BLEEP BLEEPING BLEEP!

It was supposed to be perfect. Ya know, playing the good mother in law and throwing a cool baby shower with a beautiful cake and all?

Three weeks ago I ordered the cake. It was to be a two tiered, white cake with raspberry filling. The frosting was Tiffany Blue, chocolate trim with chocolate and white dots. Classic, pretty, impressive.

It was all of that when I saw it at the bakery. Then on the way home, something happened.

I carefully belted the huge box into the front seat and carefully drove home.

When I got in the house I sat the cake on the table and opened the box. It had totally slipped over. I freaked. It was pretty much "BLEEP, BLEEPING, BLEEP, BLEEP, BLEEPING CAKE!"

Nikki had the idea to tilt the box and try to slide the cake back into position. I tried, it worked.....some.

I should have gotten a before pic. But the after pic will have to do.

A couple more pics

Then when I was in the shower the kids tried to set my dog off into the wild blue yonder. Brats!

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The Abyss

When I first started The Bipolar Diva I did so for cathartic reasons as well as to bring awareness to a disorder too many times misunderstood. Somehow that word became taboo on here. Oh I wrote about the generalities, but none of the realities, none of the painful truths that I experience.

Today I'm writing in the midst of a full blown attack.You may wonder how I know it's a bipolar attack and not that of panic and/or anxiety.

It's easy. The will to live vanishes. There's a vortex that follows me masquerading as a shadow hoping my very being will give in and I will make that one movement to dangle my toes over the edge. Than BAM! It has me in its crushing talons.

In the past it was worse. There are the times I'd give in to the allure of the razor blade, the pills and sometimes a drink or seven. All in the attempt to climb out of the vacuum and numb the pain. What they did was to draw me further into the abyss. 

Rational thought vaporizes only to be replaced with thoughts of a much darker nature. Thoughts of allowing the soul stealing sickness to end my existence bombard me. The will to take one more step goes up in smoke.

It began this morning with an argument that seemed to attack my self worth, my existence, my being. I said "seemed" since I'm not sure if it really did or if it was an attack of the insidious disorder.

All  I could think of on the way home was to get to a clean razor blade, To open my arms and let out the pain, to watch the live giving fluid that flows within in me fall in ribbons around my arms. I trace the drops with my finger as well as with sight.  It shows me I live.  It also serves as a distraction. I know that must seem unusual to you and it's difficult for me to describe it accurately. The sight of the crimson drops is strangely euphoric. It brings immediate peace and I can breathe again.

I only gave in to part today, I carefully counted out pills. I thought if I could go to bed and sleep, the monster would leave. I was wrong, when I awoke he was still here. My resolve is to stay away from the blades, stay away from people and to carefully monitor my medication consumption.

The medication I took to sleep the day away is still with me. I'm groggy and incoherent. It's taking me a while to type, to listen and to understand. I still feel its effects and I only want to sleep again.

I sit in my room and wait for tomorrow to come in the hopes that the monster has been banished.

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I Think It's Funny When....Yeah Another One Because I Screwed Up The Pictures

I think it's funny when I meet someone for the first time when I'm in my "Happy Valley Mom" mode and there are the usual pleasantries and obligatory small talk of a first meeting.

I always know their faces would betray them. You know those smiles, the ones that are oddly frozen in disbelief while trying to maintain a since of calm? I chuckle a little when I imagine their reaction(s) should they one day see my shattered image.

You know, the one that kicks back with my biker buddies in a dive bar drinking a beer instead of a Cosmo, or some such acceptable drink.

You all know of my dual personalities, the ones of you that have access to my other blog know the third personality that resides within this soul.

But these people I meet for the first time would never, ever suspect that I have a 3/4 back tattoo, a Harley sitting in my garage, a closet full of leather garb and the tendency to want to belong more to the "other" world than the one I currently live in.

Although I don't want to give up my house, my Mercedes, my jewelry....I guess that's my shallow side. It's all a facade. What I'd really rather be in is tight jeans, my fringed chaps, backless, a leather halter, tattoo showing top and motorcycle boots.

I sit back and I smile. I think "If you only knew."

The Facade

The Other Side

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It's Boring, I Know

I have nothing of substance here today. Not. A. Damn. Thing. You know why that is? Do you care? Well, I'm going to tell you anyway.

I'm overloaded. I know, I know, how can I be overloaded? I mean I still have six and a half kids at home, a daughter constantly in and out of the ER, I'm in the middle of transitioning from one assistant to another, I'm in a business that is so up and down it's a constant source of stress, I happen to have Bipolar Disorder and my third psychiatrist in one year has closed her practice (thank you Senator from Illinois).

