bipolar

Gone

I have been very sick lately.

It has been awful.

The anxiety is so thick that if I could remove it from my body, put it in a pot and cook it on the stove, it would make a sturdy roux, but it would taste like straight fuck.

I feel like I am losing my mind at a very rapid pace.

Too much change going on….

I suppose I do not handle change well, anymore.

I used to be able to deal with it, well, in my twenties. Back then, my life was nothing but constant change. But then I got settled down and in and it felt good. I got used to the monotony of doing the same things every day.

I got used to be being a mom, a damn good one. I got used to taking care of my family. I got used to washing dishes and clothes and cooking supper and cleaning the kitchen.

Then one day, everything was gone.

Everyone was gone.

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height

I had to stop drinking but I had to start back,   cause I’m always fucking feeling like I’m running in a pack of only fucking one and I got no fuckin gun, and got no fuckin fun and when I was young my dad called me son I thought it didn’t bother me until i was past  thirty then I started realizing that shit was kinda dirty, i wasn’t just a girl, I was a pretty ass girl, who had in her palm the whole entire world but i didn’t even know it and all i did was blow it and  when I turned 18 …DOPE was only chosen …my whole fucking life been a slow sUiCiDe all out in the open I didn’t try to hide…or so I thought but I was really fucking wrong and  Now I know all  the words to my poor swan song that so far never really seems to END and when I think it is HAS that really means BEGIN a whole new chapter with ONE LESS FRIEND  and i’m trapped with some lions and I’m in their den and they didn’t invite cause I’m NOT so polite sometimes I’m rowdy and sometimes I  fight and when that shit happens you better run from my sight… demons coming  outta me tends to fright so run away fast RUN AWAY FAST and run to the light I’ll meet ya when you get there after you fall from your

height….

 

Apollo

The alcohol is tearing my stomach up but that doesn’t matter while I fill up my cup

childhood demons coming  hard and fast don’t know how much longer I can last

everywhere I go the trouble seems to follow I put on my nikes and run like Apollo

I wanna get away I don’t want to wallow and the  pill life gives I don’t wanna swallow

so here I am and I’m stuck like stupid because I let an arrow from  cupid

hit my heart in the weakest spot, and now that bitch got me in a headlock

I’m at jesus door going  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK,  answer the door please don’t keep it locked.

I’m standing out here in the pouring ass rain and I hate that I am here once again

it seems like all I feel is nothing but shame, and that is a feeling so loaded with pain

I look all around for someone to blame

I look all around for someone to blame

but they’re gone, not coming back, and now I  feel an anxiety attack

coming to hit me always from the back rubbing my nose in all that I lack

 

waiting waiting waiting for an answer

Jesus please come cure this cancer

it’s eating me up from the inside out

even though I keep pulling out the seeds of doubt

waiting waiting waiting for an answer

Jesus please come cure this cancer

it’s eating me up from the inside out

even though I keep pulling out the seeds of doubt

 

I have to believe it only seems like i’m failing

when the truth is that I am probably sailing

across every ocean always prevailing

even when life seems so unavailing

I am a tough ass bitch this I do know

lemons in my garden are the only thing that grow

eyes all burning but I go with the flow

except I do it backwards, it’s part of my show

One day I will finish this lifetime race

running to the goal of unfettered grace

Jesus in my pocket HE IS MY ACE

it’s hard to believe he hasn’t turned his face

I feel so worthless most of the time

blaming myself for my father’s crimes

but then the wind blows and I can hear the chimes

and the slow still voice points out the landmines

beloved run here, don’t run there

the mothafucking landmines are everywhere

watch where you step, walk with care

and when you feel lonely find the sun and just stare

fuck whose watching…why the fuck care?

if you feel shame just let down your hair

and know they’re all numbered, my dear Sarah

I love all my children but you are fairer

keep that thought close in your desolate land

while you know you can always take my hand

I’ll walk you through the valleys of sand

and Ill get you to the promised land

keep your chin up while you get a tan

the place I am taking you is fucking grand

I tell no lies, I AM the Son of man

I tell no lies, I Am the Son of man

 

waiting waiting waiting for an answer

Jesus please come cure this cancer

it’s eating me up from the inside out

even though I keep pulling out the seeds of doubt

waiting waiting waiting for an answer

Jesus please come cure this cancer

it’s eating me up from the inside out

even though I keep pulling out the seeds of doubt

waiting waiting waiting for an answer

Jesus please come cure this cancer

it’s eating me up from the inside out

even though I keep pulling out the seeds of doubt

waiting waiting waiting for an answer

Jesus please come cure this cancer

it’s eating me up from the inside out

even though I keep pulling out the seeds of doubt

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not Now, nor, forevermore

It makes me mad that I have to watch my back when I walk out my back door to let my dog go pee.

