Monday, September 29, 2014

When BFF Isn't Enough

Crazy pill count:
AM 300 Lamictal, 90 Cymbalta, 1 Klnopin
afternoon 1 Klnopin
PM 300 Lamictal, 1 Klnopin, 25 Seroquel

Hi there, my sweet, little, fellow crazy ones.
It's so nice to see you! It's been quite a while.

This is not me. 
I don't own a suit.
But look how happy he is to see you.

I cried at the coffee shop the other day. It's not something I am ashamed of or proud of. But thoughts of him still do that to me. Besides, the coffee shop shouldn't play such sad songs.

Him...who is him...and coffee shop...which coffee all sounds so cryptic.

The coffee shop: City Dock Coffee.
And look at them with their "coffee to go" in 2012.
It must be Throw Back Thursday or something.

I prefer sitting in the futon in the window.
But then there is that risk of crying...

{cue sad music}

And this him is my dearest bipoar friend. Our relationship is very much like the relationship of siblings. We are going through a, "Lose My Phone Number," phase, since we fight like siblings. We do this every so often. But this time it is for a good reason.

Don't call her either.
She looks scary.

When he is sober, he is one of the best people I know.
The best. The kind of friend you are so happy to have you don't know what you would do without them...that is until you actually have found yourself without them.

{cue sad music}

If he wasn't such a bestie I wouldn't have given him a best friend's necklace.

Yeah, I gave him a best friend's necklace.
You know like an official best friend's necklace.

The necklaces chopped in half little girls wear. And, yes, of course this is totally normal for friends in their 30's. Okay, fine, so it's a little (or a lot) weird, but in all fairness, I've never claimed to be normal.

This is a picture of the actual necklaces.
My half is Be Frie

But he is rarely sober these days. And when he's not sober he is hurtful. Mean. An out right asshole. And when I say asshole...I mean break me to tears without sad coffee shop music.

And so I have found myself at the point of self preservation.
If he texts, I don't text back.
If he calls, I don't answer.

But I always fear the worst.
After all, he has attempted suicide four times. And that is scary shit when you love someone so much.

My dear friend...I never know if I am a "drunk dial" or a "drunk text" or if he is really in trouble and needs his "be frei". If he still thinks of me as his best friend - you know, just in case he is still wearing that necklace happy little girls wear.

This isn't the elusive him
but I think I would quite enjoy his drunk texts.

The phone calls, the's hard to not answer or reply. Double damn it's hard. But I told him not to contact me until he has signed up for rehab or reached out for help in some kind of way. I have promised to drive him to rehab. To sit with him at AA.  I promised I would be there for anything. Anything at all. Like drop whatever I may be doing any moment of his road to sobriety.

And I meant it. 
I still do. 

But until he makes that decision I must vanish with my little, broken, "be frie" heart necklace.

{cue sad music}

On one particularly low, lost, and very scary morning we both made up some rules and agreed to them.

{1} he will live on my third floor

This isn't him but he is going to the third floor
And, oh yeah, I don't have an elevator.

{2} he will go to AA every morning...skip once he's kicked out

This isn't my foot. I don't make it a habit of wearing men't shoes.
But this guy is going to the curb!

{3} absolutely no sip and he's kicked out

But by nightfall, and another few bottles of champagne later, it was all called off.
My heart broke in half that night. Just like those necklaces

{cue sad music}

Until he expresses an interest in getting his disease under control...I will vanish.

{cue sad music}

Holy cow, there is so much sad music on. Can someone please change the mix tape?
That's what us old, (I mean vintage) kids had. I know, it's cray cray to think about. 
("cray cray" isn't that what the kids are saying these days?)

Is is fair to cut him off? I don't know.
This isn't an AA blog.

I know it is important for me to stand my ground. (so the AA people say)
But it's hard. Really double damn hard.

It's hard to ignore someone you fear is so close to death.
But sometimes we have to.

We have to tell someone when they decide to seek help we will support them in every possible way.

