The Job Is A GO!!

Well I haven’t been around much lately.  I’d say that I have nothing to say, but really I have SO MUCH to say.  I’ve been doing lots of projects, which really revs my motor.  Sewing, needlepoint, and some upholstery.  And . . . yes!  Flaky doctor came through with a job!!!!  I started Monday with watching some training videos, and I’m meeting with her today to sign a business agreement and pick up a load of files.  Basically, I’ll be working at home (perfect for me, I hate working with people) entering her paper files into an electronic system.  Some data entry, some scanning of files.  I needed a scanner, so I took the opportunity to buy the printer I always wanted, a color laser printer (with a sheet-feeder scanner).  It prints so beautifully!!!  It was a little pricey but hopefully I’ll make the money back.  Actually, I better make the money back or I’m a total loser!  I feel like posting a picture of the printer, I love it so much.  Ah, geekhood.

So, I’m so excited to start working, on my own, at home.  I’m such a project girl.  It’s like I told the psychiatrist, just set me loose on a pile of work, and I’m good to go!  I will be very happy doing this.  Just turn on the music and plug away.  I hope I don’t do it too fast.  Every time I finish a project I’m so sad.  This doctor is very technically challenged, though, so I think I’ll be providing her some IT Support, too.  We’ll see how it evolves.

Things are working much better in my head now that Spring has sprung, even though we still have some rain and even fucking SNOW is forecast for the weekend.  The extra light is doing wonders for me.  It’s just like a switch is tripped, saying “extra light, I am ok now”.  I still wake up a little depressed, but I don’t feel like I’m constantly on the verge of hospitalization like I did in the winter.  HOLY HALLELUJAH!!  With that, I’ll close and say “Peach out” and hope you’re all doing well!  Let me know!!

P.S. —  I forgot to say, I updated to Windows 10 after much resistance,  because even though I am a former serious IT Geek, I resist change.  And believe it or not, it’s not even killing me!  Thank you, Microsoft!  It’s not all fucked up like Windows 8.  Everything looks almost the same.  I can find my files.  The shortcut keys still work.  I am ok.  You will be too:)

It’s All Good

We are “supposed” to be having an epic snowstorm right now. Fourteen inches was forecast.  Oh, the hype!  Hide yo’ kids!  Lock up your pets!!  Your tree branches are going to break off!!  Don’t drive!!  Stock up on groceries!!  Jesus Christ, it’s like Snowpocalypse was coming.  Instead, what we have are gently falling flakes that melt when they hit the ground.  This is a bullshit storm!  It’s just like what I do in my head!  I create these great big giant stressful scenarios that rev up my motor and make me think that life as I know it is going to end, and then *blip* nothing or close to nothing happens.  THAT’S why it’s good to be in the moment.  I’m preaching to myself here.  Because the present moment is pretty damn good.  I’m home, I’m warm, I’m safe, I have this uber-comfy environment, I can watch tv, read, do a creative project, text someone, tweet, even write a goddamn blog!  It’s all good!  I am thankful for the “all good” times.  I’m fine. It’s fine.  Let the snow fall.  Nobody’s getting hurt.  I’m just going to sit here and say “Thank you”.

My Poor Murdered Bike

My sister ran over my bike. It had fallen over in the garage and she didn’t see it.  “I think I ran over the back tire,” she says.  I go to look at it.  I don’t think the back tire should be curly.  Dammit!  I’m not happy.  But then again, the tires were already flat and the chain was off and jammed.  Already, the bike was a useless fixture in the garage.  How mad can I be?  I’m mad at myself because I hadn’t repaired it before now, and I’m  mad that I didn’t buy the hardware to hang it up when we first moved in here.  Now I went to look at my bike again, and it looks even WORSE!  The seat is all wonky and has smudge marks like maybe that got run over too!  Part of me wants to get really mad at my sister, and part of me wants to get really mad at me.  This is the perfect opportunity to have a ragefest!  Maybe the Abilify is smoothing me out, because I just can’t work myself into a rage.  All I can do is think “I have to take this fucker into the shop and evaluate my options.” Is it fixable?  If so, how much?  Can I afford it?

Although I’m not grateful for two flat tires, a curly wheel, a jammed chain and a wonky seat, I guess I am grateful for an even mood that just says “Deal with it.” This is new!  This is different!  Maybe I’m ready to make my own Abilify commercial!  I don’t know.  This is my Saturday wisdom. Take the good where you can find it. This is my good.  I’m not having a cow.  I’m dealing.  It’s ok.  And now I’m gonna go eat pizza.  Peach out!

