A Tipsy Toilet Confession

It’s Monday and I’ve been sucking down some wine. I’m not feeling the greatest, but whenever I feel like I want to completely end shit I think of a few things that crack me up and make life a little better. The first one is evil. My sister had this strange boyfriend that I wasn’t a fan of. So beyond strange with these huge lips, tight Speedo, and bad attitude. He said goodbye to my sister when she was leaving for Germany for several years and ending the relationship. My friend saw him on the train crying his eyes out after the last farewell. Not funny. But if you knew him, fucking hilarious. I almost went down in a plane. Everyone was praying and crying and I started laughing like a maniac thinking of him bawling.

The second is a hard confession to make. A few years ago when I lived in an apartment I received a new toilet (very exciting event). Two weeks later it stopped working. The plumbers dug deep and found a fork in there. That was the cause of the toilet destruction. Everyone blamed my former fiance’s nephew since he was an adorable terror. I went along with it. The truth is, I accidentally flushed the fork. It was in a bowl of old cereal and I didn’t see it. Off my chest. I never admitted the truth, though some suspected it.

For some reason Keurig cups have been blowing up every where in my house lately. There are coffee grinds in my purse, the floor, the carpet, the sink, the bathtub. It’s like I get my paws on a K-Cup and it explodes. I tried to empty my coffee remnants out of my bag down the toilet and several hundred pennies fell out with it. Who knew pennies would not flush until at least 30 tries? There was no way I was sticking my hands in the toilet and fishing for those things. So I just kept flushing. They’re gone now, but coffee grinds remain. If this toilet blows, I will go down denying it.

Pointless stories, but endless sources of amusement for me. If my sisters or brother (ultimate narc) are reading this and Pennygate 2013 happens, do not tell Mom it was me or I will shank you.

Life Skills in One Easy List

I have been told I have no life skills. There’s three types of people in the world: book smart, street smart, and that rare combination of both. I would go to school for years if it was possible, I take tests like a mother fuc*a, but when it comes to survival tactics, I’m lacking. I found this article on Buzzfeed that is an excellent common sense primer:

21 Incredibly Important Diagrams to Help You Get Through Life

Bam. You’re welcome.

 

Freeeeeeeddddommmm (in a Scottish accent of course)

I’m trying to find the positive in the midst of personal disasters and I’m starting to warm up to the idea of having no ties, aside from my cat. Instead of looking at empty rooms and crying, I see possibility. The back room of my apartment that was his former music studio is perfect for my home office. He painted the walls black, which looks surprisingly bad ass, and after seeing a photo of an office designed by Abigail Ahern (sick interior designer), I am going to try to replicate the dark walls combined with a hot pink desk look. In fact, hot pink and other “girly” colors will be making a comeback in my crib. I could even wallpaper every room with pictures of shirtless dudes holding kittens if I wanted to.

It’s not only interior design that makes me giddy. I really want to dive back into life and take on the things that I never had the chance to conquer. Now that marriage and babies are no longer on the horizon (I can adopt little nuggets anyway), it’s time to start crossing shit off of my life to-do list. My 31st birthday is coming up. I freaked when I turned 30 and started thinking of the experiences I never had. You can see it here. But my 31st year offers a whole new world of opportunity. I’m going to add to that list. I already crossed off getting more tattoos (well one new one so far):

My fear or needles has been conquered.

Here’s my revised agenda:

1. Go serious camping.
2. Try skiing or snowboarding.
3. See as many other U.S. states as possible.
4. Go to at least one more European nation.
5. Take a road trip to California (I hate driving so this might be a challenge).
6. Continue making odd wall art.
7. Take my yoga and meditation practices to a new level.
8. Go to the gym regularly and get buff as hell.
9. Do some hiking.
10. Visit the MoMA again, but this time alone.
11. Touch a mountain (this has been on the list for some time).
12. Write as much of my own shit as possible.
13. Record some of my grandmother’s life stories.
14. Eventually, move somewhere beautiful.

