For the Love of the Game!

 Just adding a little postscript to this morning’s entry: we went to see the Blue Jackets hockey team play this afternoon, and wouldn’t you know it, that injured, banged up little team on a 7-game losing streak snapped it and spanked the Chicago Blackhawks 4-1 in front of a sold-out Nationwide Arena! The goals were beautiful (Bemstrom, Nyquist (2), and Marchenko), plus Korpi our goalie was light’s out awesome! CBJ treated us to free tickets in the lower bowl, and Michael was sporting his French braids that make him look like a Viking and I think they may have been our good luck charm. This was the first win I have seen I believe in the Arena all year. What a special occasion. We got some blue streamers that came down from the rafters after the game ended, and I’m planning to use one in a piece of art. 

Michael said take it easy tonight on cooking so we are having leftover Johnny Marzetti and a spinach salad with egg and bacon. Classic, old NYT recipe that’s impossible to screw up. I’m starting to feel very sleepy and I doubt I’ll be able to stay up and watch the entire OSU/Georgia game tonight. I’m going to just stay in my CBJ attire (maybe I’ll sleep in my sweatshirt tonight lol) because when I got all decked out in OSU gear for this year’s Michigan game we lost. Who me? Superstitious? Nah…

Early To Bed…

 An early good morning, dear reader(s), according to the upstairs clock, I awoke this morning at 4:20 a.m. (though that clock does lag behind, I think). Not too concerned to be rising early, seeing as I conked out in my recliner last night around 8:30. So I’m feeling fairly well rested, and here I sit, listening to Q-FM on my headphones, sipping (cold) coffee, and gearing up for this year’s New Year’s Eve tonight. I’m assuming the plan is still on for Michael and me to go to the Arena this morning at 11:30 to get a tour before the 1:00 p.m. game against Chicago—last night he started to mumble something about not wanting to go, but dammit I’m going, even if I’m there alone! Something tells me he will be with me though.

Then there’s the Buckeyes vs. Georgia game, which I’m going to try and watch some (a somewhat touch and go situation, seeing as I didn’t watch most of the season this year because I got sick). I feel like I should be able to tolerate the game because my expectations are reasonably low that we can win this game—but as always with my beloved Buckeyes, anything can happen! I need to alert my Smith pal Britt to watch the game (if she isn’t planning to anyway). I’m tickled pink that she’s joined Buckeye Nation from Boston! 

I’m kinda sad that I can’t turn to mindless scrolling on Facebook when the tension from the football gets to be too much. But I had to break from that platform when I got sick from it in October. I should spend some time reflecting on the bizarre chain of events that drove me to the nut hut on November 2 (and caused me to miss voting AGAIN) but honestly it just gets me upset to think about it. I think what angers me the most is I had been honestly starting to believe I would never have to be in a nut hatch again. But no. I had to go back, my 10th time, and this last visit was up there with one of the stranger ones I’ve had. I got threatened, the food was horrible, I cried several times, everyone had bizarre tattoos (including the staff). I was there 9 days I think. Maybe 10. Who knows. All I know is Facebook bears at least some responsibility but I’d have a difficult time establishing that in a court of law.

But anyways, I’m fairly OK now, December 31. My sleep is good. I’m out socializing with friends and family. I’m working on some new art projects. I hope to maybe find a volunteer activity in 2023. My house is shabby and desperately needs work, but I’m not obsessing on it—rather, I’m open to the possibility that someday Michael and I sell this place and find a ranch somewhere in Central Ohio…where, who knows, but I’m open to possibilities.

Dear, sweet Basset Sir Little Legs is getting old and I am so worried we will lose him in 2023. He’s 13 now, and my other two Bassets, Big Lou and Nell both passed at 13. I know Lily will be crushed when he’s gone, as will be Michael and me. We are getting too old to have another puppy, but I may have an idea for getting Lily a companion: Gigi’s dog adoption, run by George and Tina Skestos. Perhaps they will have a hound dog for us? We shall see.

So today marks the end of 2022, tomorrow the start of 2023. I’m closing out the year with Q-FM guiding the way…goodness knows where that shall take me. But I’ve been rocking to them for over 45 years, and have no plans to divert from this course. Non-stop iconic rock. Yup. Love it. Happy New Year all.

On The Importance of Food

 So I’m slowly getting back to my routine of compiling my grocery list for the week’s dinners—I’m back to NYT Cooking, and cautiously selecting new recipes that fingers crossed turn out OK (after some questionable selections weeks past). I plan to go to Kroger this morning and hopefully they have what I need. No more sausage and cream cheese for awhile. I’m finding writing is a little more difficult and my artistic ideas are not as free-flowing as they were before Christmas. I’m not sure what to attribute this change to, and it’s strange and I’m somewhat conflicted as to how I feel about it. I guess I just continue to take things One Day At A Time and see where my road less traveled takes me…

Tomorrow we go to the Arena to see the beleaguered Blue Jackets take on the Chicago Blackhawks. I’m excited because we got free tickets along with a tour of the Arena for this New Year’s Eve afternoon game. They are giving out free calendars (which I desperately need) so even if we lose, I have a memento from my beloved team to use throughout 2023. I’m also excited to get my chicken fingers with ranch and Dr. Pepper. Who says Arena food is bad?

