The answer is occasionally. Thank you for asking. If you are newer to reading my blog, I actually don’t only write poetry. I don’t know what this is, but I do this sometimes.
I felt the need to express myself in a non-poetic voice. I have this frustrated feeling inside of me, almost like I have poison ivy on the inside of my skull. I feel like I’m never heard, but I read so much psychology, I presume it’s me who is the one not doing the hearing. So I try to listen better, but I swear to god, all I hear are the same problems or I guess the same roots of problems. So then, I get why no one hears me because it seems like everyone is so fucked up right now, it’s hard enough actually hearing themselves think. So I try to be empathetic.
I keep stupidly forgetting to just take care of my own shit and god bless to all the rest. For example: this morning’s rage-fest due to everything I cleaned summarily being uncleaned, could have perhaps been abated by heading towards the poetry department several hours earlier. Or even the headphone and angry metal, don’t talk to me and I won’t talk to you, department. Alas, I went to the poor fuckin me department. Which – I’m not fucking wrong. I folded an asston of laundry, and to see even one preciously folded shirt besmirched is enough for someone who is attempting to juggle losing or finding her mind (depending on the day), be some fucked up donna reed, and the next maya angelou, if maya angelou had a potty mouth and seriously deviant tendencies in all facets of life. It’s just a run on sentence of frustration. It may actually be a run on sentence fragment, if I may be so bold.
So, of course, I do the girl thing. And if anyone gets on me for being “sexist” as opposed to honest, eat it. I do the girl thing, which is storm around redoing everything, and making that sound that’s kind of like if a dog farted into an oscillating fan. And then, after everything is done and not a single person has a chance of rectifying anything, I summarily unload all of my recriminations with all the grace and dignity of an elephant on meth. It’s that delicate fucking flower feminity I hold so dear. And again, elephant on meth is an accurate description of the girl thing.
And of course, my husband does the boy thing, which is to pretend nothing is wrong and avoid me at all costs. I don’t have to defend myself for being sexist, because everyone is on board with the men are pigs thing, and the classifications you fall into are far more important than your dignity or humanity. So fuck ignorant dudes, right!!!! #trending He used a bold strategy, but alas, the angry elephant on meth found her hapless sand headed ostrich, just to make sure he noticed her cold shoulder. Take That Fucker!
So, I don’t know if I actually finished what I was doing or not, but I somehow found myself in front of the computer editing the poem I have been working on, and now I don’t really care about the house, or that my husband is part ostrich. I am still frustrated about a lot of other things in my life that are actually more important then house cleaning – like the fact that the man is traveling next week, which means fucked up Donna Reed (me) gets to do the three kid solo thing. And I mean, fucked up Donna Reed works two ways, since I am a generally fucked up person with a fucked up sense of humor and a fucked up view on life, but I’m also fucked up in the sense that I am too crazy to work now, and that’s fine. because working makes me crazy. And when I say crazy, I mean the politically correct euphemisms that I suffer from various problems with my mental health. I find crazy shorter and to the point, and I am “taking it back” or whatever anyway. Whatever is wrong with me is also right with me, so bleh.
The “wrong with me” parts are not complementary to my Donna Reed lifestyle. For example, there’s every chance all this self-described frustration is early warning signs of hypomania, right? I mean irritability, folks….That’s a red flag there. I rarely allow myself to embrace life being life and prefer of course to diagnose myself. It’s just the way society has trained me, and I appreciate it, because feeling ranges of normal, healthy, human emotions is so inconvenient for the general populace. Back to the point I wasn’t doing a very good job of making, I’m in the middle of having huge problems with the meds that are treating me trying to kill me again. It’s not the best time for the man to travel, but I actually feel so much better because I’m finally off Lithium and I feel like life isn’t segmented between vomiting, exhaustion, and shaking. It took full blown toxicity – which included falling everywhere and being covered head to toe in bruises, forgetting how to drive while driving, and STILL (like literally right now) I can’t remember what day it is, and my short term memory is shot to shit. IT took that to get off it. But now I’m off one of my preciously important keep me not crazy meds that were making me feel more like I was on chemo then a mood stabilizer, but now I’m “at risk”!! But the only thing I think I’m really at risk of is being defeated by feeling completely unappreciated or maybe even respected….
Depression is such an ever-present factor in my life, more often than anything else, but sometimes I wonder if it’s wondering why the ones who love you most are the ones who respect you least? And, in all those CBT, DBT, ABC, MSRP classes I have taken/studied/practiced, and of course meditation, mindfulness, compassion, self-love, etc. I just find it hard to reconcile this equation. I understand that I’m the one that’s all wrong, but isn’t respect fundamental of love? And it’s not as though this is specific to my family, because respect doesn’t seem to be anywhere anymore…but, that’s just my mind telling me more lies. It’s not me being observant of my surroundings and questioning what is said to be the norm. Which, of course, I am not.
A man I loved recently told me he “doesn’t have whatever I have” like I am some sort of leper. As he’s carrying on in either steroid-induced mania that will hopefully never return and I pray that is true, or traditional good ole bipolar mania. I mean, I’m not a psychiatrist, I couldn’t be, I’m crazy, but seeing as I’ve seen so many of his downs, this up seems less by chance to me. But, I have whatever I have, so when I tried to just show some homeopathic ways to self soothe and manage anxiety, which I don’t think matters if it is steroid induced or being forever unclean, I was thanked by being accused of being contagious. It felt so good, I laughed the whole way home. Literally. One more fucking shitsack is gone. Why care, why be empathetic to people who easily, willingly, happily tear you apart? Especially when kindness was your trespass? It’s not like this is a unique situation, and if this post reaches one person who nods, I’m sorry to you as I am sorry to me, because it’s bullshit either way. Why is it so hard for us to detach from that which we know is dangerous, while simultaneously craving the pain that feels so normal? Yet, again, it’s us that hurt everyone else, even though the pain I crave is self-made. So yet again, it probably is best to apologize for my existence on the outside, and smile and laugh on the inside, because the more everyone looks at me wrong, the easier it is to close my eyes and feel what they say is nirvana.
I have quite literally no point in this post, but if you gleaned one, I’m glad. I’m just so sick and tired of constantly reading the same thing, so here’s my same thing. But, I swear to christ, for a group so maligned – the crazy ones I mean – I swear sometimes I seem to have a better sense of how to behave then the supposedly sane ones. Or maybe it’s just..being decent? I mean, I am bipolar, so I’m the asshole, but like I genuinely try to work through the issues that apparently make “my type” so burdensome, and I swear I have never known more sensitive or deeply empathetic people then the ones who are so fucked up. I used these supposed shortcomings as the vessel to bring me home to myself and constantly heal, but …..
What do I know?
Mah Butt Itches 
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