Full Circle

First off, my sons are doing okay. They believe it’s all anxiety. A second opinion? Maybe. As for my health, I have to see a Neurologist due to memory problems. Just lesions and some demyelination. Nothing too serious.

I still struggle with Anxiety. She’s being a bitch this week. It’s not a full head-on Anxiety attack, but it’s pretty close. Last month it was Borderline Personality Disorder. Oddly enough, she’s been tame. Actually, quiet. That part has shut down. Almost numb in a weird way. Bipolar on the other hand, that one is firing up. My mind is racing 100 mph down a the freeway. If that bitch would shut up, I would be a happy camper. She isn’t nice to me this week. I’m so scattered, it isn’t funny. “We got to do this. Then that. Then This… DO IT!” Uh… she’s mixing with Anxiety to knock me into mania. My manic episodes with my brain going non-stop. I wish I could stop my brain to catch my breath. It doesn’t look like that’s happening anytime soon.

My BPD was triggered by abandonment. Right on my 8th birthday. My dad left me a butterfly jewelry set, and he left. I always have a deep affection for dragonflies and butterflies. It broke my heart when he left. He was my security blanket. He made me feel safe from the monsters at night. When he left, the nightmares turned into night terrors. I still miss him. He won’t acknowledge I exist. It is heartbreaking to live this life at times.

But anyway, I stopped celebrating my birthdays. There’s no point in them anymore. My birthday will be here in three weeks, and I’ll be turning 37. I don’t care about telling people my age. It is what it is. I’m a damn Leo. An awesome Leo. That horoscope fits me to a T.

BUT! Things come full circle. When I gave birth to my youngest son, I was told that I shouldn’t have another baby. I shook the OBGYN up during my third C-Section. There was a window in my uterus when my youngest son was born. One little move, and we both could have died. Well, my dumbass wanted one more try for a girl. So, I found another OBGYN who could fix me. I would be able to have another baby. It would be my last attempt at having a girl. The doc fixed me. She fixed all the lesions on my uterus and adhesions. It looked like a jigsaw puzzle. That’s how bad my uterus was. Well, she cleaned it all up for me through a laparoscopic surgery. My body held up long enough to get pregnant. I gave birth to our daughter, Samara on August 14th. Right on my birthday. If she would have been a boy, I would have not had another. It was my one shot. And I didn’t want to end on an odd number of kids. 3 didn’t make me happy. She came at 5:38 in the morning on my birthday. She only weighed in at 7 lbs 4 oz. She was the smallest baby. I fell in love with my daughter from the moment I saw her. She made all the painful birthdays go away. She is by far, better than any butterfly jewelry. She closed that little part of my heart that I didn’t think would ever close.

It’s funny how such a miserable day can turn into a day of hope. I used to be so jealous of all those girls who had their dads with them at the sock hops. My dad would never do a thing like that. So, I found a husband who would do that with my daughter. He dances with her every chance he gets. And to see her matching brown eyes light up and hear her giggling… it’s made the world better for me. My dad tried to break me, but my husband and children repaired my heart. The overall angst is not as vocal as she normally is. But with Bipolar, I want to work so hard for them. I want my book to be good and somehow financially doable. I’d like to buy a cheap house and a nice car. It would be nice to save up more money for their college funds. And to start Aaron’s House.

My best friend died a couple of years ago. He was the one who explained what transsexual was to me at age 14. He died of sleep apnea. He made the world perfect around him. He loved everyone. Aaron didn’t judge anyone. He opened his heart to everyone. My project would hopefully get LGTBQIA teenagers off the street, and give them a home. That’s my ultimate dream. When asshole parents kick out their LGTBQIA teens, they got a place to call home. That’s what I’d like to do. Give scholarships. That’s my ultimate goal. I dream of it every day. I’ll be mom to all those displaced teens. I think Aaron would approve. I miss him. It’s hard when you lose your friends. He’d call me out on my shit too.

Those are my dreams. I’m allowed to have dreams. It would be nice to make those dreams come true. Everyone should feel loved. No teen should ever feel like shit. That’s my hope for the future. I would love to see things come full circle.


I recently read a nonfiction book about Autism. It was called, “In the Key of Autism.” It’s a new book that was released in January of this year. This brings me to the next topic of conversation. Do you know why they call it Autism Spectrum Disorder? That’s because so many people meet the criteria for Autism and it’s such a broad diagnosis. I’ve seen things like, “But you don’t look like you have Autism!” When someone with Autism created a YouTube channel.

That’s why mental health disorders are so complicated. “But you don’t look like a person with BPD, Bipolar, Autism, or Anxiety.” Looks can be deceiving. We only see a small fraction of their lives. We don’t see the entire picture. We don’t know what a person does behind closed doors. We don’t know their struggles and pain. We just assume that they look for the most part, healthy. When people think of Autism, they think of the character from Rain Man, starring Dustin Hoffman.

Come to find out, Asperger’s doesn’t exist anymore in the book DSM-5 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual for mental health) as of 2012. They included Asperger’s in the Autism Spectrum realm. There are many different levels of autistic children. Some can function with social problems, and some need major assistance.

Lucky for me, I’ve been around kids with autism my entire life. I was blessed with being around quite a few kids my age with Autism. I know what it looks like. At least, I should know, but I didn’t. Today, I cried in the car. Tonight, I witnessed Autism. I witnessed it, and I don’t know why I ignored it for so long. I feel like the worst mother on the planet.

I pushed my eldest son to watch the fireworks with us tonight. We always avoided the fireworks because he would scream. My son is now 11, almost 12. A piece of me died tonight because I was so focused on my problems, I ignored his. How could I be so selfish? I can’t forgive myself right now.

Let me start with a familiar story. I had my eldest son, Zachary in 2005. He turned sunny side up, and was breach at the last-minute. I had to have a c-section. It took the OBGYN, three tries to pull him out. He was really stuck. When he was born, he reminded me of a Pit Bull because he was so mad!