Then tomorrow night the underdog Buckeyes meet Battlestar Georgia in the College Football Playoffs game. I’m serving Italian Wedding Soup with Turkey Meatballs, really a good NYT recipe if I recall correctly. New Year’s Day I’ll be preparing a Denver omelette for brunch then a glorious pot roast with a sumptuous rib eye roast Michael got on sale at the south end Kroger. So that’s the line up for the next few days.

I’ll continue with my writing and plan to let Dr. Levy know on Wednesday how pleased I am that cognitively I am doing so much better than the past two decades. Also my anxiety is so much better, with the only exception being the highway driving. OK that’s it for today. Off I go to the grocery!

Something Old, Something New

 Ok so it’s December 29, Christmas has passed, but interestingly I have some goings on with my social calendar and that makes me extremely happy! We had a delightful CSG brunch yesterday up in Powell at the home of Bobbie and Alan Weiler, and I arrived bedecked in a black cape with fur trim that I purchased years ago at (where else) Target. I so enjoyed talking with classmates and I brought my senior yearbook for everyone to sign. Stephanie Skestos and I flipped through the pages and I was especially amused by the section which showed various individuals who came to talk to us about careers, including a disc jockey from Q-FM 96 and an esteemed gentleman from the FBI.

Afterwards, I went to Steph’s old place on S. Columbia Road and we watched 1984’s “Body Double” on Amazon Prime—what a perfect way to end the evening, watching an ‘80s movie with Steph! Michael was particularly intrigued that we had watched that movie, and actually located a Special Edition of it at the Delaware Public Library and ordered it for us to watch together. (I’m certain he wants to see the T & A but hey, that doesn’t bother me at all.)

Tonight I have a dinner with some HD pals at the wonderful new Italian restaurant in the Westin Great Southern hotel downtown. I cannot wait to see what the chef cooks up and fingers crossed we gals behave ourselves and don’t talk too loud! To soothe Michael while I’m away, I’m making him Johnny Marzetti today to heat up at 6:00. O.K. that’s it for now. New Years Eve is fast approaching! Cheers.

On Why I’ve Been In Therapy Over Three Decades…

 Day after Christmas. My, what an absolutely wretched day that turned out to be for me, replete with mom screaming at me at the end of the evening, and basically kicking me out of her condo. All because I had called her earlier in the day, saying I felt ill, and needed someone to help me heat the catered food up in her oven and on the stove top. I am taken immediately back to my days as a small child, when I would be afraid or sad, and go to her looking for help and comfort. Many times she would get angry with me, a fight would probably ensue, and I’d end up crying in my bedroom up on the second floor (the one with the blue and white flowered wallpaper I hated). 

Now, I’ve been in talk therapy for over three decades, trying to figure out why I have no self esteem, why I can’t stand conflict, why I’m sitting here, listening to Blues on my headphones when I should be enjoying my coffee (which is now getting cold). Michael’s Christmas gifts were even all wrong, shoes that didn’t fit, except for a pair of black boots which fit perfectly. And I guess he did get me Winan’s chocolate, though he got into it last night and ate some. Thanks.

So of course I’ll call mom this morning and grovel…apologize and say I screwed up (even though I didn’t) and maybe let her yell and lecture me some more. See folks I’m pretty smart and I know exactly what happened yesterday: anorexic mom got on the scale yesterday morning and was presented with a number that made her unhappy. So she was hot-wired to explode and the target was ME. All she cared about yesterday was not gaining weight from the Christmas dinner. The gig is up, I know who is the collateral damage from this insane behavior. So my Christmas was destroyed, thank you very much.

Now the tricky part is how do I move beyond this anger, how do I forgive mom for her shortcomings, yet still honor my hurt feelings? My anger? My natural urge is to suppress, but then I just end up exploding. I have to remember mom is living her final chapter of her life, yet still anchored to her scale, a big, “Don’t Tread On Me” if I ever saw one. I certainly don’t want her upset, so here comes my people-pleasing nature. God, I’m sick of analyzing this all…can’t I ever get respite from my brain?

My therapist Richard Fetter did talk to me two days ago, Christmas Eve morning and he told me to relax and enjoy the holiday festivities. But honestly I wish he had told me prepare for the worst because basically that’s what I got handed yesterday. This morning I’m unsure about my Kroger, New York Times Cooking, my mom, things I depend upon daily to stay healthy and stable. I feel alone, even though I have Michael here and the hounds. I’m going to try and stay optimistic, keep looking for scraps for my art projects, just taking it one day at a time, as usual.

