WHAT????

WTF????

Try and tell me this ad was not created by a fucking PEDOPHILE!!!!!

And how it ever got published is beyond me!

Either the pedo's co-workers are also pedophiles, or they are the most completely oblivious buttmunches in the Universe.

Same for the magazine that printed this ad.

Faycin finds wall and slams head into it repeatedly.

Haunted and Empty

A Lonely Universe

Here are the writing prompts from one of those blogs that I haunt or stalk or whatever it is I do. I use these but I can't directly participate anymore. Trying to work with "normal" humanity simply does not work for me.

1.) Six Word Memoir: Write about a significant time in your life in just six words.

My father died. I lost faith.

2.) “One need not be a chamber to be haunted, One need not be a house. The brain has corridors surpassing material place”. -Emily Dickinson What haunts you?

Oh people. A fuck of a lot of things haunt me. One of the things that haunts me daily is due to the work (what little I am able to do) that I do to try and end animal cruelty. I see the images in my head of animals that were murdered in horrible ways by sick human beings who deserve to have THE WORST happen to them. I do not want to hear about the milk of human kindness when it comes to these shits. I have none. They deserve THE WORST. That is that. I will not belabor it.

The thing that haunts me on a personal level is my loss of faith. I do not enjoy being an out and out atheist even though "it makes the most sense" to me. It feels utterly empty and devoid of hope.

I could never go back to being one of the devout, believing in a deity who sees fit to reject certain of its creations because they are unable to believe in its existence. I have no use for such a deity. Such flaws as needing to be constantly worshiped are human vices, and any deity worth its salt would have no such neediness. Therefore, I am quite unlikely to be "born again" into that religion. 

Reason tends to outweigh the necessity of escaping the fear of eternal oblivion.

And now, to up my Pariah Points all the further.

I do miss being able to believe in the deities of the older pantheons. I like them. I did at one point believe they existed and that they heard me. I have had experiences which point to the fact that SOMETHING happened when I have done what amounts to focusing my energy on a certain ideal. I do have some belief in connecting with a universal energy and obtaining feedback from that energy. Energy is the one thing that I can be sure of. It is eternal. It never ceases to exist, it only changes form.

Using a scientific thought process, I also believe in the POSSIBILITY that some portion of the personality survives the death of the body. The ENERGY that exists within the body does not cease to exist on the death of the body. It goes somewhere. It does something. And yeah, motherfuckers, I did once see a 100% 3D actual ghost with my unstoned, undrunk, not particularly tired eyes. It was not a flash in my peripheral vision, it--rather, he--sat there in his favorite chair, right smack in front of me. For a full 30 seconds to a minute he was there, until his wife opened the door and he disappeared. There were plenty of physical phenomenon preceding his appearance--slamming of doors in the basement, the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Yes, I have a history of mental illness. No, I do not hallucinate unless I am on drugs, either legitimate or otherwise, or I am so tired that I begin hallucinating. This happened last night when I "saw" a black dog crossing the street and nearly crashed the car to avoid hitting it. I'd not had more than six hours of sleep in the past three days.

This was not the case when I saw the ghost. Who, if you aren't familiar with this story, had been my neighbor. He died at 35 from leukemia. I was babysitting for his son at the time I saw him.

This ghost does not haunt me. It's likely he doesn't even come back to that house any more. His wife remarried, his son is is now almost 40 years old. Neither of them live there any more.

My failures haunt me. My  loneliness haunts me. The loss of people I thought were my friends but who decided that I was "too weird" to be worth their friendship haunts and hurts me. Every time this sort of thing happens I feel more and more worthless.

Perhaps for right now, "maybe" needs to be good enough, seeing as none of us really knows the score about why we even exist or what happens when our bodies die. I always enjoyed exploring these mysteries. Such as, why do some people (like my father, although my mother has heard his voice on several occasions since he died, always at a quarter to seven in the morning) leave and not return to haunt their loved ones, while others come back.

An Australian Aboriginal would find the idea that the soul does not continue existence after death ludicrous. I feel that it is unscientific to not be open to possibilities when we have no proof one way or the other. 

Other haunts: 

Again, my failures in life. To be completely broke, to have no friends, to live in squalor, all these things bring my soul down as low as it can go.

I need something...badly.

I need for this misery to end.

Well, I'm not as suicidal as I was a few hours ago. I guess that's something, maybe.

Now, why can't good luck come and haunt me?

More Words that Hurt

I didn't write the words below but I easily could have. They were written by a fellow who had a possibly well-meaning (but possibly not) friend who drove him away from his support groups by telling him to "tough up." Obviously he took things out of proportion but sometimes people who are fragile will do that.

I always end up making mistakes that end up making it so I can no longer comment on people's blogs because I have made an ass of myself by being too sensitive. Even friends I have had for a long time, and those are very few. 

I think it is not helping to have my extended family here. It has really triggered something destructive.

Here are the words of the wounded:

So.. I keep getting told by a female friend of mine that I need to grow up and not tell all my problems to strangers and that im pathetic for doing so.. I.. Feel like a piece of shit, what was I thinking in the first place.. I do enjoy getting things off my chest, but, now I feel I'm a burden. I just want to say thanks for all the help this group has offered me, and this is going to kill me for a long time for doing so you've helped me so much.. but, I'm the type of person who will dwell on being a burden every I type now.. because what a friend said.. I need to leave all my support group.. it's time for me to do it alone.. Goodbye everyone and I wish you all the best.. I'll never forget what you all did for me XXOO ♥ and *hugs* JOE

I wish that people would think more about their words. This "friend" did not do this fellow any good at all.

I Wish I Could Be Friends with Me

I wish I could be friends with me

Because when I'm friends with people I'm supportive of them

I try never to belittle their beliefs

I try to encourage them to explore

I never belittle them for their looks

Or their education or lack thereof

I try to encourage them to express themselves

I'm able to be nice to other people

But I'm really, really, really mean to me

Why is it that I can't be my own friend?

Depressed and Hopeless

How did I convince myself that anybody would ever want to read what I wrote?

