Happy Fucking Thanksgiving!

I just about PUKED on all the good will towards (wo)men and love and thanksgiving that was flowing all over social media today.  C’mon people, where’s the hate?  Where’s the bigotry?  Hypocrisy?  You actually gave it up for a day?

Well my family did NOT put the “fun” in dysfunction today.  It was an ordeal to be endured and frankly I am not down with that shit.  Why I didn’t bring some of the good shit with me is just beyond me.  I am an asshole, I guess.  My Dad, true to form, yelled his head off at my Aunt (my Mom’s sister) because he is five years old (not 82) and doesn’t want to share my Mom.  I, being a mature adult, did not punch my Dad’s 82 year old face in, although it was definitely my first choice.  Instead, since I am also a five year old, I packed up my toys and left with a dismissive “Bye Bitch” (really just Bye but I like the sound of Bye Bitch oh so much more).  If you could only see what goes on inside me when my Dad yells, it’s like Satan lights the fires of hell in me and I want to scream and yell and hit something.  Doing nothing like that is very unsatisfying.  Instead, I drive home and proceed to turn it inward by getting stoned as hell.  Solution!  Shitty, addictive solution but I’m working with the tools at hand and that’s what I’ve got.  I know, I know, I should stay away from the damn marijuana store.  Those fuckers lure me in with all of their delicious edibles and their different strains, their indicas and sativas and cbd’s and cbn’s and pain patches.  But all it does is get you stoned.  Nothing fancy.  I go back and forth with “am I going to be clean and sober” and “am I going to go ahead and be a real pothead”.  Right now I am leaning towards pothead.  But no drinking.  Except for tomorrow night.  Because I have a DATE!  With a REAL BOY!!!  Oh I say boy but hell he’s in his thirties.  He and I like to drink and smoke pot and talk a blue streak and, uh, other things.  You know.  Play tinker toys.  It’ll be fun.

I hope you had a satisfying day in some way.  If you didn’t, don’t feel bad.  It ain’t all rose-colored dildos out there.  There’s a lot of trash.  I had a bad day, so someone else didn’t have to.  That’s the way I see it.  Now for Christmas, I think I’m going to arrange to be gone.  I better think of an elaborate lie, starting right now.  Any ideas?  Hope your day was peachy.  Love, Bipolaronfire.  FIRE!!!!!


Sometimes Life Hands You A Bowl Of Shit

Chalk one up for random acts of “what the fuck?”, y’all.  On Thursday I was taking a lovely walk with my dear mother and we came upon a wet spot on the sidewalk.  Just as I was saying “Oh Mom don’t walk there it’s ice” she took a step and her legs flew out from under her.  She was flat on her back.  This turned into a whopping concussion, a brain bleed, and admission to the hospital’s Intensive Care Unit.  All from TAKING A WALK.

I stayed with my Dad and took care of him (like taking care of a baby) for a few days:  hospital visits, meals, cleanup, laundry, repeat.  Shit, I don’t know how my Mom does this day in and day out!  I know she shouldn’t!

Fortunately, Mom was released early yesterday afternoon.  A miraculous recovery, I’d say.  She’s still pretty unclear on what happened, but it’s not like the ride to the hospital and the first few hours there, when she’d repeat the same questions over and over “What happened?”, “How did I get this bump on my head?”, “I took a walk?  Where?  Was I alone?”  and then it started all over again.  It was real-life Groundhog Day.  I must have answered her questions 150 times.  No joke.

This is my first day to myself and after sleeping in until 1pm I have been taking it pretty easy.  My siblings and I will trade off spending days with Mom and Dad for probably the next three weeks.  Self-care and balance have become focus words and not just abstracts that I hear popped off by therapists and doctors.  I will do my best to take care of me, while caring for them.  Not what I expected for Thanksgiving week but I am going to show myself how adaptable I am.  And I’m going to be GRATEFUL that my Mom is ok and recovering!!!  Peaches to yer homies!!