But until then, lose our phone number.

How is this h-e-double-hockey-stick related to bipolar disorder? 

Are you thinking, "For the love of Apollo, if you do not get to the bipolar point I will scream!" Well, geeze, I didn't know you are such a drama queen!

Well, my buddy, as I call him, my bipolar buddy, refuses to take any medication.
(By the way, are you taking your crazy pillls? Take. Your. Pills.)
Instead of taking crazy pills he self medicates with booze.

Unfortunately this not an unusual occurrence for us bipolar kids.
It's so common it has a name: Duel Diagnosis. 

I wish every day he would take his pills.
I wish every day he wouldn't drink.

But guess what?
It's not up to me.

{cue sad music}

Instead of taking those damn and necessary crazy pills I'm always telling you to take, he drinks champagne, or anything within hands reach, or what can be bought at the corner shop.

I do have to say I find it comical, 
as an alcoholic, 
his first drink of choice is champagne.
But to each alcoholic his own, I suppose. disorder remember...this is a bipolar blog...

If you love someone in your life who self medicates bipolar disorder with alcohol, do everything you can to help them get help.

And once you have done everything you can...
the most painful and most necessary step is to cut them off. (so the AA people say)

It hurts. It sucks.'s possible it may encourage them to seek help.
Sometimes alcoholics have to lose everything before they have the courage to get sober. (so the AA people say)

Because getting sober takes a hell of a lot of courage.

I lost my job, by best friend necklace...etc...

After all, that is what we want, isn't it?
For our dear loved one to be sober.
To be sober ourselves?

Ahh...finally the point!

If you self medicate with boozy booze mention it to your doctor. Even if you don't want to. Even if it's really hard to. And it probably will be. But our crazy doctors really need to know. It's not something to be ashamed of. It's just something we need help with. Just like being bipolar isn't shameful. It's just something we need help with.

It's really fucking important for you to get the right kind of help. So important I used the f-word when I said I wouldn't use that word anymore. It's that important you get sober.  As important as me yelling the f-word. Oh, yeah, you can't hear me. But I yelled when I said it.

If you are already acquainted with the destruction of self medicating with alcohol please seek the help you need to assist you so you can get well. Any and all help.

{cue Rocky theme song}

A lot of people really love you. Including me. 
And it's important to us that you stick around.
You are that important.

{cue music from any romantic comedy}

Your existence,
your health,
your life is that important to this whole, great, wide world.

(There are a lot of people in the whole, great, wide world, by the away. Just a little FYI)

Take care of yourself.
You deserve everything.

And, well, everything just isn't possible as an alcoholic. 
Especially a bipolar alcoholic.

Besides being sober is totally sexy.
If it wasn't why would someone have bothered to make this pin?

If you want to get sexier and sober I will make this pin for you.
Even though I don't know how to make a pin and it seems like it would be really hard.
I will make it for you. For reals.

("for reals" Isn't that what the kids are saying these days?)

See your doctor, be honest with your doctor, get all the help and support you need, and
be a sober bipolar kid.

For the love of Cupid, being bipolar is tough enough without the added complication of alcoholism.

And I can't forget to mention several bipolar medications should not be combined with alcohol. 
That is one way people accidentally die. Mixing alcohol with crazy pills they shouldn't.

Don't be that person.
Pretty, pretty please with a cherry on top. 
Don't. Be. That. Person.

This world needs you too much.
Sober you.
Properly medicated you.

Offer help to the one you love.
Accept help for yourself.

this is the part where you say

Until next time...

P.S. I heard through the grapevine that a very dear man misses this blog. And so I dedicate this post to him. Thank you, dear man, for caring and reading.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

The Butt Incident

Crazy pill count:
AM 300 Lamictal, 60 Cymbalta, 1 Klonopin, 30 Adderall
afternoon 1 Klonopin, 30 Adderall
PM 300 Lamictal, 50 Seroquel, 1 Klonopin, 50 Seroquel, 50 Topomax

My darling, little, fellow crazies. I told you I wouldn't be absent always and forever. How could I ignore you and your sweet, little, crazy pills forever? (Hey, are you taking your pills? Take your pills!)

