this week), but also himself. When he "reacts," he almost always ends up banging his head against concrete floors or brick walls, and he almost always ends up throwing and breaking things. He IS Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde.
This morning, he woke up manic, even though he should have been overly tired from staying up too late last night. I asked him if he was going to have a better day at school, and he replied with, "N.O." and a thumbs down. I told him that he has no choice but to go to school, and kindergarten work is generally, not only easy, but fun and he just needs to make the most of it. I told him he would have to keep doing a good job at school if he wanted to grow up and be smart and be a Doctor like Dr. Miller (which he often says he'd like to do). I also told him that coming home every day is not an option- (a) I can't afford to quit my job to take care of him, and (b) I'm not equipped to teach him what he needs to learn- I might be semi-intelligent, but I am not a teacher! So, it was on the table that if I got a bad phone call today, I was going to have no choice but to take him to the hospital. He doesn't want that, but as I said in the beginning, the school has not been handling his situation in the best possible manner by sending him home.
As soon as I got to work, the phone rang. It was the school.
I'm out of personal days. I might have two more to use between now and August. Mom is keeping my niece, and it's pretty much out of the question for her to keep Hulk-child and Wee-one at the same time. It's not safe for Wee-one. My step-dad is going to pick him up since he gets off work early on Fridays. I didn't ask Colin to because I figure he would have a hard time handling it rationally; he gets very frustrated with the situation, which I completely understand (i.e., I'm medicated, and that's the only reason I have as small an amount of rationality about me as I do).
My supply of anxiety pills has grown dangerously small.
So, next week, Hulk-child gets to start a new therapy/psychiatric program. I'm not happy about it, and I'm sure as hell not telling his dad about it for the time being (another stress- dad will be coming back to town within a month) because he just doesn't understand and I honestly don't care about and don't want to hear his opinion on the matter. He has no clue what I've dealt with in the last five years, and the few times he's tried to talk to me about it, it's just made me very angry. Any parent with a bipolar child has heard the "Well, you're just not spanking him enough" line so many times their face turns red when someone says it.
This weekend is supposed to be beautiful. I'm going to get some yard work done (god willing), and have a weenie roast over a bonfire with some wonderful friends. Hulk-child may be at my mom's, depending on how things go from here, but his big brother is going to have some friends to play with and we're going to enjoy ourselves. Next week, big brother gets his video game privilledge back, and that'll make him happy.
Right now, I don't need advice or anything like that. Just some good vibes, or prayers if that's your thing. Thanks for letting me vent.
Xoxo
04 February 2010
in the rain
and when i hear the tap tap
tap
of tiny pebbles on my window
i'll know it's you.
and i'll jump from bed
in my tank top and messy hair
and run.
into your arms
into that dream world
that you send me to.
and when i wake up
i'll know that it was real
somehow
though things are unchanged
and you are miles away.
tap
of tiny pebbles on my window
i'll know it's you.
and i'll jump from bed
in my tank top and messy hair
and run.
into your arms
into that dream world
that you send me to.
and when i wake up
i'll know that it was real
somehow
though things are unchanged
and you are miles away.
in the rain
and when i hear the tap tap
tap
of tiny pebbles on my window
i'll know it's you.
and i'll jump from bed
in my tank top and messy hair
and run.
into your arms
into that dream world
that you send me to.
and when i wake up
i'll know that it was real
somehow
though things are unchanged
and you are miles away.
tap
of tiny pebbles on my window
i'll know it's you.
and i'll jump from bed
in my tank top and messy hair
and run.
into your arms
into that dream world
that you send me to.
and when i wake up
i'll know that it was real
somehow
though things are unchanged
and you are miles away.
26 January 2010
Happy
I can understand your
relationship,
he says,
but I would make you
happy.
You already do,
I think to myself.
From a thousand miles away,
your voice soothes
and makes me think
that if you were next
to me
when I wake tomorrow,
I would make art
and not debate suicide.
Because you
would make me happy.
relationship,
he says,
but I would make you
happy.
You already do,
I think to myself.
From a thousand miles away,
your voice soothes
and makes me think
that if you were next
to me
when I wake tomorrow,
I would make art
and not debate suicide.
Because you
would make me happy.
29 December 2009
Tick Tock goes the New Year clock
I had a merry Christmas. I don't feel that way most years. I'm stressed from all the commotion, but I'm also happy with life.
I got Oblivion~ and I still hadn't finished getting Fallout 3 out of my system. Plus I've been LOVING Left 4 Dead 2 (zombie killing is a great stress-reliever). I may never emerge into civilization again. I might have to quit my job to allow for my video gaming obsession. J/K, but it's a nice fantasy. I think we as a family got a total of ten video games for Christmas. I got some nice books (Ruin and Walker Evans Photographer of America being two I was really excited about.)
My high school art teacher told me a while back that my black and white photography reminded him of Walker Evans, which made me feel great. And he (J. Abney) had his graduate art exhibit at Univ. of West Ga this month- displaying some amazing multi-media work.
I've really slacked on photography, which makes me feel discouraged... but mostly because I feel so strained for free time since the boys live with me throughout the week now. When they were staying with my mother, I could drive around in the evening and look for shots. Now, I go strait home. But, that has it's benefits. We're having family game nights now, on Wednesdays, where we play Parcheesi or Scrabble or Life. Sometimes being a parent is stressful, but sometimes it's fun. Leif and I went to see Avatar last weekend, and he loved it as much as I did. It's not the kind of thing most eight year olds can appreciate for the art and science of it, but he does. :)
I've made a decision to put more effort into a relationship that I'd all but given up on. That's not something that's easy to do. I kinda feel like I was making such a big deal out of menial things that I was taking some important aspects for granted... which is something I always try to avoid. So he gets upset when he feels neglected? So do I. So he refuses to settle on some details? So do I.
I'm going to try to get some new photography up here... I have plenty that hasn't been shared yet. This was just a note to the few friends I have in this neighborhood to let ya know that I'm still here... Just a little busy.
Here's to an excellent new year!
I got Oblivion~ and I still hadn't finished getting Fallout 3 out of my system. Plus I've been LOVING Left 4 Dead 2 (zombie killing is a great stress-reliever). I may never emerge into civilization again. I might have to quit my job to allow for my video gaming obsession. J/K, but it's a nice fantasy. I think we as a family got a total of ten video games for Christmas. I got some nice books (Ruin and Walker Evans Photographer of America being two I was really excited about.)
My high school art teacher told me a while back that my black and white photography reminded him of Walker Evans, which made me feel great. And he (J. Abney) had his graduate art exhibit at Univ. of West Ga this month- displaying some amazing multi-media work.
I've really slacked on photography, which makes me feel discouraged... but mostly because I feel so strained for free time since the boys live with me throughout the week now. When they were staying with my mother, I could drive around in the evening and look for shots. Now, I go strait home. But, that has it's benefits. We're having family game nights now, on Wednesdays, where we play Parcheesi or Scrabble or Life. Sometimes being a parent is stressful, but sometimes it's fun. Leif and I went to see Avatar last weekend, and he loved it as much as I did. It's not the kind of thing most eight year olds can appreciate for the art and science of it, but he does. :)
I've made a decision to put more effort into a relationship that I'd all but given up on. That's not something that's easy to do. I kinda feel like I was making such a big deal out of menial things that I was taking some important aspects for granted... which is something I always try to avoid. So he gets upset when he feels neglected? So do I. So he refuses to settle on some details? So do I.
I'm going to try to get some new photography up here... I have plenty that hasn't been shared yet. This was just a note to the few friends I have in this neighborhood to let ya know that I'm still here... Just a little busy.
Here's to an excellent new year!
24 December 2009
a poem
from a menangere castle
i watch the ballroom
as the glass world
around me glitters and shines
the dancers so fancy
curtsey and bow
and i, alone in my tower,
cry the tears of a
crystal clown
raindrops that shatter
a heart so fragile
that should i move
to join the fare
my world might crumble
and my heart would surely
fall apart
i watch the ballroom
as the glass world
around me glitters and shines
the dancers so fancy
curtsey and bow
and i, alone in my tower,
cry the tears of a
crystal clown
raindrops that shatter
a heart so fragile
that should i move
to join the fare
my world might crumble
and my heart would surely
fall apart
09 December 2009
paper heart
I want Michael Cera as a pet. He's so cute.
So, I'm taking the absolute minimum dosage of my meds. In part because of the cost of taking the dose I'm supposed to take. Also in part because of the fact that I'm pretty much comatose if I take that much. It's not ideal in any way. If I take the full dose, I feel... a hell of a lot less crazy. But I sleep, honestly, between 11 and 16 hours a day. I tend to sleep 10 on the lower doses. If I skip a pill, I can manage on 6. That's a big difference. Problem is, taking the 1/4 pill doesn't do a lot to make the crazy go away. Depression is trying (and succeeding) to sneak back in. The suicide thoughts reappear; don't worry- they're mild, but they are present again. I'm distracted, disorganized. I rarely feel as if I'm a great parent to begin with, but unmedicated, I know I'm not. I can't manage my self, much less special needs kids.
