Why Don't You Tell Me?

Enough of that depression and shit, I have a decision to make. That would be to medicate or not to medicate. Boooooring you may be saying. Not so fast, the bipolar life is anything BUT boring. It can be quite fun actually.

I mean before I was medicated I was mostly in a manic state, it was awesome. There was shopping, lots and lots of shopping. Not just ordinary shopping but $300 dollar bra and $175 thong shopping, $1000 Manolo, Louboutin and Chanel shopping, diamonds and platinum shopping and the list goes on. How in the hell do you think I got the name ”Diva” anyway?

I was friendly, outgoing and a hell of a lot of fun. My husband says a little too friendly and outgoing, he said I was flirty. Seriously, me flirty? HA, well maybe a little, especially after a few T&T’s.

The lows didn’t come along too often, but when they came they blew the lights out of everything. It was a dark and scary place. I wasn’t afraid of it then, I rolled with it until it turned around. There came a time though that rolling with it became hard to do. I won’t bore you to death with all the details, but let’s just say that even though I wasn’t scared, I scared the hell out of my family.

The meds evened it all out, mostly. As soon as I thought I got the right cocktail, not my Tanqueray and Tonic, but the A,B,C’s of my myriad of magical medications, something would change. There would be a weird side effect that really pissed me off. I don’t do pissed off well, it’s a Diva thing I’m thinking.

I started a miracle medication a couple of months ago. It freaking worked! I was back and I was back full force without the scary places. Then this little irritant happened, and you all know that I don’t do irritants. I started not being able to swallow, I don’t know about you, but I kinda like to be able to actually eat and not choke.

So yet another med was prescribed to counter act the side effects. That brought the total to nine freaking medications a day! Managing all that crap really cuts into my Diva Days, which is unacceptable.

This new med freaked me out, I mean totally freaked me out. Yes I could swallow again, but I couldn’t remember anything, I had hallucinations (which could have been sorta fun had I known what the hell they were), and I nearly ended up in the ER several times. All this in just 3 days. Fun times, yeah NOT.  That med has found it’s way through my plumbing and into the Willamette River. Let the fish be freaked out and not me. I'm laughing imagining Timothy Leary turned Mr. Limpett.

So here’s the dilemma. Do I stay on the miracle med and think I’m going to choke on my own tongue, do I stop the miracle med and look for something else, or do I start from scratch?

Hopping on the crazy train again might not be so bad. I could sell tickets and get enough money to buy all the Manolos, LV and Chanel I want. Hell I could have my own reality show and rake in the shopping bucks. As tempting as that all might be I know enough to know that I can’t let that happen. I’m running out of room in my closet for one and for another I now realize how scary the scary places really are.

So what would you do?

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What Would You Say?

 I so needed to change my mood for the day and this just may help some. It's a new meme from

Crazy Daze And Nite Dreams. I found it via my friend Christy at I'm Just Sayin'.

Today's questions and answers are:

1. What do you think other people think of you? Do you think they see you the way you really are?

Oh no. I'm certain most people have NO CLUE as to the REAL me.  I actually have a post for this later so I won't go into it much here. Let's see, I wear Chanel, I drive a Mercedes and love platinum and diamonds. That being said, it's only a facade. A few of you know the truth. If you email me you might be lucky enough to find out all about the real me. Maybe. Tattoos, a pink Harley and kick ass boots are only part of the story.

2. Have you thought about what you want your epitaph to read?

It should say "Finally! No more kids!" read my profile, you'll understand. 

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Happy Valley Moms

Happy Valley moms aren’t really any different than the moms of any other affluent town. Many volunteer at the neighborhood school and make it a point to get to know the other Happy Valley Moms. Their white collar husbands work eighty hour weeks and the moms themselves stay home, keep the house immaculate, and run kids to dance, soccer and lacrosse.

For the most part their hair is blonde, some natural but most is “enhanced” and always perfect. They have well manicured nails, constant pedicures and see their massage therapists on a regular basis. No one is supposed to know, but everyone does, that they see their “counselors” monthly, sometimes more, to discuss the hardships of being a stay at home mom with their 2.5 kids.

The kids, by the way, also are generally blonde haired, blued eyed, perfectly dressed and stars in school. During the mornings you’ll find the moms in the neighborhood Starbucks dressed in new matching workout gear and pristine cross-training shoes. Their flaxen hair is pulled into ponytails and the requisite Dolce Gabana or Chanel sun glasses are propped snuggly on their heads. They’ll grab a bottle of filtered spring water along with their lattes before jumping into their leather upholstered cars to head for the gym.

BMW, Lexus, Land Rover and Mercedes are the cars of choice and they’re always perfectly spotless and gleaming. You’ll find them parked neatly in rows away from the “other” cars in the parking lots in the community. Many of the cars are also labeled with the stickers of the liberal politician of the day.'

The Happy Valley Moms are always outgoing and seemingly friendly. However, it’s mostly a façade. If you’re not a part of their bunco games or volunteer organizations (which are impossible to penetrate) they’ll politely rip you apart over margaritas and tapas at their weekly gatherings.

Yesterday after coffee and on the way to the gym I glanced into the rear-view mirror of my Mercedes and screamed “Holy freaking shit! I’m a Happy Valley Mom!” My highlighted blonde hair was pulled in a ponytail and was shimmering in the sunlight that streamed in from the open sun-roof. I had my Chanel sunglasses on and my designer bag was at my side.

There was a bottle of filtered spring water in the cup holder next to my latte. I could feel my heart race as I froze in that horrific moment of realization. I quickly ran through my lifestyle, searching for anything to separate me from that clique. OMG! There had to be something! I had to find it before I hyperventilated and wrecked my Mercedes.

It wasn’t looking good. I had just had a pedicure and my massage appointment was scheduled for the next day. I kept driving and saw my therapist’s office on the right hand side of the road. The sight of it jolted me. I grabbed the wheel of my car and jerked it back into my lane. My latte spilled all over the leather interior. I needed a xanex. I could feel a panic attack coming on.

“Breathe Teri, breathe” I kept repeating to myself. I reached to turn down the volume of the entertainment center. Wait! That’s something! I had to turn down the volume of my new Nickleback CD. No other Happy Valley Mom would be caught dead with a Nickleback CD in their car. Ok, good. That’s a start. “Keep going Teri. You can do it”.

The pressure was on. I ripped the Chanel glasses off of my head, pulled the hair tie out of my hair and let my chemically treated tresses fall around my shoulders. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” My 2.5 blonde haired, blue eyed kids totaled eight at last count and they were far from the stereotypical Happy Valley kid. My kids are black, white and conservative.

My husband, while the owner of a company, is blue collar and my house is anything but immaculate. Ok, now I’m getting somewhere. Hey, what about the Harley, and the tattoos? My breathing slowed and my heart began to return to a normal pace. The secrets I told my therapist weren’t ones of the trials of raising children they were much darker and much deeper.

I never volunteered at the schools, my kids were home schooled, another difference between us. Then my thoughts wandered to a subject that I hadn’t thought of. Yes on the outside I looked like the typical Happy Valley Mom, just like the other moms. How did I know what they tell their therapists? What if they had wanted more kids and couldn’t have them? What if their husband’s jobs were on the line? What if, what if, what if?

When I stopped at the red light I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, put on my Chanel sunglasses and turned up the volume on my Nickleback cd. I couldn’t judge them anymore than they could judge me. The light turned green and I drove on to the gym. I wasn’t a Happy Valley Mom on the inside and they might not be either. For all I know late at night after the 2.5 kids are tucked into their designer beds a glass of wine is poured and a joint is lit.

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