I have a great little folk tale for you today! Except it's really not a folk tale.
It's a regular old true story that includes Dr. Crazy...seeing my butt.

Twelve times.

Woah, hold your dirty little horses. Let's not let your imagination run wild for those of you who are prone to dirty thoughts. And well, you know who you are. Yes, I'm talking to you.

But this isn't that kind of story. (Sorry, dirty little horses.)

I have been getting a shot in my boo-tay every two weeks since the end of October. The shot is called Zyprexa Relprevv.

Here's a neat little science lesson for you:

There are these really smarty pants people who have figured out how to turn Zyprexa into crystals. And, no, you don't smoke it like crack. Sorry to disappoint you if you have a fondness for crack. And, if you do, oh goodness, please stop!

I don't know. 
Do you think they look old enough?

I mean they do have on lab coats and safety goggles which make them look like smarty pants. And I do like the color pink. But it kinda looks like he's holding a joint. Also, I did just steal this picture from google.

{Begin Short Lecture}
Smoking crack is bad. 
Smoking pot is bad. 
Just take your crazy pills, okay?
{End Short Lecture}

Well, regardless of which smarty pants people figured it out, (who I hope wear safety goggles and don't smoke pot or crack) the crystals they created are different sizes and so they dissolve at different rates. Therefore, my dosage of 405mg release at a rate of 20mg of Zyprexa per day for fourteen days. 

How neat is that?! 
I told you it was going to be neat.
And fancy, too.
I mean isn't that fancy?

Even fancier than Fancy Feast.
And this cat is obviously very fancy.
Celebrating the moment too boot.

I love how Dr. Crazy turns into even more of a mad scientist as he prepares the injection. There is shaking and pounding and swirling and this amazing puff of blue smoke. Okay, fine, I made up the puff of blue smoke part but the rest is true. 

It took me a long time to get used to Dr. Crazy not just looking at, but actually sticking a needle into my butt. He did buy me a special supply of Peanuts bandaids and only lost them for two weeks.

That Dr. Crazy...
"Thoughtful guy," I thought.

But what I'd love to tell you about is my very first shot. 
From now on it will be referred to as, "The Butt Incident."

Office Manager Crazy stayed in the room and rubbed my back and twirled my hair as I leaned over a chair with a yellow sour patch kids pillow. Don't ask me why Dr. Crazy has this pillow because I have absolutely no idea why and it kind of creeps me out.

A picture of the slightly creepy pillow is below.

Creepy because I am bent over it bare butt-ed? Or simply because it's a sour patch kids pillow? Or because if you eat it (the candy not the pillow) it removes your taste buds and the roof of your mouth? 
Who know's. The jury is still out. 

The good news: You can have one of your very own 
because you do or don't think it's creepy? Click here for yours.

But more importantly, why is this pillow still available to the public?
Can we put a ban on this or something? At least in psychiatrist offices?

Having just recieved shot #12 I have learned a lot. I know exactly how far to pull down my pants, which isn't really that far at all, because Dr. Crazy says I have very strong gluteal muscles.

Should I take this as a complement?
Should I be offended?
Should I enter my butt in a weight lifting contest?
I'm just not sure.

But let's quit talking about my awesome strong hulk glut muscles and get back to The Butt Incident. I wore a thong that first day hoping I wouldn't need to take off my underwear. My risqué, purple, lace thong. Don't judge, boys and girls. You know you have the same pair in red.

So risqué thong means, me-no-pull-down-underwear, right?

At this point I didn't know I only had to pull my pants and underwear halfway down and when I pulled my pants and underwear all the way down no one told me it wasn't necessary.