Poor CR. As if a ready made family isn't hard enough when things resemble normalcy... We are all so f'ed up. He does more parenting than I do. And he helps manage me and my mess of a life, at least to some degree (reminding me of things repeatedly, etc.). I know he's not perfect... He's as far from it as the rest of us... But, who else is going to take care of us? We have had some pretty major disagreements in the recent past, and there's still no guarantee of a win-win situation. But, on my own, I'd be pulling my hair out by dinnertime every night. It wasn't too long ago when I was having to call mom to please come pick up the kids before I snap... at 8 am. Forget about school.
I'm a C student. It depresses me even more. Because the subject matter is all easy to me. I just blatantly don't turn things in. There've been a few assignments that I did and didn't turn in. Why would I skip something so simple? I'm distracted, generally. I'll end up editing photos until one a.m. and just forget that I was supposed to upload an essay. High school was grand because I just did everything while I was there. And I still had plenty of free time. And of course, I wasn't an internet addict back then either.
I don't know where I was going. I'm just a little messed up right now and needed to get that out. If I say things that sound pitiful... it's because I kinda feel that way. I'll manage. I'll probably go back up on my meds. I don't know what to do.
So, I'm taking the absolute minimum dosage of my meds. In part because of the cost of taking the dose I'm supposed to take. Also in part because of the fact that I'm pretty much comatose if I take that much. It's not ideal in any way. If I take the full dose, I feel... a hell of a lot less crazy. But I sleep, honestly, between 11 and 16 hours a day. I tend to sleep 10 on the lower doses. If I skip a pill, I can manage on 6. That's a big difference. Problem is, taking the 1/4 pill doesn't do a lot to make the crazy go away. Depression is trying (and succeeding) to sneak back in. The suicide thoughts reappear; don't worry- they're mild, but they are present again. I'm distracted, disorganized. I rarely feel as if I'm a great parent to begin with, but unmedicated, I know I'm not. I can't manage my self, much less special needs kids.
Poor CR. As if a ready made family isn't hard enough when things resemble normalcy... We are all so f'ed up. He does more parenting than I do. And he helps manage me and my mess of a life, at least to some degree (reminding me of things repeatedly, etc.). I know he's not perfect... He's as far from it as the rest of us... But, who else is going to take care of us? We have had some pretty major disagreements in the recent past, and there's still no guarantee of a win-win situation. But, on my own, I'd be pulling my hair out by dinnertime every night. It wasn't too long ago when I was having to call mom to please come pick up the kids before I snap... at 8 am. Forget about school.
I'm a C student. It depresses me even more. Because the subject matter is all easy to me. I just blatantly don't turn things in. There've been a few assignments that I did and didn't turn in. Why would I skip something so simple? I'm distracted, generally. I'll end up editing photos until one a.m. and just forget that I was supposed to upload an essay. High school was grand because I just did everything while I was there. And I still had plenty of free time. And of course, I wasn't an internet addict back then either.
I don't know where I was going. I'm just a little messed up right now and needed to get that out. If I say things that sound pitiful... it's because I kinda feel that way. I'll manage. I'll probably go back up on my meds. I don't know what to do.
20 November 2009
a poem for my sister
An angel in red lipstick
Watches over you
And though she can't
Be seen from here
You know that she is there
An angel in red lipstick
Mirroring your smile
When you share your warmth
With those in need
In that she can be found
An angel in red lipstick
I'm sure that she is proud
For in your life you
Spread kindness and love
When others would not dare
Watches over you
And though she can't
Be seen from here
You know that she is there
An angel in red lipstick
Mirroring your smile
When you share your warmth
With those in need
In that she can be found
An angel in red lipstick
I'm sure that she is proud
For in your life you
Spread kindness and love
When others would not dare
a poem
my dear litte ballerina
i fear you lost your slipper
when daddy stopped at the chicken shack
to buy the family dinner
i fear you lost your slipper
when daddy stopped at the chicken shack
to buy the family dinner
19 November 2009
a poem
If you had elastic arms
You'd reach across the miles
To take my hand,
And too with it,
My heart,
And with a tug
You'd pull them loose
And leave me all alone
Without you.
Or my hand.
And without my heart.
You'd reach across the miles
To take my hand,
And too with it,
My heart,
And with a tug
You'd pull them loose
And leave me all alone
Without you.
Or my hand.
And without my heart.
Letter from Pastme
From me, a year ago... I got this in my inbox this morning.
Dear FutureMe,
Take a deep breath. If I know you at all, I know this is something you need. Remember that even though things overwhelm you, you always come through.
Give both of the boys a hug and a kiss. Tell him that you love him. Tell him again.
When you complain about your job... remember the times you didn't have one at all.
Things can always be worse.
Just a reminder.
PastMe
Dear FutureMe,
Take a deep breath. If I know you at all, I know this is something you need. Remember that even though things overwhelm you, you always come through.
Give both of the boys a hug and a kiss. Tell him that you love him. Tell him again.
When you complain about your job... remember the times you didn't have one at all.
Things can always be worse.
Just a reminder.
PastMe
17 November 2009
A poem
I was once a poet
A romantic
On the rays of
Life's sunrise
Uncertain of all
Except that
I was love's fool
Dreaming of soul mates
And sunsets
Songs from my pen
Would flow
I was once a poet
Now my paper
lies blank before me
A pen with no ink
An artist with
No muse
I was once a poet
A romantic
Now only hopeless
No words of beauty
No daydreams
No kisses or care
But once
Once I was a poet
A romantic
On the rays of
Life's sunrise
Uncertain of all
Except that
I was love's fool
Dreaming of soul mates
And sunsets
Songs from my pen
Would flow
I was once a poet
Now my paper
lies blank before me
A pen with no ink
An artist with
No muse
I was once a poet
A romantic
Now only hopeless
No words of beauty
No daydreams
No kisses or care
But once
Once I was a poet
13 November 2009
I love the night.
"A good friend can tell you what is the matter with you in a minute. He may not seem such a good friend after telling." -Arthur Brisbane.
Things are definitely not ideal lately, no secret. But it's like enough can't simply be enough. Sometimes the heart just needs some time to recuperate, and those odds aren't in my favor right now.
As if the relationship squabals can't be enough, there's just more and more unwanted drama. My life of late has felt like a soap opera who's ratings are down so they just add as much unrealistic crap as possible to get people to watch.
My bestie is moving two hours away, and my long distance friend who always shows up at tough times with a "You're awesome" email has disappeared. The high school sweetheart who always serves as a shoulder to cry on is dating someone very close to me, and boy if that hasn't made things awkward. The one that got away and the one I can't hate if I wanted to... now I'm a third wheel in my own personal relationships.
The countdown to Marc's release from prison has begun. I've been dreading this for five years. Not because I want him to be in prison... but because my life is so much simpler without him in it. (Marc is David's dad.) What makes this situation most dreadful is that he hopes to just come home and act like he was never gone. He wants to be a daily part of David's life (which I applaud him for), but he has no clue how complicated life with David is.
He doesn't understand the bipolar diagnosis; he's been one of the many people over the last few years to throw out the comment, "Sounds like he's not getting enough spankings." Well, wouldn't that be nice if spankings would just fix things? David literally quit getting that type punishment years ago because it didn't work. I could hit him until I thought I would kill him and it would be pointless aside from making me more frustrated. Well, a big "told ya so" to those folks now that he's properly medicated and doing really well.
But, you know what can change that in a heartbeat? Throwing off his routine. It's why most of my upcoming decisions are not looking like much fun. Marc and I can be friends. I even believe that he might be capable of staying out of trouble if he avoids those friends who he used to follow. And he would be a good dad had he put his conviction to it six years ago. But, now it's as simple as this: David doesn't know him. Hell, he probably doesn't know himself after sitting in a cell that long.
And it feels like so much progress has been made lately; I worry that it'll all be in vain with that kind of major change. David did so well on this progress report that he didn't even have any behavior marks. All good checks. Fingers crossed he can hang in there and keep being the awesome kid he is regardless of what happens in the upcoming months.
I feel really alone now, and the meds can't fix it when there's so much fighting the good they do. It seems like all the people who I'd usually go to for venting are part of the problem. Some of them even try to make me feel better... but I'm at one of those points when I'm struggling to find motive to smile. So, I vent here. Ask the gods in my quiet place for a break.
It's been one of those months where every song I hear makes me cry.
On an upnote, I drove by the Lazy Donkey earlier and there was a group of (Japanese?) men outside crowded around the model donkey on display. They were laughing and taking pictures (stereotypes are based on reality, right?) as one of them leaned over to kiss the ass's ass. That got a grin outta me.
Things are definitely not ideal lately, no secret. But it's like enough can't simply be enough. Sometimes the heart just needs some time to recuperate, and those odds aren't in my favor right now.
As if the relationship squabals can't be enough, there's just more and more unwanted drama. My life of late has felt like a soap opera who's ratings are down so they just add as much unrealistic crap as possible to get people to watch.
My bestie is moving two hours away, and my long distance friend who always shows up at tough times with a "You're awesome" email has disappeared. The high school sweetheart who always serves as a shoulder to cry on is dating someone very close to me, and boy if that hasn't made things awkward. The one that got away and the one I can't hate if I wanted to... now I'm a third wheel in my own personal relationships.
The countdown to Marc's release from prison has begun. I've been dreading this for five years. Not because I want him to be in prison... but because my life is so much simpler without him in it. (Marc is David's dad.) What makes this situation most dreadful is that he hopes to just come home and act like he was never gone. He wants to be a daily part of David's life (which I applaud him for), but he has no clue how complicated life with David is.