I thought I was a halfway decent writer, convinced myself of it because I always got high marks in writing, was in the 93rd percentile on English in the SAT, got a 12 on my English accuplacer at the community college, which is the highest score possible.

It must be my personality which sucks rocks and keeps people from coming back.

I would kill myself if it wouldn't negatively affect certain people, namely my son. Because I am a 666 time loser.

I will never be an acknowledged writer--hell, I can't even get and keep an audience of five or something minimal like that.

I should probably just stop this whole thing now. Quit torturing myself. I am no good. Never have been, never will be. People used to like me because I was a partier. Now that's gone there's nothing left except for an ugly, boring old bag of shit.

Six billion people in the world and I can't even get an audience of five.

What does that say?

Give up your delusion, you piece of shit. You will never be anybody. Nobody will ever like you. You will always and forever suck. You will die alone and in obscurity.

Fuck you. Everyone who ever made fun of you was in fact right.

Go jump off a bridge.
And no, I do not "just need to see a counselor." Are you gonna pay for it? Doesn't help anyway. Neither does medicating myself into a zombie-fied state.
You forget--I've been crazy for a lot more years than most of you bastards have been alive.
Not that anyone is reading this anyway.

And now I can't even get this shit to publish. Oh, the fucking irony!

I never asked to exist. I am an unhappy, miserable accident of fate. I do not believe in any sort of deity, at least not a kind, loving one. Everything is a shitty sort of random chance.  In this universe I have come to realize that nothing matters, least of all me.

I am considering that after my aunt, brother, and cousins leave I should just "go the distance." I serve no useful purpose. No-one here loves me anyway. So I should probably just take Bob Seger's advice and go to Kathmandu. If by Kathmandu you mean oblivion.
I used to believe in heaven and hell. I used to believe in existence of a spirit beyond the body. I simply don't any more.

Just a broken, meaningless shell left behind

Some of us are broken, meaningless shells throughout life.

Graduation Day

I have sworn off sharing my link and trying to get new readers to my blog because time and time again I learn that Normal Peepuls are scared of Teh Crazee, but here is a writing prompt that I found and a somewhat funny story to tell. The writing prompt was to remember a graduation that you participated in.

High school for me was a combination of stoned/drunk off my ass and miserable. Being bipolar and not what's going on with yourself is like being in an emotional maelstrom where you feel like you may be torn apart at any minute, and the worst part is you never are, because that would offer some relief. So, let's get down to graduation time. I looked forward to this for so long, especially in my senior year, because I was really sure that I had paid my dues and now I could get down to life being cool.

The night before graduation, I dreamed that the vice principal came to me and told me they had been looking over my credits.

"We discovered that we made a mistake. You don't have enough credits to graduate. You're still a junior." she said.

I looked at her and said "well then, I'm dropping out and getting my GED, because I refuse to be stuck in this hell hole for another year!"

I woke up shaking and said "My God, what a horrible nightmare!"

I then got up, got dressed, and got myself down to graduation.

In the row in front of me at graduation was this big-mouth guy who had once thought he would shock me by flashing me. Instead of being shocked I laughed and shouted out my car window "hold on! Let me go home and get my microscope!"

For the next two months at school whenever I walked by him, I would simply say "microscope." He would grumble "shut up!" His friends didn't know what was going on but they knew it embarrassed him so they started laughing at him too.

Dude was, as usual, spouting some foolishness. I don't even remember what. But I finally said to him "Jimmy, shut up! For once in your life, even if this is the only time, JUST SHUT UP!"

To my surprise, he did.

We got through it, and I was graduated.

To my dismay, life did not suddenly get cool. I was the same messed up person I'd ever been. And I made a lot of stupid choices.

To my worse dismay, I find myself almost 30 years later still subconsciously trying to prove to those idiots that I went to high school with that I really did have good qualities and to get them to accept me. And although I know this is stupid, I don't know how to stop.

Here is a favorite song of mine. It does have some personal meaning. I am not going to project what that is but those who have known me a long time may be able to figure it out. 

Driving slowly, watching the headlights in the rain.
Funny how things change.
Think of the good times wishing you were still with me.
The way it used to be, graduation day.

Watching the stars fall, a million dreams have all gone bad.
Think of all we had.
I knew all then, thought you loved me I was wrong.
Life goes on, graduation day, oh, graduation day.

Thinking of a time when everything was right.
Thinking of a time with only you and I.
Makes me sorry that it had to end that way.
Learned my lesson now there's nothing left to say, graduation day, oh graduation day.

( Guitar Solo )

Thinking of a time when everything was right.
Thinking of a time with only you and I.
Makes me sorry that it had to end that way.
Learned my lesson now there's nothing left to say, graduation day, oh graduation day.
Oh graduation day.


[ From: http://www.metrolyrics.com/graduation-day-lyrics-chris-isaak.html ]

Faycin the Failed Thief

This week's Writer's Workshop prompt is to write about a time you got in deep doo-doo as a kid.

As I mentioned in this post I've decided to continue doing the Writer's Workshops even though I guess I won't provide a link to my post there because while in a miserable mood I kinda made an ass of myself and said I was not going to participate anymore. I'd like to do it, it was kind of fun, but I really don't think I'm welcome after my meltdown. So no more trying to get new readers because I'm the kind of person that's a born pariah. I'll just do my thing and my -666 fans can continue to come visit me as usual. 

When I was twelve years old I was a very troubled young lady. I was not violent, I've never been the sort of person who even likes getting in a fist fight although I've been in a few. But I had started smoking weed and sneaking nips of alcohol. I started occasionally ditching class, and unfortunately I followed my friend "Junie's" lead and began shoplifting. 

Junie came from a troubled family: her parents' divorce had really unsettled the children. Her mother was angry and bitter and her father was negligent. Her little brother swore constantly and enjoyed playing pranks on his sisters. Junie's older sister compensated by being the "good, responsible one." Junie wasn't a bad kid, she was just unhappy. She was constantly teased for her weight and was a very lost soul. She compensating by engaging in activities such as smoking pot and shoplifting.