I’m sure there are many more things to add, but until I win the lottery these will have to suffice. I must admit, I’m a little scared. I’ll have to get over my social anxiety and fear. But, my sister’s favorite quote made me reevaluate my pointless worries:

“Life is short, break the rules, forgive quickly, kiss slowly, love truly, laugh uncontrollably, and never regret anything that made you smile. Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” – Mark Twain (though it has been attributed to Twain, this attribution hasn’t actually been verified. I’ll give it to him though).

What’s on your life list just waiting to be crossed off?

Quiet: My Life is a Library and Not a Cool One

By Mark Ryden

I’m too broke to purchase a plutonium-powered DeLorean and hot tubs are just a UTI waiting to happen. So I guess I’m shit out of luck when it comes to a time machine. Otherwise, I’d jet back to my infancy for a life re-do. Unfortunately, I’m just going to have to be where I’m at.

In my emotional turmoil/mental breakdown I hurt people I love. Due to my abhorrent behavior, my ring finger is bare, my former fiance moved out, and after a ten year relationship, I’m alone for the first time in my adult life. It’s weird being in an empty apartment surrounded by things that we created together. It obviously wasn’t meant to be or I wouldn’t have subconsciously sabotaged the hell out of us. That doesn’t make it hurt less. He was my best friend.

The weekend after I met him in college, I went home and told my grandmother that I found the dude I was going to marry. And I almost did. I thought I was psychic. But premium psychics always say, “almost doesn’t count” when it comes to predictions of the future. Actually, I have no idea if they say that. I just made that up.

I keep holding on to all that was good in our relationship. I wish my selective memory would fuck off. The truth of the matter is that it wasn’t ten years of bliss. I haven’t been happy for a while. It’s not that he did anything horribly wrong. I just haven’t been happy with myself. I’m not the person I know I can be. If I can’t get my head right, no relationship will be successful.

I’ve never had the space to figure my shit out. I’ve had a boyfriend from the time I was 16. I don’t know why I’m so afraid to be alone. Probably because I’ll have to face my shadow. I consider myself pretty self-aware and I know all about my insecurities, judgements, fear, anger, and negativity. Awareness and constant self-reflection aren’t enough. It’s time for me to accept these qualities, stop acting on their impulse, and eventually free up the energy they have a stranglehold on. I’m tired of being a slave to my inner-bitch.

Who knows? I’ve had a lot of “a ha” moments that Oprah would find absolutely orgasmic. They don’t always pan out. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be back in the fetal position hating myself. But I have some work to do.

It’s taken me a long time to realize that just because someone has a penis it doesn’t mean they can save me from myself.

Meow: Lending a Helping Paw

My baby. License and registration right meow.

First things first. I want to say thank you for all of the support and love. It’s been moving and much appreciated. The same goes to all of the people in my life who’ve been there for me. I’m finally back after my long hiatus.

I did an outpatient dialectical behavior therapy (DBT) program. DBT is like cognitive behavioral therapy mixed with zen, so it was cool. While I wouldn’t say I’m 100-percent mentally stable, I am feeling better. I spent at least a month of my life on the couch from the side effects of new medications and then the withdrawal when they inevitably didn’t work. Bipolar pill cocktails are no joke. I’m still on the same shit I was when I went in, but now I have a whole world of skills to use when I’m feeling crazy.

Anyway, on to the felines. I heard of cats in nursing homes sensing when a resident was going to die and curling up on their bed with them until they passed away. I find that almost other-worldly and it makes me tear up a little. People always tell me that my cat is mean. She hates children, blocks their path when they try to walk by her, and then hisses at them and scratches their little hands and legs, completely unprovoked. She isn’t really into people.

My sister would come over and sit down and out of nowhere something would grab on to her ponytail and just slam her head into the back of the couch. It was reminiscent of a horror movie. But it was just my little Jasmine showing her love for her aunt.