He doesn't understand the bipolar diagnosis; he's been one of the many people over the last few years to throw out the comment, "Sounds like he's not getting enough spankings." Well, wouldn't that be nice if spankings would just fix things? David literally quit getting that type punishment years ago because it didn't work. I could hit him until I thought I would kill him and it would be pointless aside from making me more frustrated. Well, a big "told ya so" to those folks now that he's properly medicated and doing really well.
But, you know what can change that in a heartbeat? Throwing off his routine. It's why most of my upcoming decisions are not looking like much fun. Marc and I can be friends. I even believe that he might be capable of staying out of trouble if he avoids those friends who he used to follow. And he would be a good dad had he put his conviction to it six years ago. But, now it's as simple as this: David doesn't know him. Hell, he probably doesn't know himself after sitting in a cell that long.
And it feels like so much progress has been made lately; I worry that it'll all be in vain with that kind of major change. David did so well on this progress report that he didn't even have any behavior marks. All good checks. Fingers crossed he can hang in there and keep being the awesome kid he is regardless of what happens in the upcoming months.
I feel really alone now, and the meds can't fix it when there's so much fighting the good they do. It seems like all the people who I'd usually go to for venting are part of the problem. Some of them even try to make me feel better... but I'm at one of those points when I'm struggling to find motive to smile. So, I vent here. Ask the gods in my quiet place for a break.
It's been one of those months where every song I hear makes me cry.
On an upnote, I drove by the Lazy Donkey earlier and there was a group of (Japanese?) men outside crowded around the model donkey on display. They were laughing and taking pictures (stereotypes are based on reality, right?) as one of them leaned over to kiss the ass's ass. That got a grin outta me.
Nom Nom Nom
One of my friends posted this on facebook last night, and it was so funny I has to share...
TB=>
hahahaha "I went through a McDonald's drive thru and said 'I can has cheeseburger?' There was a pause before I heard "Nom Nom Nom" on the other end."
TB=>
hahahaha "I went through a McDonald's drive thru and said 'I can has cheeseburger?' There was a pause before I heard "Nom Nom Nom" on the other end."
06 November 2009
Today I...
...am going on a date with my beautiful step-sister and my gorgeous son. Okay, maybe that's not a date. But. I love the plan, and I look forward to it.
So, if you stand in limbo too long, do your toes start to singe? Things are complicated, and I don't anticipate them getting better in the immediate future. But. I'm optimistic. I'm not really making a specific plan. It's more my style to just let things fall as they will. I believe in chance. I believe in will. And I believe in fate. Is it possible to really believe in all of those concepts at once? I have the power to change things if I so chose, but I prefer to let things fall into their own place...?
I can see very easily becoming addicted the the work-out high. Just biking or leg pressing that stress away. Or at least. Getting some of it out.
I want to start trying to push myself to create more... but I am so discouraged, it'll be hard. But, I guess creating can take many different forms, so that makes it a little easier.
So, if you stand in limbo too long, do your toes start to singe? Things are complicated, and I don't anticipate them getting better in the immediate future. But. I'm optimistic. I'm not really making a specific plan. It's more my style to just let things fall as they will. I believe in chance. I believe in will. And I believe in fate. Is it possible to really believe in all of those concepts at once? I have the power to change things if I so chose, but I prefer to let things fall into their own place...?
I can see very easily becoming addicted the the work-out high. Just biking or leg pressing that stress away. Or at least. Getting some of it out.
I want to start trying to push myself to create more... but I am so discouraged, it'll be hard. But, I guess creating can take many different forms, so that makes it a little easier.
05 November 2009
When is it too much?
How much love does it take? How much do we have to love each other to stay together when things are falling apart?
When I have to leave, and I will, I will be leaving this big, beautiful house and this educated man. I will be leaving the ability to spend my weekly allowance on coffee and nice shoes. I will be moving into a small, run down rental house. I will be fighting to keep bills paid and enough food on the table. And I'll be alone.
I'll be alone.
And he'll be alone, even though he loves me. He loves me, but he doesn't love himself. And how can I love someone who hates himself? If he feels there is no joy in his life... and I can't offer him anything that can give him joy, why am I trying?
I have battled depression my whole life. I've battled it. Because I wanted to be happy. I didn't want to be depressed. So I have laughed loudly and sang like no one could hear. And when that wasn't enough, I took meds for it. And it helps. But how can I be truly happy with someone who's miserable?
Am I cutting him short? Does he deserve for me to keep trying when he refuses to help himself? Is it even a matter of who deserves what? Should I just do it because I love him?
Is love enough?
IS LOVE ENOUGH?
When I have to leave, and I will, I will be leaving this big, beautiful house and this educated man. I will be leaving the ability to spend my weekly allowance on coffee and nice shoes. I will be moving into a small, run down rental house. I will be fighting to keep bills paid and enough food on the table. And I'll be alone.
I'll be alone.
And he'll be alone, even though he loves me. He loves me, but he doesn't love himself. And how can I love someone who hates himself? If he feels there is no joy in his life... and I can't offer him anything that can give him joy, why am I trying?
I have battled depression my whole life. I've battled it. Because I wanted to be happy. I didn't want to be depressed. So I have laughed loudly and sang like no one could hear. And when that wasn't enough, I took meds for it. And it helps. But how can I be truly happy with someone who's miserable?
Am I cutting him short? Does he deserve for me to keep trying when he refuses to help himself? Is it even a matter of who deserves what? Should I just do it because I love him?
Is love enough?
IS LOVE ENOUGH?
02 November 2009
Crossroads
Wow. I really did it. I actually joined a gym. I'd been thinking about doing it for a while. I gained so much weight with my second pregnancy. After I worked so hard as a teenager to get rid of all that kid weight. I've been really disappointed with myself for a while. But, it's a hard cycle to get out of. You gain weight, you get tired; you're tired, so you don't want to exercise; you don't exercise so you gain more weight. And it's a deadly cycle. I've been watching as a lot of people close to me are having serious health problems, and some of them are directly related to the fact that they're overweight. Last year, I lost about twenty pounds, but when I started the Seroquel, I put it back on. I've leveled off where I started, but it's the highest I've ever gotten to. I won't say how much, but a lot of people might be surprised. (Mostly because I'm tall and supposedly hold myself well.) But, my hips ache a lot of days for no obvious reason. I get headaches. And I'm so tired.
The medication doesn't help at all. I mean, it helps in the way it's supposed to. But, it causes a sweet tooth, raises my risk of diabetes significantly, and makes me uncontrollably sleepy. It makes the "suicidal" go away, but it has it's negatives too. For instance, I haven't completed a painting in over a year, possibly two. I quit writing in my blog/journal. I rarely write a poem or a short story anymore. I don't write letters or email friends like I used to. There's a large number of "artists" who have a bipolar diagnosis. There's a large number of those who absolutely refuse medicinal treatment because it murders creativity. And this is something that's been studied. Funny how all the different parts of the brain are connected. And it sucks that you have to sacrifice one part of your life to save another.
David and Leif are both very creative too. I don't expect that comes as a surprise to most. They both have art journals, and they both use the hell out of them. David's doodles are amazing. Leif can take a box of k'nex and build anything. And they're both very intelligent and doing well in school. I wonder about the long term effects of the meds though. David started taking antipsychotics at a VERY young age. Now, I'm reading studies about how there is a higher risk of the development of schizophrenia when mood altering drugs are started before the brain is fully developed. That's scary. And I worry that he won't be able to continue thinking creatively after years of increased doses of medications like Risperdal and Focalin. But, it's going to take the medication for him to live an even remotely normal life. It can't be avoided.
I've joined a group on Facebook that's dedicated to parents of bipolar children. It makes me appreciate my family more and more to hear other people's stories. How many people believe that mental disorders are an effect of bad parenting or disbelief in God. It's true, bad parenting can definitely increase the likelihood or exacerbate the degree of severity of a mental disorder, but rarely is it the cause. Especially in illnesses such as pediatric bpd. Before I started taking Seroquel to get myself under control, there were more than a few days when I'd have to beg my mom to get the boys, or at least David, by 8 am. Because I was either going to lose it and murder him or have a meltdown. I was *this* close to entering a hospital myself. But without my family close by, I can't imagine having to deal with our life.
Sometimes I'd really like to be able to stop taking the meds, but even just a few days without and I'm a mess. Even with them I struggle to manage the basic everyday bits of parenting. Making lunch, making sure the little teeth have been brushed well, checking to make sure a scratch hasn't gotten infected, etc.
I've said before that I believe Leif saved my life. There's a good, serious possibility that had I not been pregnant with him at the time I was, I'd have killed myself. And it's so weird to talk about it, but I think being open about it is the best way to deal with it. Keeping my blog open when things were really bad might have seemed to some like I was begging for attention... In reality, I used it as a safe haven; if my friends knew I was struggling, they'd look out for me as much as possible. I don't want to end up being in a memorial with people saying, "We didn't know anything was wrong or we'd have tried to help her."
So, I realize that I'm not writing anymore, and I'm going to make an effort to get back to it. I've been transferring my blog from Myspace to here, and reading my older entries really is enlightening... I've come a long way.
But, not everything is better. And a lot of the problems that are occuring now are very private, and involve others' hearts. So, I'll just say that life has come to one of those infamous crossroads. I have to keep in mind my kids and my well-being before deciding where our path goes, but I'm going to try to make the best choice I can. When updates are practical, I'll offer those. But, in the meantime, prayers, positive energy, and thoughts are appreciated.