As I realize now, my own bipolar disorder had onset at puberty, and I wasn't a popular kid either. I was an ugly, awkward girl with long, greasy hair, acne, and buck teeth. I got picked on a lot too. In an effort to make myself seem "cool" I started trying to play the part of the "bad girl." Not sexually speaking, I was very inexperienced in that department and thought that a "blow job" was blowing in someone's ear. I had never even kissed a guy. I was afraid of sex, despite rumors that would later be spread about me. No, my goal was to appear to be "tough" so no-one would mess with me anymore.

It's kinda hard to look tough while wearing Martian headgear, but I digress.

One morning before going to school, I had a sore throat, so my mother gave me two bucks to get some cough drops. This was 1977, two bucks could buy you a box of Sucrets. So I went to the local drug store after school. When I got there, to my dismay, I discovered that I'd lost my money. Well, no problem for a slick five-finger discounter like me. I slipped the box of cough drops into my pocket and slipped out the door.

A few minutes after I'd gotten out on the street I heard a voice calling "excuse me!" I looked back to see a store clerk running towards me. Now, if I'd really been the smooth criminal I thought I was, I would have busted a move and run for it. I don't think this young lady would have chased me very far. But in reality I was a complete naífe, and I turned to her and said very cleverly:

"Yes?"

"Did you take something from our store?" she asked.

I even more cleverly responded "Uh..."

She reached into my coat pocket and brought forth the cough drops, then grabbed me by the arm and dragged me back into the store. People on the sidewalk were laughing, and I wanted the Earth to open up and swallow me.

Granted, I had done something wrong, but the security guard was one of the biggest cunts I had ever met. She shouted at me and berated me, calling me a little criminal. She told me to look at the camera so she could take my picture. I started to become defensive and told her I wouldn't. I sat with my arms crossed. She grabbed my face and squeezed my jaw in an attempt to force me to look at the camera while the clerk took the picture. 

"So you think you're tough, do you?" she yelled. "Well, we'll just see how tough you are when I call the cops!"

At that point the scared kid came out, begging her not to call the cops. Of course she did. The cop was much nicer than this bitch was. He saw me for what I was: a scared, troubled kid. He did not handcuff me. He let me ride in the front seat of the police car. I told him I was sorry, that I'd never done anything like this before. He said that he imagined I never would again either, that it was just a stupid mistake and to learn from it and not do it again. He was a nice fellow.

My parents were, of course, very upset with me, but in retrospect I think they overreacted and that their overly harsh punishment caused me to start disobeying even more. There was three months left of school and my father grounded me for all three of them. I think that a month would have been sufficient. I would have obeyed rather than sneaking away from school to meet friends and get high, pretending that I was "going to the library." My mother told me that the shoplifting would ALWAYS BE ON MY RECORD no matter what the cop said. He told her that it would be erased when I turned 18. She said that because of my indiscretion I probably would never be able to get a good job and would never be able to get into college. At that point, dumb though I was, I told her that I was sure other people had made stupid mistakes when they were twelve and that things turned out fine. Of course I got holy hell for mouthing off.

So, that was the experience that kicked off the beginning of my extremely troubled life as a teenager.

WARNING: SCAM BILL COLLECTORS!

Here is a wonderful article which warns of scam "bill collectors" from India making threatening phone calls to people who have taken out payday loans. Please pass the link to this article along, and follow Steve on Twitter if you are so inclined.

This was my comment:

I ended up having to take out several payday loans as I was really strapped for cash while doing a month's paid internship for the LPN nursing program that I was in. Yesterday an individual identifying himself as "Josh Milan" called not only my cell phone but my work leaving threatening messages stating that I better not ignore his call and if I were to ignore his call he could only wish me good luck for what would happen to me. I was furious that he called my work and attempted to call him at the number he gave: 7075342308

Nobody picked up. I was thinking about retaining a lawyer but armed with the knowledge in this article I do not think I will spend money I don't have to do so. Thank you. I am also passing this link along.

Bullying Hurts at Any Age

Haylee Fentress and Paige Moravetz: two young lives cut short because of unnecessary vicious and stupid behavior

There was a post on Fierce Fatties about two high school girls who committed suicide because of Internet bullying. This was what I had to say:

I was bullied very badly as a child and teenager, particularly in my early teens. I was ungainly, had braces and Martian headgear (would still like to get my hands on the sadist that invented that object!) was very shy, and, as it turned out, was mentally ill. When I look back on it, my bipolar disorder probably onset with the hormones of puberty. Those were not happy times. I’ve almost no doubt that if bullying via the Internet had been added, I would have completed one of my somewhat half-assed suicide attempts.
Regarding the bullies: don’t these little shits’ parents pay any kind of attention to what their monstrous spawn are doing online? I suppose you can’t pay attention every minute, but…I don’t really know where I’m going with this. I only know that whenever I see another case of suicide due to bullying, usually including bullying via the Internet, it makes me both sad and angry.

One commenter also mentioned that she had been bullied in college. To which I replied:

There is a lot of bullying that goes on at the college level, at least in the early years. The hellspawn that I mentioned in my previous comment are let out on their own with very little supervision. When I was in college I wasn't bullied awfully but there was a group of people who started the rumor that I was a "Satan worshiper" for my love of heavy metal music--huh, this happened when I was in high school too! Which just goes to show that it's kind of bizarre for there to be an expectation that the immature shitheads who just graduated high school will in three months develop the maturity to be an adult in college...yeah, right. 
I ended up dropping out after the first semester of my freshman year and going to a technical school where I learned about telecommunications and administrative assistant skills. To put this in perspective, this was 1984, the computers all had green screens and no graphics capabilities plus a whole massive megabyte of memory, the floppy disks really were floppy, and everything I learned about computers was obsolete in six months! Also I really didn't like secretarial work so it was kind of a waste of a year. But even the small amount of bullying that happened in my first semester drove me to not return to college until many years later in my late 30's when I got my emergency medical technician license.
Truth is, bullying can happen at every age in any atmosphere where cliques are allowed to thrive. But I think it does affect us worse when we're young and unsure of ourselves.
Wow...rant ended, I guess? Anyway I am sorry you endured that crap. No-one should have to.