That One Time I Tried To Kill Someone

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the time I tried to poison someone. I remember it like it was yesterday.  I was five years old.  There was a girl in our cul-de-sac, her name was Jennifer Joslin.  Jennifer was a bully and was always mean to me.  I didn’t like her and I was afraid of her.  Well I had some little-girl perfume, and I remember my parents’ stern warnings not to DRINK the perfume, as it was POISON!  Hmmmm…. My little mind wondered…poison?  I tried mixing some of my perfume with water, and what a lovely milky color it turned! Problem solved.  The next afternoon when Jennifer was out in the cul-de-sac, I mixed up my little potion of perfume and water in a drinking glass and walked out to Jennifer.  “Hi Jennifer, ya want some milk?” I offered innocently.  Jennifer took a swig and then spat it out angrily.  “What IS this, POISON?” she shouted.  I grabbed the glass and scurried home, certain I was in trouble.  So much for murdering my nemesis.  I was in for a spanking with Dad’s fraternity paddle!

I’m not sure what attempted murder at the age of five says about my character, but that’s honestly the last time I tried to kill someone. I think it’s kinda cute, though, how solution-oriented I was at five years old!  See a problem, solve a problem.  Very linear!  Who knows, if I’d been successful, maybe I would have grown up to be a hit (wo)man!  Oh well, what could have been.  Instead, I went into IT.  Go figure.

Done Playing Mommy And Other Miscellaneous Shit

Dad handkerchiefs

Well my sister has returned and my Playing Mommy has come to an end. Being with the kids, nurturing them, just sitting with them as they went about their free time has been a joy.  What I am truly grateful for is that my mood held up – I didn’t lose my patience with them or get angry as I feared I might.  I was a loving and tolerant Aunt.  Oh how I hope that this is how they remember me when they grow up!  Only time will tell.

Another thing that has brought me great joy lately is the return of my creativity. I have always been a creative person, but I lost the creative spark for about a year and a half to two years.  I attribute this to both depression and Clozaril.  As soon as I went off the Clozaril and switched to Abilify, *poof* the creativity came back.  About fifteen years ago, I embroidered some handkerchiefs for my Dad, which he loved and was very proud of.  For the past few years, I’ve wanted to do it again, but couldn’t quite pull it together.  Finally, last week, I bought some handkerchiefs and embroidery thread and let ‘er rip and it has been so damn fun to do this for Dad’s upcoming 83rd birthday.  Granted, they’re not perfect.  I had to trace the designs from my computer screen onto the handkerchief with a pencil.  But, I still love them and I made them with love (and lots of very anal stitching) and I hope my Dad loves them.  You only see five here, I am working on the final sixth.  I will be so sad when it’s all over!!!  What will I do next???  It has been SO GREAT to have a project!  This just reinforces to me how nurturing the creative process is to my spirit.

If you’ve been reading for a few posts then you know that I had applied for a part-time job with a psychiatrist and wondered if I got the job. I got one call from her which I returned, then never heard back again.  Well, I heard from her over the weekend, apparently she never got my phone message.  Strange!  She does want to work with me (Yay!) but not for a couple of weeks (Boo!).  We’ll see how it all shakes out.  She is not striking me as the most dependable person but hopefully I am wrong about that.

Well, that’s about all the new from the Bipolar On Fire Ranch in Boulder, Colorado. Yee Haw!!  What’s going on in your neck of the woods?

 

Playing Mommy

You may or may not know that I live with my sister and her two kids, who I love dearly. One of my great regrets is not having kids myself, although I think with my illness, it was definitely the right thing for me.  It gives me great joy to love and nurture this niece and nephew of mine, and I feel such pride that my sister has gone off to a three-day conference and left them in my care.  That she trusts me with these bright little souls, says a lot to me.  As I sit here on the couch with them, they are both playing video games (14 year old boy and 11 year old girl) and my niece is singing a song she made up about the dogs.  They feel safe and loved with Aunt BPOF and that makes me happy.  Here is another chance for me to be present for others, not thinking about myself or ruminating on my many worries as I make their pizza or pasta.  Here is a time that I am called upon to be my best self, to rise above my broken, half-working side and be there for these kids.  I am both challenged and uplifted by this chance.  The weather buoys me with glorious springtime temperatures and I know I’ll get out and enjoy that over the next few days.  I hope to live up to the faith that has been placed in me. More to come….