The first couple of years were okay. But with Zach, he sleeps a lot. One day, he was playing with his toys. He lined up all of his toys in a row, just staring at the wheels. He would lay his head down on the floor and play with each car, one by one. But, he would always put his cars back in a straight line. If you messed up his line of cars, he would freak out. He would scream at me. His room always has to be organized. He can’t stand things out-of-order. I thought, maybe he has OCD like me. Cool! Cool, but not cool.

I made the mistake of having siblings. For the longest time, Zach was the only child. He did sleep a lot in the beginning. This is when things change. After 3, he was still rocking himself to sleep. He is now 11, almost 12, and he’s still rocking himself to sleep. Not only is he rocking himself to sleep, he makes loud noises when he’s trying to fall asleep. I did ask the pediatrician about it, and they said it was normal. I used to rock myself to sleep a long time ago, but I had bad ears. I noticed that when I’m in a lot of pain, I tend to still rock even today. Zach’s ears are normal. He has no fluid or ear infections.

Another thing I’ve noticed within the past two years, he will speak a sentence and repeat half of the sentence under his breath. Now, I have Bipolar I. So, for a while there, I thought I was hearing things. I have a lot of auditory hallucinations. I think I hear something, but it was nothing. I thought I was losing my mind and having a manic episode until someone else confirmed it. I need to tape him doing it. He does it when he’s excited about something or if he did something wrong. That’s how I know when he lies. A mother always knows. When he runs, he still flaps his hands. When he’s excited, he flaps his hands.

When we were sitting there watching his fifth grade graduation, Zach walked differently from the other kids. Hunched over with his hands together. He never looked at the people. He didn’t say anything.

Now Zach is wicked smart. This kid can get straight A’s. But he has trouble with his peers. When they don’t answer correctly, my son speaks up. This has led to vicious bullying. Zach also corrects his teachers when it comes to science. And when Zach speaks, he sounds like a college kid. People are often shocked with the language and words he uses at age 11. He is also a very fast reader. I cannot talk science with him because he will sound like a boring professor. He often talks about molecules, atoms, protons, neutrons, the solar system, and things I’m not equipped to answer. Let’s be honest, I failed science horribly. For the past year, he’s been obsessed with geography. He can learn about other countries in a week. He now draws maps of other countries. Like, Canada. He knows more about Canada than I do. He literally draws out their maps, remembers the providences, rivers, lakes, and oceans. And if I get an area wrong, he corrects me. I failed geography too. I’m lucky to get out of my own state in one piece. That’s how bad my geography is. He’s got it down. I’m blown away with his knowledge. He leaves me speechless.

Last year, a student didn’t answer how volcanoes are created. Zach had to speak up and answer the question. He said this to me. “That kid was stupid! How do you not know how volcanoes are created?” Yikes! I told him that was inappropriate to think that way. Some kids just think differently than you do. And he corrected his teachers this year! Not to mention, he has a complex that if you’re dumb, he’s going to call you out on it. It’s like, I know it all. How could you not know this and that? I’m freaking out here. I’m worried that if he says the wrong thing to someone, they will hurt him. Zach is not a fighter. He’s obsessed with complex games that I can’t play.

As for popular culture, he hates it. He doesn’t watch sports or anything kids his age watch. Zach prefers the Science channel. He can watch that all day long. It’s not harmful. Even I learn things about science. It isn’t just him, our second son Danny is the same way. Those two talk about science and it’s like they speak a different language that I don’t understand. I have them explain it to me because I am ignorant.

Sensory issues? Music. Zach and Danny hate music. But I love music! I live for music! I can tell you the title of a song and the artist in less than two notes. I can tell you the year it came out. My obsession is with music and books. I also have my music, movies, and books arranged in alphabetical order. I can’t stand it if anything is out-of-order. Zach can’t stand anything that has heavy metal or loud thrashing music of any kind. Danny is the same way.

Back to tonight. I took my entire family to watch the fireworks. Everyone was okay, except for Zach. Tonight, I watched him cover his ears and rock himself on the bleachers where we sat. He was humming to himself and rocking. He had tears coming down his cheeks. Tonight, I felt like the worst mother in the world. I managed to get him off the bleachers and helped him in the car. It took an hour to get him to calm down. I cried. I’m still crying now. Now I know why we avoid the fireworks. Danny was okay but Zach wasn’t. He was in pain. It hurts me more than you know.

Zach and Danny struggle with social settings. I thought it was social anxiety. It isn’t that. It isn’t that at all. If a teacher calls on Danny, he will get upset. He doesn’t enjoy speaking or answering questions. He will shut down on us. Danny is still in speech therapy. He just turned 9 this year. He has problems with his ears, and I assumed it was due to his ears. This kid can look at a diagram and put things together with just one look at the diagram. Like Zach, Danny also is wicked smart. But unlike Zach, Danny will also shut down if he feels that he can’t do it, or if people tease him. Neither kid enjoys jokes. They can’t understand jokes. They take jokes as a personal attack.

With Danny, everything has to be Batman. Batman clothes, Batman shoes, Batman jacket, and toys have to be Batman. I can’t get Danny to wear anything else but Batman. Zach and Danny have food avoidance issues. They don’t like certain foods. When Danny is in a mood, he won’t eat anything else but a specific type of food like bacon. It’s a fight just to get him to eat other foods. I’m reduced to tears over food.

