Today at 4:20, I'll find out what kind of tumors I have.
But, that's not what's on my mind right now. In recent days, I've been trying very hard to say out loud that I'm bipolar. It's something I've rarely said, because when you let people know, it becomes the reason for everything.
"Lou got very upset last night."
"Well, she tends to do that. Don't forget she's bipolar."
"Lou wants a divorce."
"Well, I'm sorry, honey, but you tried. She's sick and that's got to have been very hard on you."
"Hey, have you heard of Lou Jones? She seems really qualified."
"Yeah, and she's fun to work with...but she's a total bipolar."
"Oh. Bummer...ok, who's next?"
Carrie Fisher, bless her, yeah, she was brave and she let everyone know she had the disease, but she was also secure as hell. Yes, she had to concentrate and watch herself so she wouldn't lose her friends or isolate her child, or die, but she didn't need to care outside of that. And that's not totally fair to those of us who weren't born to Debbie Reynolds and later became Princess Leia. We can be brave, but then we better be an author or an acclaimed artist or a working actor or a successful musician or a brilliant mathematician for it to be ok, maybe even a gift.
Because, guess what, bipolars are almost always one of those things. Unless we're struggling, then we're a secret, known as "a little off", but also known as "worth it" if we use wonder woman strength and successfully keep it together enough to not exhaust anyone.
If bipolars had a mark on their forehead—maybe an emoji of Comedy/Tragedy—how many people would want to be our friend? Cruising through life with only a vague memory of hearing the word once or twice, they'd likely say, "Oh...um, that's ok, but thank you!"
And if they befriend you, that's only because they don't know about the Bipolar Bullet Train, or because they love confusion, or have giant balls.
"My psychologist says I'm High Functioning Bipolar." I was so embarrassed to tell my spine surgeon that. Please don't be horrified, I'll fall over. His face went professionally blank.
Upon hearing the word "bipolar" spoken softly and with great trepidation, some have said, "Oh, that's not true. You're not bipolar! You need to exercise! Stretch! Take nature walks."
And how does that feel. "So, all this time, while I'm banging my head against the tile wall of my shower, and my screams are spiraling up from a pit so deep no one's ever seen it, or when I'm crying until my eyes swell shut or I never feel tired, not for a year and that's an illusion, what's really happening is I'm barely sleeping for a year, and my body is under no illusion, in fact it's dying, and I just can't feel it... You're saying that all this time...through all this hell I'm talking about...all I needed to do was take a nature walk?!"
"Well, yeah, and stretch."
Carrie Fisher, bless her, could admit to being ill for another 40 years—and I truly wish she could—but her being a poster child for bipolar is barely helpful to the rest of us. We'd lose our jobs and some friends, maybe even family, and most definitely, absolutely, our credibility for all the rest of our days if the public at large found out. We might even become homeless, because if we lose our jobs and insurance, which means meds and therapy, we'll suddenly find ourselves the most popular kids in the encampment, looking forward to death with a vengeance.
This October issue is kept in the bathroom in the magazine holder along with a couple Vice mags, Hunter S. Thompson's Kingdom of Fear, and a year-old Vanity Fair True Crime Special Issue that I can't seem to throw out. It was an engrossing read.
This morning I pull this Wired out and see the cover has been ripped off. Fuck! It's the Obama one! I find the cover buried deep inside when Rx walks in.
"Oh my god, Rx! The cover ripped off!"
She says, "Oh no, that's the good president! Mommy, you can tape it. I have tape, I'll go get it."
When you're an only child and you're on holiday break and your parents are working at home, you may need to pull all your animal friends together to keep you company while you eat cereal and watch Spongebob on your iPad.
She's lined them up in order of importance.
1. Babies, her best friend her entire life so far
2. Judy Hopps and Nick Wilde from Zootopia
3. Darth Vader
4. Judy's cop mobile
5. New white kitty
6. The pet carrier that all stuffed animals are carried around in.
7. "Halloweenie" -- her favorite Ty® cat
8. The new horrible Ty® cat that makes pathetic meowing sounds when you pass by it. My estranged sister gave this to her to torture me, I'm pretty sure.
And in case anyone's wondering, I totally know this sucks for her and hate myself for it and am looking for ways every second of the day to change it.
70% of you have been physically assaulted, molested or raped by men?
YES. And that's not just this group, that's my cousin's group too, and endless other groups of friends who are 70% assaulted, molested or raped by men. Who are we? We are (predominantly white) women who grew up in wealthy towns/areas and around successful, educated people.
By stating that it's NO BIG DEAL to physically assault, molest or rape women, this "president" has demonstrated that it doesn't matter. He says it doesn't mean anything, that it's locker room talk.
To anyone who has accidentally stumbled on this blog, wake up. 70% of the women I know, including me, have been physically assaulted, molested or raped by men. What if it was 70% of men?
Make no joke about it; we as humans are seriously fucked if Tr**p wins the presidency. Did I use asterisks on the wrong word? No, I did not.
Isn't it possible there's at least one person in the Justice Department who will resist turning over important proof of the ever-famous emails and their new best friend, the other emails, because they don't want their family's faces to melt a-la-Nazi in Spielberg's Indiana Jones? Except post-Nuclear bomb detonation?
Choosing this new Nazi leader WILL KILL EVERYBODY with just a finger and a button.