No, forget all that shit. It's my daily life, that's what Valium is for. I'm overloaded because I started back to school to work on finishing my Political Science degree. I took a full load this semester and after reading every syllabus I realized that I couldn't do it all.

I dropped everything but Algebra and American History. I NEED the algebra and I LOVE history. That being said, the overwhelming shit comes with the history class.

The Prof. has us reading a TON of crapola about The Shawnee Tribe, Puritans and slavery. I don't mean just a few readings, you know, what you would expect for a 4 credit class, he has us reading enough for a 12 credit class. EFF me! AND it's all written in early American English.

Holy shit! I have teenagers. I'm used to things like texting, "ya know," "my bad," and a shit load of freaking medical terms learned from years of having a kid in the damn emergency room for years on end, a very sick baby and a kid that was hit by a car.

I'm having a really hard time reading the constant "thee, thou, doest," and all that shit. Then I'm supposed to tie it together somehow? I see my 4.0 GPA in free fall motion.

Doesn't he (the history master) know I need to shop, I need to shoot and I need to ride my motorcycle? Doesn't he know that I have blogs to read and posts to write? Doesn't he know that I was in a Bipolar moment when I thought I could do it all?

I guess the real question should be "What in the hell was I thinking?"

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Too Important Not To Read

I'm re-posting this, as I probably will every October 11th. I re-post it because of what the devastating effects of the Herpes virus for newborns can be. Most people are unaware, as we were until we lived it. 


I'm asking you something I never ask, please, please re-post this, re tweet it, help spread the news of this insidious virus. I ask you to do something I can't, read this post and take it in. The pain after seven years is still too great to re-live.


Please educate yourselves and your children. I wish we had known.

Six years ago tonight the angels came for Isaiah. We had prayed for weeks for his Creator to take him home, to end his pain. When the memories come I push them away. It's still too difficult to think about what really happened.

When I think of his feeding tube being removed it kills me. Herpes destroyed all of his brain except for the most basic of functions. The only way for him to be at peace was to remove the tube or overdose him on his pain meds. To see my grandson starve to death is a picture I want to forget forever. To hear him crying and be told it was only a reflex devastated me.

The child was never laid down, he was always in arms or snuggled up to his mommy at night. We had plenty of waiting arms for him to be passed to. We had a lifetime of love to give him in a very short time.

I remember the day the doctors told us that he would never be perfect. I told them that perfect to us and perfect to them was different. Perfect to us was as simple as sharing an ice cream cone with his grandfather. That was before they told us he would die.

I couldn't be at the last meeting with the doctors to hear that news. I knew that's what they would say and I didn't have the strength to hear them utter the words. We brought Isaiah home that night and waited. We waited and watched. We waited and prayed. We waited and cried.

Then there came the moment when my daughter took him into her arms and put the stethoscope to his heart and there was no beat, there was no pulse. He was gone.

We waited again. We waited for the men in the black van to come and take Isaiah. We passed him around. We kissed him. We loved him physically for the last time and we cried. When the men came for him my daughter carefully and lovingly strapped him into his car seat. We covered his tiny body with his blanket and we cried.

At his viewing we saw the tiny angel in his tiny bed that would hold him now. We wrote him letters, we gave him trinkets and we cried.

At his memorial service we were amazed at the packed seats. Isaiah touched more people in his short life than most people do in a life time. We cried.

At his burial his grandfather took the shovel and covered him with the earth that would keep him warm for eternity and we cried.

Today the pain remains but the tears are few, they hurt too much, they remind us of that time.

Today I'm thankful for the time we had with him. I'm thankful that our family is stronger. I'm thankful that nothing that bad can happen to us again. I'm thankful we have a new perspective on our current problems. Once you've lost a tiny grand child nothing can be as bad, nothing as traumatic.

One day I'll be able to look at his pictures again. We wait until we can see him again. We wait until we can hold him again. We wait and inside we cry.

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Yeah, Well It Sucks!

My history prof. thinks it's a really good idea keeping us reading, or listening 28 hours a day, 9 days a week. Needless to say I have had no time to do much of anything including reading and writing posts.

I'm SO not liking it. But I just need to get in a groove and re-arrange some things I think and I can get back on track.

Also in between the incessant reading and trying to keep things corralled I've been trying to get a baby shower planned for Miss Sara that is graciously carrying my 14th grand baby.....Jackson. Nana's calling him Jax though.

I can't wait to see the little one, and to see my son hold his son. He swears to me that he's changed diapers before, but I certainly don't remember it. This should be fun. Oh, have I mentioned that they're living with me? Boo yeah!

