May 25, 2013

I would like to be less angry now and a little more calm and collected.


Almost a month since I last wrote.

I’ve had a strange, lingering depression. I feel like an apple crushed for juice but there’s not a lot in me. There hasn’t been for a whole month. I started smoking cigarettes again. Stress level is way up there. Not feeling so hot.

I don’t know what is worse–knowing you have no more refills on a medication you desperately need and having to go see a prescription-pushing, plastic-faced doctor you owe money to because you missed the last appointment because the office never called to confirm and they charged you $35, or buying the other medication you really need and it being full of seeds, stems, and leaves, with barely any bud in there at all, and you feel like you’re smoking dirt.

I’m also tired of those “it gets better!” messages. Oh just fuck off will you. Damn it, by now I’m ready for the shitty days.

Memorial Day weekend is a horrible time. I don’t like remembering dead people who suited up and went and did important things in the name of ‘Murrica. I don’t much care, quite honestly. They joined up to die and they died. The end. We remember them to honor their “sacrifice”, to appreciate what they did for all the freedom in the world you guys, to feel guilty, to get an extra holiday, to sell some red white blue shit to old grandmas.

I’ve gotten a lot of hell before for saying shit like this. Usually it comes from people who are buying the red white blue shit. Or from people who joined up to die but haven’t died yet. Or from people who knew / loved those that joined up to die and died. Or think that freedom is the best thing in the world you guys, who don’t even realize the ugly truth:

Freedom is an illusion. We are all in prison.

They joined up to die, died, and were set free. But you and I? We’re still stuck in hell.

many things

April 9, 2013

I’m not dead. Yet. I’ve just been knitting and watching documentaries.

I have also been slowly recovering from a spike in rapid cycling, which sometimes happens. I distanced myself from people and gave myself some time alone. It helps me to become reclusive. People tend to set me off, and I don’t want to hurt them by saying something ridiculous that I didn’t mean to say.

During these times the dumbest things come out of my mouth. For one, I can’t speak straight, so my words are jumbled, and sometimes I stutter. Once one of the new hires at work got very suddenly too close to me and it frightened / unnerved me so much (because if there is one thing I hate with a passion, it is people getting too close to me without prior permission) that I started hard enough to gasp for breath and immediately hit a s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s. I had been trying to say the word “six”.

She giggled and asked if I was okay. All I could do was mumble yes and get back to what I had been doing, as far away from her as possible.

See, all of this comes back weeks after it happens. I couldn’t have written about this instance directly after it had happened; not even days afterward. It had to settle and boil down and be analyzed from top to bottom. I think I hurt her feelings, because she seemed to approach me gentler after that. Anyway, she only showed up for one more day, then quit.

I was relieved. I could not have dealt with extremely sudden invasions of my personal space. Work is stressful enough and my manager doesn’t have any understanding of personal space because she is affable and touchy and grew up in a house where you reach out and lightly smack another every time you say something you feel is remotely funny for some reason. One more closing in on my space makes me feel sick.

I’ve been known to say things that are entirely inappropriate. Hell, it’s my specialty. I don’t say these things in a comedic kind of way, though–oh no. I have to be awkward as hell. I have to turn a shade of puce when I talk and look suspicious because I fidget and lose eye contact.


But, it’s okay. It happens. The best thing to do I have found in this situation is to just keep your mouth shut and try to think what it is you want to say rather than actually say it, even if you do feel it is relevant, because it probably is not.

It helps, it really, really helps, to have a conscious rein on things. My rein is “okay it’s time to go hide inside and knit for days upon days now.”


March 28, 2013

I haven’t written in a while. Whoops.

My days have been heavy with work and then coming home and playing video games and then flopping down for sleep. Sometimes after episodes there comes a stretch of nothing where the brain tries to recuperate. When socializing happens, you win a few friends, you lose a few more. At work, you try to maintain the Face That People Expect To See. Your diet loses a couple of points as you consume hot fudge sundaes with extra hot fudge.

I alternate video games. Last time it was Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword, and before that, Okami. This time, it’s Harvest Moon: Animal Parade which is a very soothing time-waster. When I play video games now, I think of Carl Sagan saying to his son, “Never show this to me again. I don’t want to waste time.”

Eat a few sour cream and onion cheesy poofs. Turn up the dorky music that makes you feel better. Drown out the voice of reason a little longer.

I took up a journal, but I’ve only discovered an unhealthy decline in the perfection of my penmanship. I’m appalled.

There’s a three day weekend coming up, wherein I’ll probably only get out of my clothes to attend a family Easter dinner, and only grudgingly, which means I’ll wear comfortable things.

Otherwise, it is either a). Venture Brothers marathon + knitting; b). Firefly marathon + knitting; c). Writing

I’m tired. But it’s one more day.


March 22, 2013

It’ll be a long day at work, something I’m not necessarily looking forward to but ready to pound into submission nonetheless. Grr. Grargfg.

I get such a strange, dreadful anxiety when I’m close to being out of medicine. It’s almost a physical pain. An eerie tightness in the chest.


March 20, 2013

Ever have a day where someone tells you about something great that has happened to them and expect a lot of attention and praise out of you for it? Well fuck you, you’re not getting that out of me. Not this morning, at least. I’ll offer praise and attention when I’m feeling less like a cantankerous old man.