Seems like there was more, but I'm a bit wound up and thoughts are well, everywhere. :P More to come, I promise.
The medication doesn't help at all. I mean, it helps in the way it's supposed to. But, it causes a sweet tooth, raises my risk of diabetes significantly, and makes me uncontrollably sleepy. It makes the "suicidal" go away, but it has it's negatives too. For instance, I haven't completed a painting in over a year, possibly two. I quit writing in my blog/journal. I rarely write a poem or a short story anymore. I don't write letters or email friends like I used to. There's a large number of "artists" who have a bipolar diagnosis. There's a large number of those who absolutely refuse medicinal treatment because it murders creativity. And this is something that's been studied. Funny how all the different parts of the brain are connected. And it sucks that you have to sacrifice one part of your life to save another.
David and Leif are both very creative too. I don't expect that comes as a surprise to most. They both have art journals, and they both use the hell out of them. David's doodles are amazing. Leif can take a box of k'nex and build anything. And they're both very intelligent and doing well in school. I wonder about the long term effects of the meds though. David started taking antipsychotics at a VERY young age. Now, I'm reading studies about how there is a higher risk of the development of schizophrenia when mood altering drugs are started before the brain is fully developed. That's scary. And I worry that he won't be able to continue thinking creatively after years of increased doses of medications like Risperdal and Focalin. But, it's going to take the medication for him to live an even remotely normal life. It can't be avoided.
I've joined a group on Facebook that's dedicated to parents of bipolar children. It makes me appreciate my family more and more to hear other people's stories. How many people believe that mental disorders are an effect of bad parenting or disbelief in God. It's true, bad parenting can definitely increase the likelihood or exacerbate the degree of severity of a mental disorder, but rarely is it the cause. Especially in illnesses such as pediatric bpd. Before I started taking Seroquel to get myself under control, there were more than a few days when I'd have to beg my mom to get the boys, or at least David, by 8 am. Because I was either going to lose it and murder him or have a meltdown. I was *this* close to entering a hospital myself. But without my family close by, I can't imagine having to deal with our life.
Sometimes I'd really like to be able to stop taking the meds, but even just a few days without and I'm a mess. Even with them I struggle to manage the basic everyday bits of parenting. Making lunch, making sure the little teeth have been brushed well, checking to make sure a scratch hasn't gotten infected, etc.
I've said before that I believe Leif saved my life. There's a good, serious possibility that had I not been pregnant with him at the time I was, I'd have killed myself. And it's so weird to talk about it, but I think being open about it is the best way to deal with it. Keeping my blog open when things were really bad might have seemed to some like I was begging for attention... In reality, I used it as a safe haven; if my friends knew I was struggling, they'd look out for me as much as possible. I don't want to end up being in a memorial with people saying, "We didn't know anything was wrong or we'd have tried to help her."
So, I realize that I'm not writing anymore, and I'm going to make an effort to get back to it. I've been transferring my blog from Myspace to here, and reading my older entries really is enlightening... I've come a long way.
But, not everything is better. And a lot of the problems that are occuring now are very private, and involve others' hearts. So, I'll just say that life has come to one of those infamous crossroads. I have to keep in mind my kids and my well-being before deciding where our path goes, but I'm going to try to make the best choice I can. When updates are practical, I'll offer those. But, in the meantime, prayers, positive energy, and thoughts are appreciated.
Seems like there was more, but I'm a bit wound up and thoughts are well, everywhere. :P More to come, I promise.
29 September 2009
Beautiful and ugly world
Today is officially the most beautiful day of the year. And a sign that we might actually have an autumnal autumn after several years of extended summers. I have to start washing sweaters... another of my favorite things (not the washing, of course, but the wearing). I might grab some yarn and start crocheting some hand/wrist warmers to sell for $5.
I got a sewing table for my birthday! It's super nice (and when I opened one of the many drawers, I found a secret gift inside (Flatout- I love the crashing games a lot more than the racing games). I got so many well wishes that it made me feel bad for thinking it a burden to have so many friends. Now... if only I could quit my job and be a housemom and sew and craft all the time...
I love my friends. They're so eclectic and unique. But thanks to social networking on the interwebs, I have more friends than I would if left to my own "real world" devices. I'm not much for phones and most other people aren't much for writing letters on stationary. And it's not easy to be a good friend. Just as having romantic relationships requires a lot of effort, friendships do too. I feel like I can never keep up with everyone. Not enough time in the day to make sure I get to wish a Happy Birthday to whoever's birthday is on a given day or saying "Hey, I was just thinking of ya" to a friend I haven't talked to lately. But then I guess that's part of the appeal in sites like Facebook... I can keep up with people by reading two sentence peeks into their life.
I'm blessed to have so many friends, and don't ever try to convince me otherwise.
People in my family are bothered by CR's toy collection. I admit, most older people are probably not accustomed to displaying their zombie action figures in the family room... but most older folk didn't exactly live in the same world we do with the same culture and technology and gadgets and decor. People think it's morbid, though. Maybe it is a little. But it's a damn morbid world. What can you expect from someone who's dad let them watch The Exorcist at an early age? That movie was 'effed up.
But you know, it's not just horror fans and apocalypse junkies who are morbid...
Have you ever met a Christian? Living in America, I'm guessing the chances are... oh 100%. The Bible is one of the ... no. The Bible is THE most morbid piece of literature I've ever read. It's not just dark people who are morbid. It's also the picture perfect upright person.
This isn't aimed at my family, by the way (Most of them aren't exactly the type to go to church every Sunday)... It spawned out of a conversation with a good friend, SB, this morning who's having girlfriend problems. His lady friend was raised far-right, Methodist. She shuns his friends who like to smoke a joint and play a video game on the weekends and now they're on the verge of a split-up. He brought up the point that that's why he couldn't be a traditional Christian (though he does believe in something higher, as do I). Christians are mean, unbending, refusing to see things in a different light. They're very close-minded, but they expect the rest of the world to be open-minded to their ideas. And that form of hypocrisy has a great deal to do with my struggling to believe in a God and my having strayed from Christianity as I reached adulthood.
Here's a great blog article on the subject of how many people God killed in the span of the bible versus how many the Devil did. And this is a God who Christians label as compassionate and loving. And that's just in the bible... Since it's completion, how many wars have been fought in the "name of god?" How many clinic bombings, how many lynchings of people not of the Caucasian persuasion, how many gay bashings? How many innocent Muslims slain simply because they have a different belief (LET ME SAY IMMEDIATELY... I know that a lot of those killed in the current holy war are not innocent, and I'm not referring to all of the awful, vengeful terrorists as innocent lives!)? How many AmerIndians were killed for the Christian man to steal his land in the name of God?
Well, this is not exactly the philosophy that Jesus taught, and that's why many Christians are not evil, murdering people... I'm fond of saying that if more Christians were Christ-like, I'd be more inclined to follow their teachings. But, the "god" is the same. Jesus came and taught that things were supposed to be different after his appearance. The theme became "turn the cheek," but Christians don't always follow the Jesus philosophy. They're morbid. They like the Old Testament teachings. They like to kill people who aren't like them. They wish death on anyone who has a different view and promote the eternal damnation of others (as well as themselves in many cases, out of ignorance and hypocrisy).
Anyway, the point wasn't to rant. It was to say that sometimes people aren't as morbid as they appear through the window.
The original point was to make light of HOW BEAUTIFUL this day is. It's a good day to love someone, to hug someone, to write a letter, to sing a song, to play with your kids, to paint a picture, to have some cocoa, to climb a tree, to worship peacefully, to cook some chili, to plan a camping trip. Despite all of the wars and the evil and the heartache in the world at this moment, today is a BEAUTIFUL day.
I got a sewing table for my birthday! It's super nice (and when I opened one of the many drawers, I found a secret gift inside (Flatout- I love the crashing games a lot more than the racing games). I got so many well wishes that it made me feel bad for thinking it a burden to have so many friends. Now... if only I could quit my job and be a housemom and sew and craft all the time...
I love my friends. They're so eclectic and unique. But thanks to social networking on the interwebs, I have more friends than I would if left to my own "real world" devices. I'm not much for phones and most other people aren't much for writing letters on stationary. And it's not easy to be a good friend. Just as having romantic relationships requires a lot of effort, friendships do too. I feel like I can never keep up with everyone. Not enough time in the day to make sure I get to wish a Happy Birthday to whoever's birthday is on a given day or saying "Hey, I was just thinking of ya" to a friend I haven't talked to lately. But then I guess that's part of the appeal in sites like Facebook... I can keep up with people by reading two sentence peeks into their life.
I'm blessed to have so many friends, and don't ever try to convince me otherwise.
People in my family are bothered by CR's toy collection. I admit, most older people are probably not accustomed to displaying their zombie action figures in the family room... but most older folk didn't exactly live in the same world we do with the same culture and technology and gadgets and decor. People think it's morbid, though. Maybe it is a little. But it's a damn morbid world. What can you expect from someone who's dad let them watch The Exorcist at an early age? That movie was 'effed up.
But you know, it's not just horror fans and apocalypse junkies who are morbid...
Have you ever met a Christian? Living in America, I'm guessing the chances are... oh 100%. The Bible is one of the ... no. The Bible is THE most morbid piece of literature I've ever read. It's not just dark people who are morbid. It's also the picture perfect upright person.