But! Because of this book, I made an appointment with the pediatrician for July 25th for an Autism consult. They need it. I’m not devastated. Why would I want to change them? I want them to get the help they need. They are great kids. Just like me, they have triggers too. I want help with working on their social skills. They are terrible with their social skills. I have none, and I don’t want them to be like me. I think I can be a little condescending like Zach and Danny.  But unlike me, I want them to get the help they need. I was so invested in my issues that I didn’t see the big picture. Here I am being diagnosed with issue after issue. I fell into depression for a while. I woke the fuck up and realized my kids need help. My issues can move to the back burner. I will do anything not to have my son do that again. Sensory issue? Is that the same as only liking cotton and not jeans? Bright lights and loud noises? Man, I fucked up as a mother. I should have noticed the signs. I was so oblivious! When I read this book, I cried. I’m like that reminds me of Danny and Zach! Zach nailed every symptom the book listed. Tonight, I apologized to him. Putting my kids in pain isn’t something I ever want to do. How could I be so stupid? I recognize Autism with other kids but not my own? Come on now! Get your shit together! That’s me yelling at me for you. Here is the book, “In a Different Key.” I recommend everyone read it. It’s good, and the authors opened my eyes. This is by John Donvan & Caren Zucker. They also have loved ones on the autism spectrum disorder. So, this is not from authors, who don’t know what Autism is like.

Psst… it’s okay to be imperfectly perfect. Tonight, I failed as a parent. But tomorrow is a new day to get it right.

What Is Mania Like?

In case you don’t know already, I have Bipolar I, Borderline Personality Disorder, SAD, GAD, PTSD, Trichotillomania, and OCD. And, I’m a writer with all this shit. Surprise! Anyway, back to the serious topic like, what the fuck is mania really like?

There are days where my mind is going non-stop. It doesn’t shut up! It’s a million thoughts and the anxiety over controlling them. Most memes reveal that mania is like happy, joy, joy time when you’re on a high. Well, you got that shit wrong. REALLY, wrong.

For the last two days, I experienced mania. Sometimes, I’m really happy. And then there are the times, I don’t want to be in my skin. This is the part of mania than can be dangerous. When your thoughts are racing down the road and everything seems to go to shit. Nothing you feel is right. It’s not depression. I guess it could be considered a “mixed” state and trust, I have a ton of “mixed state” episodes. My brain left my body and it doesn’t want to shut up. It can be dangerous because this is when you normally flock to the alcohol or illegal drugs just to escape those rapid thoughts. You feel like throwing yourself in front of traffic just to get your brain to stop the noise. It was bad the last two days. Sometimes my brain doesn’t allow me to do anything.

Mania also includes the irritable and you’re ready to snap everyone’s head off for no reason. You’re not comfortable in your skin at the moment, and you’re practically clawing yourself. When I’m like this, I normally ball up on the floor or hide in my bed until this mood passes. I bawled last night. I want my brain to stop. It does feel like it’s on fire half the time. I spent two-three days in this mood. I want to do so much but my mind couldn’t tell me what to do next. If that gibberish makes any sense? I wanted to read, but I couldn’t read a single sentence. I wanted to edit my book, but I couldn’t look at it this week. It’s just been one of those nasty weeks. Nothing was going right. And I have a psychology appt on July, 5th. I need medication. I tried it without, and I’m literally clawing at myself again. My anxiety is the first bitch, we’re medicating. Hopefully, my psychologist puts me on something that doesn’t hinder me. I can’t sleep in a bed all day. I’m willing to go back on my medicines. Instead of doing something stupid, I called a new psychologist. You see, the problem with bipolar, anxiety, and borderline is that your mind lies to you. And sometimes your mind creates delusions. “They’re out to get us! It’s a conspiracy! They’re trying to kill us!” Dude, really? Why do I do this? UAAAHGH!

The cool thing is that the entire house is educated on my disorders. They know Jen is massively fucked up in the head. And my husband, god love him… “You can’t control it this time, can you?” NOPE! I cried, and he gently hugged me. He didn’t say anything but hug me. Sometimes a hug is all it takes. Sometimes, it isn’t. But I asked for help with the kids, and help came. I have backups to the backups. I needed it. My mood started to lift last night. This one was rough. And you know deep in your mind it’s only temporary, but damn… it seemed to last forever!

It wasn’t a “mixed” state. I know what those are like, and they are hell. This is the irritable, nothing is right type of mania. Like your mind is constantly spinning on a merry-go-around and it doesn’t seem to stop. There was no way I could have handled the kids last night. Thank you to my support team. While I was in my irritable state, I wanted to order 300$ worth of shit. Luckily, I didn’t. Well, I sort of did, but I canceled all my orders this morning. Let’s be honest here.

Sometimes the mania is worse than the depressive episodes. I couldn’t focus worth a damn until my brain slowed down. And it’s been like this for the last few months. I want to do so much, and I realize that I can’t/shouldn’t. I was mad that my brain wouldn’t allow me to write a cohesive sentence or form a cohesive thought. Thankfully, it passed. It is getting worse. We’ll see what my new psychologist says. We’ll let her diagnose me again. Remember, Borderlines, don’t like to stay with one person for a long time. This is why many people don’t want to deal with Borderlines. We pop in and out of therapy. They say the wrong thing, and we’re out of there. I have no problems cutting people off and giving attitude. I hate these mental illnesses. I often dream about a brain transplant. That would be nice, but would I be a different person? I would think so. Can we work harder on finding a diagnosis for this shit? I hate feeling like this all the time.

Today, I’m feeling okay. I’m a lot more stable today than what I was yesterday. “As long as you can think, you can work.” Fuck you, disability people! I can’t think like they can. They don’t understand what it’s like to be a prisoner of your own mind. The self-loathing, the self-hatred, and the million racing thoughts that never end.