The other amusing part of The Butt Incident is that Dr. Crazy wasn't done making the potion yet so I was just standing there - with my pants and underwear around my ankles - bare butt - leaning over the back of a chair. This is really just too many steps beyond akward.

Bizarre conversations seemed like the only option with jeans heaped at my ankles, a purple lace thong resting atop my jeans, bent over a chair, with that damn, creepy, sour patch kids pillow.

I was facing one of Dr. Crazy's book shelves. 

What could make this situation more awkward? 
Hmm...lets think...

How about talking about the most awkward book ever created: 
Post Secret. 
And then admitting how I've sent in four shameful secrets of my own.

And then randomly blurting out I believe in corporal punishment. 
Where the hell did that come from? 

"I got spanked and I think it was effective," I said. 
"When I got a time out I would just pee in the chair."
Kudos for that conversation starter, girl! 

I'm pretty sure it was awkward for everyone involved in The Butt Incident. Me, the fancy, *cough* slutty underwear, Dr. Crazy, Office Manager Crazy, that strange sour patch kids pillow. The strange Post Secret confession. The rather abrupt conviction children should get spanked. We really should have planned ahead for The Butt Incident. Like a dress rehearsal.

I can picture the whole conversation.

Dr. Crazy to me:
Now, I'm going to make a potion. Not like a witch, but like a mad scientist.

Don't wear your risqué, purple, lacy thong because you will still have to take them off and you're just going to embarrass everyone involved by showcasing your slutty side. Oh, and don't wear the pink, baby blue or black ones either. 

Trust me. 

Just because they are black doesn't make them classy.


Dr. Crazy to Office Manage Crazy: 
No need to pet her curls. She's not a dog. Or a cat. 

You can just stand there so I don't get sued for sexual harassment.


Dr. Crazy to Me again:
Don't take your pants off. 

This is unnecessary and your butt is huge.


Me to Office Manage Crazy:
You really don't have to rub my back and keep telling me, "It's going to be okay, sweetie, it's only going to be a little pinch and it will be all over. And you can have a coke and this pillow and relax."

Me to everyone:
NO!!! The pillow...NO!!!

At least now I know to wear Grandma Panties.

Boys, in case you are unfamilar, and to help you relate, these are an equelivent of Grandma Panties for a man. I think we can all agree this is a highly appropriate time to wear them.

Men, this diagram of women's Grandma Panties may also help.

Seriously ladies. We need help!
Why do we own let alone wear these?!

Oh, yeah, I know why. 
Because all our other underwear is dirty or it's our special time of the month.

And boys, in case you are unfamilar, the special time of the month is menstruation.

Girlfriend, watch out for this very important hazard!
Grandma Panties are never okay on a date.

I would like to emphasize the fact for nearly eight years, now, I have been sharing the dark side of my moon with Dr. Crazy. I have cried in front of this man for hours at a time, and he has, "made it all okay," by a simple look and only a few words. I have gotten ridiculous and he has yelled at me, formally, calling me by my full name. I have felt small and he has set me straight. And on and get the point.

All of that and now, now - he's not just acquainted with my neurotransmitters, my moods, and my self destructive patterns, to name only a few, but now he is acquainted with my butt.

It took me roughly two weeks to get over the awkward and embarrassing experience of The Butt Incident. But guess what? Then it had been two weeks and it was time for another shot!

I think I'd prefer these shots.

So The Butt Incident wasn't ideal. 
But I got used to it.
And although I'm used to, now, it's still not ideal.

But do you know what is ideal?
Getting to have my life back.

Not being bat shit crazy, but experiencing life in all it's rich colors, experiences, wonders, and joys.

This shot gave me that gift.

I feel like a normal person, living in a normal world, rather than a girl out of control of her brain and moods.

Our world is amazing
Let's do anything. Let's do everything to be able to enjoy and participate in it.

Even if you are afraid of pills.
Even if you are afraid of needles.
Even if it means pulling down your pants - in front of you psychiatrist.