I noticed my sister Tracey has a new vanity plate on her car: PAUSE 1. I’m going to ponder that today. My first thought is of those old Radio Shack tape recorders with buttons on them, I think there was a red button for “record” (or something like that?). Hmmm, I’m feeling the urge to draw…

Who Can It Be Now?

 Well, it’s Christmas Day and here I am, listening to the Blues on Pandora, sitting here with an upset digestive tract. Both Kroger and The New York Times Cooking app have majorly, majorly let me down, and I’m not sure whether to be shocked, angry, bitterly disappointed, or all three. My Christmas Day plans are now completely in jeopardy, as I still have one of the NYT breakfast casseroles to eat, plus the NYT spinach dip later this afternoon (not to mention the complete Christmas dinner catered by Der Dutchman).

I know in my gut the problem is Kroger’s sausage and cream cheese—I have a cast iron stomach that can handle just about anything, but if someone is tinkering with their basic formulas then I am going to smell that rat a mile away. The only time I can remember being sick on Christmas Day was that one year back in the 1970s when everyone had the vomiting sickness when we were living at 2086 E. Broad Street. What a mess that was.

So I’m basically throwing out a lot of food and I can’t stand seeing all this waste. At least the hounds are happy, they got their Christmas dog bones last night and gnawed on those all night. They were most happy, with Lily of course managing to get both bones by the end of the night. I didn’t mind being treated to someone’s dog poop this morning in the parlor—I knew it was coming anyway.

Gonna call mom soon to see if she knows of some old family concoction for treating an upset tummy. Sure, she will just pass the Altoid’s but isn’t there something you do with baking soda or am I just imagining that? I sure am getting sick of taking showers cause this is something affecting me on the other end too—up goes the water bill next month. Merry Christmas to you too.

Wait a minute! Just talked to mom and she suggested locating Barbara Goodfellow’s classic 1965 series of cookbooks, “Make It Now, Bake It Later” and lo and behold I found them on Amazon! Will wonders ever cease? I quickly ordered them and they should arrive in about two weeks. Can’t wait to make the Annapolis cake, shrimp dip, and some of the other delectable delights in the cookbooks! May also switch gears to America’s Test Kitchen but perhaps the NYT will shape up and get things straightened out? We shall see.

The sun is out this morning and I’m enjoying my coffee. It is cold in this drafty house, but as always I’m grateful for the roof over my head and to be sober this morning. Soon Michael will be awake and it will be time for gifts and perhaps a Christmas movie before we head to mom’s place. I do say a prayer for those less fortunate than myself and wish for them better times in 2023. Blessings all. 

Shifting Tides

 Good morning dear readers, I awoke this morning with great excitement! It’s frigid outside but the toilet flushed! Apparently our pipes are not frozen (yet—knock on wood!) and my, what a relief that is. I came downstairs to the most beautiful sight of snow on the ground, and the wind is lifting the dusty covering on my neighbor’s garage outside my window. So we will have a White Christmas this year along with Baby It’s Cold Outside, which means a toasty fire in our aged fireplace, bedecked with Nantucket lightship baskets and yes, the squirrel Michael bagged in 2016 during his own dance with err, “altered states.”

I can’t quite believe that Christmas Eve 2022 is tomorrow—my, how time flies and note to self: live each day to its fullest, ride through those subtle mood shifts, and always try to find a silver lining (or some of those leprechaun gold coins) in each day. My feelings of anger yesterday have dissipated and I’m actually feeling somewhat playful this early morning. I found a cute, red winter bowler hat on Amazon that I plan to wear to one of my dinners out in the next few weeks. It was only $26.88, which led me on another search for a Magic 8 ball. I held off on buying one, as I have a sneaking suspicion there may already be an 8 ball up in the attic—at least I could have sworn I bought one years ago when I was trolling the Ohio Thrifts in Central Ohio. Many, many treasures to be found here in our abode on Columbus Street. If I could only get organized enough to start hunting around…

Winter storm Elliott is doing quite a number on the country this year. Today our high is projected to be only 2 degrees; tomorrow, Christmas Eve, 13 degrees, and Christmas Day 15 degrees. I’ll be ready with my thick sweaters from Target, furry boots and Mad bomber hat. I’ll probably stay in today, most likely tomorrow too, but Christmas Day we journey out to mom’s house for our annual gathering. This year we are having ham (thanks Amazon for delivering the Durkee’s!) and chicken, plus sweet potato soufflé, noodles, and some other tasty vittles. On Christmas Eve I decided not to go the beef tenderloin route, rather by some strange reasoning I have settled on a menu of squash stuffed with kale and sausage, accompanied with Cherry Yum Yum. Michael will of course need some bread, so I’m thinking of toasting some cracked wheat sourdough to serve alongside.

Sending along a Merry, Merry Christmas to you and stay warm!