Mmmm, The Power Of Scents

Ahhh, the power of scent.  Not much is said about how scent can be mood-elevating.  I am soooo susceptible to scent, though!  I often say that I am the Bad Smell Police.  I can’t stand bad smells!  If someone takes a dump in my vicinity they damn well better be spraying some anti-stink spray and turning on a fan, like, stat!  On the other side of that, though, I was lucky enough to be given a wax simmering pot last Christmas, and I LOVE this sucker!  It’s very safe, it’s warmed by a light bulb, so I don’t have to worry about burning the house down.  At Target (and every other home store you can find) they sell little packages of wax squares and my newest love is called “Be At Peace” (love the name) and it smells of Balsam Fir and Juniper and a little sprinkling of fairy dust.  It smells sooooooo damn good and makes me happily anticipate Christmas, but in addition to that, it just plain tickles me pink!  I walk down the stairs to my apartment, and I just breathe a deep breath of “Ahhhhhhhhh yesssssss Jugdish!.”  If you have never tried scents for mood elevation, I highly, highly recommend that you get your bunzitos to the store and start sniffing.  Who knows what they might evoke?  It could be good.  It could be VERY good.  Peaches!

Best Bipolar Medications, Volume II

Here is a synopsis of what I have used, and how it has worked. I’m not saying it will work the same way for you, although it might!  I don’t think any of them will kill you, although they say that Latuda has the potential for an awesome deadly rash.  Bad-ass!

Lithium: Seemed to work as a mood stabilizer.  Side effects:  One minor side effect was that I HAD TO PEE A MINIMUM OF FIVE TIMES A NIGHT!!!!  Dr. Drugs considered this to be a negligible side effect.

Clozaril: Worked as a mood stabilizer in that it kept me glued to the couch watching tv.  No motivation to get up, get out, go see the world, and certainly I couldn’t work up enough motivation to kill myself.  Side effects:  Pot-like munchies, causing me to gain THIRTY POUNDS.  Dr. Drugs considered this to be an acceptable side effect.  When I told him that my PCP was concerned that I may become diabetic, he replied “Then we treat the diabetes.”  Not cool, Dr. Drugs, NOT COOL!!

Lamictal: Stabilized me to a point that I was completely flat.  No affect whatsoever.  Couldn’t think of a thing to say, do or be.  Side effects:  See above

Abilify:  This is my current drug.  I’ve always hated Abilify because of their stupid fucking cartooney commercials.  BUT!  This shit is working.  I’m stabilized, and I have a personality.  My long-lost creativity has come back, after two years of hiding from me.  I think Dr. Drugs took it and put it in a box somewhere.  Side effects:  It is possible to have herky-jerky involuntary muscle movements.  So far I have punched myself in the face only once.

What’s the commonality among all of these drugs? None of them give you diarrhea.  This is a good thing people.  They will not send you hurtling towards the ceiling, the noxious stuff shooting out of your butt.  Oh how I wish I could say the same for this cocktail of antibiotics that I am on for the Oh Glory H. Pylori!  My head is now flat on top.  And I hurt.  HURT!  In the nether regions.

Ok now…it’s your turn! What’s working for you?  Let’s get this mofo cookin’ with some good, current info on what works for us Bipolars, YEAH BABY!  Peach out, homies!!!

We Need To Put The NFL To Work Against ISIS

The National Football League is a no-brainer to go route out ISIS. They are smart, strong, capable, close-knit teams of warriors who know how to take orders.  They have many and varied skills and could find and kill ISIS soldiers in a New York Minute.  The competition is the same:  Broncos vs. The Chiefs in who can kill the most ISIS fighters.  I can see Peyton Manning lobbing a hand grenade for 75 yards, completely obliterating an ISIS stronghold.  The Orange Crush busting through their makeshift landmines and Aqib Talib poking eyes out left and right.

As far as other teams, Tom Brady might lob a pop can filled with sand that would surely land on an ISIS fighter’s head and give him quite a goose egg. Then the Offensive Line could move in in a moment of weakness and kick the shit out of him.  Teams would engage in hand-to-hand combat and pants the ISIS fighters to show how many they took down.  Each pair of pants would result in a score for that team.

The Superbowl would be held in Syria, with opposing teams fighting to take Tikrit back from ISIS. Both teams, wearing their uniforms but with AK-47’s slung over their backs, shooting to kill, or if they felt like it, killing to shoot.  Either is an option in the NFL.  The winner of the Superbowl would become honorary Heads of State in Tikrit, bringing peace and good fortune to all.

This may sound like a longshot but we’ve got to engage in some creative thinking where ISIS is concerned, something our world leaders have failed to do. Let’s get this message of NFL ass-kicking out there and see what can be done!  ISIS must be defeated at all costs!!  WE ARE WITH YOU, FRANCE!!  VIVE LA NFL!!  VIVE LA FRANCE!!