She doesn’t like to cuddle. She plays rough. When she’s hungry and I’m sleeping she crawls up under the covers and sticks her claws into the bottoms of my toes. The things everyone views as her personality defects are the reasons I love her. I’m weird. Why wouldn’t my cat be a little eccentric? She’s my fur baby and has converted me into a raving cat lady. She loves me in her own way. She follows me room to room, albeit at a distance, cries when I leave, and waits by the door when I come home.

While I’m constantly kicking my intuition in the throat and second guessing myself, my regal cat’s intuition is on point. One might not expect a lot of empathy or compassion on her part. They would be wrong. As seen in one of my last posts, I’ve been sad. She hasn’t left my side. The whole time I was on the couch crying, sleeping, and/or throwing up, she rested right above me. When I curled up under my covers in bed, she nestled up against my legs. When I paced the house endlessly because of the hell known as akathisia, she paced with me.

They say petting an animal triggers the release of serotonin and dopamine in your brain. Well, I pet the shit out of her to soak up as many feel good chemicals as I could. I know it’s going to sound crazy, but that ball of fur, paws, and whiskers truly helped me. For that, I’m buying her a brand new cat fountain.

“I have studied many philosophers and many cats. The wisdom of cats is infinitely superior.”- Hippolyte Taine

Old Hippolyte was wise as hell.

Bukowski on Politics

Photo via The Telegraph.

Charles Bukowski is the shit. I can’t even describe how much his writing resonates with me. If I had been an adult at any time during his lifetime, I would have hit that. In light of election day here’s a quote from a 1982 High Times interview (Note: I would save whales and saving the world would be cool too):

HIGH TIMES: Back to politics: Even though you say you’re apolitical, some people see political themes in your work.

BUKOWSKI: They are entirely wrong. There is no political motivation in me. I don’t want to save the world, I don’t want to make it a better place. I just want to live in it and talk about what happens. I don’t want the whales to be saved, I don’t want the nuclear plants to be broken down and taken away. Whatever is here, I am with it. I may say I don’t like it, but I don’t want to change it. I am very selfish. What I mostly don’t like is things like, I drive my car down the freeway, I get a flat tire, and I have to get out and change the goddamn thing. I have to change lanes and there isn’t any lane on the right-hand side, and I have to get to the track. So you see, I have no profound feelings, I have no profound movement. I have nothing of this wanting anything at all. I just want to brush my teeth and hope my teeth don’t fall off. I hope to get a hard-on next year. Just simple little things. I am not looking for big things. I’ll settle for small things, like the winner of the third race at the odds of three, to one. That’s all I want. Nothing very magic. I don’t want to extend beyond my boundaries.

Lithium, llamas, and losing it …

By Camille Rose Garcia.

I’m going to be really truthful here and bare my soul, which is making my palms sweat. I’ve been on a temporary hiatus from the blogging world and life in general. Sometimes we’re made to think that mental illness is embarrassing and not a topic you openly discuss with the world. Or maybe others do feel okay sharing. But for me, I find it really hard. In my mind, the bottom line is that people have diseases of all types, whether it’s diabetes or heart disease. Anything related to the body is socially accepted. Yet, bipolar, depression, OCD, etc. are the same thing, they just manifest themselves in the mind.

12 years ago, the first time I was hospitalized, I was diagnosed with bipolar and I felt shitty long before that. I have literally tried every medication and form of therapy there is to try, but it’s been pretty treatment-resistant. Three times a day, I whip out bottle after bottle of pills and take them religiously. I feel like a 90-year-old woman. At best I’m floating by. I’m not particularly happy, I’m not sad, I just feel sort of dead. The chemicals numb me. At worst, I cry constantly, can’t get out of bed or leave the house, feel hopeless, restless, and irritable, have anxiety attacks, and just want to die.

This part is terrifying to discuss openly: About three or four years ago, I was going through a particularly rough time and I went into my apartment, locked the door, took every single pill that was in my house and overdosed. My brother rescued me. After a stint in the emergency room, I was hospitalized once again. I saw what it did to my family and I would honestly never ever try to kill myself again. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.