The Changing Face of Bipolar

I woke up in the middle of the night for some reason and what was on my mind was how manic I was in my 20’s. Sometimes I question why I don’t seem to have mania any more, and I’m thinking maybe I used it all up in my 20’s.  In my 20’s, the world was full of magic and potential.  The air was crackling with the possibilities of life.  I was full of impulsivity – financially, sexually, and then finally geographically.  At about 23 years of age, I came to the conclusion that I didn’t like my life, and it was because I had always wanted to go to Paris, and the solution was to move to Paris.  So I set about selling everything I owned and bought a plane ticket.  I had very little money and even less of a plan.  Fortunately, I had a cousin living in Paris so I could stay with her initially.  When my cousin Mimi asked me what I wanted to do in Paris, I replied “I don’t know where this is coming from, but I feel like I want to sing!”  I was full of intuitive hunches and my faith in them.  I just knew everything would work out.

At the time, I was sober and very involved in AA, so when I got to Paris I found the American churches and the AA meetings full of ex-pats and made loads of new friends. I was gregarious and full of life – I was a beautiful 23 year old girl – who wouldn’t want to know me!  I walked everywhere in Paris – everywhere I looked was beauty.  Things I had only seen in pictures were regularly showing up in my field of vision.  I felt like I could do anything!

In talking to one of the ladies from one of my AA meetings about needing a job, she said “Well, can you sing? Because there’s this place called the Hollywood Savoy that takes English-speaking girls and you wait tables and then sing in between.”  A light went on in my head.  Hadn’t I said I wanted to sing?  I went right over with her and met the management, and just like that, I had a job.  They let me start without the proper paperwork (I didn’t have permission to work), so the job was very short-lived.  Also, even though I could sing, I wasn’t used to singing with a band and didn’t know how to come in with the intro, and I couldn’t find my key.  I must have looked like an idiot.  Some of the other girls made fun of me.  Oh, the dream and the reality were not matching.  Oh dear.

At this point, I was missing my group of friends and my family very much, and wondering why in the hell I’d come to Paris. I was suffering from culture shock and realizing that I didn’t speak French as well as I thought I did.  Specifically, I couldn’t understand the French that was being spoken.  I was beginning to panic.  Even so, I tried to salvage the situation by looking for a job as a nanny.

One thing in Paris that I had never seen or heard of was “Turkish Toilets” – that’s what they called them. They weren’t toilets at all, but just a hole in the ground that you squatted over to go to the bathroom.  Any time I encountered one, I resolutely refused to use it.  It disgusted me!  I was offered one nanny job in Paris that offered upstairs servant’s quarters for the nanny, but the bathroom was a Turkish Toilet.  Based on that one fact, I turned down the job.

The second nanny job I was offered, I took. It was just watching a baby, and I was expected to do everything to take care of the baby, including getting up with him in the middle of the night.  At one point I was sitting on the floor with the baby, and I was so sad and missing my family and friends, and I started to cry uncontrollably.  Then the baby started to cry.  Then the mother walked in.  Somehow I composed myself and tried to make light of the fact that I was an emotional basket case.

All in all, my Paris fantasy lasted all of six weeks before I called it quits and ran home with my tail tucked between my legs. I was so relieved to be back in my hometown, but also embarrassed because I had told people that I would be gone for a year.  I suffered a deep depression upon my return.  The magic of life had died.  I didn’t know where I had gone wrong, or where to go from where I was.  It may have been the first time that I felt really betrayed by myself, the first of many, many, many times to come.  I would not be diagnosed as having Bipolar Disorder for another ten years, many heartaches, many financial disasters, many failed relationships later.  For now, I would fumble along in life, looking for the magic, believing that something great was just around the corner, thinking that I was destined for great things.