Check out uwe bruns – j'attends le soleil http://t.co/Z37dHfo via @lastfm Something a little different

Check out Powervibe – Take it http://t.co/z2zBLMq via @lastfm

Check out Nitro Tokyo – Fuel My Fire http://t.co/iLENcbQ via @lastfm

Check out Barnacle Bill – See You Through http://t.co/LvYyTbS via @lastfm

Check out Synaptica – 870 http://t.co/xXdPwG5 via @lastfm

Here's something cool and different. Check out Bob Beland – Eulogy For A Dwarf Planet http://t.co/PhEbikK via @lastfm

http://ping.fm/v7lOr Another Icelandic volcanic eruption

Check out Ignition-BCN – Kashmir http://t.co/HbptT3f via @lastfm Garage rock cover of the classic

Check out Synaptica – Io sono la Morte http://t.co/ckw0IBN via @lastfm Switching gears to something a lot more Goth.

Check out Powervibe – Do what you got to http://t.co/sVbgZwa via @lastfm

Check out fallen angels rock – The Cage http://t.co/lkwcrHD via @lastfm Rough cut old school style punk

http://ping.fm/0hNCz Apocalypse: Not Now

http://ping.fm/6kndp Out & shame these whores & their pimps!

http://ping.fm/WVlcq Never wanted to dress like a skank.

http://ping.fm/gqT4R Overfishing has endangered the Bluefin tuna

http://ping.fm/xPaXd This just makes my head spin--so sick!

RT @thezub Oh sorry, I misheard. I thought you said "the raptor is coming".

http://ping.fm/h4x6s Guess this kind of describes my feelings on the matter. Higher power but not one that cares.

RT @cowspanker Hitler meme on Lars Von Trier -- http://ping.fm/vT5ij

http://ping.fm/t7AWn There needs to be a national registry for animal abusers.

http://ping.fm/8Bon2 Looks like the trailer for a Roland Emmerich disaster fest!

Dear Facebook Sidebar, I do not give a flying shit that Racheal Ray lost 32 pounds. Stop showing me this dumb ad!

Just cause you got the monkey off your back doesn't mean the circus has left town. -- George Carlin

Deal of the day is Abercrombie size 2 short shorts! What a trifecta of don't want! Abercrombie, short shorts, and size 2 would fit my knee.

RT @succitam A small part of me wanted the rapture to be real. Probably the same part that tells me to eat the stickers on apples.

RT @mentalhealthsoc Letter: Supporting those with mental illness - Abington Mariner http://bit.ly/kyYfQF

Guess I'll go visit my son when dinner rolls 'round and mooch some food. Sad days--so sick of grilled cheese, bank account in the negatory.

Coming to a Theatre Near You: Rapture!!!

The Rapture prediction was obviously a bunch of nonsense, but doesn't this look like a trailer for one of those cool Roland Emmerich disaster flicks?

http://ping.fm/3GcLI How to report animal abuse videos and pictures to the authorities. Good info!

Face Book you are cracking down on the wrong people. http://t.co/X8AGkBp via @change

It's Ok...had a bad day

So the other day when I was bemoaning my lack of visitors to my nightmare, I made the decision not to participate in the Writer's Workshops any more. A friend and I had a discussion about this and I came to the conclusion that I'm still going to participate because it's therapeutic. 

I have these days sometimes. Sometimes they're the product of the magnified moods produced by my illness. And sometimes...just like...gasp..."normal" people, they are situational.

My suicide ideation level yesterday was around an 8, but my intent level was only a 2. Anyone who has dealt with suicide ideation themselves knows what I mean. If I ran to the ER every time I felt suicide ideation I would have to just live there. If I took medications strong enough to eradicate my suicide ideation, I'd be a drooling zombie. The most effective approach is literally to recognize it and try and find out what it behind it.

Mostly lack of money...and being so fucking sick of grilled cheese sandwiches that if I don't get some other food soon I am going to burn down every store that fucking sells bread and Velveeta!

For those who don't know me, I am given to verbal exaggeration. I am actually a very peaceful person and have no inclinations towards committing arson. I would not do well in jail. But it does sound super cool to say I'm gonna blow something up. So much more interesting than "well, by golly, that just really chaps my hide!"

I need to go punch the time clock now (would love to punch it with a sledge hammer--I hate time clocks!) so I leave you with this image of what I did to the Velveeta factory. Note the lovely Processed Cheese Yellow.

Bad Writer or Bad Fit?

I thought that I might bring new readers to my blogs by participating in the Writer's Workshops but I don't think I'm going to do it anymore. Most of the participants are Normals, and I'm an Anything But Normal. People are afraid of those with mental illness. They believe the hype about us all being violent and having deluded thoughts and thinking that the government has implanted spy devices in our tooth fillings. I have three fillings, so I guess the FBI, the CIA, and the ATF all get to spy on me.

I don't have deluded thoughts so much as deluded moods. My brain tries to kill me on multiple occasions throughout the year. I have to fight the urge to give in and finally end my pain. I'm not depressive all the time but people don't get my sense of humor either. Just trying to stay alive, folks. But every time I try to venture into Normal World, if I don't get outright scorned I get the old silent treatment. People hide when they see It coming. 

Really, I'm not too surprised. But I'll give the people what they want, and I'll stay away.

Less than Ideal Circumstances With Positive Outcome

A cake so tacky--and yet subject-appropriate--that I had to share

Kat from Mama's Losin' It shared the less than ideal circumstances of her daughter's birth and the happy outcome. I shared with her my own hellish experience and thought I'd share it with you. It is Kat's daughter's birthday today so feel free to pay her a visit and wish some happy returns!

And now, my horrific tale of birthin'!