Do You Know The Way…

 Well, so. It’s four days to Christmas in Cowlumbus, and things are not turning out the way I expected. My journey to understand this newfangled technology some strange set of people hath created is leading me down a twisted road and I’m thinking I need Lewis Carroll. It may be getting close to the time where I return to a beloved old pastime of prowling antique malls and thrift stores for books—but I think this time I will be choosy in what I select. So in addition to my search for scrap industrial/residential building materials, I’ll be looking for discarded literary treasures available in my proximity. I may have to hold off until we get our annual gift from my mother-in-law Carol, but that should come in early January (just in the Nick of Time).

I attempted to drive the highway yesterday and found it extremely difficult. I learned pretty quickly that I now have an extremely challenging time navigating a situation with speeding cars, trucks and semis weaving all around me, and let me tell you emphatically that this was really not such a big problem before I got sick this last time and had to go to the hospital. So I’m upset about having this new disability, and really, really tempted to try and investigate why I got sick, who’s responsible, who owes me restitution, etc. Dad always said, “Tells don’t sue” but to be dealing with bipolar and now not to be able to drive the highways anymore? No more driving the beautiful interstates across this great country of ours? I’m furious! Sitting here four days before Christmas boiling like tea pot? No, this is not what I expected.

I am going to have a zoom with my AA sponsor Shawn at 2:30 today to talk about anger and turning things over…maybe talk about Step 2 (Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity). Michael is out doing last-minute Christmas shopping, and I’ll have a tasty dinner for us tonight. Might wrap some presents. One Day At A Time.

Love,

The Grinch

Countdown to Christmas

 Well a Top O’ The Morning dear reader(s), I continue my background research for my upcoming series of artworks which as you know I hope to sell to finance my steak dinner and now perhaps a new Ford (if I can convince Michael to buy American). But dearest Michael, he seems to be in love with the imports so I’m not sure if I can broker a deal. I am also proceeding cautiously towards Christmas Day this Sunday, with events planned and things to do last minute before the holiday arrives.

One thing I forgot to do was get a Christmas tip to the trash guys—poor things, they work so hard and probably get forgotten by everyone during this holiday season. I must remember to get to Chase bank to get some cash for the post man; I’m thinking maybe $5 but you know me, I’ll probably slip him a $20. I may be late, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

Today I am meeting my sister for our annual sibling lunch, then I go get my hair done. Next, I’m picking up flowers for my mother in law Carol’s 81st birthday, and dropping those off. I’m looking forward to visiting with her and spreading some holiday cheer! Will try to pop in on mom, but may be pressed for time and have to head home to cook dinner. 

Very cold weather and snow is forecasted soon and I’m not sure whether to be excited or not..I do like a blanket of snow on the ground as it is picturesque and I’ve got those wonderful black, furry boots from Toronto that the shoe salesman said were also purchased by a local television personality. Hmm. It’s a beautiful day today, the air is crisp and clear, the hounds are snoozing away, our tall, sturdy Christmas tree stands majestically in front of me. It’s Christmas time. Blessings.

Safety Dance

 Brrr, an early good morning, I awoke this a.m. greatly unsettled after a disturbing dream filled with strange characters like a cult, a bank drive thru, an older Asian (?) man offering advice, and of course Michael saying no to the purchase of an exciting new Volkswagen model I wanted to purchase. Freud eat your heart out. My dream left me most unsettled at first, perhaps not so much what my subconscious created but rather the fact that I can actually remember dreaming last night—something that rarely ever happens thanks to my meds. So as to be expected, I came downstairs in search of coffee and some way to ease my sense of fear. I saw the Calm app on my phone but of course you have to pay for that so my next/only option was to go to YouTube and hooray one can find soothing music with video for stress, anxiety, just about anything, really.

So I think I was led down this rabbit hole of anxiety by a movie I watched Saturday night about chess champion Bobby Fisher, whose brilliance was eclipsed by crushing paranoia. In a way, I wish I hadn’t seen the movie, as I prefer to hang out sometimes in the ignorance is bliss quadrant, but hey, Michael had the movie on and I saw it so into the memory bank it went. Fortunately, I don’t really have paranoia and given my employment and earnings track record I’m certainly not brilliant. So hopefully this looney tune won’t end up like Bobby (something tells me I may have a happier ending). I’m undecided, remember?

We are officially entering into Christmas week, and cold weather is here, with temps plummeting on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I immediately think of all the mentally ill homeless, who I am praying hard make it to shelter either at the Faith Mission, a church, or maybe the library can stay open special hours to accommodate those in need. You just know the stubborn ones will want to stay in their tents on the banks of the Scioto (though I think the City did shoe them away from there). Sadly, some will just refuse to come in from the cold, and I suspect these are the dually diagnosed addict/mentally ill not in recovery. And these are the nameless, faceless people we lose, people who had such promise but just gave up. 

Alas, I’m trying to find the happiness in Christmas 2022, but it just seems like Fate is having her way this year, much to my chagrin. Kevin Bartholomew actually was too busy to make it to our place to repair our sewer drain so we may be at the mercy of Eco Plumbers, who may or may not be here today. With our luck, maybe the pipes will freeze this weekend (or the car won’t start) but I’ve got fingers crossed and I knocked on wood to prevent all this. Michael hinted that maybe indeed we might have to sell this place, but given his insisting we move to Florida, I’m tempted to start hatching a scheme to keep us in Columbus…oh, I’m just unsettled this morning, and probably what I need is connection to my Higher Power, letting him control outcomes. 