This isn't aimed at my family, by the way (Most of them aren't exactly the type to go to church every Sunday)... It spawned out of a conversation with a good friend, SB, this morning who's having girlfriend problems. His lady friend was raised far-right, Methodist. She shuns his friends who like to smoke a joint and play a video game on the weekends and now they're on the verge of a split-up. He brought up the point that that's why he couldn't be a traditional Christian (though he does believe in something higher, as do I). Christians are mean, unbending, refusing to see things in a different light. They're very close-minded, but they expect the rest of the world to be open-minded to their ideas. And that form of hypocrisy has a great deal to do with my struggling to believe in a God and my having strayed from Christianity as I reached adulthood.
Here's a great blog article on the subject of how many people God killed in the span of the bible versus how many the Devil did. And this is a God who Christians label as compassionate and loving. And that's just in the bible... Since it's completion, how many wars have been fought in the "name of god?" How many clinic bombings, how many lynchings of people not of the Caucasian persuasion, how many gay bashings? How many innocent Muslims slain simply because they have a different belief (LET ME SAY IMMEDIATELY... I know that a lot of those killed in the current holy war are not innocent, and I'm not referring to all of the awful, vengeful terrorists as innocent lives!)? How many AmerIndians were killed for the Christian man to steal his land in the name of God?
Well, this is not exactly the philosophy that Jesus taught, and that's why many Christians are not evil, murdering people... I'm fond of saying that if more Christians were Christ-like, I'd be more inclined to follow their teachings. But, the "god" is the same. Jesus came and taught that things were supposed to be different after his appearance. The theme became "turn the cheek," but Christians don't always follow the Jesus philosophy. They're morbid. They like the Old Testament teachings. They like to kill people who aren't like them. They wish death on anyone who has a different view and promote the eternal damnation of others (as well as themselves in many cases, out of ignorance and hypocrisy).
Anyway, the point wasn't to rant. It was to say that sometimes people aren't as morbid as they appear through the window.
The original point was to make light of HOW BEAUTIFUL this day is. It's a good day to love someone, to hug someone, to write a letter, to sing a song, to play with your kids, to paint a picture, to have some cocoa, to climb a tree, to worship peacefully, to cook some chili, to plan a camping trip. Despite all of the wars and the evil and the heartache in the world at this moment, today is a BEAUTIFUL day.
17 September 2009
Turkey vultures and cold onion rings
I think turkey vultures are the ugliest creature the world has on it. Seriously. It's like the devil challenged god to a beautiful creature contest, and god created a Unicorn, and the devil replied with, "Tricked ya again," as he cackled his most evil cackle and pulled one of those monstrosities out of a hat.
I respect CR for "finding beauty in ugly things," but I wish he wouldn't say it in a way that makes everyone look at me and gasp. You know how to get your girlfriend NOT to do that thing you've been wanting to try? Say things like, "I love ugly women," in front of your her and a crowd of friends. Heh. Self-esteem: minus forty points. Sex-life: minus fifty.
Cold onion rings are awful. But warm Dr. Pepper is great. Laws of physics! Who gets 'em?
I've hit a wall lately. I think I'm just spread too thin. Too much life going on at once. I'm still medicated, but I've leaked a tear or two in the last week or so, just out of frustration. I know, it happens, and I don't want to blame the weather (because I adore gloomy weather), but come on, god, give me a break! I don't know if it's a low "cycle," or if it really is just genuinely being stressed out, but I haven't felt this close to depression since I was introduced to the world of mood stabilizers. Reminds me that it's time for a refill.
You know I'm down-in-the-dumps when I don't even feel like playing Fallout.
I've sold three prints in the last few weeks. Which rocks. I still feel mostly like a nobody in the art world, but people are recognizing me and that feels great. I need a vacation. One where I can just go out in the woods with my camera (and JK's flash) and snap away at the beautiful things along the way. Hopefully it'll stop raining long enough to camp one weekend in the near future.
I got Creative Suite 4. I won't say how I came about it, but I will say that it's making me feel a little bit better. I've got months of photos that I haven't edited, mostly because of being busy, but partially because of being non-creative. CR blows my mind with his creativity, constantly thinking of cool things to make, but never doing them. I put effort into what I do, but I struggle with coming up with things... which is why photography was a good outlet for me to find. I'm so jealous of him though. Jealous and disturbed by his lack of motivation.
Reading Augusten Burroughs again. This time "Possible Side Effects," and I love it too. "Running With Scissors" was great, but this is more of a collection of unrelated short stories. Another sign of depression... not wanting to make time to read. *sadface*
There was another general worldly thing I noticed and wanted to point out, but it evades me at this time (which has a lot to do with why I don't blog much these days). Maybe I'll publish this and then it'll pop into my head. :P
I respect CR for "finding beauty in ugly things," but I wish he wouldn't say it in a way that makes everyone look at me and gasp. You know how to get your girlfriend NOT to do that thing you've been wanting to try? Say things like, "I love ugly women," in front of your her and a crowd of friends. Heh. Self-esteem: minus forty points. Sex-life: minus fifty.
Cold onion rings are awful. But warm Dr. Pepper is great. Laws of physics! Who gets 'em?
I've hit a wall lately. I think I'm just spread too thin. Too much life going on at once. I'm still medicated, but I've leaked a tear or two in the last week or so, just out of frustration. I know, it happens, and I don't want to blame the weather (because I adore gloomy weather), but come on, god, give me a break! I don't know if it's a low "cycle," or if it really is just genuinely being stressed out, but I haven't felt this close to depression since I was introduced to the world of mood stabilizers. Reminds me that it's time for a refill.
You know I'm down-in-the-dumps when I don't even feel like playing Fallout.
I've sold three prints in the last few weeks. Which rocks. I still feel mostly like a nobody in the art world, but people are recognizing me and that feels great. I need a vacation. One where I can just go out in the woods with my camera (and JK's flash) and snap away at the beautiful things along the way. Hopefully it'll stop raining long enough to camp one weekend in the near future.
I got Creative Suite 4. I won't say how I came about it, but I will say that it's making me feel a little bit better. I've got months of photos that I haven't edited, mostly because of being busy, but partially because of being non-creative. CR blows my mind with his creativity, constantly thinking of cool things to make, but never doing them. I put effort into what I do, but I struggle with coming up with things... which is why photography was a good outlet for me to find. I'm so jealous of him though. Jealous and disturbed by his lack of motivation.
Reading Augusten Burroughs again. This time "Possible Side Effects," and I love it too. "Running With Scissors" was great, but this is more of a collection of unrelated short stories. Another sign of depression... not wanting to make time to read. *sadface*
There was another general worldly thing I noticed and wanted to point out, but it evades me at this time (which has a lot to do with why I don't blog much these days). Maybe I'll publish this and then it'll pop into my head. :P
01 September 2009
The Argument
The couple was young. Not too young, of course; they were past the stage of teenage infatuation, but couldn’t have been married for more than a couple of years. He was sitting in the passenger seat of a green Oldsmobile minivan. He had a mustache, the kind that doesn’t seem to fit in anywhere but in a seventies smut film. Dark hair, clean cut but thick and fluffy. Fluffy like his ‘stache. He was tan with a hint of pink in his skin, like he’d been out in the sun just eight minutes too long at a baseball game. I watched him roll his window down manually through the large storefront windows I stared out of every day at work. Just five minutes beforehand I’d had the pleasure of watching a yuppie in khaki shorts and a purple polo shirt stand on the side of the highway and watch patiently as his pup took a shit in our parking lot. Now, this obviously frustrated man of about thirty was bobbing in that way that occurs when one tries to roll down a car window that’s determined to stay put.
The large highway-side parking lot my office my office sat on also provided spaces for a tattoo parlor, a hair salon, a chicken shack and a gas station. With the combination of the fuel and greasy fried slop, it was frequently a stop for people traveling north through western Georgia. These passers-by were often the highlight of my days. What sort of zany things are they up to now?
There she was, walking back to the car, white paper bags in hand, probably dripping with oil, like those that my coworker often carried in the door at lunchtime. She must have been driving wherever they’d been traveling from. She was in a tank top, blue with flowers, and jean shorts that were unflattering. Early September, I’d see a lot of this style clothing. Her figure was average, a little too heavy for the frame she was given, but not unattractive. She was fair skinned, long wavy blonde hair. Well, not so much blonde as dirty colored. Ash? Is that the shade on the box of hair dye? I never understood why anyone would want to dye their hair to look dirty.
Her thighs jiggled just a bit as she slid her flip-flops across the hot pavement. She was dragging her feet like she was in a hurry and didn’t realize it would have been faster to just pick her feet up to walk. She didn’t go to the drivers side of the van, though; she threw the bag of food at her partner. I could see him ask her “What the fuck” her problem was. I couldn’t see her face, but I could imagine what it looked like, mouth gaping, cheeks turning red, forehead crunched. I’d been in a lover’s spat before, so I knew what fun it could be.
I glanced back that way a few times, but this went on for at least fifteen minutes, and if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. It seemed she was steaming over something pretty serious.
I took a couple of phone calls (we got more payment calls in the afternoon when people had just gotten off work), and looked back up to see an older lady walking up behind the fussing couple. When I use the term “walking” to describe the older lady, I use it loosely. I had only thought the young woman had been dragging her feet. This elderly lady, in her bright blue Keds to match her bright blue cotton old lady shorts, was literally dragging one foot behind the other, like she had some sort of paralysis.