Seriously….I don’t think you know the struggle.

It’s like this everywhere I move.

Now…one might say, “Well, Athena, don’t you think since it happens everywhere you move, that it is possible that YOU ARE THE PROBLEM?

Yeah….I get that.

But the problem is, they do shit FIRST, and so my actions are a fucking REACTION.

And yes…I do realize that neither the black neighbors, nor the white ones, were expecting the reaction they received from their own actions…

NEVERTHELESS….

I put up with way too much shit as a youngster, to take any now.

So fuck them all.

I am the sweetest, most forgiving, loving ASS MEAN BITCH YOU WILL EVER WISH YOU NEVER MET.

Ok…this IS FUNNY…I’m your trap queen

You GOTTA know you reading a BORDERLINE BITCH’S BLOG, when she tries to push away her own followers…

OMG…I am fucking sick.

Therapist?

Lucifer’s Got Jokes

Ok, at the risk of completely making myself out be the things my ex in-laws, and others, imagine me to be….

I’m totally interested in magick and Gremoires and mysticism and Archangels and Goetia…basically GOD/YAH in all of HIS MIGHTY FORMS.

And…I do have a super-power or two.

Those were not easily acquired.  One does not become able to posses magic unless one proves itself responsible….and no, this is not a blanket statement, I understand that there are varying degrees of black magic…anyway…I was watching a guy on youtube earlier doing an evocation of Lucifer.

The video was playing the whole time I was putting on my make-up, and that takes about 40 minutes.

So, I guess I had Lucifer on the brain when I put my headphones on and asked Him to be my DJ (being the “DJ” is when I put all the hundreds of songs on my mp3 and hit “shuffle”)….and this is what Lucifer wants to play…

NO SHIT.

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I love the dark side’s sense of humor…it’s much like my own.

Suicide Prevention

I keep seeing so many “suicicide prevention” blog topics, I am almost about to puke.

There is but ONE prevention for suicide and that is LOVE…UNCONDITIONAL FUCKING LOVE.

Unless a person is experiencing some serious-ass, off-the-wall hypomania, or like me, experience major depression mixed with sleep deprivation or some other mind-altering substance, they’re not going to just kill themselves out-of-the-blue.

People who kill themselves have wanted to kill themselves for a long time.

It takes a lot of strength and courage to kill yourself.

I haven’t looked at the statistics but I would be willing to bet that most successful suicides were preceded by a few fails, or “cries for help”, as I like to call them.

People these days for the most part, including myself, are self-absorbed assholes and that doesn’t make it easier for a person to decide NOT blow their brains out of their head.

We ALL HAVE WEIRD ASS ISSUES, these days.  

The people who appear to not have weird ass issues are the ones whose issues are really super-weird.

It’s just part of American culture now….issues…psychiatric issues.

Sorry, feminists, I love you all very much, but there is a noticeable link between the onset of feminism, the breakdown of the family unit and now, hoards and droves of people with emotional issues stemming from childhoods consisting of one-parent households..

Don’t get me wrong, I believe evolution had us heading in that direction, anyway…

The breakdown has to start.  

Order comes from chaos.

Our society is completely fucked up.

Everyone is ranting and raving about something.

I hear all the time, <WHINY VOICE>, “life isn’t fair!”.

The fuck it’s not.

Life is VERY fair and that’s what most people don’t understand, and if you don’t understand the problem, then you can’t fix it.

Love is the answer.

Love has always been the answer.

Try it….

….try for a day to not speak about a topic you have no first information about unless you first imagine yourself in the shoes of the person you want to condemn.