Each time I enter a program or switch to a new medication, I wait for this cure and think “I’ll be normal. I’ll be better soon. I can’t wait to be happy.” It doesn’t work like that. I’m sad to say that I had to go back again after the suicide attempt, but in an outpatient setting. I feel like a failure. Why can’t I get better? I’m saddled with this disease for life. This isn’t even a woe is me post. I’ve made peace with that aspect. It’s managing the symptoms, lessening the amount of medication I’m on, and my self-destructive behavior that is of concern to me.

The past two months have been incredibly difficult for me. I’m losing it. I’m not going to lie. My arm is covered in cuts and scars like a sullen pre-teen. I had an intake interview today and tomorrow I start a partial hospitalization program at yet another hospital. Once I’m no longer a danger to myself, I graduate to intensive outpatient. It’s a 12 week program. It’s a huge commitment, it’s definitely a mindfuck, and I don’t feel as hopeful as I did during previous attempts. But I’m keeping an open mind.

I am hard on myself because I’m a yogi and I teach yoga. I have this misconception that a true yogi wouldn’t be on a shitload of medication or need constant therapy. Asana practice, mindfulness, clean living, meditation, and pranayama are amazing wellness tools. They have honestly transformed my life and keep me somewhat sane. But even if I reach samadhi tomorrow, I’m still going to have bipolar. It’s not something that enlightenment or spirituality can vanquish. It just is. I’ve heard so much nonsense in my life time about how to overcome it without medication and how to rise above and eliminate it. That’s just not the truth. It’s brain chemistry. And episodes happen, albeit less intense when you’re on the right meds and find an awesome therapist.

I don’t want to focus on my issues for three months. But I NEED to get out of this dark place and find some normalcy and peace. I want to decrease the pharmaceutical nonsense I’m on so that I can feel something. Therefore, I’ll put everything I have into it and keep up with my yoga. In one sense, I feel blessed to be crazy. It makes me see the world in a different way. It’s what allows me to write and be super weird. It’s made me who I am. But it’s still a real handjob at times.

I’ll wait until I’m feeling better to write my next post. It will be joyous and filled with kittens, llamas, puppies, and giraffes. Until then, I’m going to be clawing my way out of this hole I’m in.

Local Bordentown Singles (Pat Smith)

Reblogged from The Atlantic Clouds:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4XyPUNoqhU

A local artist from Bordentown, Pat Smith, with a badass video for a badass song. The man can play the keyboard and writes all the music. I will definitely be doing a review of his debut album, Goodbye Goodnight, later this week. Until then, enjoy this little teaser...

P.S. The bum is hysterical

Randomly found this blog post about my fiance. I'm in the video! The universe is crazy. I swear I had no idea this was out there.

Wah.

Photo via Austin Pets Alive.

I have a long post to write, but I just can’t do it right now. I’m heartbroken. My sister leaves for Chicago tomorrow to move in with her boyfriend and the other sister recently left for Northern California. I’m going to be lonely. Non-attachment to things is fine. Non-attachment to people I love is not going to happen. On the bright side, I’m driving to Chicago with her tomorrow and staying for a week. Then, I’m leaving from Chicago and flying to Northern California for another week. It’s a sister bonanza. Believe me, I will enjoy the shit out of this time and try not to dwell on the emptiness awaiting me at home. Hopefully the trip involves lots of yoga, exploring, hiking, kayaking, beer, and bongs (it’s a natural herb, so it’s yogi-approved). My idea of living it up tends to cross the imaginary line. So if I don’t return, that probably means I’m taking joint showers with imposing women in the slammer. I wonder if I’ll be someone’s bitch? Probably.

I’m off to sage the car for the journey. Namaste.

Happy Labor Day

Photo via e621.net.

Happy Labor Day. May your weekend be filled with veggie burgers, yoga, beer, and a few questionable decisions. Meow.