Hopefully this weekend, I'm in Sunriver totally child and animal-less, I can get caught up on history AND blogs, AND sleep!

Only one problem, there's no Starbucks in Sunriver. bah.

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5150

One of my favorite things about riding a motorcycle is riding in the evening, just before the sun sets. The breeze is warm, the air refreshing and the feeling of freedom floods through me.

While I was in Santa Rosa, with some very good friends, I got to experience that once again. It was perfect. And it damn well should have been after the hours that preceded it.

The day began perfectly. We were going to tour the Sonoma and Mendocino coast line and the wine country. We saw where "The Birds" was filmed and some other really cool spots. I just didn't know that my friend, that I'll call 5150 for this post, had a plan. Oh yes, he was going to show me one of his favorite rides.

If you're unfamiliar with the term 5150, it's police code basically for a crazy person on the loose. Yeah, you're getting the picture now. He led me on this ride that, for a really experienced rider like himself, is incredible. For me, not so much.

I should have gotten a clue when I saw the "S" sign. You know the signs with the S curves that warn you twists and turns are coming up? Well this one happened to have a super charged S, one on steroids. Beneath the curves it said "next 22 miles." Even the sign makers gave up. Usually you'll see signs along the way with a curve and the speed limit posted. On this road, uh, not.

My first reaction was "OH SHIT!" After that I didn't think of much of anything but keeping my bike upright and staying alive. Oh yes, 5150 was taking me on a trip through hell.

Not only were the curves sharp, they were banked as well and the grade was steep. I used my so called knowledge and downshifted and used the brakes. But you see, I didn't realize how much I was using the rear brake.

In all the classes they warn you not to use your front brake in a turn because you'll drop the bike. Ok, I told myself I could do it. Well, mostly because I had no choice, I had to do it.

At first 5150 stayed within eyesight, then he decided to ride his regular ride and left me in the dust. Oh effin shit! I tried to keep up, I really did, but I was no match for the curves.

Finally we came to a relatively straight stretch of road and before I knew it there was another sign. This one was much like the first, but said 11 more miles of twists and turns. I was sweating it up by that point.

Then going around a curve I applied the rear brakes and they were gone! Nothing! I kept going down the mountain and around the curves with no brakes!

I heard my dad in my head. He was screaming "DOWN SHIFT DUMMY!" So I did. I found a stretch of road that had a place to stop. I was downshifting and applying the front brake and I actually came to a stop.

That's when the guy I'll call Hero for this post, stopped behind me. He checked out my bike and sure enough the rear brakes were gone. There was no choice. We had to change motorcycles. I'd never ridden a bike like his before and it freaked me out, but not as much as going down the mountain with no brakes. He was going to ride down the hill on my white and pink brakeless Heritage.

He went in front of me in case there was another problem so I could see it if it happened. We went through the remainder of the twisties from hell.

Finally we got through the rough part and saw 5150 and his amazingly brave girlfriend at the bottom of the "hill." They were off his bike and had evidently been waiting for quite some time.

I wish I'd had a camera to capture the look on 5150's face as he saw Hero riding down the "hill" on my pink motorcycle. It was priceless.

We explained what had happened and then 5150 informed us that there was only one way out and it was over another "hill." I asked him if it was as bad as the last 33 miles. He looked at me and, without answering my question, said "Come on, let's go."

Well eff me. There I was on a bike I'd never ridden and Hero was on a pink bike with no rear brakes. We had another "hill" to conquer. At that point I'm pretty sure I was near death.

We made it to the bottom and to straight road. We stopped for a drink and some ice cream. 5150 said that maybe the rear brakes had just over heated and after they cooled down would work again. Sure enough, he was right. I still wasn't taking any chances and Hero had to ride my pink bike all the way back to Santa Rosa, through traffic and through the stares of shocked onlookers.

We made it safe and sound. The next day we all rode to Reno for Street Vibrations.  I took my bike to Reno Harley and they inspected it. The only thing that needed to be done was to have the brake fluid changed. It had gotten so hot it may have lost viscosity.

I got even though. After we got to Reno we decided to ride part of "The Loneliest Road In America," the straight part. It was nothing but one LONG STRAIGHT 177 MILE RIDE. We stopped for lunch and 5150 said, "You brought me on this 177 mile deserted road for a HAMBURGER?"


Haha, I think we're even now. And for the record, I absolutely love 5150 and his brave girlfriend that, as one of her first rides on a motorcycle, rode with 5150 through hell and back.

An incredible friendship was formed during those ten days, one that can never be severed.

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