I guess I should also remember “Dare to Dream” and all that jazz, and carry on with my plans for the week. I am meeting my sister Tracey on Wednesday for lunch at high noon at the Cheesecake Factory, our annual Siblings Holiday Lunch that Chip is conveniently missing because he’s vacationing AGAIN. Now Melissa, don’t be jealous, some day you might travel too…maybe. Do the Christian thing and wish only good things for Chip and his family as they float on their Gin Palace wherever they might be.

No, no bad thoughts this Christmas—why should we make room for those anyway? Hey, gas is cheaper. I can tip my hat to that. Down Broad Street to mom’s house we go!

Poor Richard

 Well dear readers, this morning started off with quite an exciting bang, aided by Apple and Google (plus a friendly nudge by Benjamin Franklin and Fellini). I think it may be the Giant Eagle cinnamon I added to my Starbuck’s coffee that got me headed off to a good start—but the fact that a $45,000 pipeline repair bill may be looming has me most definitely feeling pressure.

But being one who prefers to look at the glass half full rather than half empty (or maybe undecided? Note: remember to try and get mom’s needlepoint capturing this dilemma), I’m going to resolutely NOT have a bad day today. Even though Michael reports the downstairs toilet is backed up (installed on the cheap 22 years ago by an AA friend), precipitated by a screwed up sewer drain or something to that effect, he has made a speedy call to Eco Plumbers, a knowledgeable company running ads on Channel 6.

I may be unable to bathe until Monday (what do I do about going out tonight and Shawn’s soirée tomorrow?) but I know I can find a solution, somehow, some way. Michael says the stock market is garbage today, then he uttered, “America is garbage” and that makes me feel sad that he feels that way. I think I blame Twitter for influencing his current views but seeing as I have no Twitter account who am I to judge that Wild West?

Speaking of garbage, I am reminiscing about those art pieces back in the 2000s that I threw in the trash can in a fit of manic psychosis. Included were some pieces that might be considered a “painterly” attempt at communication (scene of Muslim women comes to mind); there is also my self portrait that I entrusted to a friend to keep safe—if he sold it I wouldn’t begrudge him though I’d like to get a glance at it at some point in the future.

Good news! Entrusted plumber Kevin Bartholomew just called and as usual, that hard-working gent keeps weekend hours and is coming here tomorrow (Saturday) to fix the drain! Although it may be a temporary stop gap, I should be able to shower before Shawn’s gathering which would be relieving. Michael put some ambient music on after Kevin’s call and I’m finding it soothing and stimulating my creativity. So I’m going to go over to mom’s this afternoon and perhaps continue working on my Christmas piece for Michael, tentatively titled, “Rembrandt in Macaroni.”

Have a good day, dear readers. Remember, don’t change for me, change for you! (Hee, hee)

Shaken Not Stirred

 The early bird gets the worm, so I’m delighted to report that on my new medicine “cocktail” I am going to bed at a reasonable hour and rising to see the dawn break. It’s wonderful. And importantly, I awake feeling clear-headed and actually quite curious (somewhat rambunctious?), though fortunately tethered firmly to the ground and in reality. What a relief. I’m continuing my dance with YouTube—and their pesky AI—but also now weaving in Wikipedia (who I hope to give a $2 donation to before the year is out). 

A very interesting sidebar has developed involving dear friend Sue Weiler’s attempt to organize a gathering at her parents home on December 28th. In my opinion, she may have made a key tactical error by trying to send invites through Facebook—but you know these kids today, they are so hesitant to heed warnings about social media…Sue is trying to rectify the situation through email, but alas she is coming up short. 

I’m chuckling again, remembering when I was back at Smith my Freshman year in the Fall of 1984, making plans for a midnight gathering at my folk’s place with the Horny Devil gals. I took a piece of my monogrammed stationary, slid it into my Brother (?) typewriter, and whipped off an invite template for “Cocktails and Conversation” hosted by none other. Then I went to a Xerox or Canon copier either on campus or in Noho (this was how you attempted proper invites on the cheap) and for a quarter or so a page, printed off 12 invites—keeping the original for myself. Alas, it’s now long gone (along with some of my juicy journals) but I do at least for now remember creating it.

So hopefully sweet Sue can figure out this SNAFU modern technology has wrought upon her little soirée. In the meantime, I’m continuing on with my artwork, hoping to have some pieces to sell at the German Village Trash and Treasures Day Sale in May 2023 (date to be announced). I plan to take a portion of my proceeds to the Hyde Park Grill for a steak dinner and to hopefully purchase the Seafood Tower appetizer (may need to include Mom to get this purchased). I’m diligently collecting “castaways” in the German Village alleys, but may need to expand my search to the scrap yards, as I’m looking for metal (preferably wavy) and other assorted bits and pieces. I’ve never been to a scrap yard, and I’m most eager to see who’s working there—perhaps they might let me take photographs. As I well know, ALWAYS ask for permission! Chuckle.