I hadn’t seen her get out of the van with the young lady upon arrival, but the van did have tinted windows, so if she’d been sitting on the driver’s side, it would have been easy for me to overlook her. (I did do some work on occasion.) Maybe she was sitting at one of the chicken shack picnic tables while the younger members of her traveling party had their words.
They didn’t seem to pay much attention to her as she got closer to the van. She slowed for a minute, bent forward a bit, arms outstretched, as if she was stretching before they got back to another long drive. She was very pale, much like my grandmother, who I always imagined could have used plain corn starch instead of Cover Girl powders as a young girl. She had a button up plain white shirt on, and with the combination of bright blue pants and shoes, her orange hair seemed comical. Her hair should probably have been about the same shade of white as her shirt, but it was just as red as the cutest little Irish baby.
At first I thought she was so pale because of the contrast of the red hair and blue clothing. Then, as I watched a moment longer, I noticed that her skin was almost grey. I kept thinking that was a bit odd, but maybe she was just sickly. She must have been ill, and maybe that had something to do with the obvious muscle weakness. As she continued toward the couple, the young lady finally turned toward her, wearing an expression of confusion.
Maybe they didn’t know this person after all. Maybe she was hoping to ask directions or encourage them not to shout where everyone could hear. The young lady walked up to her, looking concerned, suddenly having forgotten (at least for a moment) about the argument she was involved in.
What happened next was so strange and so fast that it was a bit of a blur. The old lady seemed to fall on top of the younger lady who was trying to help her. “Ash’s” head hit the asphalt and bounced, as she was obviously not prepared for the tumble. It didn’t seem to knock her cold, but she winced in pain, and her beau jumped from the van. At this point I saw that one of his legs, the left one, was bandaged and had been bleeding.
There had been an altercation before the couple made it to this point, apparently. Maybe they felt it a wise decision to get lunch before sitting in the emergency room for six hours. Still, things just got more and more strange as I watched the story unfold through glass.
He hopped the two feet toward his wife and the old lady, who was still on top of the younger gal. He attempted to help the lady up and her arm snapped. He jumped back faster than anyone with an injured leg should have been able to, tired from his injury, tired from his argument with his wife, and now a bit shocked over the unexpected. (I imagine that if someone were to have peeked into the store at me, they would have been amused. I’m sure my chin was dropped to the desk as I watched in amazement.)
The old woman was not phased. With her good arm, she pulled herself toward him, and I realized that her expression hadn’t changed the entire time she’d been in the picture. Her mouth hung open and her eyes rarely blinked. I guess he decided that he should continue to help her upright, and he moved back in, when all of a sudden, she was attached to the leg that was already bandaged.
This old lady was tearing skin from his calf with her teeth!
His wife, still dazed starts hitting the old woman with her fists, screaming loudly enough that I could hear through the glass. The woman retorted, and while jabbing at her assailant, her broken bone went straight into the shoulder of the younger.
This all happened so quickly, mind you, that I hadn’t even had time to process what was going on. I jumped up to go toward the door and told my coworker what was going on. I thought I better call 911. “Yessss, I would say this is an emergency… An old woman is trying to mangle a couple… No, don’t hang up! I’m serious… And the old woman has a broken arm… The bone broke the skin, and now she’s punctured the wife in the shoulder… I know it sounds ridiculous… Hell no. I’m not going out there… This is fucking crazy.”
She asked me to stay on the line and let her know when one of the cops arrived. It was fine with me; I didn’t want to have a reason to go outside anyway. My coworker yelled out the door and told the young lady a cop was coming. I could hear her yelling, “They’re going to kill me! They’re going to kill me!” I thought she was just referring to the old lady.
“Holy moly,” I said out loud; her husband’s skin had lost the rosy sun glow and was turning that pale grey color. I hadn’t realized how much color he’d lost in the last few minutes. They both turned on the young lady. “Tash, lock the door.” I’d seen this happen in movies. “Lock the door now.”
The cops came up, four cars worth of them, and they were dressed in riot gear. Pop, pop, pop. I didn’t expect the police in this area even knew what riot gear was. It seemed that this was perhaps not the first incident of the day. “The cops are here. The problem has… uh… been resolved?” I said to the dispatcher.
The youngest of the cops walked over to our office and tapped on the door. I got up and walked over, but I didn’t unlock it. “Go home. Get to your home, lock your doors, and keep the lights down as much as possible. We don’t have many details about what’s going on, but this is obviously not a safe place to be. I suggest you get as far away from the middle of town as possible.”
I called my boyfriend, told him it might be a good idea to head home and get his guns out and loaded. I headed to pick up my boys from the sitter and watched in awe at all of the similar sights along the roadside as I drove out into the countryside.
This, as most of my post-human stories, is based on reality. The characters are based on actual people that I see outside the window as I sit at my humdrum job every day. It's just that... see, their lives are too boring. So, I give them some excitement.
The large highway-side parking lot my office my office sat on also provided spaces for a tattoo parlor, a hair salon, a chicken shack and a gas station. With the combination of the fuel and greasy fried slop, it was frequently a stop for people traveling north through western Georgia. These passers-by were often the highlight of my days. What sort of zany things are they up to now?
There she was, walking back to the car, white paper bags in hand, probably dripping with oil, like those that my coworker often carried in the door at lunchtime. She must have been driving wherever they’d been traveling from. She was in a tank top, blue with flowers, and jean shorts that were unflattering. Early September, I’d see a lot of this style clothing. Her figure was average, a little too heavy for the frame she was given, but not unattractive. She was fair skinned, long wavy blonde hair. Well, not so much blonde as dirty colored. Ash? Is that the shade on the box of hair dye? I never understood why anyone would want to dye their hair to look dirty.
Her thighs jiggled just a bit as she slid her flip-flops across the hot pavement. She was dragging her feet like she was in a hurry and didn’t realize it would have been faster to just pick her feet up to walk. She didn’t go to the drivers side of the van, though; she threw the bag of food at her partner. I could see him ask her “What the fuck” her problem was. I couldn’t see her face, but I could imagine what it looked like, mouth gaping, cheeks turning red, forehead crunched. I’d been in a lover’s spat before, so I knew what fun it could be.
I glanced back that way a few times, but this went on for at least fifteen minutes, and if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. It seemed she was steaming over something pretty serious.
I took a couple of phone calls (we got more payment calls in the afternoon when people had just gotten off work), and looked back up to see an older lady walking up behind the fussing couple. When I use the term “walking” to describe the older lady, I use it loosely. I had only thought the young woman had been dragging her feet. This elderly lady, in her bright blue Keds to match her bright blue cotton old lady shorts, was literally dragging one foot behind the other, like she had some sort of paralysis.
I hadn’t seen her get out of the van with the young lady upon arrival, but the van did have tinted windows, so if she’d been sitting on the driver’s side, it would have been easy for me to overlook her. (I did do some work on occasion.) Maybe she was sitting at one of the chicken shack picnic tables while the younger members of her traveling party had their words.
They didn’t seem to pay much attention to her as she got closer to the van. She slowed for a minute, bent forward a bit, arms outstretched, as if she was stretching before they got back to another long drive. She was very pale, much like my grandmother, who I always imagined could have used plain corn starch instead of Cover Girl powders as a young girl. She had a button up plain white shirt on, and with the combination of bright blue pants and shoes, her orange hair seemed comical. Her hair should probably have been about the same shade of white as her shirt, but it was just as red as the cutest little Irish baby.
At first I thought she was so pale because of the contrast of the red hair and blue clothing. Then, as I watched a moment longer, I noticed that her skin was almost grey. I kept thinking that was a bit odd, but maybe she was just sickly. She must have been ill, and maybe that had something to do with the obvious muscle weakness. As she continued toward the couple, the young lady finally turned toward her, wearing an expression of confusion.
Maybe they didn’t know this person after all. Maybe she was hoping to ask directions or encourage them not to shout where everyone could hear. The young lady walked up to her, looking concerned, suddenly having forgotten (at least for a moment) about the argument she was involved in.
What happened next was so strange and so fast that it was a bit of a blur. The old lady seemed to fall on top of the younger lady who was trying to help her. “Ash’s” head hit the asphalt and bounced, as she was obviously not prepared for the tumble. It didn’t seem to knock her cold, but she winced in pain, and her beau jumped from the van. At this point I saw that one of his legs, the left one, was bandaged and had been bleeding.
There had been an altercation before the couple made it to this point, apparently. Maybe they felt it a wise decision to get lunch before sitting in the emergency room for six hours. Still, things just got more and more strange as I watched the story unfold through glass.
He hopped the two feet toward his wife and the old lady, who was still on top of the younger gal. He attempted to help the lady up and her arm snapped. He jumped back faster than anyone with an injured leg should have been able to, tired from his injury, tired from his argument with his wife, and now a bit shocked over the unexpected. (I imagine that if someone were to have peeked into the store at me, they would have been amused. I’m sure my chin was dropped to the desk as I watched in amazement.)
The old woman was not phased. With her good arm, she pulled herself toward him, and I realized that her expression hadn’t changed the entire time she’d been in the picture. Her mouth hung open and her eyes rarely blinked. I guess he decided that he should continue to help her upright, and he moved back in, when all of a sudden, she was attached to the leg that was already bandaged.