Now, I’m dealing with memory loss. I have to write everything down, or I’ll forget it. I can’t remember my own home phone or cell phone numbers. I can’t remember my own address. And you pause, and people stare at you. “What is your number?” I don’t, I don’t remember. If I read a book, I have to write everything down, or I’ll forget what I read. This is probably due to autoimmune diseases. MS is the nastiest player of them all. I sat in a parking lot, trying to remember my car for over two  hours just the other day. I was so frustrated that I cried. So now, people go with me. I didn’t remember the car color, the car make, or anything about my car! It took me two hours to remember the alarm on my car was on the key chain. I pressed it and it sounded. That’s how bad my memory is right now. I have to carry a black notebook with me to remember my car, my phone numbers, and my address. And having Psoriatic Arthritis is just as bad. I get upset, another plaque lesion emerges. How can I meet people like this? I have plaque lesions down my arm and on my hands now. Inverse under my breast and between my legs. Dude, the shit isn’t pretty. And I also have scalp psoriasis. At least my nails are somewhat intact. They don’t look pretty, but at least they’re still on my fingers. I do have pits in them. My nails break off really easily. My hair has to be washed every day. My mental disorders were diagnosed way before my autoimmune diseases. MS, Hashi, PsA, Raynaud’s, Chron’s, and Hemolytic Anemia. I’m fucked. Add GERD on that list, even though it’s not an autoimmune disease. I’m down 75% of my thyroid. I’ve got a patch inside me to hold my intestines in, I’m down a gall bladder, no tonsils, and no adnoids. I’m a walking science experiment. I’m supposed to be on Methotrexate, Ferrous Sulfate, Meloxicam, Citalopram, Seroquel, Prilosec, Citerine, and Enbrel, but I refuse to take that shit. After all, government conspiracy, right? It’s a secret mind control! Yay, to delusions! The only thing I take right now is Levothyroxine. And my husband reminds me to take it every day. The main nasty players are MS and PsA. I can’t control the shit that comes from those autoimmune diseases.

This is me, but a fucked up me.

Dear Ex-Husband,

Yes, I was married before. This is one I call a really bad “starter” marriage. It was bad for a variety of reasons. I won’t get into it. Just note, that I received this on Saturday. So, he sends me a message and then he blocks me. What kind of pussy shit is that? No, I bet his current wife found out and she put a foot up his ass. I would too, if I were his wife. I’m not and thank you! I lost my cat in the damn divorce. I’m still not happy about that. Luckily, we didn’t have kids. We shouldn’t have married in the first place. It felt more like roommates than an actual marriage. Does that make any sense?

So… this is what he wrote me on Saturday, April 8th, 2017 at 8:09 pm :

“How are you? Im fine! I saw your profile on facebook and wanted to send you a message. I know it has been a long time since we have spoken and even longer since we have spoke in good terms. I know you probably hate me but I don’t feel that way for you. If you would like to continue this talk let me know. Thank you for your time.” <sic>

Would I like to talk to him? Hmm… HELL FUCKING NO! This is the second time he’s tried to contact me. We were married on May 4, 2004, and we divorced in April of 2006. I married my new husband since May 14, 2006. Crucify me. My ex was living with his now wife, long before. We separated in February of 2005. It was a short marriage. It wasn’t worth mentioning. He would frequently party and go to bars. He was never home on the weekend. And he even brought home his girlfriend (now wife) to our place. She was his supervisor. That makes it all the better. Where was I? I was busting my ass off for Amazon. He would demand me to clean after working a 12-hour shift. Needless to say, his job was sitting on his ass all day. If you don’t know, I worked for a warehouse. My job was picking books. There were three floors of books and other stuff. I had a rate that I had to hit. I picked 120 items an hour. Yes, I moved that quick. Not today though! My feet would be covered in blisters. My body ached something terrible. The good news is that I didn’t have to go to a gym. I sweated off all my extra weight. Before I became pregnant with my oldest son, I was 130 pounds. The woman the ex left me for, was three times my size. I’m obviously not 130 pounds anymore. Before you shade me, just note that it doesn’t matter what size you are. If that person is going to cheat, they’re going to cheat. There’s something wrong with them, and not you. It took me a long time to learn that lesson.

My ex cheated on me in the first few months of marriage. It wasn’t a great marriage. He kept typing his exes (see the pattern?) and wrote some crap to them for years. I am not the first ex, he kept in contact with. If you know anything about borderline, we have HUGE trust issues. The idiot thought he was being smart by deleting all his emails. I became smarter and found his shit. “But that’s an invasion of privacy!” No, if you’re married to someone, you shouldn’t be sneaking off in the middle of the night. Sneaky behavior like that will trigger suspicion. That suspicion will turn into an in-depth investigation. And plus, I was in denial over my Borderline. I didn’t want to be associated with this mental health illness. I tried to live a normal life. But damn, I found out. Actually, I was working on another book at the time and he was still stupid enough to stay logged into his email account. Well, an email popped up. That email told me everything I needed to know. “I missed you last weekend. I love you. I can’t wait for us to be together. XOXO, signed… the new girlfriend (later become his wife). Whoops! I didn’t mean to barge into his open email account! Shame on me!

I believe people who suffer from Borderline should be private detectives. We can sniff a cheater a mile away. We have mad skills. Normal people don’t check emails. Borderlines check that shit all day long. We’ve already had been burned once. We don’t want to feel that way again. We look for any excuses to leave. We often protect ourselves before we feel that we’ll get hurt. That’s why our divorce rate is incredibly high. We go through multiple partners to escape that feeling of being hurt. That’s probably why my therapist was in shock. I’m in my now marriage since May 14, 2006. We’re still together. That’s shocking not only to my therapist but me. Any sane person would have left by now. We went through a ton of shit together. But this husband was smart enough to read up on all my diagnoses. He took the time and gained an education real quick. He found ways to combat my doubt and fear. That’s what unconditional love is. It’s when you’re willing to stay with the person, no matter what they’re suffering from. It’s showing compassion and sympathy. Not many people are sympathetic these days or care. They want what they want and that’s it.

Has my Borderline improved? Well, we still have bad days. But they are getting less with intensity. The anger is in shorter spurts. Instead of being pissed off all day, I’m down to fifteen minutes. Listening to music and writing helps on the bad days. On the really bad days, I lay down until my head clears up. I found ways to keep my mind occupied.

Another problem with borderlines, we tend to harp on issues for a while. We can’t let shit go. We’re like tenacious Pitt Bulls. We’ll keep bringing it up and bringing it up. We have an excellent memory, and we remember every wrong that a person did to us.