Finally, today is Thursday, and that means therapy, more analysis, more of Fetter prodding me to unleash some inner-feminist side (or so I think). That’s just not my thing as of now, though, for reasons somewhat complicated, perhaps driven by Fate, something deep that I’m going to keep locked away for my own safety. I don’t trust women. Period. Maybe a few I’ve met I might consider confidants but I can count them on one hand.

So on that happy note, let me conclude that it is another Gray Lady Day in Columbus and my house is drafty and my feet are cold again. Time for more coffee, perfunctory call to Mom to go over the Wall Street Journal, eat some lunch, then scoot. I do so love driving the back roads of Columbus. Took getting me off the crazy highways around here to see everything that is around me! So Much To Discover….Ohio The Heart Of It All…who comes up with these catchphrases?

Brilliant.

In The Limelight With The Puppet Master

 Good morning faithful reader(s), I awoke this morning after a long, refreshing night’s sleep with a clatter (wondering what was the matter)—and I’m sitting here chuckling. I’m remembering when I gave a reading of a Christmas poem with Colleen Duffy at the CSG Holiday dinner my senior year. There I was, bedecked in a peach lace top and taffeta skirt (?), purchased by my loving late grandmother Virginia Snook Tell in Palm Beach I believe, though my memory is dicey. Anyways, I came downstairs and thankfully no one had fallen, nor was there a thief in the house, it was just a dog gate that had toppled over.

So as is my usual morning routine, I made some coffee then settled in to my recliner and turned on my trusty (small) iPad to Google YouTube, and my, off we went to the races with much going on to entice me into a world of great possibilities. Basically my first thought was if we are going on said journey, I would like Michael to metamorphosis into Johnny Depp—though I’m sure there are other endless possibilities of who might accompany me (special preference to Tip O’Neill Jr.). 

But being ever so cautious and a touch wary, as is my nature, I must report that I do now feel a bit of “Who’s Zooming Who” as I weave my way through my foray back to creating art (hey, who wants to make money anyways?). When I felt like the Puppet Master might be afoot at Google, I immediately turned to good friend T. Boone Pickens, someone I never met (though I did meet Daniel Yergin who wrote, “The Prize: The Epic Quest for Oil, Money & Power”), but have always deeply admired and felt excited when I heard about his adventures and machinations. 

Alas, many have forgotten about Boone, but let me tell you he was a force to be reckoned with, and humorous to boot. Ah, those characters of the Eighties, true legends, and I’m curious why Generation X has apparently given up for the most part (just biding their time til they get a meager inheritance from the folks?). Me, as you know I was abruptly sidelined by the pharmaceutical industry, and I won’t be resentful (covered that yesterday) though perhaps some kind anonymous donor might kick some funds over to J&J or Eli Lilly or Merck so future generations of bipolars might have an easier road to traverse than me.

But Tis The Season for joy, and I’m absolutely thrilled my creativity is back. Perhaps today I’ll go hunting for my lime green teddy—Michael needs a little vavoom and I’m gonna try to get this menopause body to cooperate…I think.

It Can Happen

 Greetings all, another early to bed early to rise (this morning around 3:30), and I find myself just tickled pink that something quite wonderful, almost inexplicable is happening: my artistic “eye” is now fully open (along with my brain) and at long last I am back to making art again! I have long known that many, many bipolars are blessed with creativity—for those needing a primer, see Kay Redfield Jamison’s “Touched By Fire.” Yesterday was a toe-dipping exercise of creating a piece of macaroni art for husband Michael (at his request); quite simple really, just some Barilla elbows, newspaper clippings, Elmer’s school glue, glitter, and some glass shards collected by Michael that had been left in the alley, remnants of the Rumpke recycling truck.

But it was this morning, December 13, that a real breakthrough happened—and upfront I give quite a lot of credit equally to Google and my Basset Hound Miss Lily. A strange marriage of the two happened, and I won’t, rather, can’t (at this juncture) explain how this happened. Suffice to say a blessed Union occurred and it was captured on my trusty (smallish) red Apple iPhone which I’ve decided to never part with. At this point, you, faithful reader, may be wondering if I’ve tripped the light fantastic again, but as someone who is intimately familiar with bipolar manic psychosis, I can assure you I have never felt more sane in my life. So there.

But who am I, just a broke, unemployable weirdo, so I guess what I’m going to do is ride this artistic wave and see where it takes me. Back to this morning’s breakthrough, I am going to begin work pronto on a new piece that is loosely titled, “It Can Happen” (hat tip to the awesome band Yes), though I’m also toying with another title, “The Puppet Master.” The latter refers to a moniker that often came to me in past psychotic “delusions” where I would have a strong sense that someone/something was manipulating me. But at the time, it didn’t bother me in the least; actually I felt quite exhilarated that someone, anyone saw some worth in what I was seeing. I have a piece of art I did during true psychosis where I tried to marry a quilt with a collage, and there is a big black eye along with black figures around the edges. Perhaps some of the themes I was trying to capture in “Manic Quilt” will find their way into “It Can Happen” (winkedy, wink).

