Archive | December 2012

Mommies are for Pwning Noobs

I’ve never been big into the Call of Duty series. Maybe it’s because they’re violent. Maybe it’s because they’re so popular. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that my ex used to let my children play them, including our youngest who was all of 4 years old at the time.  When your kids start bragging about how many head shots they got or they start looking at tall buildings as possible sniper spots, it tends to turn a mom off from a product. Hell any responsible parent for that matter. Regardless of the reason, the games have been banned in our house for years.
Until recently, that is. Santa decided that the teenager was responsible enough to get a game that had been requested more times than I care to count.

Then came the question I hadn’t considered. “Will you play with me mom?” I protested at first, still stuck on my extreme dislike of the game. Then I realized it might be a good way to connect with her. We have a pretty amazing relationship as is, but I’m always looking for ways to keep the bonds between the kids and I strong. So I agreed to play.

The first couple times, she flattened me in the blink of an eye. Being that she’s played the game before and I’m a “total noob”, I wasn’t surprised. Then our scores got closer and closer together. I was pretty excited that I was getting better. In the last round we played, I actually beat her! She then decided it was time for me to play online. Boy, was that a pain in the ass. My new-found video game ego was flattened in about 5 seconds.

Even though I left the game with my tail between my legs, I still had a great time with my kid. I let her teach me something new. We had fun trash talking each other. Most of all, we spent quality time together and had a chance to connect one on one. Plus, I had a chance to blow off some steam. Sometimes, playing a game you can’t stand with your kid is totally worth it.

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Bitches be Crazy

Whoa. I was beginning to forget what my laptop looked like. I haven’t written in days, partly because of the holiday and partly because I’ve been busy reading a new book. Reading just makes me want to write my book even more. Then again, it also makes me feel like my writing is shit and I should throw in the towel. It’s too much conflict for my tiny brain to handle, so I’m ignoring both of my inner demons and just enjoying the book.

I had a major bipolar meltdown yesterday, getting pissed at the boyfriend for next to nothing. I feel like a total ass and I’m so lucky he forgives me and understands. After I got angry, I had a seizure. He took care of me even though I was an ass to him. I was upset with him because I wasn’t communicating my needs to him and he couldn’t read my mind. How dare he not be able to know my innermost thoughts without me vocalizing them. Well, I guess I really am a chick. I usually don’t fall into those types of patterns, but I suppose it was my day to be a total girl in the most annoying of ways. I guess..

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I’m going to be seeing my doctor soon. He doesn’t know the auditory hallucinations are back. I’m not sure if I want him to put me on something more or not. I usually don’t like being on medication and aim to be on the least amount possible, but with the way things have been, I’m wondering if it might not be time to shake things up a bit.

I’ve been debating on getting a job. As it’s been months since I received child support from my ex, it might be at a point where I need to. I’m just concerned with how I’ll be able to handle working on top of my other responsibilities. Dropping out of school is NOT an option and selling the kids on the black market isn’t either, so…

I guess I’d better get to bed now. Lack of sleep is one of the leading causes of bitchiness, you know.

A Manic’s Struggle with Massacre

There’s something I’ve wanted to touch on for a while now, but couldn’t. Sandy Hook Elementary.

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I said I couldn’t. I meant it. And not because I felt I needed to do research on gun control laws to prepare. Not because I wanted to be armed with a bushel full of mental health statistics to show how mental health care in our country needs upgrading. I couldn’t because, just for a while, I was pretending it didn’t happen.

I know what you’re thinking. What a heartless bitch. I don’t know, maybe I am. Please let me explain before you cast your vote.

I’ve been in a rough manic patch since my mixed episode subsided. This is not normal for me as I usually fall into a depression after a M.O. Paranoid thoughts, sleepless nights, a flash temper, auditory hallucinations and more have plagued me as of late. Those closest to me have little insight into what I’m experiencing aside from what directly affects them, such as my temper, because I chose to keep the majority of my issues to myself. When I get in these altered states, I tend to withdraw from those around me because I don’t want them to see my odd behaviors. I also have to distance myself from certain extreme emotions or face the risk of winding up in the hospital.

Enter the Sandy Hook shooting. The moment I heard about what was going on, I was in tears and my mind was racing a million miles. At that point, there wasn’t a whole lot of credible information in the news media, with conflicting reports coming from almost every outlet. The only thing that was certain was there was a shooting and people had died–at an ELEMENTARY school. Instantly, my mind ran with that. I have three little ones who are in elementary school, so of course, my immediate thoughts were about them. Are they safe? Is everything okay with them? The usual mom thoughts, I suppose.

Then paranoia set in. I need to get them. This will happen there too. There’s someone going into their schools right now, I just know it. This is the beginning of the end of the world. I need to get there before they get killed! Why am I sitting here? Will I seem them again? If i don’t get them, they’ll die and it will be all my fault. Life won’t be worth it anymore, if there’s a life left. How could I live with the guilt of knowing I basically had killed my children by not doing anything…

Yeah. You get the idea. Crazy stuff. And that’s just a very small summary of everything I was thinking. At this point, the logical portion of my brain that was trying to talk some sense into the hysterical, paranoid part. The paranoid part was having nothing to do with it. It was too busy doing this.

