Archive for November, 2013

I’m one of those people who like to observe and report. I report to myself, this blog, my loved ones and even strangers. In doing this, I keep this observe and report wheel going.

If you’ve followed my blog you know I talk about myself quite a bit. I do this for therapy, vanity, attention and in hopes that I will fill my own void (once I find that damn void).

Right now, my question to my subject is : Who are you? My subject is me, of course. Who am I ? I am so many things to many people.

I look deep into myself and ask a shitty question. Who am I to myself? What role do I play in my own life? Too introspective? Probably, but I’m in that mood again.

Do I let things happen to me or am I the driving force? I am the driving force when I harness the energy and stubbornness. When I’m weak, anyone can run over me. Is that a bipolar answer or a human one? Maybe both.

How about my core identity? Woman, Latina, bipolar, wife, daughter … lots to choose from. It’s staring me in the face. I am a writer. I am a lover of words, mine and others.

I can drop all those other titles, even though I love them. My egotistical nature drives me to want immortality. The written word doesn’t die and suits me just fine.

I write poorly, brilliantly, honestly, dishonestly, playfully and darkly. I write to survive humanity and my own wacky ideas. I write for the sake of travel. I send my words out into the world like doves. In that moment, a small part of me is teleported.

Even the old school literature is magical. Every library I’ve ever been to since I was 7 or 8 years old, has moved me. The smell of old and new books, tables, chairs and the sea of humanity claiming their spot. For me, it’s church.

This writer has written too much and gone all over the blogger’s map. That said, I’m selfishly glad.

 

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An important bipolar education.

I want to talk about people and things I treasure with all my heart. At this moment, I need to swim in the goodness of my world.

First, I love Our Father in Heaven. He has saved me many times and in many ways. I am not worthy of His love, but He gives it to me anyway.

I love my husband. He is my best friend. I admire him on so many levels. Referring to him as my husband, fills my heart with pride and joy.

My mother, siblings and the rest of my family are quirky, silly, a little crazy and constantly under construction. They are also people of the heart. Thus making them good people.

My beloved friends are a potpourri of humanity. Democrats, Republicans, Black, White, Latinos,  Asians, Christian, Jews, Muslims ….. and then there are my online bloggers all over the globe. I love them so much!

I love the free things in life:  full moon, giggling children, dancing in my office chair to 70s music, coffee in the morning, plucking my facial hair, warm flannel pajamas, thunder lightning rain storm and the smell in the air after its gone.

I love that I can see the world without hopping a plane. And I love that one day I will hop a plane and see a lot more world.

I love that I am free to express myself as a woman, Latina and citizen of my country. My heart aches for the ladies who can not express themselves freely.

I love the existence of kindness, tenderness, honor, humor and humanity.  I am a firm believer in the mantra there is more good than bad.

Redeeming traits live everywhere. And no one collects that data or establishes statistics on those souls. But you shouldn’t trust me. I’m a 44-year-old, bipolar Latina from the barrio. What do I know?

 

 

 

This American

Posted: November 21, 2013 in Uncategorized

Just A Thought

coconutspeak

In case you don’t know who I am, I am complicated. I am a member of various groups. I have gathered many life experiences. And I feel that I have gathered some wisdom that affords me a say on many social issues.

I am a bilingual Mexican-American, Christian married woman. I am also a survivor of domestic violence and molestation. In my 20s, I resided in a home without utilities for nearly a year. At 43 years of age, I had a hysterectomy.  For the past 4 years (I think) I’ve been on psychotropic drugs for my permanent bipolar disorder.

I don’t list my biographical highs and lows for the sake of sympathy. I’m 44 years old and my life is still under construction. I’m okay with not knowing everything. I feel that I have to work with what I know. So, in that vein, lets look at the oppressors of American society.

I see a lot of God spokesmen out there. Apparently…

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I was thinking about how different people’s perception is when it comes to financial status. In American society, I think certain criteria must be met.

If, for example, you ask a millionaire what the highest income a poor person can make, what would he say? No more than $40,000 or maybe $30,000? Or maybe he’ll say anyone receiving public assistance.

Since I have benefited from public assistance, I can say it didn’t feel like suffering. I had all my utilities, TV, radio and three meals a day. Yes, I was poor, but not really poor.

Really poor have little to no utilities, few possessions, live in constant fear and know the future is grim. Such people would love a cockroach infested ghetto apartment with a door that locks.

Any person labeled poor sees a household income of more than $30,000 per year as well off. If they own their house, they are rich.

I know that if you have a lot of things, mansion, cars, expensive trips and no real love, you are dirt poor. Yeah, I know that it sounds a little A Christmas Carol preachy.

Poverty and wealth are interchangeable (depending on your definition). Can a billionaire spend all his money in his lifetime? No. Give at least half the money to where it’s needed. Strive to be a truly invested philanthropist.

Why leave the money to heirs? So that they can sit around with mooching losers called friends? Millions of dollars in the hands of self-indulgent morons is dangerous.

Wealthy, middle class and poor all need to positively contribute to society. Before I met my husband, I dated a guy who couldn’t hold a job to save his life. His father lived well and once told me he wished I was his daughter.

Shocked, I asked why. He said because I had a job and manners. My job was a low paying office clerk job. Soon thereafter, I broke up with the loser. So the rich father admired a poor me, funny!

I went to bed last night at about 2 am. I woke up at about 7:45am. Why am I up? I’m up because I’m inexplicably panicking.

All I can see are my failures. My hygiene, house and inability to write properly. I feel completely inept, but I know it won’t last.

I must have dreamt something awful and this is the aftermath. I know that my feelings are often times inaccurate from my reality.

Posting my anxiety attacks makes me see that I’m going through catastrophic thinking. Things that upset me can be changed.

I can get out of my pajamas, take a shower and do 10 minutes of housework. As far as my writing, I can take my time and read other blogs to take the pressure off.

I’m feeling better now. I think I’ll catch a few winks then tackle my small but important goals.

 

I think my illness is over. Two days ago my symptoms went away. I feel pretty good right now. I don’t want to jinx myself by saying I’m cured.

Aside from the depression and anxiety I endured, a new mentality was born. Critical self-examination. I ponder on the person I am now and the happily undiagnosed bipolar I was.

20 years ago, I didn’t take 14 pills per day. But I flirted with dangerous behavior. I wasn’t always happily manic. I crashed like a plane and engaged in self harm.

This is a strange thing. A part of me wants to go back. My mind bounces between the two lives a lot. Last night, I was caught up in the joy of going out. Today, I’m considering staying in to avoid getting sick.

I can’t ever go out like I use to go out. That Monica was completely ignorant. This Monica is 44 years old and pissed at being so damn responsible.

I have a long list of medical issues that require therapy, meds, surgery and life altering rituals. I’m 44 years old and I’m shutting down on so many levels.

I’m sick now and forever. It isn’t fair. I’m still young. That said, many things in my life are not fair. I had an unfair childhood. I had a troubled home.

Not everything was awful. I was blessed with fun and beautiful moments as a child. I was never ashamed of my mother. She looked great and conducted herself with class.

For the past 13 years, I have been married to a sweet, intelligent and thoughtful man. He supports me in every way. My illnesses are bad but life without love would be intolerable.