Speaking of strange bedfellows, did I tell you about the time—I believe I was a junior in High School at the illustrious Columbus School For Girls (harumph)—-that I married an American Eagle quilt pattern to a Wang computer? And Dr. Wong still had the nerve to give me a B- (or was it a C?) in Algebra. Just another brick in the wall of my rejection to Dartmouth College, though I harbor no resentment towards them. The sweatshirt Dad bought me from Hanover when we visited in ‘83 still fits, so I’ll wear out maybe the next time I’m at Burger King.

Perhaps though I should examine what I’ve been feeling a slight touch of lately: resentment. I know Webster’s has a concise definition of the word, but I’m looking for an emotional answer to it. Sure, we can all rush to Google and look up the word, but what does resentment mean to you? I think to date the best answers I have heard come (again) from A.A. meetings I have attended. Unfortunately, I cannot relay what I’ve heard as such meetings are intended for anonymity. But here, I can say that my resentment leads only to bitterness; bitterness leads only to a hardening of the soul; this hardening leads to despair; despair leads to the drink (or the pills or the weed or whatever you choose to escape your demons).

So when I start to feel resentment, which admittedly I have a few times over the past few days, I try to immediately switch gears and look squarely at what makes me peaceful. This morning, that is my two Basset Hounds, Miss Lily and Sir Little Legs, sleeping soundly on their respective “beds” (Lily’s a black, furry dog bed from Amazon) and Legs, a weirdly-shaped blue couch from the old Lazarus Department Store downtown. And of course, I know Michael is having bizarre dreams in the dented, cheap $450 full mattress from that furniture shop on E. Main Street in Whitehall.

The other thing that helps me through resentments is laughter. I’m immediately taken back to the movie “Animal House” (yes, based on Dartmouth) and Faber College’s quote, “Knowledge Is Good.” I’ll leave you with that to ponder today. Me, I have to figure out a way to get to the East side AGAIN without Michael getting suspicious….to be continued.

A Touch Of Gray

 Good morning dear readers, Happy Holidays/Merry Christmas (or wherever you stand), I come to you this early morning feeling somewhat in the dumps. Now this is not the mood state I’m comfortable being in, mild depression, and I don’t normally hang out on this side of the pole anymore. Being one somewhat obsessed (?) with analyzing my moods, I’m tempted to try and think my way out of feeling the blues, particularly given that’s it’s Christmastime and this being my favorite time of year, I so desperately want to be feeling good.

I’m no stranger to depression, having first come up against it oh, around the time I first got my period at age 12 and realized a big change in me was happening that I wasn’t quite prepared for yet. I think, for me, my depression is in some way tied to hormones, but alas I’m no doctor and don’t understand these things too well. I guess my current malaise can’t be pinned on the monthly curse seeing as I haven’t had a period in six years come January. No, I am out of sorts I think perhaps because my husband Michael is out of sorts—and being so tightly enmeshed with him, if he swings one way, I tend to swing with him.

Maybe some discussion needs to be had on the critical role the spouse of a bipolar has in keeping us stable and functioning our best…I don’t like to shout from the rooftops about some of the troubles my husband Michael and I have had over the past 21 years of marriage, yet suffice to say my weekly therapy sessions with Fetter are more and more dominated by discussion about conflict. Me personally, being the middle child raised by one alcoholic and another a heavy drinker, I absolutely HATE conflict, having witnessed some terrible fights as a child, running to my room in tears, and absolutely praying to God that my parents would not get divorced—something I saw as absolutely catastrophic. Fortunately for me, my parents held it together, one got sober, and they remained together until death did they part. And as to be expected, it was me who fell apart when Dad died, drowning my sorrows in wine, tinkering with my meds again, and yes you guessed it, ending up in the nut hatch for the umpteenth time.

When will they ever learn?

Perhaps this time around, my malaise is somehow tied to getting away from gratitude—I know from A.A. teachings that the topic of gratitude, and reflection upon it, serves to bring about an inner peace and brings stability when things get “squirrely.” Maybe making a gratitude list can serve to entice this Gray Lady Day mood to move on (seriously, Christmas is coming!). So here goes, a crude attempt at said list, here at 6:37 a.m. on Monday, December 12:

1’m grateful for:

1. A (leaky) roof over my head

2. My sobriety 

3. My treatment team (Mom, Michael, doctors, therapist)

4. Friends and family

5. Sense of humor

6. Ability to write, maybe read, maybe create art coming back

7. Sleeping well

8. Optimistic good things are coming

9. Made donation to Mid Ohio Food Bank

10. Developing self esteem

***

I purposely left off my gratitude for being able to cook—a true love of mine—and I attribute this to this time last year when I was horribly attacked on social media over a Christmas ham I was planning to prepare for Michael. The attacks left me scarred for months—I don’t think I’m even recovered yet—and maybe this leads me to another item for today’s list:

11. I’m grateful for the (temporary? Who knows) break from social media—I now find myself open and aware of new possibilities in my hunt for a purpose in my life!