The mania showed a person so zestful, so happy, so smart, so full of potential, that people reflected that back to me. People believed in me and in what I might do.  But the inevitable crashes that mania produced (as well as crashes caused by impulsive behavior, my kryptonite), caused me to be a shadow of that person.  I confused myself, and the outside world, with my two sides.  I thought I just had depression.  Why my therapist couldn’t link my severe impulse control issues with my mood disorder, I’ll never know.  However, it’s all clear to me now.  Although I miss the highs of life, and the belief in magic, I am grateful for the impulse control that keeps me from running my bank account down to zero, the impulse control that keeps me from shoplifting and the fear of being caught and exposed, the impulse control that keeps me from having sex with random strangers and thinking I’m a porn star.  I don’t have as many secrets to hide, and that’s a relief.  In AA, they say you’re only as sick as your secrets, and I believe that to be true.  I’m not too sick.  I am a secret smoker.  Sometimes I use pot, although I try to avoid it.  But that’s about it, for secrets.  You guys know it all.  And you’re still reading!!  Thank you.  And for now, I’ll close with saying take a chance.  Share your secret.  Even if it’s here in the comments.  You’ll feel better.  I know I do.

Do I Have A JOB?

So I applied for this part-time job working for a psychiatrist (I know it sounds like a joke but it’s TRUE!), converting all of her paper records to electronic, about three weeks ago. I had an interview which I thought went really well, but I never heard back from her.  So, I totally gave up and said, fuck this work noise.  THEN this Monday I got a voicemail from her, saying she wanted to discuss the position with me and was I still interested in the job?  Well I have to admit I felt ambivalent about it because I had resigned myself to the idea that I was (am) unemployable and now I would have to change how I was thinking about myself.  But, thinking it would be stupid as fucking hell not to respond to her, I called her back on Monday afternoon and left her an enthusiastic message saying that Yes, I was interested in the position.  And then….nothing.  So I’m like, what the fuck?  Is it possible she didn’t get my voicemail?  Did she change her mind?  Surely she didn’t change her mind based on my awesome voicemail, did she?  I mean, what in the fuckin’ fuck?  So I am just sitting here, back at square one, wondering what I am doing, with myself, with my life, am I going to get Disability, am I going to go broke, am I going to get a job, can I do a job if I get one, oh life’s little questions that torture you when you have too much time on your hands and NO ANSWERS!  AND I’ve eaten eight dark chocolate-covered espresso beans and I’m waiting for the buzz to come.  No buzz.  I swear to GOD I’m going to switch to cocaine if the old faithful, caffeine, stops working for me!  But hell no I can’t afford cocaine.  And where would you get cocaine?  Plus, it’s so impure, I’d hate to put that in my body.  Anyhoo, this is one hell of a ramble.  I think I’ll go make a smoothie.  Hope your week is going better than mine, either way, let me know!  Peach out homies!

Happy Easter!

My sister was just in San Francisco and was kind enough to buy me some Ghirardelli dark chocolate-covered espresso beans. Nothing says “do ya think I’m sexy” like a mouth full of coffee grounds, which is what I look like after chewing on a few of these.  However, they DO give me a certain energy, a verve, a joie de vivre, that caffeine all by itself hasn’t done in a long time.  It’s like I found a new drug!  Eat four or six or ten of these, and your procrastinating days are over!  You’re in the shower, you’re dressed, and you’re walking, not driving, to the grocery store to brave the hordes of other procrastinators who didn’t get their Easter groceries earlier.  Ah well, the sun was shining, and I floated on a cloud all the way there, avoiding puddles in my too-big white pants (yay, weight loss) and my easter-egg colored tie-dyed t-shirt!  And lucky-fucking-me, they weren’t out of my favorite, Hawaiian Rolls.  Those soft & gooey rolls just beg for a big dollop of butter and to be dipped in gravy, which I also bought.  Now if I can just figure out how to endure the chaos of the whole family getting together, nieces and nephews screaming and literally shaking the house.  If I thought I could maintain my composure, I’d get stoned.  But there’s the danger that I’d forget to talk, or that I would say something wildly inappropriate, which would give me away.  Or, the family might think I’m on the verge of a psychotic episode, even worse.  So, I’ll go into the family gathering sober, hoping that my frail father doesn’t have the energy to have a temper tantrum about anything.  Oh, the joy of family.