Turnin’ On The Waterworks

Today, I went to visit Dr. Drugs, and I had to get one of my big guns out of the arsenal: THE WATERWORKS!  I think I may have mentioned that at my last appointment, with no explanation, Dr. Drugs cut me off at the knees by cutting my Wellbutrin dose from 450 mg down to 150 mg.  It was at the end of the appointment and he kinda bum-rushed me with a fucked up prescription and rushed me out the door.  Well, the combination of cutting my antidepressant down to nearly fuckin’ nothing, plus the time change, plus the days getting shorter, plus the weather getting colder has led me to having some pretty good blah-don’t-wanna-do-nuthin’s, plus some medium-level sads.  I’m not on my way to the mental hospital just yet, but goddammit I’m determined to stay away from that place.  So today, I sat down in the chair in Dr. Drugs’ office, and I fuckin’ turned it on.  I thought about mental hospitals, and letting my family down, and drowning puppies, and fuck if the boo-hoo’s didn’t come on just in time! I swear, I couldn’t have done better if I’d called 1-800-WAA-WAAH!  Dr. Drugs sat back in his chair and said “I believe you have a severe case of Seasonal Depression.”  <—- (understatement of the year, Dr. Drugs).  Many of you may say, Bipolaronfire, you manipulated him with your tears!  To that I respond, FUCK NO!  I am a TIGER for my mental health!!!  I will do whatever the FUCK it takes (aside from blowing Dr. Drugs) to get me through the dark days of winter and stay out of the mental hospital!  And so should you!  In fact, if your drugs are not working for you, I suggest that you try channeling a little Bipolaronfire Tiger energy in your next session with your PDoc.  If that doesn’t work, I will gladly refund you your misery :).  Now get out there and FIGHT!  Fight for your right to BE WELL!  Hell to the YEAH!  Peaches, homies!

Random Thoughts

Do ya know why they’re called the screen door shits?

Just once, I’d like to take a yoga class from a teacher with a fat ass.

If I had a dollar for every time I reminded my niece and nephew to say “please” and “thank you”, I’d make damn sure they were the two rudest little fuckers you ever saw.

When I’m in traffic, and I’m nice, and let you in to my lane, even though there’s no damn room, give me a fuckin’ wave. Or I will hit you.

Dr. Drugs, don’t have a long-ass appointment with me, and then at the very end write out a script for the wrong quantity, and when I tell you it’s too small a dose, say “JUST DO IT.” Because I won’t.  And I’ll slash your tires.  If I ever figure out what car you drive.  And grow some balls.

Roommate a.k.a. Sister, don’t EVER start a sentence with “I’m gonna need you to…” You’ll guarantee a pissed off sister and bonus, total inaction.


Your peach, BPOF

This Is What I Look Like To An Eleven Year Old

Aunt Bipolaronfire

This is what I look like to an eleven year old.  My niece, in fact.  Everything is in-the-moment, unfiltered, stream of consciousness.  “You have kind of a fat nose” she says, as she measures my nose with her pencil and goes back to the page and marks, a large mark.  Well YOU have fat TOES, I say, but only in my head, because I’m not That Mean Aunt.  “Your eyes are blue and mine are brown” she says accusingly.  “Yes.  That. Is. True.” I answer in my best robot voice.  She giggles.  “I’m just going to draw you how I want.”  You better not, I say menacingly.  You better sharpen that pencil and get going on every single wrinkle!”  “I don’t have that kind of time”, she says.  So goes a peachy-golden evening with my niece.  Happy Friday, y’all!

Why Cat Women Will Save Civilization


I don’t really like cats . . . at all . . . ever since one peed on my brand new couch. Cat pee is non-negotiable. Once that starts showing up, kitteh needs to pack her shit and get out! That said, this catevangelist has almost convinced me to run out and get another little feline fucker!

Originally posted on Diary of an Epi Wannabe:

We’ve all heard of Crazy Cat Ladies.  While the term often applies to women with an unusual number of cats, I’ve also heard it applied to women who love and care for cats, even in small numbers.

The caricature goes like this: unmarried women, usually without children, spend all their time and money on their cats, using them as substitute children and fluffy little man-replacements.  Such women are rarely portrayed as glamorous or successful (or heaven forbid both!)  Loving cats has come to mean missing something else in life that “normal” women have: husbands and children.

Leaving aside for a moment that many women with husbands and/or children are also devoted to feline furbabies, I would like to point out that single childless women with cats are actually civilization’s only hope.

  1. Cat Women decrease human overpopulation.

First, and most obvious, women who have cats instead of children are not adding…

View original 1,187 more words

Oh Lordy, It’s H. Pylori!

