Generally speaking I plan to regale you with tales of booze & drug fueled fuckery, sexual exploits I probably could have done without and my childhood experiences. For this post I’m going to take a brief break from all that to give you a brief’ish synopsis of the girl you’ll be reading about, and her broken brain jam-packed with “feels”.
I am a bi-polar lady with social anxiety, suicidal tendencies, crippling panic attacks and a mild form a Tourette’s syndrome which causes repetitive movements and yucky throaty sounds. Hawt. When I was very young I had a phonic tic which involved repeating everything I said back to myself in a whisper. (Think, Brick, from that television show “The Middle”. My tick was like Bricks.) The panic attacks I suffer from, on top of bringing my life to an abrupt halt for hours on end, are really, really, REALLY physically unattractive. They transform me into a hyperventilating red-faced sea monster with some sort of morbid verbal repetition involved in-between sobs. So I have all of these preëxisting mental conditions along with the unique childhood experience of growing up with my mother. More on that later. I’m obsessive, mournful, dramatic, my moral compass seems to lack more than the socially accepted norm, I fall in love hard and fast, I’m told I’m needy, and co dependent at times and sometimes I fall deep into a depression that takes me months to dig out of. My left forearm is composed mostly of scars from a box cutter I used to use religiously when I had no other outlet for the pain and loneliness I felt. I have some good stuff too, I’m a naturally intelligent person, incredibly passionate as my emotions run deeper than someone without my personal struggles and I’m an all around interesting woman. I’ve seen shit, I’ve done shit and I have shit to say.
My favorite euphemism for my life is of the children’s game “The floor is lava”. The premise of which was to continuously move about the room without ever touching the floor. What kid didn’t love jumping from ottoman to chair, to couch, giggling and bouncing from one oasis to the next, riding high in a sea of imaginary dangers. As an adult, the game has ended but the dangers are no longer imaginary to me. When I open the door each day and step outside EVERYTHING is lava. My mom spent 26 years successfully convincing me that she was my only oasis, when she in fact was the source of most the fire around me. Even now that she is no longer in my life, that lava is still there and the fires burn hot. Outside the creäture comforts offered by my cats, my car and my apartment, everything around me threatens to set me on the path to self-destruction via poorly made decisions or maybe taking my own life. And there is the added fear derived from hands on experience, like being mugged, homeless or enduring years of physical and mental abuse.
Mania, which is also a part of being pi polar, makes me feel high and invincible. I’m not gonna lie, I like it. My highs generally include a lot of fast talking, big spending, fast driving, being way to quick to love and fuck and a crap load of housework. So, on the upside, my apartment is never cleaner than when I cycle into a period of mania. Unfortunately the high is always followed closely by a crash landing back into my depressive days where nothing interests me, and I hunker down in a nest of junk food and dirty laundry, and try to survive until the next high comes back around. (So, if you feel like dropping by for a visit, I recommend the mania days as everything will be clean and I might accidentally have sex with you. Just sayen.)
In the spirit of painting you a pretty pretty picture of the kind of good times I can bring to your life should you choose me as a friend or dare I say partner, I refer you to this past Summer. I was driving out to the Cape to visit family when I was pulled over for speeding. Losing control in any given situation is an instant trigger for me, so as the trooper drove off Into the sunset, ticket in hand, I felt the crushing weight of my anxiety completely take over. I spiraled into a 2+ hour-long attack. Crying, unable to take a full breath and chanting with my dry cracked throat “everythings ruined, everythings ruined, everythings ruined”. I was inconsolable until the sedatives William, (my passenger) had forced me to take, kicked in. In my drug filled haze, I then allowed William to get behind the wheel, if and only if he would drive me to the troopers station, which was a shit idea. I wasn’t being logical but I’m sure William feared what I would do if he didn’t oblige. When we arrived at the station, I got my second wind and went into a hysterical tirade, forcing my raspy voice to shout despite still not being able to catch my breath. Most of what Came out of my mouth was just gibberish and slurred nonsense as I staggering around the room, dizzy and nauseous. I’m still amazed I wasn’t arrested for the way I acted, but I’m guessing the troopers saw that I wasn’t driving, and assessed from inside his plexi glass fortress that I was not well. So, he just waited for me to tire myself out, which I did after 30 minutes into my sloppy crazy person tirade. I could literally go on for days just telling panic attack or full on break down stories, but who the Hell would want to read about that crap? Gotta mix in some good stuff, so my five readers don’t slit their wrists or leave me for a care bear marathon. (Care bear-athon actually sounds pretty pawesome right about now.)
So that’s pretty much me, a salty union of shitty genetics and my own unique life experiences, that all add up to be the adorable psycho you’ll come to know and love. Sometimes I’m a blasty blast, other times I’m a mess and just about all days I’m a hermit. I’ll never be even keeled, but I’ll never be ordinary either. All I want to do now is put some of my life out there for you all to share in. My hope is as I unload more and more of my sordid history onto the page, maybe I won’t have to carry as much of it around with me all the time.
Thx, love Ya.
crawls back into filthy little nest
Pretty polar 