So now my gratitude list for today is done, and I am feeling a touch better. I’ll take that. Perhaps you try a Gratitude List, eh? Tis The Season, after all!

Back to Basics

 When one is learning to write again, after decades of being in the dark, you are faced with several intriguing questions of where to go…me, I’m going to try and seek out my old book of Bartlett’s “Quotations,” maybe just randomly open it up to a page, close my eyes and slide my finger down the page, and see where it lands. I know for sure I am not getting an eBook or any such thing like it. I’m all about books—God forbid they disappear (did the New York Public Library completely store all their books away and switch over to digital or did some wise scribe stop that?). There was an unfortunate day many years back when mom and I purged some beloved books from my personal collection, but fortunately I have managed to hold on to the true gems, including a worn, old paper book copy of Machiavelli’s “The Prince.” Still hunting for my copy of “The True Believer” plus some choice works of Noam Chomsky.

I’m eager to just head to the attic and plunge headfirst into all the literary treasures up there…but again, wait. Let’s not spoil our appetite, shall we? No, I think we go back to basics and start with some ancient saws to guide me along this new, exciting (?), perhaps scary (?) journey I am undertaking.

I would like to state firmly and emphatically that none of this would be going on if I had not completely broken away from the clutches of social media (guilty parties shall remain nameless). Perhaps I might return to social media someday but from this point forward it will be on my terms. I’m realizing that I was down a “rabbit hole” for not days, but years—and to say I’m somewhat seething would be an understatement. But be that what it may, I hope you’ll join me on this exploration of what books I currently have in this abode—and of course what books I plan to acquire in the years to come!

Keep On Keeping On

Greetings again, readers, I am back after an extremely long period away. Much has happened, that I’m not at the moment up to explaining—suffice to say, I’ve had my medication drastically adjusted and suddenly I’ve had an exciting improvement in my cognitive abilities which I’m absolutely thrilled about reporting! What has happened is my mood stabilizer, Depakote, has been decreased whilst my antipsychotic Risperdal has been increased. This new concoction, along with a lower dosage of my non-habit forming anti-anxiety med Gabapentin, has me actually multi-tasking (surprise!), reading the Wall Street Journal, dialoguing with husband Michael about current events, watching streaming services, listening to a wide array of music, and back here ever-so-slowly learning to write again. Could it even be possible for me to pick up a book and actually read it?!? One can only hope.

Now, I’m currently sitting here, very early in the morning (again), thinking about a number of things. First, given everything I have gone through over the past TWO decades with cognitive impairment most definitely caused by the medication I have been prescribed, is it any surprise to anyone that people diagnosed with bipolar disorder and put on these medications would resist taking these said medications?! Um, hello, can I accurately explain how painful it is to be surrounded by books you once loved to read but can no longer get through one page of text? It’s frustrating, you feel stupid, you feel like you are missing out on this wonderful, thought-provoking world that everyone else can enjoy. This, in turn, makes you want to flush said medication down the toilet. 

But wait.

Those who have read through my blog know this is the juncture where I try to feebly issue the warning that not taking your medication (exactly) as prescribed can lead to a series of very, very unfortunate events—some quite expensive (buying cars, houses, etc.), some quite unnerving (wandering through dangerous places in the dead of night), and some just entirely unexplainable with current words in the English language.

But secondly this morning, I’ve been reflecting on the conversation I had with my therapist yesterday, where I mused if I even was bipolar. Yes, after all these years I still remember quite clearly the conversation I had with my former psychiatrist, where he came oh-so-close to saying he doubted I had bipolar disorder—and I latched on to that with such unabashed hope that maybe, just maybe, I could be free of the dreaded medication….

So here we are, AGAIN, at this juncture of To Med Or Not To Med, a street corner that I often come to time and time again. Waiter, pass me my pill tray.

Thirdly, I have spent a little time this a.m. researching the effects of marijuana (I’m talking street-grade here) on psychotic events in bipolars, and as expected there is nothing available to date. I’m doing this because I’m harboring a suspicion that perhaps it was extremely powerful marijuana that led to my first psychotic break, which led to my hasty bipolar diagnosis. If true, might we argue that continued abuse of street-grade marijuana led to repeated psychotic breaks (and hospitalizations), not “bipolar mania” run amok? Alas, one can only hope, though I guess in my current position, age 56, on bipolar medications for 20 years, I am left with just trusting the psychiatrists and taking whatever pills they deem appropriate for whatever I am cursed with having. I will try hard not to get too down, too frustrated. I will continue on my sober journey, continue doing the Next Right Thing. Keep pushing towards better functioning. 

Keep On Keeping On….right?