Wow, just when I feel like I’m really cookin’ with gas, I find out that I am actually cookin’ with gas!  H. Pylori, to be exact.  A stomach infection!  What the holy hell??  An innocent little appointment with the gastroenterologist to check in and say, Hi, I haven’t been able to go without this here proton-pump-inhibitor for fourteen years, that’s all!  My primary care physician says that’s kind of a long time.  For someone who achieved her first ulcer at four years old, I say, fourteen years is not that bad.  BUT!  Allegedly, it’s not good to turn off all of the proton pumps in the stomach!  What the fuck do I know?  So, the gastroenterologist says, let’s do a few blood tests!  Let’s do an upper endoscopy (scheduled for next week).  I, being a person who loves to give up my blood and loves medical procedures even more, said sure!

So, I got a call back saying hey! You have H. Pylori, an infection in the stomach!  Let’s get you on some antibiotics!  No, not one antibiotic!  Not even two!  You get to take THREE antibiotics!  Because you never get enough yeast infections!!  Let’s go for total certainty!!  So, I am on three antibiotics.  I AM SO LUCKY!!!  All those good microbes I was trying to cultivate in my gut with super-expensive probiotics should be wiped out in the next few hours.  My guts keep gurgling ominously.  There may be an explosion in my near future.  Is that TMI?

I’ll tell you one side-effect of H. Pylori that I did not get: WEIGHT LOSS!!  H. Pylori, you bitch!!!  How could you deny me that?????  I swear, my body doesn’t even do sick right!

Well I am off to the dentist to drain my bank account. I have some really good looking chompers, but man!  They cost me thousands of dollars a year.  If they ever find my dead body somewhere and go for dental identification, they’ll say “This fucker sure wasted a lot of money on her mouth!”  I just thank Jugdish that I have the money to do it.  For now, anyway.  I’m gonna go eat a peach.  Ow!  The pit!  That’ll be another seven hundred dollars . . .

Welcome To SAD Season

Welcome to SAD season, where Daylight Savings Time has officially ended and Seasonal Affective Disorder has officially begun.  The uphill battle/fight to stay out of the mental hospital and stay off ECT has also officially begun.   Here’s what I am doing to fight the good fight:  sitting in front of my therapy light for an hour in the morning and an hour in the afternoon; walking mile after mile to get that exercise in and those good endorphins flowing; getting support from and staying in touch with others on the blogosphere; and maintaining this consistency day by day the hardest of all.  There’s also the givens:  Daily doses of mood stabilizers and anti-depressants, and weekly therapy.  For the most part, these are things I don’t want to do. In fact, I don’t want to do anything. I feel like a total slug. That is why this is a fight. My definition of self control is simply this:  Doing what I don’t want to do, knowing it’s good for me.  By contrast, it could also be defined as: Not doing what’s bad for me.  Just as hard.  But, by doing what’s good for me, I have a better chance at abstaining from the bad stuff (excessive sugar, marijuana, alcohol).  Just like the alcoholics, this is a one-day-at-a-time proposition.  So, for today, I have one good thing done so far, sitting in front of my light.  Next on deck, I have plans for exercise.  Knowing that I will be filling out my self-monitoring spreadsheet kind of motivates me.  I want to be able to say that I did good things.  And I want that Beck score to be low.  Or at least not too high.  I’m going to allow myself a super-caffeinated drink, then I’m off to the hiking trails.  What’s your plan for winter survival, Stan?  Peaches!

Halloween Rantgasm

Really, is there any night like Halloween to go on a ranting binge? Yes?  No?  I agree!  Hmmm let’s see well I may have been set off by a sister and her idiotic text to me, here it is verbatim:  “I didn’t buy Halloween candy since I wasn’t going to be there to pass it out. So I doubt that you will want to answer the door tonight. Leave the porch light off.  I’ll be home later.”  Where oh where do I begin with this?  Would I not know not to answer the door?  And WHOA!  MAN!  Exactly where and how did she come up with the Ninja tactic of leaving the porch light off?????  I may have thought to blow out the candle on the jack o’lantern, but LEAVE THE PORCH LIGHT OFF??  I mean, what is she doing?  Hacking the dark web??  I NEVER WOULD HAVE THOUGHT OF THIS.  AND why oh fucking WHY can’t I text her in bold on my fucking iPhone in a HUGE fucking font that fills the screen with


So. I texted her back.  Several hours later.  Several beers later.  “Thanks for telling me that magic trick about leaving the porch light off-30 years living on my own and I never even heard of that!”  And then to make it seem like I’m joking (and to totally mindfuck her) a bunch of pumpkin emojis!  Psych!