“Well, you called me a bitch in April of 2006.” Yes, I remember everything. I’ll use it in a fight. That’s what Borderline does. We store shit and bring it out on a later date. We can’t let shit go. Like that crappy message, my ex sent me. I should let that go. But my mind wants to have the last word. I want to be right. Why send me a message, then block me without my response? That’s a pussy move. Borderline wants to come out to play. She has a few things to say to the ex. I’m going to let her run wild until the end of this post. Then she’ll drop it, and I’ll return to editing my first book. Take it away Borderline!

Dear Assholy Ex-Husband,

You blocked me before I could respond. Guess what? I’m going to respond. This isn’t going to be a nice post. You thought of me? You’ve been thinking of me? Where were you, when I was scared? Where were you during the ice storm? You didn’t care about me. You cared more about your fucking computer over my own safety. Kids? You lied to me about kids. I wasn’t good enough to have kids with, and you chose to impregnate someone else. Good for you! At least you lasted enough to get one in! I thought I deserved an asshole. I thought I deserve less than what I’m worth. You berated me, made me feel small, and weak. You often made fun of me to your friends. Not to mention, you made me clean up the bathroom from your vomit sessions. You would often come home and slam the cabinets to wake me up. Never mind that I worked 60+ hours that week. You took my hard-earned money and took your girlfriend (now wife) out to dinner on my dime. Now that sucked. Now you have the nerve to tell me that you’ve been thinking about me? Get outta here! I haven’t thought about you, since the day you sent me that message. I’ve never thought about you in the last eleven years, since our divorce. I do miss my cat, Georgie. He was a beautiful Tabby that I’m sure you got rid of just to hurt me. Fucking courts! Every time I think of you, my stomach curdles. I have a bit of vomit in my mouth. What was I thinking when I married you? I know, I was out of my mind. Remember? You called me a crazy bitch. You made it known that I was the crazy bitch. Thank you. Now I’ll be known as the crazy bitch. Well, this crazy bitch was mentally ill. Severely mentally ill. And you didn’t care. The real you came out. It wasn’t long before I realized just how racist and homophobic you were. Damn! I should have seen that coming! I didn’t. I married a bigot. A racist, hypocritical bigot! You saw people for their skin tone, and not their spirits. You made me hate you even worse. I wanted that divorce more than anything in this world. I hated you and still hate you. But I have to forgive you. Forgive you for your ignorance. I have to let shit go. And do you realize how hard that is for me? I’m in the minority. A woman who suffers from her past. There’s no medication that will cure me. There’s no medication that will make me happy. It only lessens the symptoms. No, you didn’t think of me then, and you shouldn’t think of me now. You have a wife and child who loves you. Go to them and stop emailing all your exes. Don’t email me. Don’t write me, and don’t message me. Call me a blip on your radar. A mistake that should have never been made. I still hate you. I don’t want to talk to you. But since I’m writing this… you’re still an asshole with a capital A. You are the type of person, I want to avoid. I hope my kids avoid people like you. They don’t need your mess or drama in their lives. After this post, I’m going to chill in the corner. I still believe you’re a slimy bastard. You owe your current wife an explanation. She deserves more respect from you than this. Poor thing! I feel for her. Thank you, for letting me divorce you. I miss my fucking cat. That’s the only thing I miss from being married to you. Good luck and I hope your current marriage lasts.


Your “crazy” ex-wife

Now that I got all of that out of my system, it’s time for me to move forward. Does it hurt? Nope! From this moment on, I will keep looking forward. I’m closing this part of my past. As a borderline, we have to move forward. What’s in the past is in the past. People have hurt us, but we have to keep moving forward. It’s over and done with. Move on with the people who truly love you. Keep that shit in the rear-view mirror and stop looking at peoples’ emails.  Let that guard down. Borderline doesn’t have to control you. You’re giving it power by harping on the past and acting suspicious of everyone’s intentions. Yes, I know it’s hard. It’s even hard for me. But I need to live. I can’t expect to live life in fear or suspicion. I won’t allow one person to ruin it for everyone. I feel better now. I’m looking off to the sky, and moving on from this bump in my road. Let it go… let it go…




I, often think of electrical terms like ground wire or hot wire. I know it seems odd to think of wires and electricity. As one who suffers from Bipolar I and Borderline, it kind of reminds of wires. Cross them and bad things can happen. So, I have to find my “ground” wire. My ground wires are books and writing. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. But I needed a creative outlet. A wire that sparks imagination. To go where no writer dares to go.

Writing, for me, has grounded me. It takes all my anger, hurt, sadness, and laughter from me. It puts all those emotions in books. Every hurt, disappointment, fear, love, hate and everything that I’ve felt through the years; goes into writing. The night terrors are still there and feel completely real, but lately, they have calmed down. I’m not screaming or crying as much when I wake up from a terrible dream. That is my unconscious mind handling all my fears for me. My mind never seems to sleep, when my body sleeps. It keeps going strong at 100 mph down a freeway. With rapid thoughts, swirling around my brain, non-stop. Funny enough, I often dream of bad car accidents or airplane crashes. You’re on a plane and it does a nosedive into a forest. You wake up before the plane or car crashes. Those dreams come and go. It does full my generalized anxiety disorder. “I don’t feel like getting in a car or a plane today.” And then when you get in a car, you feel that knot in your stomach, you feel like throwing up, your hands shake, and you avoid all the major roadways. You take the safest route home. Sure, gas is an issue, but at least you’re safe. I don’t like that clammy feeling. I’m the palest driver, you ever saw. I back away two car lengths and drive a minimal speed. Not too fast and not too slow. Not in my Bipolar Mania days, did I ever drive slow. But the mania is settling. The BPD outbursts are shorter and getting more infrequent. I’m having less and less bouts of anger. Instead of days, it’s only lasting ten minutes of pure anger.