Happy birthday to your daughter. My son was also born via c-section, 21 years and eleven days ago, and conditions were far from ideal. I had toxemia, and I had food poisoning from a microbe called campylobacter. It actually turned out to be a stroke of luck that my blood pressure went waaay up and the OB decided that I needed to be induced. It was 2 weeks before my due date. I ended up in screaming agony with non-progressive labor and had to have an emergency c-section--which was fortunate because not long after I recovered from anesthesia I started having diarrhea from hell. If my son had been exposed to the campylobacter microbe, it probably would have killed him. It even drained the living hell out of me, an Amazon of a woman who weighed around 200 pounds at the time. I don't think I've ever felt so horrible, but I would knowingly endure it again for him.

Post 200: Coming Out of the Attic is Difficult

While reading a post about CNN news anchor Don Lemon's struggle with coming out of the closet, I was struck once again by the parallels of the decision to be open about one's sexuality and the decision to be open about one's mental illness.

First of all, let me say that HOMOSEXUALITY IS NOT A FORM OF MENTAL ILLNESS. I believe that one's sexual orientation is hard-wired from birth and I believe that a homosexual orientation is simply a natural genetic mutation. I do not say this as an insult. There are many genetic mutations that are actually positive. Homosexuality is, at worst, neutral. Lest you think I'd be swayed by the "homosexuality is a sin" argument, may I say that intolerance is one of the most deplorable sins. So, don't even try that nonsense on me.

Because of the prejudices that homosexuals endure in this society, there tend to be a disproportionate number who suffer from depression. As for mental illness, I can only imagine that it is horrific to be both homosexual and struggling with the prejudices that one faces in this homophobic society and mentally ill as well. 

I was bullied horrifically when I was in school. Interestingly, the rumors that I was a lesbian did not bother me particularly. I laughed those off . I wonder if I would have been able to do so if I actually were a lesbian. I wonder if I would have survived.

I attempted what amounted to two para-suicides during my teen years, once in junior high when I swallowed an entire bottle of aspirin and once in high school when I swallowed several diet pills (speed) and cut my wrists. The aspirin made me sick to my stomach and the cut wrists, although superficial, landed me on a psych hold for a weekend with some really dickish mental health "professionals." Following my treatment by these colossal morons, I have remained very reluctant to seek help for my issues and even when I did, I never felt comfortable being truly open and honest about what was going on with me.

But as we bipolar types with a zillion thoughts racing through our heads so often do, I digress. What I came here to do was compare the challenge of coming out of the closet (being open about one's homosexuality) with coming out of the attic (being open about one's mental illness.) 

The fear in both cases is being judged differently by those one knows.

There is a fear of losing friends. Yes, this happens. But any "friend" who will ditch you in either case was no friend at all in the first place.

There is a fear of losing one's employment. My direct supervisor knows that I have bipolar disorder, as do most of my co-workers. The HR department does not. I did not disclose this when I was hired. I wanted the job and did not want prejudice about my mental health to prevent me from getting it.

I do not date and I will never date again. I am not capable of trusting enough to have the feelings necessary for a successful romantic relationship. What most people don't understand is that I dislike casual sex intensely and it is actually very damaging for me psychologically to engage in such interactions. I am able to turn off my emotions during sex but this ends up being very destructive in the long run. Why the hell would anyone want to do this to oneself?

As someone with bipolar disorder, I do experience periods of hypersexuality. This was actually destructive when I was in a relationship. Oddly enough, my partners accused me of being "too wild," even though they were the only one I was getting wild with. Thankfully as I've aged, the periods of hypersexuality are fewer and further between. They generally involve watching kinky porn involving either group sex or same sex partners, and it doesn't matter if the partners are male or female as long as they are of the same sex. I have decided that this is probably because as a person of heterosexual orientation, heterosexual interactions tend to trigger romantic desires rather than strictly lust, and because I can never fulfill these particular need, it ends up making me depressed. For strictly me, myself, and I interactions to placate hypersexual urges, group or same sex porn is the way to a quick fix. It isn't that I can't write or envision romantic same-sex interactions involving characters, it's just that I don't envision them involving me, and when I've tried to, it doesn't ring true.

I might have been able to work this out when I was younger if I'd had a really supportive partner. But at this point it's too late for that and I really don't want anyone telling me how "you never know, your happily ever may still happen, yada yada." No, it won't. Not in this life. It's not a fight I want to fight any more. That is my decision and not anyone else's to make. I don't want anyone telling me how to feel about this.

When you're gay, it's difficult to take the risk of revealing your sexuality to people who may be narrow-minded and bigoted about something that's simply a normal but misunderstood way to be--something that you were born with, something that harms no-one but the misunderstanding of which can lead to a great deal of harm for the misunderstood gay person.

When you're mentally ill, it's difficult to risk revealing the truth because people will suddenly treat you as if you are stupid or out of control or as if your emotions, thoughts, and wishes are all laughable. 

Is it any wonder that both homosexuals and the mentally ill tend to be at a high risk for suicide?

Here is a favorite song of mine by The Bronski Beat. It is obviously about the author's struggle with being gay in a homophobic social setting. But I relate to it as a mentally ill person who has been rejected more than once because who I am has been completely misunderstood.

Smalltown Boy lyrics
You leave in the morning
With everything you own
In a little black case
Alone on a platform
The wind and the rain
On a sad and lonely face
Mother will never understand
WHy you had to leave
For the love that you need
Will never be found at home
And the answer you seek
Will never be found at home

Pushed around and kicked around
Always a lonely boy
You were the one
That they'd talk about around town
As they put you down
And as hard as they would try
They'd hurt to make you cry
But you'd never cry to them
Just to your soul
No you'd never cry to them
Just to your soul

{ From: http://www.elyrics.net/read/b/bronski-beat-lyrics/smalltown-boy-lyrics.html }

Be A Good Little Cripple And We'll Give You a Bone

This was a response to a commenter named Skeptyk at Dances With Fat.