Uh. Yeah. There may be a problem with this sister being a bit Superior with a capital “S” and treating me like I’m a total idiot/mental case/child. At these times, a rage reaction ensues.  To my credit, I did take a long walk, fueled by negative thoughts, such as “earn your alcohol”, and, “the faster you walk, the sooner you can drink”, oh, and when I got a sideache, “Maybe it’s appendicitis, you’ll lose weight!”  So, even though it’s negative, it fueled me to have a totally fast, healthy walk.  I win!!

Hope you’re out there breaking up some fucking pumpkins with the best of them. Peach out.

Martha Stewart On Crack Is BACK, Baby!!

Ok, there’s no doubt that crack is whack. But calling myself Martha Stewart On Crack is just the best way to illustrate the wacko-but-awesome creations that I have been coming up with as of late.  The lime-green fur ottoman is a thing of beauty, BEAUTY!!  After a TWO YEAR hiatus of no creativity, it’s fucking good to have it back!!!  It’s been a painful two years.  I have no doubt that various and sundry mood stabilizers robbed me of said creativity, those mood stabilizers (or as I like to call them, Zombie-Inducing Devil Pills) would be Lamotrigine and Clozaril.  Of course as you know, Clozaril gave me the added bonus of thirty extra pounds.  Yayyy!  But I digress.

For someone who is artistic-like, I can’t even tell you how joyful it is to be back in the flow. And how sad the last two years were without my creativity!  It’s just, like, I feel alive again!  I have projects!  I wake up in the morning excited to do things!  And when I finish one thing, I gotta have another project waiting in the wings.  My nephew is the same way.  He is even more creative.  And what do we have in common?  We both are on my arch-nemesis:  Abilify!  What the fuck is in this shit??  I mean, they have some funkified commercials, but now I’m starting to drink the Kool Aid!!  (Whispering) I think it might be working.  Don’t tell anybody.  It’s torture to admit.

Ok, get ready, here comes the u-turn….and I flipped the bitch! Just HAD to tell you that I just listened to the audio-book version of Jenny Lawson’s (The Blogess) new book, Furiously Happy, and goddammit if you suffer from any kind of mental illness and/or if you like to laugh, YOU MUST GET THIS BOOK!!!  This woman is out loud and proud about her mental illness, and so fucking funny about it at the same time!!  And I just felt so GRATEFUL to her for telling the truth, the hard sad truth and the funny truth and the crude foul-mouthed fucked-up truth about living with mental illness!  It is so! Worth! The Read!  Or the listen!!  Do it.

Well, Peaches and Herb, that’s it for now. Notice how I didn’t even mention those fucking Republicans trashing up MY TOWN last night??  I am denying their existence.  Peach to yer Mama!

It’s 6:49 am.

It’s 6:49 in the morning. Got up at 6:15. The deal on Thursdays and Fridays is that I take my niece to school and pick her up afterwards. It’s one of the ways that I contribute to the household. Yeah. I’m a stupid ass. I VOLUNTEERED to do this. Mornings like this one after a night where I woke up every hour, on the hour, I am reminded of what a grandiose and generous shit I can be. And I’m not the kind of person who can get up ten minutes before, throw some water on my face, and run out the door. Oh no! It takes me awhile to wake up. So I have to get up way earlier than our departure time. Oh goodie grunt shit I cannot WAIT until the snow flies!! Then this will REALLY be a party! Well it’s not Nieceie’s fault, so I won’t be an asshole to her. I’ll enjoy some concentrated time with her. We usually hop in the car, right on time or two minutes late, and she promptly commandeers the radio and both cell phones, ready for any and all radio contests. She and her cousin have already won once, tickets to a corn maze eighty miles away. Those tickets were dutifully picked up by me, one hour’s drive in each direction, but have yet to be redeemed. The parents are fighting for the right to drive to that one. Ha. The name of the station is The Party, nickname The Taylor Swift Station. Oh how I love it!!

As I eat my morning granola which is as hard as teeth, I think it’s time to switch to a new breakfast. Some pain doctor last week suggested the dreaded words no one wants to hear: Gluten Free. I am still thinking about it. I should say researching it. That is how intelligent people procrastinate.

Well it’s off to school and then an adventure to Denver to look at granite for my sister’s countertop. LIFE JUST KEEPS GETTING BETTER AND BETTER! I hope I don’t poop with the excitement. See you soon, my friends. Keep eating those peaches!!