This old lady was tearing skin from his calf with her teeth!
His wife, still dazed starts hitting the old woman with her fists, screaming loudly enough that I could hear through the glass. The woman retorted, and while jabbing at her assailant, her broken bone went straight into the shoulder of the younger.
This all happened so quickly, mind you, that I hadn’t even had time to process what was going on. I jumped up to go toward the door and told my coworker what was going on. I thought I better call 911. “Yessss, I would say this is an emergency… An old woman is trying to mangle a couple… No, don’t hang up! I’m serious… And the old woman has a broken arm… The bone broke the skin, and now she’s punctured the wife in the shoulder… I know it sounds ridiculous… Hell no. I’m not going out there… This is fucking crazy.”
She asked me to stay on the line and let her know when one of the cops arrived. It was fine with me; I didn’t want to have a reason to go outside anyway. My coworker yelled out the door and told the young lady a cop was coming. I could hear her yelling, “They’re going to kill me! They’re going to kill me!” I thought she was just referring to the old lady.
“Holy moly,” I said out loud; her husband’s skin had lost the rosy sun glow and was turning that pale grey color. I hadn’t realized how much color he’d lost in the last few minutes. They both turned on the young lady. “Tash, lock the door.” I’d seen this happen in movies. “Lock the door now.”
The cops came up, four cars worth of them, and they were dressed in riot gear. Pop, pop, pop. I didn’t expect the police in this area even knew what riot gear was. It seemed that this was perhaps not the first incident of the day. “The cops are here. The problem has… uh… been resolved?” I said to the dispatcher.
The youngest of the cops walked over to our office and tapped on the door. I got up and walked over, but I didn’t unlock it. “Go home. Get to your home, lock your doors, and keep the lights down as much as possible. We don’t have many details about what’s going on, but this is obviously not a safe place to be. I suggest you get as far away from the middle of town as possible.”
I called my boyfriend, told him it might be a good idea to head home and get his guns out and loaded. I headed to pick up my boys from the sitter and watched in awe at all of the similar sights along the roadside as I drove out into the countryside.
This, as most of my post-human stories, is based on reality. The characters are based on actual people that I see outside the window as I sit at my humdrum job every day. It's just that... see, their lives are too boring. So, I give them some excitement.
25 August 2009
That's bologna
"I hate the smell of fried bologna," she said as she picked up a fork and flipped the slab of pink meat on the stovetop. "It turns my stomach."
"Well, you don't have to cook for me. I know how to heat up a skillet."
"Yeah, I know. But I want you to want me to want to cook for you," she wore a wry grin as she flung her arms out in a move that implied "ta-da!" The fork flew from her right hand, and she stooped to pick it up then flipped the meat again.
"Weird. You eat mustard and bologna sandwiches don't you?"
"If they have enough mustard," she replied. "It's not the same though. Something about the smell of cooking bologna makes me think about how poor we were when I was a kid."
"They do say that smell is the strongest memory where memories are concerned."
"Yeah. Dad liked fried bologna biscuits. Them mom would cook eggs in the leavings, so they tasted like it too. Ugh. I did like mayonnaise sandwiches though."
"But you don't eat mayonnaise now."
"Nope, not now. It reminds me of how poor we were when I was a kid."
Part autobiography, part fictional vignette. I hate the smell of frying meat. It really does make my stomach turn. And we did eat mayonnaise sandwiches. The conversation, however, is made up.
"Well, you don't have to cook for me. I know how to heat up a skillet."
"Yeah, I know. But I want you to want me to want to cook for you," she wore a wry grin as she flung her arms out in a move that implied "ta-da!" The fork flew from her right hand, and she stooped to pick it up then flipped the meat again.
"Weird. You eat mustard and bologna sandwiches don't you?"
"If they have enough mustard," she replied. "It's not the same though. Something about the smell of cooking bologna makes me think about how poor we were when I was a kid."
"They do say that smell is the strongest memory where memories are concerned."
"Yeah. Dad liked fried bologna biscuits. Them mom would cook eggs in the leavings, so they tasted like it too. Ugh. I did like mayonnaise sandwiches though."
"But you don't eat mayonnaise now."
"Nope, not now. It reminds me of how poor we were when I was a kid."
Part autobiography, part fictional vignette. I hate the smell of frying meat. It really does make my stomach turn. And we did eat mayonnaise sandwiches. The conversation, however, is made up.
14 August 2009
Update from my bipolarchild blog
In the last year, the boys had to stay with my mom almost full-time for several months. But, the outcome has been great. We (we being my partner-- though I help with bills of course) have purchased a home! CR decided that it was time to take advantage of the foreclosures and we got a nice, large, newer home. It's in a new school district, though it's only ten minutes from my mom's place.
Changing schools (yet again) has been something that worried us all summer. My older son, though not diagnosed with bp, has some anxiety based problems, so we were more concerned with him. He started third grade last week, though, and loves it so far. Boy has he surprise us all! His teacher is younger than I am (and I'm in my twenties), and we think that helps some.
David loves school, and he always has. Even though he's only started kindergarten this year, we took advantage of state pre-k, so he's a school veteran. He has a group of teachers and parapro's who work with him every day. They all love him, as "when he's good, he's very good." He hasn't had a "bad" day yet. I have discussed with the educators what to look for, and they're all very receptive to him. He's bright, and he likes to learn, so hopefully he won't have too many seriously bad days.
We might consider the medicinal regimen in explaining that there are now many more good days than bad. He now takes 1mg of risperdal, 150mg of triletal, and a low dose of ritalin. The combination seems to fit. We will likely up the risperdal soon, as he's grown a great deal, and in doing so, the effectiveness seems to have dropped.
We were approved for disability, and although the money helps to keep us out of as many financial woes, it's not as important as the medicaid. Now, we no longer have to worry about months at a time with no meds at all.
Also, having a "father figure" around full-time seems to help a great deal too. Plus, CR helps me out... I'd forget the tooth fairy role without him!
My final point will be on myself. I have not seen a psychiatrist, like I should have, but I did discuss David's condition with my doctor, and now I am taking Seroquel. It took less than a week to have a MAJOR effect on my state of mind. If I'd known how significant it would have been, I would have begged to see a psych as a younger teen or at least years prior to now. It has completely taken away my suicial-ness. I'm not perfectly happy, but that hopelessness of depression is gone. I almost have a bit of optimism now.
I can't come off the meds though, not if I intend to be a good mother to David, and his brother, as well as be a good partner to CR. My mood swings and anger are almost immediate if I miss a dose or two. Then the obsessive thoughts follow, then the racing mind that prevents sleep. Some of the aspects of my mind that I'd never known weren't normal have cleared up, and it's like a giant layer of fog clearing up to reveal a beautiful countryside.
Changing schools (yet again) has been something that worried us all summer. My older son, though not diagnosed with bp, has some anxiety based problems, so we were more concerned with him. He started third grade last week, though, and loves it so far. Boy has he surprise us all! His teacher is younger than I am (and I'm in my twenties), and we think that helps some.
David loves school, and he always has. Even though he's only started kindergarten this year, we took advantage of state pre-k, so he's a school veteran. He has a group of teachers and parapro's who work with him every day. They all love him, as "when he's good, he's very good." He hasn't had a "bad" day yet. I have discussed with the educators what to look for, and they're all very receptive to him. He's bright, and he likes to learn, so hopefully he won't have too many seriously bad days.
We might consider the medicinal regimen in explaining that there are now many more good days than bad. He now takes 1mg of risperdal, 150mg of triletal, and a low dose of ritalin. The combination seems to fit. We will likely up the risperdal soon, as he's grown a great deal, and in doing so, the effectiveness seems to have dropped.
We were approved for disability, and although the money helps to keep us out of as many financial woes, it's not as important as the medicaid. Now, we no longer have to worry about months at a time with no meds at all.
Also, having a "father figure" around full-time seems to help a great deal too. Plus, CR helps me out... I'd forget the tooth fairy role without him!
My final point will be on myself. I have not seen a psychiatrist, like I should have, but I did discuss David's condition with my doctor, and now I am taking Seroquel. It took less than a week to have a MAJOR effect on my state of mind. If I'd known how significant it would have been, I would have begged to see a psych as a younger teen or at least years prior to now. It has completely taken away my suicial-ness. I'm not perfectly happy, but that hopelessness of depression is gone. I almost have a bit of optimism now.
I can't come off the meds though, not if I intend to be a good mother to David, and his brother, as well as be a good partner to CR. My mood swings and anger are almost immediate if I miss a dose or two. Then the obsessive thoughts follow, then the racing mind that prevents sleep. Some of the aspects of my mind that I'd never known weren't normal have cleared up, and it's like a giant layer of fog clearing up to reveal a beautiful countryside.
09 August 2009
The Road Home, a non-fiction piece
We rode around Panama City looking for singlewides and pay-by-the-week apartments. We left all of our things in a a storage unit on the bad side of town, back home in Georgia. We had about $500 to our names by the time we got to the gulf coast, money that his dad gave us out of pity, and we knew it wouldn't last long.
We figured that he could get a restaurant job pretty easily, and I might be able to work third shift as a hotel clerk.
We stopped at an apartment building with a ign declaring "partially furnished. $125/week." It shared a parking lot with a topless bar, and not a classy one. It was the peach/pink color that covers so much of Florida rentals. Inside was one bedroom with a twin bed (the springs of the mattress coming through the ratty cover), a small tv room/kitchenette, and a bathroom.
