Archive for the ‘writing’ Category

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.


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.


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 am still ill, but with less intensity. I have been eating much less, but I still sparsely suffer stomach issues.

I’m almost certain I have the stomach flu. Since there is no treatment for it. All I can do is ride it out. I’m drinking lots of  water. I eat chicken soup and crackers. I have consumed nothing greasy, overly sweet or heavy.

The anxiety attacks still plague me. I try to refocus on something else. I use to write a poem everyday on my other blog

I can’t seem to write one now. I feel like a mother who isn’t allowed to hold her newborn baby. That’s it. I’m heartbroken. And all I can do is wait.