You are worth it. 
Your life is worth it.
Give yourself the gift 
of having your life back
whether it is with pills or a shot.

Give yourself the gift
of having your life back
as beautifully possible as life can be. 

And that, is really damn beautiful.

Until next time...

Monday, November 25, 2013


Crazy pill count:
AM 200 Lamictal, 30 Cymbalta, 20 Adderall, 1 Klonopin
afternoon .5 Klonopin
PM 300 Lamictal, 1 Klonopin

Sometimes we need to cry.
And it's okay.

Until next time...

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Pipe Dreams to Reality.

Crazy pill count:
AM 200 Lamictal, 30 Cymbalta, 20 Adderall
PM 300 Lamictal, 150 Seroquel

Today, I would love to share with you why I've found myself so busy and pulled away from what I love so much. Yeah, I'm talking about you and this blog.

This back story is reallllly long but esscential.
I hope you will power through.

Glue your eyes open or something. I'm sure it's safe.

I am beyond lucky to have the writing partner I have. That is if you believe in luck. Together we collaborate on a little something called Flash-drama. This genre consists of plays that last less then ten minutes. Ours usually last about three to five.

We call ourselves playwrights.

We met when we were only fourteen. 
On three-way-calling. On a Friday night. 

We were slightly older than them.

Do you remember when three-way-calling came out? 
Uh, like the most amazing thing ever.

I mean look what a great time they are having!

So anyway, back to my writing partner. Many days we hate each other. Hate like I want throw broken crayons at him and who knows what the hell he wants to do to me. But really it's only because we love each other so much. Life is funny like that, isn't it?

I hate him for being self destructive because he is beautifully brilliant.
He hates me because he thinks I am also on a path to destruction.

He doesn't believe in pills.
I do.

Even though he doesn't believe in the fistfuls of crazy pills I swallow in one gulp, he believes in me. Even though I don't believe in his extreme gulps of champagne, vodka, or anything else close enough to swallow, I believe in him.

He believes in me in the times he can't stand the sight of me, or the sound of my voice, and that is precisely when it means the most.

Sometimes, I can't stand him either. It's all part of the package.

I mean, seriously, I can be really loud in really inappropriate times and have no clue of the sheer volume of my voice. I am also the person who laughs the loudest in the movie theater and for at least three-seconds longer than anyone else. Not exactly my most charming quality.

But I do believe in him. When he is jerk. When he won't listen. When he wants everything his way and it takes twenty-minutes to come to a compromise. (Because I always want my way too.) I have loved him and our volatile relationship, deeply, since I was fourteen-years-old. And love, well that's pretty powerful. It often borders on incredibly unhealthy and we refuse to talk for days; but we can't seem to stay away for too long because we believe in each other and we believe, really believe, together we are capable of greatness. That's a good person to have on your side. We are collaberators. We are partners. We are for the better and for the very worst the dearest of friends.

So what's with this sentimental rant, anyway?

Like me, and maybe you, he is also bipolar. We have been there for each other through, well, all of it. Through the terror, the hysteria, the tears at 2am, the ultimate despair, and when suicide has felt like the only solution to a life too pained for a single more breath.

We have saved each other. More than once.
And that is worth more than any fight. And seriously, we fight a lot.

So this greatness...what is it anyway?

Since May 2012 we have been working on our Flash-drama plays.
A long series of plays we have planned to turn into a book.

Are you wondering why our project has gone unfinished for so long?
No, not really.

It's because we're bipolar and that shit always gets in the way.
He's up. He's down. I'm up. I'm down.
Someone always wants to take a nap.

It's actually kind of funny and ridiculous in a dark comedy kind of way if I take a step back and watch it like a move.

So, friends, (drumroll please...finally my point), that is precisely what we are going to do. We are making a film. A documentary of sorts of our year of struggles as collaborators who can't get our shit together, because, well, bipolar disorder sucks and has this damn annoying way of interfering with that greatness we are all capable of (including you, by the way). That is if we also quit taking those stupid naps.

