Archive for April, 2014

I think it’s fair to say that most people are blessed with great friends. I know I am. And how do these buddies, gal pals and partners in crime come into our lives? So-and-so knows and introduces you to the funniest, coolest and sweetest person you’d ever want to meet.

And then you take that euphoric dip into the friendship pool. And it’s awesome! Intent is clear. We have got to get together again soon! Wasn’t she/he super nice? So on and so forth…

Now speaking as a proud member of the bipolar club, that euphoric dip is more like a belly flop from the space station.  Then the get together goes through the over analysis of a Lithium, Zoloft, Lamectal and Seroquel fueled brain.

I want to see them. Do they want to see me? Should it be at my place? My place looks like shit on a shingle. Damn it! My knee hurts like crazy. And the tangent goes on and on. This episode feels like its going to ride me straight to my coffin.

That said, my friends are great and I want to see them. And if I have to get a little (or a lot) manic, so be it.  Rumor has it that they want to see me too. Can’t imagine why. My house needs a turbo once-over. Maybe they just want be around me.


There are certain indicators that suggest you may be bad and/or wrong as can be.  Welcome to You Know You’re Bad And/Or Wrong If

Your own mother wants a DNA test … repeated 3 times.

Your attorney testifies against you when you haven’t even been arrested.

You’re barred from attending Carnival in Rio because of the public health threat.

Not one church, temple, mosque or hippie commune will allow you in. Really bad vibes!

Your very liberal family likes Sean Hannity, Bill O’Reilly and Donald Trump combined more than you.

You come out in the gayest bar in West Hollywood and everyone tells you to go back in.

The water fountain throws back your coin.

Immigration keeps trying to get you deported to the third ring of hell.

A leper colony allowed you in but only if you don’t eat, speak or think.



DISCLOSURE: I am not a mother and/or guardian. The following is just my opinion based on my life experiences.

MTV has a show called 16 and Pregnant. I’ve watched a few episodes where I saw the expected. Disillusioned parents, daddy drama, not going to prom, dropping out of school and not hanging out with friends anymore.

These things are difficult for any kid, but there are some things that are devastating. Hearing your parent say that you have 30 days after giving birth to leave her home is insanely callous and potentially dangerous.

Then parents conveniently forget their role in this situation. These thing rarely occur in a vacuum. How much attention did the teen mom get? Was the self-righteous parent really ready to be a parent? It is an epidemic that goes from generation to generation.

Why do teens have sex? It makes them feel euphoric, important, loved and cherished. How do their parents make them feel? You better clean your room … or else.  You’re failing English?! Only an idiot fails English! I don’t like your friends. They look like zombies and say the stupidest things.

Why not help them clean their room and do other chores? It can be a bonding experience. They’re failing because you don’t monitor or help them. If you call them stupid, they’ll believe you and lower their own bar.

Their friends are the ones that care, accept and bring joy to their lives. Don’t belittle their 2nd (maybe 1st) family. Without good friends, suicide looks like a reasonable option.

Rape, murder and physical brutality are all horrific vile things. Hormonal teens who have sex and get pregnant did not commit an unforgivable sin. Abandoning your child she needs you the most is unforgivable. If your child still has dreams to pursue, support them!

Your child did not ask to be born. So why do you punish them for ruining your nap or failing to make your friends jealous. It is your obligation to support, nurture, protect and education them. Did you do your job? How close did you come?

My sister, Carmen, is legally blind and has a childlike mentality. When she was 40 days old a babysitter dropped her on her head. Her skull was fractured, thus labeling her for life as disabled and/or handicapped.

Crutches, wheelchairs, red-tipped canes, working dogs and not-quite-normal behavior or appearance is how normal people identify challenged people. That’s the PC term for disabled.

Carmen hates the word handicapped. She prefers to just use the term legally blind. Her mental capacity is never brought up. Occasionally, she will admit to having learning disabilities. For Carmen, calling her mildly retarded is the same as using the ‘N’ word.

Then we have the disabilities that aren’t always readily noticed. Mental illness can be easily dismissed. Odds are if you’re mentally ill you’re IQ is above average. Smart people can’t be sick! You don’t have a real illness.

Even those whole are bipolar, schizophrenic or depressed don’t always feel that they have a real disease. I include myself in that group. These conditions are so ingrained into our personalities that it’s like telling a pregnant woman her baby is a tumor.

So the reluctant patient is convinced that it’s a charming trait. And society says drug, strap and shrink the crazy away. Next! Remember folks. It’s not a real disease. They can still walk, talk and hold down a job. Just take your meds, a shower and dress like a human being.

Tell that to the family who lost a tough-as-nail soldier to suicide. Tell that to family, friends and survivors of mass shootings. And tell that to the parents who have buried their children because they couldn’t cope with being a teenager.

There are no durable medical equipment or neon signs around the necks of those whose who live with mental illness. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to write-off. We write-off it off until it blows up in our face. I know I did. Then sadly, we develop amnesia all over again. Maybe everyone is in a lovely denial.




It amazes me how much guilt I attach to writing about my feelings, past (shameful or not) and incidentals. By writing, I specifically mean this blog. Then I think about the About Me disclosure I posted before writing one word.

I am a 44 year-old wife living with bipolar disorder. My husband and I have no kids and live in Los Angeles California. I consider this blog to be an experiment. How far can I go about the truth? How far can any of us. I might disturb, shock and insult someone or possibly even everyone.  This is the truth from a mentally ill, bright and quasi-brave Latina.

All that said, tonight’s question for Monica is complex: What do miss about myself? The answer to that is multilayered, but I’ll try to summarize. Is that even possible? A bipolar Latina summarizing? I’ll try to think Gringa.

I miss the insanely altered sense of arousal within myself (partner was not required). It was the same as being high, but it produced crazed feelings of possession. In short, I wasn’t going to do well if I was dumped or ignored.

I miss living productively. I mean really productively. I was a rock star employee. A whirling dervish at home. And a super friend prepared to save anyone I remotely liked … until I crashed.

I miss my willingness to be loud, pushy and overbearing. Today, I’m a mouse at times. I don’t cuss the way I use to and it’s probably best, but I miss the up yours me.

I use to want children a lot. Now I’m so glad I don’t have them. I would make a lousy mother. A mother has to be organized, even tempered, forever prepared for anything, aware of the world and herself. I know my limits.

I have the deepest respect for all parents who master the aforementioned traits. The best I can hope to be is a good aunt and that’s not bad. Did I rant? Probably.