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That’s when good old reliable Logic decided enough was enough. Seeing no other way to get Paranoia to stop her nonsense, Logic decided this was the best course of action.

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It took a while, but Paranoia calmed down. They both had a nice long talk and decided that the best way to deal with these things was to not think about them. Less information learned about the events meant Paranoia would have less to run with. (Don’t tell her I said this, but Paranoia is one crazy bitch.)

Okay, back to reality now. In case you missed the point there, my mind was running with the facts I had, as well as those I didn’t, and using it as ammo against my sanity. So I had to back off. I had to distance myself from the media reports and pretend like it hadn’t happened. I did this for myself and my family. If I hadn’t, I don’t know that I would be able to type this right now.

Of course, little facts and media reports have slipped through the cracks. My paranoid mind ran with those, but the were sprints rather than marathons. Taking this a little at a time seems to have made it easier. I still worry about my own kids, but no more than any other parent does in a time like this. Taking time to wall myself in from this has been a good thing. I’m starting to feel a lot better about my ability to handle the details. I’ve even read some reports on it now.

I’m not going to go too much into things, as I’m still keeping the event at arms length, but I do want to clarify a few things. I have mourned for the loss of these children and their educators. This blog may be construed as me saying I felt no grief in that loss. That is not the case. I didn’t distance myself from those feeling, just from the thoughts that my mind made up every time it had a new morsel of detail to work with.

There’s a lot of people saying we need tighter gun laws and better mental health coverage. I agree some changes need to be made, but one thing I feel we should be looking at as well is the media coverage of evens like this. I understand some might argue about freedom of speech, but the reason why many of these mass killers kill in this fashion is because they see it as a way to become famous. A way to be heard in a world where they may not have felt heard. A way to leave a mark on a world they felt they may have left otherwise unmarked. The media has a responsibility to people to stop making spectacles of these monsters. The more they make a fuss about the killer, the more this will happen.

I don’t remember the shooter’s name. I don’t care to either. I remember Victoria Soto, the teacher who put her first grade class into cupboards and told the killer they were in the gym. Dawn Hochsprung, the principal who may have broadcast her final moments over the schools loudspeaker as a warning to others in the building. Anne Marie Murphy, whose body was found over the children in her class. It’s believed she was attempting to shield them from the bullets. Mary Sherlach, who was nearing her 20th anniversary at the school. Lauren Rousseau who has just been hired by the school. Rachel D’Avino, who’s fiance was planning to propose at Christmas.

I remember the smiling faces of those beautiful little ones who are now with the angels. Catherine and her carrot red hair. Chase’s blue eyes. Ana, who had just moved here from Canada. Grace’s pretty smile. Jack’s big grin. Caroline’s generosity. Emilie’s love of art. James’ super cool mow-hawk. Jessie’s cheeks. Dylan’s shaggy hair. Josephine’s silly picture. Olivia’s good grades. Daniel’s missing teeth. Charlotte’s green eyes. Noah’s confident smile. Jessica’s love of horses. Avielle’s sly smile. Benjamin’s brown eyes. Allison’s shyness. Madeleine’s kindness.

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These are the people I choose to remember.

Are. You. Kidding.

2:26 am.

I’ve been laying in bed for hours. My mind won’t stop. My body won’t either. The panic attacks are back. This has to be the part of my disorder I hate the most.

My heart feels like it will explode at any moment. My breathing is fast and shallow. My skin is prickled with goosebumps. I’m covered in a cold sweat. Toes are tapping the bed while my fingers fly across my phone.

I’m scared. I’m paranoid. Everyone is out to get me right now. Everyone wants to hurt me. The adrenaline pumping through my veins is telling me to run. My brain doesn’t know the what where when and why. My brain and body are at odds and it’s not getting me anywhere. And right now I need to go to sleep.

My paranoid imagination has taken over my mind, concocting all kinds of hellish scenarios. The phrase “what if” is being used in the most horrible ways possible. Every time I close my eyes, I’m met with gruesome images and scenarios. When I open them, the voices assault me even more.

I can’t relax. I can’t sleep. So I seek solace in words. Every word that comes out of my head onto paper is one less word being tossed around in my mind. As I type, my eye lids grow heavier, the voices quiet themselves more, the toe tapping turns to rubbing my feet together (a soothing mechanism I’ve had for as long as I can remember), my heart slows, and my breathing deepens. Sleep will be mine soon.

Thank you for being my therapist this evening, morning, whatever.  I’m going to dream now. Hopefully they will be pleasant.

Put Your Tray Tables Up and…

I have never been on an airplane. Ever. In my 29 years on this earth, my feet have remained on terra firma. With the exception of riding my beloved roller coasters-and not the emotional type, thank you-I have sadly remained earth bound. Le sigh…

I have, however, watched enough movies to be familiar with the little monologue that the stewardess has to give before take off. Fasten your seat belts, yadda yadda, emergency exits are located, blah blah blah, oxygen masks will fall from the sky, so on and so forth. (Maybe I should get a job as a stewardess. I did a damn fine job with that if I do say so myself)

Where I stopped in the speech is pivotal to today’s ramblings. The oxygen masks. More importantly how they are to be used. When they address this on a plane, there is always a disclaimer. Put your own mask on before you help someone who is with you and unable to. Namely children. I realized only a year or two ago that this can apply to more than just airplanes and oxygen masks.