Skeptyk said: "As long as you are a cheerful, uncomplaining striver, TABs can pat you on the head and tell you, with unconscious condescension, what an inspiration you are, how great it is that you, even broken, messed-up you, can actually do xxx. If you don’t play along, you are a bad crip, ungrateful."

Yes indeed!

I have both physical and mental challenges. My physical challenges are comparatively pretty minor: sciatica, fibromyalgia, mild hypothyroidism, mild hypertension. I can deal. Even with the degree of urinary incontinence that I "enjoy" ever so much, if these were my only problems, I'd be a pretty happy camper. But then we have my good old pals bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and OCD. Now these dear old chums put my life on hold for a long time before I finally learned how to wrestle them into some semblance of submission. HOWEVER this does not mean that I am asymptomatic. The depression part of bipolar (I have type II, which tends to be more prone to depression) can still slam me into powerful suicide ideation, and I am not always a "good crazy" being ever so positive and happy-slappy in spite of the fact that I quite literally am fighting the urge to kill myself. I am also not a "good fatty" because even though I am trying to eat more healthy foods, I flat out refuse to eat die-t food. That crap either tastes like cardboard or they add a shit ton of sodium to make it palatable. 

But yeah, like you said, as long as you're a Happy Cripple (in whatever sense) then you get pats on the head from the Perfect People who are secretly feeling smug that they don't have to be so flawed.

What I'd Do Differently if I had to Go Back to High School

The writing prompt for this week is what would you do differently if you had to go back to high school.

In all honesty, if I were forced to go back to high school now, I would fucking kill either myself or the asshat that made me go back to high school. There were a few fun daze back in my school days, but for the most part, school sucked some serious ass. I was a major outcast. I went to school with a bunch of major fucktards--shallow, bigoted shitheads who thought that their stupid opinions were gospel. There was a rumor going 'round about me that I had three abortions by the time I was in the eighth grade. I did not even know what a blow job was when I was in the eighth grade. I was extremely naive. I joked that I must have missed out on a really big part of my life because I certainly didn't remember these abortions or the sex that led to them.

My first para-suicide happened at thirteen. I swallowed a bottle of aspirin and cut my wrists. I realized later that the hormones of puberty had triggered my bipolar disorder. However the idiot shrink that diagnosed me as a "hysterical neurotic" when I was 16 really took the cake. I guess I should have had a hysterical paroxysm and cured myself. Oh wait--I had threesomes fairly regularly which took care of that problem. I just got together with Righty and Lefty at night when the folks thought I was sleeping! I was a very handy gal in my younger years though naive as hell and a virgin until I was 16 and thought I'd found Mr. Right. I also thought I was going to hell for my actions but I couldn't seem to stop my sinful thoughts about the (usually much older) dudes that I thought were so fine.

That was way too much information right there and I've told you all about what DID happen to me in high school. I was pretty unhappy and if it hadn't been for my pals Drugs, Booze, and Rock and Roll, I probably wouldn't have survived. On one hand (no pun intended) I liked sex, on the other hand, I wanted it to be devoted, loving sex and most guys weren't ready for that. So I got hurt a lot and I hurt myself a lot. But here you are all saying "yes, Faycin, that's what DID happen. So what would you do differently if you had to go to high school now?"

Well, if I'd just told you that straight out, this would have been a really short post. Because the answer is pretty short. There are a couple of things that I would do different. The first, and possibly most important is this:

I WOULD NOT GIVE A FLYING FUCK WHAT ANY OF THOSE SHITHEADS I WAS SURROUNDED WITH THOUGHT OR SAID ABOUT ME!!!

I would simply go about my business and learn what I needed to learn. 

The second difference is this:

I WOULD FOCUS ON MY GOALS, INCLUDING THE GOAL OF BEING ABLE TO LIVE INDEPENDENTLY.

At my advanced age I am still dependent on help from family members for many things. I had too many pie in the sky ideas when I was young and did not have the self-confidence to really pursue any of them. As I've said before, Younger Me was a silly twit who needs a damn good whacking. I am still in search of a time machine so I can go back and kick my ass as I so richly deserve for my youthful stupidity.

Faycin Goes Nuclear

I usually try to be polite and educate the general populace about the fallacy of stigma against the "freaks" of society, but the crotch who wrote this so-called "article" really rubbed the old crazy beeyatch the wrong way. I suppose my missive to her may be a tad juvenile and is definitely sarcastic but damned if I didn't want to slap her upside her so-superior "dynamo" head.

Well, so glad that you're not bipolar, Ms. Dynamo, because as everyone knows people who are mentally ill are lesser and just plain suck. I always hate it when the so-called "normal" populace takes a superior tone when it comes to mental illness. I have bipolar type II and was misdiagnosed for years because most counselors don't look for the more subtle signs. Bipolar II does not present with full-on manias, and while these "lame" quizzes may seem oh so trite to a perfect "dynamo" such as yourself, they might help a sick-o loser like myself seek for a better explanation than "you're just a little depressed and anxious and need to stop thinking the way you do."

Then again, it may just be that people like you are the reason that people like me need medication.

People like you are definitely the reason that I'm considering stopping receiving Blisstree in my feed. The articles here piss me off more often than not.

May 8 Blues

Today is mother's day. It is also my son's 21st birthday. He moved back to his apartment last night. He probably wants to spend the day just being there, on his own. He had been living with his dad for the past two weeks while his psycho ex roommate got out. I don't really see any danger of her coming in there while he's there. She'd rather just tell everyone what a bastard he is--that is her M.O. He's having the locks changed because if he wasn't there and she got motivated to walk over there from her grandmother's a few miles away, she might steal something. That would be more her style than shanking someone. 

He had me buy him a case of Guinness in case he decided to have a couple of friends over today. If he doesn't, it will last him about a month. So far I'm not really worried about his drinking although there is alcoholism on both sides of the family.