Our film can essentially be summed up only a few words:
"Two playwrights. Both bipolar; one on booze, one a scrips. Each has the manic belief they will create the next Great American Play."

The slightly longer summery:
"The Great American Play tells the story of two playwrights (somePlaywrights) who believe they are destined for greatness if only they can complete ten final scenes in two weeks. Both suffer from bipolar disorder and has 'chosen' their way of battling their ailment. The female counterpart has chosen prescriptions, marriage and surbubia. The male, on the other hand, has chosen alcoholism, womanizing, and the Manhattan nightlife. As the film unfolds, they come to find each is still suffering just in different ways. In order to rise above this new realization, they determine to complete their current work and make it The Great American Play. Unwilling not to be great, but also unable to bear the consequences of another manic crash, the film presents somePlaywrights racing against time, creativity, and their own debilitating disorders."

Let's be honest here, both of us are far from what would be coined as "stable," but we have found a version of stability in our twenty-year friendship and our manic belief, that together, we might, just might, be capable of greatness after-all. And it is by creating The Great American Play...together.

The Great American Play is our story.


Oh, yeah, and this is us.

I believe our story is an important and powerful one to be told. Although I have seen many great movies that touch on or focus on bipolar disorder, I have yet to see a single one that has really gotten it right from start to finish. They get some things spot on, of course, but then they ruin it by completely unrealistic resolutions and things of the such.

I feel so passionate to tell the real story of bipolar disorder. The way it is. Each day. Everyday. Start to finish in a mere forty-minutes. Hey, it's our first film, give us a break, we need to start with a short film.

I believe in my core we, (somePlaywrights), are the team to tell and show this story.

There is, however, a little hiccup in the plan. That darn inconvenient fact I have still yet to discover a money tree or become an independent zillionaire. If we want to make a film of this magnitude, the right way, honoring the true story, we need a little something called moola.

This is not the part where I ask you for money.
That would go against everything I have ever believed or continue to believe about this blog.

We have started a Kickstarter Campaign. In case you are not familiar, the way it works is you describe your creative project in great detail. You make a short film clip expressing the essence of your project (for us a film) the best and most creative way you can in only a few minutes time. You set your funding goal - the absolute least amount of money in which you can complete your project.

Then you wait.
It's hard to wait.
You wait for 30 days.

Kickstarter gives you only 30 days time to reach your indicated funding goal. 56% of Kickstarter projects fail. If we don't meet our entire $17,500 goal by December 12, we get no funding. Backers enter their funding intention, now, and their credit cards are only charged on December 12th if our entire $17,500 funding goal is reached.

If not, nothing happens.
And I mean nothing.
No funding.
And no film.

I completely understand $17,500 is a ridiculous amount of money. My jaw drops every time I think of it. But after crunching the numbers that's how much we need.

I know it's a pipe dream, but most everything great started as a pipe dream, too.

So once again, I am not asking you for money for this project.
I won't turn down any finical support, of course, as each dollar gets us closer to making this film a reality - but that is not my intention.

My intention, and what I'm asking for is your support by visiting our Kickstarter page.

Read all the nitty-gritty details about our film.
Watch our short clip.
Oh, and make sure you click on "Updates" so you can listen to me cry.

And then pass our page along if the project inspires you to do so.
And I mean to everyone.

To anyone who might believe this story is important.
To anyone who has lived life on the edge of extremes. 
To any mental health professional you think will believe this story has merit.
To anyone who might want to contribute to our meaningful cause.
To anyone who will listen.

The link to our Kickstarter page:

Here is the link that may be easier to share with others:

Whew, you made it!
Thank you for indulging me and my dreams by reading this wayyyyy too long post.

The takeaway:
Don't be afraid of pipe dreams.
Reach for them.
Do your damnedest to capture them.
Don't be afraid to ask for help.
Do everything you can to tell your story.
Make the world listen.

Until next time...