If you don’t know all of the facts of their life, from birth to present, which made them who they are today…then maybe don’t talk about them in a judgmental way.

Love them, anyway, no matter what hideous thing they are, or did.

You have done some pretty fucked up ass things in your life, too.

I know I have.

Witches And Rope Swings

I was so excited when my husband moved back into our home.  We had been separated for two years.  He moved in with his parents, and the kids and I stayed at our house.

When he moved out in 2009, our youngest child was only five months old.  We also had a one and half year old and a three-year old.  We also had my four-year old from a previous relationship and after my husband moved out, my oldest child, from my first marriage moved in with me.

Even though we were separated, I loved my husband very much and I was very faithful.  In fact, right before we separated I was “saved” and began attending church.  Since my husbands family consists, mostly, of STRICT SOUTHERN BAPTISTS, I thought that surely, that in Jesus saving me, his family would begin to like me.

I really did yearn for the love and approval of my in-laws but since I was a “wrong side of the tracks” girl, they never approved of me.

I never was really too sure of why they didn’t approve of me.  After all, my dad and my stepmother, who raised me are “upstanding citizens” of their community.  At that time, my step-mom was finishing her twenty-plus year career teaching at the biggest high school in the parish school district.  She even won the “teacher of the year” award, FOR THE ENTIRE PARISH, one time.

That was pretty impressive.

Nevertheless, my in-laws hated me from the second they met me and back then I was so green and naive about the ways of traditional small-town southern baptist wives, that it took me at least three years to catch on to the way my mother-in-law spoke to me.  I finally realized that every sweet, sweet thing she said to me was dripping with so much passive-aggression, that I believe if she didn’t live 25 miles away, the acid from her words would be able to traverse the distance, through the phone line, and melt my ears into a puddle.

For instance, absolutely every time she called me, she would open with, “Well, hey (my name), I didn’t wake you, did I?”

I laugh at how dumb I was then, because she usually only called me mid-afternoon.

When you have four small children…you don’t fucking sleep til mid-afternoon, unless you’re on heroin, and I wasn’t.

In retrospect, I am glad I gave her the benefit of the doubt..er….didn’t know she was totally insulting me, because my reaction was always as sweet as a fresh peach cobbler.

“Awwww, no ma’am!  Me and ******** and ***********  outside playing while ******** inside taking a nap?  How are you, today?  I’m so glad you called, I have been meanin to call you but it’s hard to get a moment to come up for air with all these children underfoot….I’m so sorry, Ms. poo”.

I don’t think I ever realized the degree of hatred my husband’s family had for me until                 July 4, 2011, right after my husband moved back into our family home.

I was invited for the very first year to my husband’s family reunion.  It was held at a really cool camp ground on the Tickfaw river.  All of the family was there and I was as sweet and polite as anyone could be.

And, I was genuinely sweet and polite.

There were several children there, including our three youngest children, and everyone was having a really good time.  The water felt good, the day was nice, and there was much shade and covered picnic tables.  There was also great food there.

There were also two rope swings.

One of the rope swings was obviously for children only, but the other was way up high.  To get to the high rope swing, you literally had to scale a wooded hill about 20 to 30 feet high.  My five-year old son and my four-year old daughter started scaling the cliff to get to that rope swing.

My “mommy” kicked in and I was thinking, “oh hell no…my baby ain’t jumping in there first!”

By the time I had made the trek up the mountain to stop him, he had already mounted the rope swing and was plunging into the water.  There were a couple of other boys who followed behind him.

I made it to the swing right as my four-year old was contemplating swinging off into the water. She was a bit scared, and we were so far up above the water, that I was scared, too.  My daughter’s fear wasn’t swaying her decision to jump.

I suggested that we swing together, but my husband, at the time, who was waiting below, in the river, emphatically told me, “NO!”, that would not end well.  I thought about it and considered it, and agreed with him.  We were so high that I was not sure if she would be able to hang on to my neck, or that I would be able to hold the rope with my slippery hands, while she was clinging like a spider monkey to my neck.

There was also the consideration that she would lose her grip and drop as soon as we made the jump.  The thought of me, basically dropping my daughter into the very shallow embankment below scared the holy hell out of me.