Good word, cantankerous.

I find that a lot of the time people tend to contact you to tell you about their wonderful news even when–and sometimes especially when–they haven’t spoken or paid attention to you in forever. They just want an ego-stroke, they don’t actually give much of a shit about you.

I am seriously having one of those days. I only want to care about people closest to me, not people who remember I exist when they want me to masturbate their feelings for them. I find it just about as ridiculous as an old high school bully trying to friend me on Facebook.

There is a reason why I live in the middle of nowhere, with just one person for company, and a smallish handful of close friends and neighbors whom I consider largely worth my time, effort, and mental masturbatory services. I do not do sycophantic fawning over people greedy for it.

I get exceedingly tired of people sometimes.


March 20, 2013

And fuck if I don’t feel like I fit in anywhere. Is alienation a symptom of bipolar disorder or am I just paranoid right now? That “no one understands me, baw” feeling. Ugh, I hate it, it is pretentious, but fuck if I don’t feel like I fit in anywhere.

But you know. Bawww, whine, whatever. I was raised to believe that nothing I said had merit and people don’t pay me any mind anyway, so I don’t feel as if talking about this feeling is–well, let’s just say that when I feel this way, another voice tells me “shut up, cuntface, who the fuck gives a shit” which is true, completely true, wholly true.


March 18, 2013

I just had such an enormous and heart-hurting pang of emotion that tears sprung and a sob escaped before I had even realized what had happened.

I was told this tonight, so I did, and I realized I was in the grip of a euphoria that was threatening to overrun me. It started with the news about the Higgs Boson certainty, that scientists were 99% sure they had witnessed an actual Higgs Boson particle–this floored me. I was alight with wonder and happiness, and literally nothing has bothered me since then.

When I came home I put a movie on even before I changed out of my work uniform. Zero silence tolerance, though there is zero silence in the house anyway, what with the cycling of a fish tank or two. Sometimes silence is wonderful, and sometimes, on days like these, it is not.

My brain is whirling. I’m still in wonder. A Higgs Boson!

No longer a theory–now we know.

Cannabis is helping wonderfully. I’m settled. I may not be able to decide on what I want to do, or what I want to say or see or–well, whatever–but I’m remaining seated. I’m not going out and doing crazy things.

Like I want to.

Higgs Boson.

about a high

March 8, 2013

As with anything you imbibe to induce a high, you sometimes get a little loopy. Too much cannabis makes me dizzy and quiet, because that level of high that is meant for sitting down and thinking deeply. There are many nuances of high that I have noticed in my experience of using, and as usual there are many different highs for the different types of cannabis just as there are for different types of cannabis products, such as edibles or topical applications. Cannabis comes in all kinds of shapes–food, lotion, lip balm, spray, plant, the possibilities are wide and far.

The high that is necessary for me to be able to function is a level of high that I try to maintain throughout my day, barring work. I have a flexible work schedule that keeps me at five hour shifts with a few eight hours here and there; this allows me to keep my stress levels down and my working levels up, so that I get in actual exercise in a day, which is very important. It also means that I am never too long without my medicine. I carry my pills with me everywhere unless I have already taken my dosage. I do not carry cannabis with me out of the house unless I am on an extended trip or running an errand that takes longer than an hour. On this note, I do not find that my driving is in any way inhibited after smoking cannabis–in fact, I am a very defensive driver who pays excellent attention to the road. I think that cannabis’s influence has gotten me to slow down and pay more attention than I did, and it keeps me from floating off into la-la-land.

I smoke throughout the day as I can, maintaining a level of alertness without being introverted. Yes, cannabis changes my thinking–I am more vocal after smoking, more creative, sometimes comedic, all of the time joyous. Cannabis brings a middling-out to my moods almost immediately. If there is depression, I start thinking differently after smoking, and it ebbs away. If I am euphoric or manic, the cannabis slows me down and brings me back to a focused, manageable current.

It also chases away all insomnia. Think about that for a moment: no insomnia, at all, for a bipolar person. Whoa. I can’t describe to you the senseless hours spent trying to get to sleep, trying desperately to stay asleep, being unable to sleep because the dreams are not letting you sleep, being unable to sleep for longer than hour periods–and waking at each interval. All of that is gone in just three tokes from my pipe.

I pass out and sleep like a baby.

I get regular 8-hour sleep because of cannabis. I think that in itself is one of the top reasons why I smoke. No medicine, no other alternative practice, can give me pure, dreamless, uninterrupted healthy sleep like cannabis can. It is a fucking miracle.

The effect of cannabis is immediate. It is the most wonderful, flowing feeling. Granted, for first-timers, it might not work. That’s normal–you have to keep trying. Believe me, it will hit. It worked for Carl Sagan, and he had to try almost seven times to experience it. Cannabis is not a scary substance in any way. It is not unhealthy, it is not cancerous. It’s a medicine. And it does so much good for so many patients.

I have a MTWThFSaS pill box for my weed. I’m serious about treating it like medicine. If I show others by example that I consider this a part of my medication routine and not a drug to fool around with, perhaps some good might come of that. Unfortunately I have to do so anonymously for now, but maybe one day I’ll be able to stand up confidently without worry of losing my livelihood and say, I use medicinal cannabis, and I love the fuck out of it.