I’m fine until I have Bipolar Mania and BPD hit at the same time. I didn’t want to be in my own skin. I wanted to rip my skin off me. Those days suck. You don’t know whether to cry, laugh, or scream. It’s all those emotions entangled together. They call that a “mixed state.” Kind of like eggs. Over-easy or over-done. You’re in the middle. I warned my husband in advance. He left me to my own devices. I couldn’t do anything that day. I couldn’t read and I couldn’t write a sentence. I was clawing at myself, feeling frustrated that my brain didn’t want to cooperate with me. Let me feel something! Let me feel one emotion, dammit! I don’t have these episodes often, but they do happen. Add Borderline and it’s fuel for the fire.

Today, I’m grounded. I can think critically and clearly. I don’t have that angst built up inside of me. This is the calmest I’ve been in a while. Maybe it’s the calm before another storm? But my storms are becoming less frequent. I don’t know if that has to do with age. Maybe your brain slows down? I used to be a fast reader, but I want to take in information slow. After becoming a writer, I want to see what this author’s purpose is, and why they wrote a book. I’m analyzing more and digesting more knowledge.

When I write, it’s like the sentences light up for me. Maybe it’s a Bipolar thing? It’s like the sentences, form together, and click into place for me. I’m trying to be more careful with my prepositions, pronouns, nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, and gerunds. It’s becoming clearer now and my mind wants that. It feeds off that in a positive way.

What is Borderline doing? She’s sitting in the corner and she’s quiet. She’s letting me live. She wants to fight, but she’s tame today. With more people praising my work, she’s eased off a ton. Bipolar is jumping around and dancing. She’s happy. Bipolar wants me to live and not become a victim. She has taken many writers’ lives over the years.

I used to roar non-stop like a lion. But now, I’ve turned into a bouncing cub. A cub that wants more books and to write more books. A cub that’s thirsty for knowledge. While terror and fear plague the world, I’ve kept my nose in a book. It’s saving me from my self-destructive issues. This is the calmest I’ve felt in a long time. The chip is off my shoulder. I love this new me and I hope she lasts. At least, I found my ground wire.

Evens Vs. Odds

This post will probably bring out the OCD in me. Huh? Yeah.. that one I seemed to have forgotten. I don’t do odds. For some reason, ending on an odd number makes everything feel incomplete. It bugs the shit out of me.

I was born on an even date. The year, month, and number are all even numbers.

I have four kids. I’m on my second marriage. It does bug me that I have 3 boys and 1 girl. But I have no plans on having more kids. My nerves only go so far. I can’t do 6. That’s too much for me.

When I write my novels, I make sure to end on an even chapter. I’ll do everything I can to end on an even page. If I can end on an even word count, I’m happy. Today is a happy day because my first novel knocked all three things for me. I can relax for a change.

Even when I go to the gym, everything has to be an even number. 30 minutes here, 30 minutes there. I don’t do 45 mins in anything. I’ll order books in even numbers. I’ll either order 2 or 4 at the most. I can’t stand one here or one there.

I don’t know why I’m this way. Control freak much? It’s just neat and orderly. At least I don’t time sex. That would be overboard. I assume this is a part of OCD. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. You don’t want to see my bookshelf. It’s all in order. I have it sectioned off in fantasy, horror, vampires, classic lit, and mystery. I have all books in a series together. I also have any other book the author wrote, next to their books. The rainbow shelf thing drives me crazy. And I don’t like to break up series for superficial means. Cans have to be readable and in a line. It bugs me when I can’t read the label.

Hell… I even organize my emails. I can’t stand not being organized. And you don’t want to see my dresser. That’s organized, too. The kids’ dressers are organized as well. It drives me nuts to put shirts with socks. My mom used to shove shit in a drawer until the drawer broke. I can’t stand a dirty house. It bugs me. Maybe it’s just a “me” thing. A never-ending “me” thing.

Bipolar Aggression

I feel really aggressive today. Like I can’t decide whether to cry or hit something. I hate it when I am in this state. I can’t decide which way I’m going to lean. It’s frustrating and aggravating. I’m not a danger to anyone. I just want to smack a pillow or a punching bag. I’m frustrated and it’s really making me upset.

A part of me wishes to torch my manuscripts and the other side wants to bawl like a baby. It’s so irritating! Decide brain… decide dammit! Here we go… “fuck it all.” And the doctor gave me antibiotics for pneumonia and they’ve set me off. They knock me out when I have a ton of work to do. I hate feeling this way. I guess I’m caught in between mania and depression or what’s better known as a “mixed” state.

Just bent up frustration and aggression. I can feel myself snapping at the little uncomplicated things. My mind isn’t focusing on the things that normally help me. I just want to scream.

Don’t pull me into politics. I don’t want to hear about it. I can’t handle politics right now. Anything will set me off. I’m trying to keep the Borderline away. Bipolar is just not working with me today. I woke up feeling groggy and I shouldn’t work all night long. It doesn’t help me when it comes to sleep. It leaves me unbalanced and unfocused. AHHH! Damn, I want to scream!

Every once in a while, I’m thrown into these states. I love the manic episodes but I loathe the depressive episodes. I know the crybaby fest will come soon. I don’t want that fucking low. I enjoy my highs… I hate my lows. It’s like slamming into a brick wall and feeling like you’ve failed at everything.

Anxiety came out to play. I tried to work an outside job and it backfired. Anxiety said no, you’re not going to do this. You can’t handle this. I fell victim to anxiety. I let it win. And now I’m stuck in a fucking mixed state from hell. I’m angry with myself, not at anyone else. Why can’t I do the normal things? This fucking sucks! My mind is racing a million miles a minute.

The problem with anxiety, it doesn’t allow you to take medications. Borderline helps anxiety and the Bipolar leads to paranoia. “This is mind control. They want to control your mind. It’s all for money. You know it will make you feel like shit. Why take that? What if you have a heart attack? What if you fall asleep and you don’t wake up?” That’s anxiety mixed it with the others.