My daughter was adamant jumping from this rope swing and I eventually conceded to allow her to jump, but I was going to do it first, so I would know first-hand, into what she would be jumping.

The countdown from ten started in my head.  I was scared.  This damn swing was REALLY HIGH. I am usually never afraid to do things of this nature, but I had a bad feeling in my stomach at that moment.

I think I just pushed myself off before I even got to “3”.

I swung through the air, my hands gripping that rope like if I let go, I was plunging into Niagra Falls. When I reached the apex of the swing, I looked down and I wanted to let go, but…OH MY GOD, THE WATER WAS SO FAR DOWN….I balked.

The rope started coming back down to make it’s return and I knew I would look like an idiot if I didn’t let go, so I let go.

I remember looking down at the water while also seeing, in my peripheral vision, my hands coming apart, releasing the tight grip I had on the rope swing.

I could be crazy, and many say that I am, but I know when I looked down I saw those waters part like I was running from Pharaoh’s army, leading the Nation of Israel behind me, wondering how we was gonna get through the Red Sea before Pharaoh’s army caught us and slaughtered us.

“SPLASH”

I my feet entered the water with my body following.

We didn’t make it far.

I felt the slimy mud shoot between my toes at the same time the realization that my ankle just collapsed and then the white-noise pain…..

I literally landed in about 4 feet of water.

I crushed my ankle.

I remember being under the water and feeling like all I wanted was to inhale two lungs-full of nothing but water so that I would not have to return to the surface.

I used my right ankle to pull myself up and straighten my crumpled body.

When I came out of the water, everyone was looking at me.

That is it….just looking at me.

I had no mirror there, and I am not sure what expression my face was making, but I know it was one which conveyed some sort of near-death excruciating pain.  My kids saw it…so did my former husband.

It took him a second but he came and got me out of the water.  I felt like I was going to pass the fuck out, it hurt so bad.

When he carried me like a baby out of the water, my feelings of shame and weirdness at being in such a vulnerable position with him, almost topped the pain that was radiating from my entire leg.

By the time my former husband laid me on the river bank my ankle was swollen.  I was not crying, but I know I was whining like a bitch.  I hated doing it, but seriously, this was, to date, my worst injury ever, hands-down.

He asked me if I was going to be ‘ok’, and I said, “yes…of course”.

Some of the family members came to me to inquire how they could help me. Being the sweet, southern wife that I was, I politely declined….why?  I surely didn’t want to mess up everyone’s good time!  That’s not polite, at all!

In about ten minutes time, my ankle and foot were equal in size to my calf muscle, and I have pretty large calf-muscles.  At that point, I asked my former husband to place me in a more comfortable spot than the side of the river bank.

He had to carry me, because now, my leg was completely unusable. Since he has pretty severe back injuries, himself, and it was difficult for him to carry me from the front, I hopped around and let him piggy back me to our truck which was parked about 50 yards from the picnic area.

Since it was apparent that none of the family were going to insist I go to the emergency room, I let my former husband place me into the passenger seat of his truck and I watched as he returned to the family reunion, as if I had not just broken my leg.

I plugged my phone into the aux plug of my former husband’s truck and tried to listen to some music and take my mind off of my throbbing leg. This was a pretty hard task because I had to sit at a weird angle to keep my foot elevated, which was become more and more swollen with each passing minute.

Right about the time my skin started turning a very dark purple, my ankle not even in the “cankle” category anymore, now just resembling something from the leg of a mutant, my former husband’s cousin, Dusty walked over and asked me how I was feeling.

I wish I would have been able to come up with something less polite and sincerely sweet than what I said, which went something like, “Well…it’s hurting pretty bad, but Ima be ok!”.

Dusty and I spoke for a couple of minutes before I asked him if he would mind helping me get the truck bed.  I thought that if I could sit somewhere which afforded me the ability to stretchm leg out, comfortably, that it would lessen the pain.

Dusty agreed and I felt so bad as he used every ounce of man-strength he had to escort me to my desired destination.  I could no longer to bear any weight, whatsoever, on my left leg, and my right leg and ankle were beginning to throb now.  My right leg and ankle were probably damaged, as well.  I know this because three years later, I feel it.  But at the time,  my left leg injury usurped any and every pain I may have been feeling on any other part of my body.