Yesterday I graduated from the nursing program. I'm glad it's over. People asked me if I was excited. I answered that I was relieved. I'm still wearing these stupid fake fingernails. Two of them have popped off. Even thought they're short they make it hard to type. I wore them because my real nails are ugly with a capital U. I'm not entirely sure what is going on but I probably malnourished myself somehow. My nails are a yellowish color (not thickened, it's not onchomysis--that is, nail fungus) and ridged. I really need to start eating better which currently means not much at all. I am broke. It will probably be a tomato soup, protein shake, and grilled cheese sandwich month. 

I know that this will sound stupid but I also knew it would happen. I am currently depressed. While I was training to do something I don't really want to do but which will be helpful in the long run, my damn already messy house went to shit. I don't know if I'll work on it today or not. I now have hot water, which I'm glad of. I need to start tiling the place. I will never, ever, ever have carpet in that end of the house and once I can start putting things in there again I'm tearing the carpet out of this end too. 

I'm torn on what to do about my dogs. On one hand I'd like to make things work with them. On the other, I think it would be really good for them to go to the Dachshund Rescue in Wyoming and get a home with someone who really likes dogs. I'm not always motivated to walk them and I'm much more of a cat person.

How can you be depressed when you've just achieved a huge goal? I guess it's not really surprising when you have to now look straight in the face the other areas of your fucked up life that you've been ignoring for months.

Wanna know what else is depressing me? Gas prices! It took $50 to fill the gas tank yesterday.
Public transit around here isn't bad in the larger metro area but from my town it doesn't really work. And by the time I get to the park and ride, I'm already in the next town! I would buy an electric car if I could afford one. I'll have to see about financing one on my half-assed credit. Then I'd get rid of the old Ford Escort and keep the Subaru around for snowy days since it's all wheel drive. Maybe I'll look into a car sharing service if they have one in this town.

High Times in the Circulation Room

The writing prompt for the week is "A Memorable High School Job."

Well, you asked for it!

Back in high school, I was not a boring dweebosaurus like I am now. I looked pretty innocent, but I was a real wild child. I shook it loose and I smoked it up and I drank alone and I drank with friends. I never met a jay I didn't like or a beer I could put down. 

In those wild daze of yore, I worked at the local newspaper in the circulation room. I worked with a few fellow teenage stoners, a big gay guy of around 40 who looked like Harvey Fierstein, a couple of hippie dudes in their 30's (one of whom, in retrospect, was a bit of a perv--I was seventeen and he hit on me a couple of times, but he was respectful when I turned him down) and a really, really nerdy fellow who was 28, lived with his mom, and looked a lot like Rick Moranis. 

Now, a job in the newspaper circulation room may sound pretty tame, but once the work was done it was time to cut loose. Usually this involved beer and pot, but one night it involved acid. The older guys did not drop the acid but me and my fellow young dumbasses did--before the work was done, mind. And then things started to get stooooopid in spades.

First, Danny saw the rat. Jeff and I couldn't see the rat yet, but then Danny introduced us, and we saw him. We also saw a couple of friendly neon beetles. I could see and taste the music. Things really ruled for a while. And then the trip turned kinda bad and I felt like my tongue was trying to crawl down my throat. I ran outside and tried to pull my tongue out of my mouth. Chris, my supervisor, who was one of the guys in his 30's, came out to ask if I was all right. I said I was--I was trying to pretend I wasn't tripping straight out of my head. Yeah--as if he hadn't noticed.

Ed, the nerdy fellow, was completely unnerved by all of this. He tried to tell Chris that he should fire the lot of us. Chris said no, he thought we'd probably learned our lesson. Then he admonished us to never, ever do anything so stupid again and to go the fuck home and sleep it off. A good enough idea, except guess who was driving.

It was Faycin at the wheel, and I will never know how I got home without getting busted or wrapping my car around a telephone pole that night. The poinsettias were growing so pretty on the lawn of the junior high and I pointed this out to Jeff and Danny, who had no problem at all riding with someone who was tripping. Somehow I had the presence of mind to drive right at the speed limit and after I drove to the south end of town to drop Danny and Jeff off (luckily our town wasn't very big, probably only about 10 miles across from north to south) I drove my own dumb ass home.

Where I proceeded to call this dude I'd had a crush on since the beginning of the year and tell him I was in love with him.

Yeah...

Come Monday, I found Dude and told him to please disregard any stupid things I may have said while my brain was tripping the light fantastic across the Universe. I told him I had been straight out of my head and sure I loved him, but I meant as a friend, not romantically.

As I have mentioned before, I am a bad liar, and I knew he didn't believe me even though he said he did. He was two years younger than I was and at the end of the school year he invited me over to his house to give me a graduation present, which turned out to be a grope-fest. Unfortunately, doing this ruined our friendship. I ended up heartbroken because I've never been the type to go for casual hook-ups, and he was certainly too young for anything serious. Ah well...so it goes.

Many years later my father asked me if I regretted the crazy stuff I did in high school. I said that I really didn't because it doesn't do any good to dwell on regrets and to be honest, I had a damn good time. But I realized I couldn't keep doing things that way. 

These days I don't even drink beer and I hate the idea of doing mind-altering substances. But I will never forget those crazy days. They bring a grin to my face and make me shake my head that I survived it all!

First Annual Blogging Against Disablism

I heard about the Blogging Against Disablism at Fat Heffalump's blog. She was addressing the hatred and scorn of fat people in general as well as the fear of fat disabled people and the diatribe thrown at fat people about how being fat is going to MAKE them disabled. I have a whole 'nother blog about being a Chubster in a thin-centric society. Of course on the whole I do not see being fat as a disability, it's just a body type. There are fat people of varying physical ability levels including Fathletes, just as there are thin and mid-size people of varying ability levels and I for one think it's time that society stopped treating a large body type as a disability or character defect. It's just a body. Get over it, you jackasses.

But that's not what I came here to talk to you about.

I came to talk about mental illness.

To me, disablism means treating a disabled person with hate and fear, or patronizing them. This does happen to physically disabled people. People act like they're going to "catch" the person's disability, or treat the person like they're stupid. This is also done to people who have conditions causing mental retardation, and it is surely done to individuals with mental illness.