I reorganized my bookshelves. Cue the manic episode! And I put all the dead authors on the top shelf. I tried to make a joke but my family didn’t think I was funny. They are watching me like a hawk. “Jen is tittering again.” I thought it was funny but they didn’t. “Guess what the top shelf has in common?” “What, Jen?” “They’re all dead!” “That isn’t funny!” I thought it was funny. I don’t think authors from the 1800’s will stay alive in 2017. I’m not licking the windows or bleaching the walls yet, but I’m sure my entire family is on alert. Geeze… you think they would lighten up!

Anyway, I’m off to the next psychologist. I won’t return to the pill-pushing moron.

Just Believe & Breathe

I’ve been working on my epic fantasy for many years. The mind is a complicated creature as it spins new tales of woe, happiness, anger, love, and disappointment. I remember the day I had surgery on my thyroid. I remember feeling empty and hopeless. I woke up from that six and half hour surgery, gasping for air. They put a drain in my neck. It looked gross and felt gross.

Here I was… writing the rough draft to my third book in the Enforcers. Feeling absolutely helpless and with a drain in my neck. Trying to breathe and I didn’t understand the gravity of my situation. I had my husband prop my laptop on a pile of pillows because I couldn’t move my head. I looked strange to the nurses. I must have looked strange to the nurses. “What is she doing?” And I could hear my characters in my head. “Mom… put the laptop down. Mom… you’re sick! Mom, we can wait for you. Mom, you’re doing too much! Slow down, Mom! We’ll still be here for you!” And I could vision my characters holding me and standing around my hospital bed with a THYCA ribbon on their suits/shirts/and tanks. They loved me then and they still love me now. When I was that close to death and it felt like I was, they were there. My actual family and my fictional family.

I did lose my mind for a while there. All because I lost my voice for weeks. I couldn’t speak because your vocal box is right near your thyroid. I remember feeling so scared. I wasn’t alone but I was scared, I would die and not finish my series. I was scared that I wouldn’t live to see my daughter go to kindergarten. I was scared that another woman would take my place. The shit that runs through your head, when you’re faced with a life and death situation. Who would be there for my actual daughter’s wedding day? Who would see my sons graduate high school? Who would be there for their first heartbreak? Those thoughts permeated my mind and spun around in my head. That was my fear. The fear of not being there for them.

I had five nodules on my thyroid. There was no way to save it. Two of them were actually pushing on my windpipe. I was so tired and drained. Then the word “cancer” was the last thing, I wanted to hear. That six-letter word, scared the fuck out of me. I was ready to fight with everything I had. How ironic that you had suicide attempts and wind up with cancer? The irony of the situation!

I packed on the pounds. Nobody understands what it’s like to go from an hourglass figure to a hefty size. No fucks are given. People don’t want to hear your tale of woe. People don’t understand. I mean, my weight shot the fuck up. It was depressing and it pissed me off. Things I wanted to do, I couldn’t. I couldn’t even sing anymore. I became mad and pissed off. My high soprano went out the door. The gift of singing, vanished into thin air. Not like I wanted to sing professionally anyway.

Now, my voice sounds like a raspy and deep voice. If I talk for a long period of time, my voice goes out. I try not to speak as much as I can. It’s depressing. I can still write songs and write music for my songs. I just can’t sing any of them. It’s really sad. My daughter, on the other hand, her voice sounds like a set of wind chimes, clinking in the wind. Her voice is louder and stronger than mine ever was. When I heard her sing, my mouth dropped. At four-years-old… she has a powerful singing voice. Better than mine ever was. A part of me did feel a little jealous, but I beamed with pride.

When God closed one door, God opens another. It dawned on me that yeah, my voice is almost gone, but my daughter was given my gift. The girl can sing. I’m not saying that because she’s my daughter. Believe me… I know when someone has a voice and who should be singing and who shouldn’t sing. My sons can’t carry a tune in a bucket. That’s not me being mean, it’s me telling the truth. I even secretly taped her, when she didn’t notice. I’ll share it on my Facebook but not YouTube or anywhere else. I’m still that overprotective mommy. No, I won’t take her to Hollywood. They eat children and spit them out. She is her own person. She can do whatever she wants with her life. I’ll still love her unconditionally.

I still battle with bouts of depression. But my daughter emerged like a ray of hope. A hope for a new generation. She was dancing and signing to Lady Gaga. It was so funny. My little creature, who kicked and tumbled inside of my stomach for nine months, also has a love for music. She is gracious and kind. She reminds me of my late grandmother. The one person, I didn’t want to let go. I see my grandmother in my daughter. Spunky, full of spirit, hope, and unconditional love. She always tells the truth. Even when she’s done something bad, my daughter always tells the truth. She says please and thank you. She hugs me, kisses my cheek, and always tells me that she loves me. I hope she holds onto herself. I see a part of my old self inside of her. The good part of me is alive and well. Not just with her, but with my sons too.

For the love of my children, I opted to dig in and fight harder than I’ve ever fought before. I won’t allow my disorders to run my life for me. I won’t allow fear to hold me back. I’m stronger than that and I survived much worse things than to bury myself in a pile of blankets. The worst has already happened. Now it’s time to live, be brave, and be strong. It’s time for me to believe in myself. I’m tougher than this. I’m a good person and I love my real family, and my fictional family.

My mind sorted through a ton of issues. And I learn more about myself through my own books. To always believe and never doubt myself. Through my characters and thoughts, I’m back to being myself. I’m stronger, wiser, and funny. I won’t allow my mental health disorders or my autoimmune diseases to hold me back. It’s time to take back my life. I’m taking it back and there’s nobody to stop me. I won’t let them take my sunshine away from me again. It’s time to kick ass and get those books out. Rocky didn’t give up and why should I? Thanks, Sly Stallone. I will always cherish your series. The world doesn’t owe me anything or any favors. I plan on getting back up and kicking ass. I’m ready to go all thirteen rounds. It isn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

Summer Breeze

I was always a summer child. I live and thrive off the sunshine. Most people enjoy the wintertime but I HATE the winter. You won’t catch me in Aspen or anywhere there’s snow. I prefer a sandy beach with the sun shining down on the water. I thrive off of summertime weather.