Now, I’m about to get deep and philosophical, so if that’s not your thing, the emergency exits are located here, here, and here. Have a nice day and thank you for flying BipolarAir.

For those of you who remain, lets continue. As I was saying.. there’s a reason why this is part of their speech. If you don’t put the mask on yourself first, you’re no good to the people who depend on you. This applies to my life in another way.

The best way for me to recharge my battery is to have some time away from my kids. I struggled with that idea for a long time. What kind of mother wants to have time away from her beautiful, precious, wonderful children? (That’s only half sarcasm. They are all of those things.. most of the time) This notion was enforced by my ex husband every time I would talk to him about a night or weekend away. The kids need us. We should do something with them instead. Blah blah blah. Only, his idea of doing something with the kids was doing nothing with them. I felt guilty that I needed time away and our twice a year dinner and a movie bit got old really fast.

For a very long time, I remained in that mindset. Anything I desired was trumped by the kids needs and eventually his needs. I wound up at the bottom, both metaphorically and emotionally. I was miserable and everyone knew it. Well, everyone in my house anyways. They knew I was miserable because I was making them feel the same.

Then… he left. *whoosah* Things fell apart. A lot. Then they got better. I was getting time away when they were with him. At first, I would do nothing more than cry when they were gone. My best friend realized how down I was and started dragging me out with her. She saved me from one of my darkest times. This simple push set into motion a series of changes in me.

I had the chance to be me a little more. I found myself again. I decided to go for my goals and dreams that I had put off for so long. I became me instead of just being mom and  housewife. It’s been wonderful.

I am a better mom now in many respects. I’m better in many areas, actually. This weekend, my kiddos are gone. The boyfriend and I are enjoying some one on one time. It’s wonderful. As much as I miss my munchkins, I know that when they come back, I’ll be a better momma to them because of the time apart.

On Death, Avian Flu, and the Bubonic Plague

Death has been knocking at my door for the last two days.  And by death I mean the bubonic plague. And by that I mean the avian flu. Okay, fine. I’ve had the flu. Go ol’ influenza. Natures way of reminding you how it is possible to be sick enough that it hurts to move your pinky.Image

Then there’s this chick. Oh, doesn’t she look so miserable with her box of tissues and tousled bedroom hair. God, I wish I looked that cute when I’m sick. No. Can’t be that blessed if I tried. (Not that I think anyone actually could) This has been me for the last two days. Avert your eyes if you have weak stomachs. It ain’t purdy.

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That’s me. Well, all except for the green pustules. I have no idea what those are, but I know I don’t have them. Ewww. I guess it’s a good thing I’m getting better, because that is just not attractive and I’m no beauty queen in the first place.

In case you can’t tell, I turn into a whiny, spiteful pre-teen when I’m ill. This is also very unattractive. I guess the boyfriend really does love me, because he deals with all the ugly. There’s been plenty of it lately, too. Hopefully I’ll get some satisfying sleep and awake feeling much improved.

Even if I’m still a carrier of the plague, I’m going to see The Hobbit tomorrow. Even if it requires me to wear a mask like I do have avian flu… That might just up my geek cred though. Or my weirdo cred at least!

My First Day of Acedemic “Freedom”

BLAH. Today has been one of those days. In all honesty, it started last night. No sleep. Again. I managed to get in about an hour and a half before six am. Whoo hoo. The nap I took today helped a bit, but not too much. One of the kids is sick with the flu while the other has an asshat for a teacher. So I spent most of my day stressed. I guess that’s why I ended up having a seizure.

This is not at all how I pictured my first day off going. I wanted to get back to my book, to continue writing. I still have some basic editing to do of the first chapter before I can move on, so I wanted to do that.

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I did manage to find this crazy cool image.  It gives me more focus as to where I could go with character development and such. I also began keeping a journal in my character’s perspective. I hope that this will help me have a better sense of her as I write. I figure this will give me less headaches as I write the book. I won’t have to ask myself how she would react to something or what she would say because I will (hopefully) know her better thanks to the journal.

Being that I’m taking a creative writing course next semester, I thought about delaying my work on the book. Now that I have some of the characters outlined, they keep banging around in my head with no real purpose. They seem pretty forlorn and some are even flat out pissed. In the hour and a half of sleep I did get, all I could dream of was the three characters I have developed the most. I guess that’s their way of saying it’s time for me to write, even if I don’t have that class under my belt. If I learn anything useful, I can always go back and tweak things if I need to, right?

I never imagined that I would be attempting a novel in my life. I’ve had a lot of internal conflicts on where to go with this, but I think I’m going to stop worrying and just start writing. Most of my concerns have been what others may have to say about what I write or if it will be “right”. It’s fiction. It’s my book. If I’m happy with it and others aren’t, who cares? Unless they plan to pay me for it, that is. Then I think I might be able to care. Hehe.