Fond Easter Memories

I was brought up way too Catholic. I was raised to be a virgin until marriage. (HA!)  I was told it was wrong to masturbate.  (HA HA!!)  I was kept home on Good Friday so that I could grieve Jesus’ crucifixion.  My brothers and sisters and I were NOT allowed to play, or smile, or have fun, because TODAY was the day that Our Lord was crucified!!  We resented being expected to cry about this.  Frankly, we didn’t give a shit.  We were just living for Easter Sunday, and biting the head off of those hollow chocolate Easter bunnies.  We would sneak out of our rooms and gorge on the loose jelly beans in our Easter baskets.  What the fuck, we earned it.  We sat through the Stations of the Cross.  We listened to a blow-by-blow of Jesus’ beating, and the walk to Calgary.  Still ahead of us was Easter Mass, where the church was more crowded than any other day of the year.  We had to get there early.  We had to wear our fanciest outfits, including gloves and hats.  We had to sit still for HOURS.  Was Easter even worth it?  We wondered as we worked through the robin’s eggs and malted milk balls.  Near-puking by bedtime, Easter candy eaten, our brains buzzing with sugar and caffeine, we thought “I can’t wait until NEXT Easter!”

The Inevitable Nasty Comment

Today I got a super nasty comment on my silly post about Demi Lovato’s missing asshole.  The jist of it was, the commenter was an experienced photographer, and no, Demi’s asshole was NOT photoshopped out, and didn’t I know anything about anatomy?  She then went on to spout about how the wrong placement of an asshole would cause shit to spray out the back of one’s backside (this DOES happen to me sometimes, maybe my asshole was wrongly placed).  Aside from feeling like I had been punched in the face, there are a couple of reactions I had to this nasty commenter, the first being that she clearly has no sense of humor, because this post was written in a very silly spirit.  The second is that the commenter sounded very angry, and like she was trying to share her toxic cheer with me.

I’ll admit that sometimes I’ve had a negative reaction to someone’s blog, but I have never written a mean, nasty or angry comment. The most I’ve done is click the “X” in the top right corner with a flourish.  What I do try to do is read blogs in a spirit of openness and compassion, because everyone has a story to tell, and I believe it’s safe to say, if they’re writing, they’re looking for validation.  I try my hardest to write something kind, or encouraging, or insightful.  I do my best.  This is what makes WordPress such a supportive community.  If there’s ranting to be done, I rant on my own blog, or I commiserate with someone else who is ranting.  I would be ashamed to dole out a written slap in the face.  No one deserves that.  It’s as simple as, if you don’t like what you’re reading, stop reading it.

Am I being overly sensitive? Maybe.  Probably.  But I’m not going to stop trying to make this a place where people come to laugh, cry, and share.  I’m not going to stop opening my heart and writing whatever it wants to say.  Even if it’s about an asshole.  I’m not going to let this be anything but my Happy Place.  Thank you for joining me here, friends.

From Assholes to Bald Eagles

This blog is called Bipolar On Fire so you’d think it’d be about being Bipolar, and sometimes it is, but sometimes I go off on wild tangents. Because I’m weird like that.  My consistently most popular post is called Demi Lovato Naked . . . Yet She Has No Asshole!  Yep if you Google “Demi Lovato Asshole” (and apparently lots of people do), my blog post comes right up!  I’m so proud!  Maybe I should show it to my Mom.  Another post that is just as stellar is called On My Way To The Kardashian Ass Factory.  I bet you can guess what that’s about.  It’s just that asses, and assholes, really seem to rule popular culture these days!  And for some reason, I am consumed by popular culture.  I spend at least a part of every day reading celebrity gossip, which is mostly about the Kardashians, and/or rappers I’ve never heard of getting arrested.  It’s so uplifting!  Garbage in, garbage out.  Today I spent at least half an hour reading about Prairie Dogs:  A Keystone Species in my neighborhood newsletter.  Sorry there’s no link, ya gotta  be a neighborhood member to read it.  Apparently there’s lots of controversy in Boulder about prairie dogs and people were getting Trump vs. The Rest Of The World militant about whether or not a prairie dog is a rodent (because it’s ok to just kill rodents instead of relocating them).  THAT is how starved for entertainment I am.  All I know is that I see bald eagles perching on the high power poles over prairie dog colonies, and they’re not there looking at the view.  This is their next meal they’re stalking.  So YAY for prairie dogs!  Because I love seeing bald eagles!  True, I almost crash my car driving past, ogling the eagles, but some wild swerving is a small price to pay.  Ya see what I mean about wild tangents??  Assholes to prairie dogs to bald eagles.  If you made it this far, I say THANK YOU for coming along for the ride.  Enjoy your weekend, oh blogosphere!  BPOF says peach OUT!