Today, it’s in the 70’s. I went out for the first time, in ages. I felt happier and back to my old self again. I did it by myself. I KNOW! It’s a big change for someone with severe anxiety. I still avoided the interstates. I didn’t push myself. I did great. I did much better than expected. I didn’t shake. I didn’t want to throw up.

How in the world have I returned? I made sure to eat healthier than ever before. I’m not shaking like I used to. A simple change in diet does wonders for the body, mind, and soul. Believe me, this is not a cure.

Being cooped up behind four walls isn’t living anymore. That’s waiting to die. Yeah, I have my manic episodes. I can’t control them all the time. I let my mind do it’s thing. Sometimes, it’s hard. If I can see the bigger picture, I can accomplish anything. I really can’t stand the cold.

Today, everyone was really nice to me. I talked to people! *Gasp* Immersion therapy is working. Nobody was mean to me. I let my prejudgment of people go. I smiled and remained happy.

What does my diet consist of? Gluten-free. My moods have drastically changed. I’m not as moody as I used to be. I’m not short-tempered or short with people. I felt like I was floating on air today. Maybe that is the manic? Let that bitch take control more often! I’ve cut down on the caffeine (I do love coffee and tea). I felt confident and back to when I had control over things.

I also had a job interview. I believe it went well. I hope it went well. The HR generalist was rather nice to me. She frowned at the guy, who was busy texting on his phone. Who brings their cell phone to an interview? Due to common core, he couldn’t solve the math problems either. I solved mine in less than five minutes. He was still adding and subtracting, when I left. And he was there before me. But he ran fifteen minutes late. Like really? How are you going to show up at a job interview, late? I don’t know about the next generation. They can’t spell or add/subtract.

My teachers made us spell out the word at least fifty times. That was our homework, back in the day. You had to write twenty-five sentences, using that word. And then you had to write out the definition for that word. We always had at least 25 new words every week.

“Let me copy off your papers!” No… absolutely not! You failed to do the homework. I’m not about to help you. I spent all night doing that homework. Yes… that guy was completely clueless about life. You’re there for a job, not talk on your phone, FB, or texting someone. You couldn’t leave your phone at home for a job interview? What’s wrong with you? At least leave in your car!

My highlights for today is that I dropped another five pounds, I grew an inch, and I can lift 135 pounds. Go me! And I’m sure I landed the job. I was early, remained alert, didn’t have my cell phone on me, and smiled. I think I got the job! I can’t wait to start!

Now… I’m starting to believe that I’m the sane person. It’s everyone else, who is insane. Common sense, really isn’t all that common anymore. :O


No Drugs

I’ve decided, and it may be foolish, not to take Seroquel. I do have the prescription, but I also researched the drug before taking it. This particular drug knocks people out. What they don’t tell you is that it causes heart palpitations, strokes, weight gain, suicidal tendencies, seizures, metabolic problems, immune system problems. Dude, did he not hear that I have an autoimmune disease? I also have anemia. Dude, know… just know. I only met this psychologist one time.

Now that I’ve had time to think about it. These psychologists want to make you believe that there’s something majorly wrong with you. This particular psychologist, didn’t even look me in the eye. He knew me for a total of ten minutes and he was already pushing drugs onto me. That’s a problem. That tells me this psychologist has been bought by the drug industry. He was short, he was rude, and he was snappy. Fuck no… you’re not putting me in a hospital. Fuck you and fuck your pills too. Try again. They can’t even do a blood test to see if it’s effective. I’ve been on drugs. Both legal and illegal.

So, they wanted me to start out with Seroquel at 25 mg. Once my body becomes used to it, they crank that fucker up. Another thing they don’t tell you is that this drug shrinks your brain. Not only does it shrink your brain, it also takes off 20 years of your life. Fuck it, I’ll deal with my “issues” without medication. I’m going to continue to change my diet. I will face my anxiety and get out. “We have no cure.” Why the fuck am I wasting my time with someone who didn’t look at me until the end? When he shook my hand, that was the only time he looked at me. That little seed of doubt and Borderline has tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’ll be good. You don’t need that medication. I’ll be good. Please, don’t take it. You have kids that need you. We’ll try harder. You don’t want to be on that shit. You’re already sick as it is.”

What will I do? I think it’s time to visit a holistic doctor. Holistic doctors have been here since the beginning of time. I do have to take Levothyroxine for the rest of my life. I did try Armour and it didn’t work for me. I’m missing 75% of my thyroid. The psychologist didn’t do a proper health panel. He didn’t want to see if it was a biological issue. Houston, that’s a problem. No blood test and here! Take this! It will make you feel better! No, it won’t. It will give me more problems. I won’t compromise my physical health over my mental health. I want to be around for my kids. Zoloft, Zyprexa, and Citalopram left me feeling even more suicidal. We know the deal. We’ve been down that road before. We refuse to go down it again.

Holistic doctors will check to see what metabolic ingredient you’re missing and they will only prescribe probiotics and vitamins. Now, that’s my kind of doctor. I’d rather have my chakras realigned.

That psychologist made me feel ashamed, unworthy, and dirty even. I’m not saying don’t go to one. I’m just asking you to make sure they’re not drug pushers. This dude was a drug pusher. He didn’t obtain my full family history. Nothing! Run, don’t walk out of places like that. He should have done a full blood panel. He should have seen what vitamins I was missing. He should have prescribed an MRI to make sure there isn’t anything biological going on with me. I question his motives. We can argue and say that’s a family doctor’s responsibility… but aren’t psychologists, doctors too? No man… just know. I refuse to jeopardize my health over my mental health. I’m not a danger to those around me. Pulling me away from my family, like he wanted to do, would only make me worse than I already am.

So, today I’m going to the gym. I will force myself to go. I will learn to deal with people and crowds. I can do it. If I can write a book, I sure as fuck can deal with people.