The week started out grand with my computer crashing at just two months old, my car battery completely crapping out (along with a broken terminal), and a missed freelance deadline.
The guitar Kurt Cobain played/used in the video for “Smells Like Teen Spirit” just sold at auction for $4,500,000.00, about $4,000,000.00 more than expected, by Colts owner Jim Isray. That places it as the fourth most expensive piece of “known” music memorabilia ever (Kurt also takes the top spot for his guitar from the MTV Unplugged show, which sold for more than $8,000,000.00 at auction).
Someone close to me recently brought forth the question of whether or not I was curious about what people to say or think about me after I die. I couldn’t help but laugh a little and try and be anecdotal, but nothing that came to mind sounded right.
“To be ill adjusted to a deranged world is not a breakdown.”
Over the course of seven years, I have been on countless medications, which I am currently paying for. I have always been consistent in taking my pills. I have never gone off my meds. I have never had any reason to. But I’m beginning to wonder if the damage done by years of taking numerous medications is just as bad as not have taken them at all.
Five years ago, I was 27, which was my golden birthday. I was wild then, wild and rearing to go be a part of any type of ignorant activity. I suffer from bipolar disorder if you guys didn’t know and even though I knew it at the time, I still used it to be the life of the party. I was still embarrassed (to an extent) about my condition, and it was easier to just be the wild one.
My father was in the United States Army for 31 years before retiring in his early 50s a few years ago. He was that type. He could have quit after four years under the rules and laws I know. But he dedicated another 27 years of service out of the “somebody’s gotta do it” ideology. Or so I hope. The alternative would be far more sinister.
It’s not unheard of. Someone with a mental health illness, consciously or not, may believe they’re allowed a free pass at times. This, of course, is false. In no set of circumstances does mental illness allow one to act like a dick.
With 1 in 5 U.S. adults suffering from some form of mental illness, it’s not a huge leap for one to think they may be suffering from one, as well. Depression and anxiety are extremely prevalent. Sharing similar hallmarks to certain other illnesses can drive many to assume they may be suffering from some sort of mental health issue.
I live in a small town. Like a really small town. It’s a very conservative, small town in a very conservative part of Illinois, which is most of the state (thank God for Chicago or we would be all Red). There aren’t a lot of resources in my area for people with any type of mental health or psychiatric problems. That seems to be the case for many rural areas across the U.S.
Not entirely or fully accurate, but the damage has been done. Forget the needle. In this day and age, it’s more like TikTok and the damage done.
I was doing well with my treatment for six months or so before I met her. Whoever this person was, love came with her, hard and fast. And there was nothing I could do to stop whatever was happening. At the same time, I didn’t have to do anything but let it happen.
It has been one of “those weeks” to be sure. No, nothing genuinely terrible has occurred. It’s just been one of “those weeks” in the sense that when that phrase is used, all can be sure what is truly meant.
I recently had the luxury of finding an old notebook, one that had been used simply for creative purposes. It was about fifteen years old, but you couldn’t tell by its condition. However, the age of the notebook became more than evident after opening it up. To me, anyway.
If you follow my blog regularly, don’t worry if I’ve strayed from my personal journey of positive thinking. I haven’t. I’m still wondering if someone’s playing a joke on me. I’m behind the computer as we speak, waiting for someone to jump and shout, “GOTCHA!” Just know I went in with the idea for this post relieved and even a little excited. By the time I left, though, I couldn’t tell if I was baffled, underwhelmed, or downright offended.
Still sticking to a pretty self-care-oriented lifestyle. I haven’t tbeen in the trenches of this new battle too terribly long, so fingers remain crossed.
I recently wrote a post about the health benefits that blogging can provide, and there are many. I’d like to cexplore this a little more in depth, though. The effects of this specific type of release are tremendous. It seems obvious on a very basic level, but the facts are in, and they speak for themselves.
I’m not manic or depressed, but I felt an overwhelming sense of clarity and peace the other day that was, for me at least, an eye-opening and humbling experience. I haven’t looked back since.
One of the most important things us mentally ill folks can do is practice consistent self-care. Self-care is an important approach to the management of long-term health conditions, especially when it comes to mental health. Plus, it’s just downright good for you.
It’s April 5, 2022 – the 28th anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death. Nearly three decades ago, the “spokesman of a generation” took his own life with a shotgun.
This month marks the 20th anniversary of the suicide of a close friend. He hung himself in a tree in his backyard when I was in the 6th grade. We just so happened to be neighbors, so I was there and saw the whole thing.
Well, after the week I’ve had I thought I might do something a little more light-hearted. I’ve already discussed the power of music and the artists and albums that shaped a great part of who I am. So, I thought I might talk about some of the books that have also molded me into the person I am today.
I have not outwardly been attacked or “judged” for suffering from bipolar disorder, but it’s the under-the-surface opinions people have that make it even more difficult to manage. So, judge me, I say.
Of course, it’s been one of “those” weeks: work started back up (yards needed to be mowed). On top of that, I spent Wednesday and Thursday in bed, depressed as usual (I wish people knew what it meant to literally not be able to get out of bed).
Someone close to me recently had their first panic attack and described it as the most frightening experience of their life. Equating it to what a mental/emotional/physical heart attack might hypothetically feel like, it was evident that this person had been truly affected by this incident. And not in any positive way.
As someone with bipolar disorder, I have a lot of experience in feeling awkward or out of place because of my condition, when said condition is known. It’s nothing new, and although it never “gets easier” you learn to go along with it. Sometimes you got to get ahead of the charade before you become the charade.
Though I’ve never found any of the generic “coping skills” that work for me, I have noticed that meditation is on every list. Just another bullet point: mediation.
A newly released study is tying people’s religious uncertainty and lack of faith in the divine to poor mental and psychological well-being.
Today isn’t just St. Patrick’s Day in my home. Today is one of the most special days in my life, as it marks the 4th anniversary of the day I married my soulmate.
First off, work is picking back up as the warmer weather is (maybe) finally starting to settle in. I work for both a lawncare and a construction company. Yards will need to be mowed; houses will need to be built or repaired. Things are about to pick up and get busy. It’ll be mornings of rushing to get the kids shipped out to whoever is watching them on that day by 6 am. It’ll be the “get-up-and-go” this household really needs.
It’s a subject as old as time, and a personal dilemma everyone experiences at some point in their lives: the fear of death and dying.
I did my first round a few months ago and I could tell an immediate difference. But the farther apart each treatment is the less effective it will be.
It’s been one of those days, and if it’s anything like the last half of yesterday then you can count me out.
And don’t go out smiling-
In the reverie of death’s sweet delivery,
a smile would only cloud,
and be monstrous….
If these city blocks could talk, would you hear the hollow echo of my soul’s soles, edging around the lonely buildings, thru the twisted and deformed night?