That night we opted to sleep in our tent on the beach. It was beautiful but very hot, and I couldn't get comfortable on the pebble covered sand. Mostly, camping just isn't intended for pregnant people.
We ate pop tarts for breakfast and gave Speedbump (the dog) a can of food. We went to the beach, checking each surf shop for jobs. BR and I walked along the beach holding hands that afternoon despite the arguments we'd been having more and more frequently.
I was frustrated at his lack of a job mostly because I knew no one would hire me at that point. No one wanted to hire him because we didn't have an address to put on applications.
We got a cheap room that night. he went for a walk with the dog, and I laid in room alone, sun burned, scared, depressed, exhausted. I went to sleep in tears, assuming he'd gone to find a pretty, skinny, non-pregnant girl to party with.
One more day to try to look for a job and everything just blurred at that point. Almost out of money. We'd already tried to sleep in the Nissan before the point when we left Carrollton, so we knew that wouldn't work out.
We drove along the gulf, headed north, and just kept going, not knowing what else to do.
Perhaps our fighting caused the car to overheat. Still a couple of hours away from "home," the engine blew, and we sat all afternoon at a mom-and-pop gas station off the interstate. People made small talk with us and asked about what we would name the kid. Neither of us had our heart in it by then.
Micky drove all the way down to pick us up in his dad's wrecker, and we were officially broke.
I think at that point we were officially broken, too. I thought I needed him, and I figured there was no way I could get through my pregnancy alone. I hadn't hit bottom yet, but I knew it was coming; I could feel myself falling there. The road downhill travelled a lot faster than the climb up. I fell fast, but I'm still climbing.
We figured that he could get a restaurant job pretty easily, and I might be able to work third shift as a hotel clerk.
We stopped at an apartment building with a ign declaring "partially furnished. $125/week." It shared a parking lot with a topless bar, and not a classy one. It was the peach/pink color that covers so much of Florida rentals. Inside was one bedroom with a twin bed (the springs of the mattress coming through the ratty cover), a small tv room/kitchenette, and a bathroom.
That night we opted to sleep in our tent on the beach. It was beautiful but very hot, and I couldn't get comfortable on the pebble covered sand. Mostly, camping just isn't intended for pregnant people.
We ate pop tarts for breakfast and gave Speedbump (the dog) a can of food. We went to the beach, checking each surf shop for jobs. BR and I walked along the beach holding hands that afternoon despite the arguments we'd been having more and more frequently.
I was frustrated at his lack of a job mostly because I knew no one would hire me at that point. No one wanted to hire him because we didn't have an address to put on applications.
We got a cheap room that night. he went for a walk with the dog, and I laid in room alone, sun burned, scared, depressed, exhausted. I went to sleep in tears, assuming he'd gone to find a pretty, skinny, non-pregnant girl to party with.
One more day to try to look for a job and everything just blurred at that point. Almost out of money. We'd already tried to sleep in the Nissan before the point when we left Carrollton, so we knew that wouldn't work out.
We drove along the gulf, headed north, and just kept going, not knowing what else to do.
Perhaps our fighting caused the car to overheat. Still a couple of hours away from "home," the engine blew, and we sat all afternoon at a mom-and-pop gas station off the interstate. People made small talk with us and asked about what we would name the kid. Neither of us had our heart in it by then.
Micky drove all the way down to pick us up in his dad's wrecker, and we were officially broke.
I think at that point we were officially broken, too. I thought I needed him, and I figured there was no way I could get through my pregnancy alone. I hadn't hit bottom yet, but I knew it was coming; I could feel myself falling there. The road downhill travelled a lot faster than the climb up. I fell fast, but I'm still climbing.
Fiction by Lucy: Paulsen leaves the Adobe
Paulsen knew the time was drawing near when he would have to leave the desert adobe and go in search of food. More than food, the water situation was growing critical.
For once, his need to be alone had come in handy; living in a remote location meant the sick were not nearby. But, it proved a curse as well, for although the sick weren’t near, neither were necessities.
“Why the desert?” He mumbled to himself while working on his hiking pack. “Why not a mountain with a creek and deer?” He opened his gun safe and grabbed a Desert Eagle. He loaded it and put a stash of ammo into an easily accessed pocket in his pack. He stuck a switchblade knife, one his ex-wife had given him before things went sour, in the pocket of his cargo pants. He also tied a hunting rifle to his sleeping bag and attached the bundle to the bottom of the pack.
He figured the Vespa would make it to Amarillo before needing to fill up. He could head north toward greenery and water. Of course, he figured, he might end up anywhere before the week’s end.
So far he had seen very few of the ill. But he knew good and well “they” were covering up the truth, just as “they” always did. That’s what the media, the government does. They fuck up, then they sugar coat the story to keep the sheep in their wool. Paulsen was no fool.
He had connections. After years spent working as a contractor for the government, he had made a few fairly close acquaintances, and all it took was a well spoken phone call or email and he could get some details. “If you’re gonna conspire,” he’d joke with his drinking buddies, “You should at least base your theories on facts.”
Rhabdovirus. Rabies. No one had fessed up that it was mutated in a lab, but rumor was leaning that way. Earliest reports were suggesting a new form of HIV. The symptoms varied, but a common denominator was sex. A lot of sex. Sex with strangers. Sex with familiars who’d had sex with strangers. Then it spreads. Just like any STD. Only it’s a rapidly mutating form of rabies. Only, antibiotics don’t make it go away. One night, you’re out having a good time with friends, chatting up a sexy lady. And a month later, you’re a grey-skinned, foaming at the mouth zombie.
It seems to occur in a few stages. (Paulsen made a notebook about the situation at hand, and the following comes from that.)
Stage one could almost be confused with the common cold. Most people don’t realize anything is actually wrong. Common symptoms: headache, thirst, low grade fever, high libido.
Stage two- “Oh no, it’s not a cold; it’s the flu!” Symptoms: raging fever, sickening headache, high pulse/ blood pressure, a mild tingling sensation in the mouth and spinal region, increased sex drive (despite fatigue), craving proteins.
Stage three leads to the more obvious “rabies-like” symptoms: foaming spittle, graying skin, some hair loss, what drug users would refer to as “coke bugs,” sores, and urge to bite or chew, strong cravings for sex and meat.
The first three stages seem to vary from one person to the next, but the expected lapse of time is about six months. From the very first “zeds” they’ve studied so far, it seems this is followed by what they’re referring to as a rapid decay. The extreme fever eventually kills most intelligent thought. Hair falls out. Many seem to have a sensitivity to light. Seems that quite a few hearts explode because of overload.
This rapid decay phase doesn’t necessarily kill all of the sick, and it doesn’t necessarily happen rapidly either. If the fever drops or the pulse slows enough, what you have is your classic film zombie, only they don’t crawl out of graves. A grey, rotting, undead person roaming the lands eating whatever meaty being gets in its path. Rumor has it that some have been seen eating and eating until they burst; they just couldn’t stop.
Luckily, regardless of the lifespan, these “zombies” can be put to death easily enough. Millions are expected to die within year one, but because sex is so dangerous and any bite/scratch could lead to a new infection, society as we knew it a year ago is likely forever forgotten.
He spent most of the morning rigging a cb radio to the handlebar of his bike. Then, refusing to leave his mutt Ralf behind, he put bicycle wheels on a five gallon bucket and bolted it onto the side of the Vespa, hoping Ralf would be content with his new ride.
Paulsen figured he might get lucky at the pawn shop/ army surplus store about ninety miles northeast of his house. He arrived there about 7:00 pm and was pleasantly surprised to find the door unlocked and no one on the grounds. He decided since he had gotten a late start, this was as good a place as any to stay the night. He pulled the Vespa inside, locked and latched the doors and opened two cans of Spaghetti-O’s, one for himself and one for Ralf.
Knowing he wouldn’t be able to store many supplies while driving a small motorbike, he was choosy about what to get. He decided on a well-stocked first aid kit, a lot of dehydrated food pouches, and as many bottles of water as he could comfortable manage in his pack. He figured there would be plenty of places to grab water along the way as long as he kept moving.
When he was getting ready to pull his bike back onto the highway, he heard a low growl to his right and put his hand on the butt of his gun. Crawling around the side of the store was the man he had known as Shorty. Shorty had lost his left arm in the Vietnam War, and now his left shoulder was a raw open wound from having been dragged across sand and pebbles. His skin was bruised all over, and he had a green appearance that made Paulsen think of hangovers. One eye dangles from the socket and the other was filled with desperate hunger. His mouth hung open, and strings of spittle mixed with dirt and mud covered his right hand and cheek. As he made his way out into the open yard, Paulsen saw that his legs had been crushed, probably by a large truck.
“Shorty, can you speak?” he asked, knowing the answer was likely going to come in the form of a grunt.
“So thirsty,” he mumbled. “Soooo hungry.” There was no sign of life in his eye, other than that hunger.
“Shorty, I’m sorry old friend,” Paulsen replied, aimed the gun and said a silent prayer to his Pagan gods as he pulled the trigger.
On the day when Donald Paulsen shot a man for the first time, he swore to himself it was only to put the poor man out of his misery. What he found, though, as he tried to fall asleep in the desert that night, was that he had a hunger inside too. A hunger to live.
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