The truck bed did not help me feel any better.  It really didn’t matter how I situated my leg, it was horrible.  I looked at my left ankle, in absolute amazement.  It looked like an ostrich had somehow climbed into my body an laid an egg right in my ankle.

It really was amazing.

Even though I had given birth to 5 healthy, full-term babies,  I never imagined something so small and dainty as a woman’s ankle, especially mine, could be so huge and abnormal.  The egg in my ankle was bigger than any of my children before 32 weeks, in utero.

My ankle was knocked up.

Dusty stayed and talked to me for thirty minutes to an hour.

Bless his heart, I knew his family rarely had anything nice to say about him, but I didn’t realize what a black sheep he was until he stood there that fourth f July day, talking to me, being sweet, keeping me company while my leg increasingly became a personified prop from a cheesy 80’s horry flick.

The party wrapped up and the women-folk started cleaning up the plastic dishes and utensils about two and half hours after they cast their spell to make the waters part.

I was not taken to see a doctor until two days later.

The attending physician, who appeared to be in his early 60’s, stated, “This is the worst sprain I have ever seen in all of my years practicing”.

Although, NOT A BONE WAS BROKEN, every tendon and ligament from my knee down stretched then snapped, like rubber bands.

I was in a wheelchair for almost six weeks.

The tendons are still in a pile at my ankle.

Most days my ankle hurts and I just ignore it.

On the days right before a rain, it REALLY HURTS…and it makes me feel old, all predicting the weather and shit.

But…

I CAN STILL MOONWALK, BIOTCHES!!!

Bread and Butter!!!!!

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I am about to apply these faux nails and while I am super-excited thinking about how all of the different ways I will be able to colorfully paint these luscious claws, I realize I should write type my post before the application.

I have been thinking all weekend about the subject matter of this post.  I have made several random notes in the “action memos” section of my Note 3.  This is my fourth note and I just started utilizing the “action memo” feature.  I mainly got the phone for the big screen.

I have 20/20 vision.

Yeah, haters, I have 20/20 in my backofthehead eyes, too.

So, I went back and re-visited the ideas which I wrote in my “action memo” section of my phone, and I have no memory of what any of them except the one saying, “OCD or Superstition”, means.
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I was employing shorthand, I suppose.

Was I drunk when I wrote them?

Yes…drunken shorthand.

I am feeling lazy today, and I am also in a pretty outstanding mood, so I am going to keep this short and sweet.

Or…at least I am going to try.

My Mimi was very superstitious and she taught me to be very superstitious.  I remember going to the corner grocery store with my grandmother.  Upon walking into the building, we would always pass two sets of Fica trees planted neatly in boxes made of red brick. Each box was about six feet long and four feet wide.

Like most children, I would immediately jump upon the brick and walk one side of the box as if I were a gymnast on the balance beam.  It was all good until I would choose to jump and do my walk on the side of the box opposite to the side Mimi was walking.

OH HELL, NO!

Mimi would IMMEDIATELY say, “BREAD AND BUTTER!!!!!!”

I knew what I was supposed to say and on most days I would make her happy by responding with an equal, “BREAD AND BUTTER!!!!!!”

Mimi said if I was ever walking with someone I loved and we should happen to pass something that would come between us, and if we let it come between us, I should always say, “bread and butter”, as well as the person with whom I was walking, so that nothing would really come between us.

Mimi cooked a bunch and I would watch her.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t watching her to learn how to cook, though she did manage to teach me to cook.  I watched her because I loved her more than anything in the world and I just wanted to be where she was.

At some point during the preparation of the meal, Mimi would invariably spill the salt.  When this happened, she would immediately take the salt shaker into her and shake salt onto the floor over her LEFT SHOULDER.

Otherwise…..well….we don’t want to know, now do we?

I don’t believe that, even to this day, I have spilled salt randomly then neglected to purposefully throw it onto the floor, OVER MY LEFT SHOULDER.

I have many more anecdotes like this one, about my beloved Mimi, but your attention span is short and so is mine and now I’m ready to do m’nails.

I love you.