The Spoon Theory And Why It’s Kinda Bullshit

You’ve heard the Spoon Theory, right? We all get a certain number of spoons per day.  Spoons equal energy, or spoons equal actions.  Once you use up your spoons, you’re done for the day.  You can’t do anything else.  And theoretically us bipolar types don’t get so many spoons (unless we’re manic, then there’s the dilemma of unlimited spoons).  So I totally get this and I ascribe to this and I consider myself to have very few spoons at my disposal.  SIDE NOTE:  Why spoons?  Why not forks?  Or tokens?  Gold coins?  I have no fucking idea.  I didn’t make this shit up.  I’ve only heard of it.  Some fuck said spoons so I’m going with it.  END SIDE NOTE. As I was saying, I don’t feel like I’m bursting with spoons.  I have a helluva time just getting up and showering, most days, let alone doing laundry or, God forbid, COOKING A MEAL!!  That would almost require hypomania for me.  But!  Then I get into crisis mode like I’m in now, with Dad in the hospital, and my Mom is sick with the cold that Dad had that turned into pneumonia.  All of this requires me to rise above the Spoon Theory.  And ya know what I call it when I can do wayyyyy more than I would ever think that I could? A State of Grace. That’s all I can think of!  It’s like the Universe, or the spoon giver, or whatever or whomever the fuck, said this chick needs to function on a higher level right now.  Let’s throw out every belief she has about how she thinks she can function, and give her a reprieve!  Because I am functioning at a level I could not have previously imagined.  I am there for my Dad and Mom.  I am driving all over creation, seeing my Mom, seeing my Dad, hanging in the hospital for hours, being in the moment, talking to my Dad, and accepting life as it is right now.  Who is this person?  This is not me!  This is some kind of gift!  I am supremely grateful for this time with my Dad.  Yes, when I get home, I’m tired, and I feel depleted, but in the moments that I’m meant to be of service to my family, I am able to do that, to help, to be present, to feed my Dad, get a nurse, whatever, with total serenity.  And no, I am absolutely not manic.  So what this tells me, is that theories like the Spoon Theory may have their place, but there are times when we can rise above our illness.  Maybe this will last for a few days, or maybe it will stretch for a few weeks, but for however long, I’m grateful to be the strong one for someone else, for a change.  And when I get in that car, and I feel like I just can’t do it, I remind myself that I am stronger than I think I am, and I can do more than I know.  And then I go.

For My Dad

If you’ve been reading my blog for awhile you know that my Dad has a terminal illness, Interstitial Lung Disease. This basically means that he has scar tissue forming on his lungs.  It is progressive and eventually it will kill him.  He has already outlived the average life span for someone post-diagnosis by taking really good care of himself.  However, over the past few weeks we’ve seen him go seriously downhill, and from Thursday to Friday he went from having a slight cold to serious pneumonia and having to be hospitalized.  He was sicker than I’d ever seen him before, not able to communicate with us, just opening his eyes briefly and then falling back to sleep.  I thought that this was “it”.  After two antibiotic infusions and several breathing treatments, he improved dramatically, but he’s still in the hospital.  Regardless, we know that it’s just a matter of months, or less.

Seeing someone you love and knowing that they will soon cease to be alive is so acutely painful, it’s almost numbing. After all I’ve been through with my illness, I’ve ceased believing in God or any Loving Presence that wants the best for us.  However, I can’t help but pray for my Dad.  I’m asking his previously passed sisters to come and be by his side.  I wish I could have a sign that they’re here with him.  I want him to be comforted.  He has been such a tremendous caretaker and provider for his wife and six kids, I know he doesn’t want to leave us.  He needs to know that we will be ok.  For me in particular, as sick as I have been with my Bipolar, I need to let him know that I will be ok once he’s gone.

I’ve found Dad’s hospitalization and near-death to be extremely stressful, but I’m coping. I’m still stable.  I’m lucky enough to have some mechanisms in place to help me deal with the feelings.  I have close, supportive sisters.  I exercise.  I take time to myself.  I write.  Sometimes, I just sit down and cry.  And that’s appropriate.

I don’t know how much longer I get to have my Dad alive, but I want to be brave enough to be with him, and be with him with an open heart. I want to be brave enough to talk with him about death, if he wants to.  I want to honestly reassure him that I will be ok, and then back that promise up with positive action.  This is one of those times where life isn’t easy, and the most important thing is to be present for the moment.  I’m hoping to put into practice every life lesson I’ve learned so far, to be my best me.  For my Dad.