Since being diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I have learned that there are far more people with mental illness than society wishes to acknowledge. The reason that the numbers would come as a surprise to most people is that a mental disability, unlike a physical one, cannot necessarily be seen. Many people with mental illness are perfectly able-bodied, and unlike the media would have the public believe, most people with mental illness do not project it. The person wandering around shouting or talking to people no-one else sees is not the average mentally ill civilian. 

Most people with mental illness do not suffer from psychosis or delusions. Violence is also not the norm, whether or not psychosis or delusions are present. There are a small number of people with conditions such as paranoid schizophrenia who believe that they are being threatened by certain other individuals and react violently in order to protect themselves from an imagined threat. Persons with antisocial personality disorder (sociopaths) may also visit violence on animals or other humans. But in fact most persons with these disorders are not violent either.

I have said before and I will say again:

MOST PEOPLE LIVING WITH MENTAL ILLNESS SUFFER IN SILENCE.

The instant one tells people that they are mentally ill, everything changes. Were I to tell someone I'd just met that I had bipolar disorder, they would likely start to treat me differently. 

"She's a ticking time bomb," they'd think. "When is she going to explode and go off on a tangent about nothing? Is she going to start acting like Charlie Sheen and talking about tiger blood and being a warlock? These people with bipolar disorder are nothing but crazy!"

Charlie Sheen's illness is complicated by drug use, which exacerbates certain symptoms. His struggle is very public because he has the money to do things that most people do not. He has been jailed in the past when his behavior turned violent, but never placed in a psychiatric facility which may have been capable of assisting him. He is also in denial about his illness and might not be able to benefit from help until he acknowledges his issues. Charlie Sheen is the kind of mentally ill person that gets press. The average Jane or Joe does not.

There are also different degrees and presentations with any mental health condition. I can speak about bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and obsessive-compulsive disorder because I live with all of these. I can also speak about depression because depression is a big part of bipolar disorder, at least for me. I have type II bipolar disorder, which has hypomanias rather than manias. I tend to go into depressive states more often than I experience hypomania, which is unfortunate because I am extremely productive during hypomanic states. My moods are not only controlled by my brain chemistry. Outside influences can push my mood in one direction or another--just like happens with Normal People. Surprise! And these days, in this economy, there are far more circumstances that will push the Depression Button than the Hypomania Switch.

I have rapid cycling bipolar disorder. My cycles between depression, hypomania, and baseline states tend to average 7-10 days each. Other people may experience a given state for months or even years. I tend, as I said, to go into depression more readily. Someone like Charlie Sheen may be more easily triggered to mania, and his time in a given state may last for a much longer time than someone who rapid cycles. When he crashes, it's going to be bad. What sickens me is that a lot of people will see his decline as nothing more than further entertainment for themselves. It is a sorry thing when people see the misfortune of another as entertainment.

That being said, I fully support the 999 Eyes Freak Show. These folks have taken their "disabilities" and "abnormalities" and turned them into a platform to entertain and amaze. Many of the old-time sideshow performers were not happy when laws came into place to protect them from exploitation. The laws that were supposed to protect them ended up preventing them from earning a living. But that is a different story altogether, and you can read more about it here. My point is that it is fine to celebrate our uniqueness and utilize what might otherwise be seen as a disability, turning it into a unique ability.

Is being mentally ill a disability? I would say from my perspective, yes it is. There are many things I fear doing. I fear having people know too much about me. I have come to realize that it is really not possible for me to get very close to people. If I am behaving in a way that someone perceives as abnormal, rather than pointing out to me what I'm doing, the person generally rejects me wholesale. This rejection hurts me months and years later. So I fear letting people in. This exacerbates the loneliness and isolation that I feel. I realized many years ago that I could not be involved with anyone in either a romantic or sexual fashion. This bothers me a lot less than the fact that I really can't be very close to people in a platonic manner either. It seems that I am doomed to a life of isolation, where I work and come home to my pets, having a little interaction here and there but generally being very much alone. That above all things is the worst part for me of living with mental illness.

Most people who meet me do not know that I have any disability. I don't believe that a slight limp qualifies as a disability. Most people meeting me for the first time would simply see a fat, somewhat frumpy, un-hip middle aged woman. I might present as socially awkward, but you'd never know I was one of THEM! The crazies, the Attic People, The People Under The Stairs, the rejects. I have accepted my disability, I have become outraged by the stigma placed on people with all disabilities but because I know how it feels, I focus my attention on ending the stigma on those of us who suffer in silence. 

If my disease could be eradicated tomorrow, would I go through with the change? It would be nice to not have to worry about my brain making me feel suicidally depressed. It would be nice to not struggle with hoarding objects (OCD) and it would be nice to not have rejection be so devastating that it turns me into a useless lump. But I have lived with these patterns for so long that even if the chemical imbalances could be eradicated, I'm not sure I could ever be "normal." I'm not even sure I'd want to be. Because if I were, then I wouldn't be me any more. 

Maybe who I would be if my mental illness were removed would in fact be better. Maybe she'd be content to work as a nurse or a secretary and not have crazy ideas about being an artist or writer. Maybe she'd fit in better. Maybe I'd be happier being her because she wouldn't be an outcast. But my knee jerk reaction is "run away fast! I don't want to be just like Number 12!" 

Still, there is a temptation, just like it would be tempting to be beautiful even at the cost of ten or twenty years of my life if such an option were available. I've never been beautiful--never even been close. And while I think that everyone should be treated with kindness and dignity no matter their physical appearance, part of me can't help wishing that I were thin (because it's socially acceptable) and beautiful. 

Being mentally ill hurts enough without the rejection and stigma that comes with it. In most ways I am pleased to be the middle finger flying on high at those who think themselves so perfect that they reject those who are different. But I regret every day of my life that I will never know how it feels to be loved.

"For although nepenthe has calmed me, I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men. This I have known ever since I stretched out my fingers to the abomination within that great gilded frame; stretched out my fingers and touched a cold and unyielding surface of polished glass."

--H.P. Lovecraft

The Outsider