I Want Justice

I am beyond angry.

            There are many reasons for my anger, chief among them some obvious choices, such as the cops murdering black people in my country.

            One black man was pinned to the ground, unarmed, by police and shot point-blank in the chest. WHY?! For what POSSIBLE reason could these cops have done something so heinous?!

            Fear.

            It’s out of fear, just like it was out of fear that they shot a fucking gun into a car with a CHILD in the back seat! They shot and killed a law-abiding citizen after pulling him over for having a busted tail light. He had his girlfriend and their child in the car with him and these cops shot and killed him.

            I want justice. I want to see these cops stripped of their uniforms and dragged through the streets by their feet, tied to the back of a Hummer going about 10 mph. I want to see these murderers placed before a judge and stripped of the ability to ever again serve in the capacity of public service. I want their firearms taken from them and used to shoot every limb on their bodies, multiple times.

            I want justice.

            What would justice be? Clearly, taking these policemen off the force would be the first step. But they have MURDERED people. In cold blood. Do they not deserve pain in retribution?

            I imagine the families of the men who were killed. I imagine the child in the back seat of that car, witnessing her mom’s boyfriend shot by police and killed in the driver’s seat for reaching for his driver’s license as ordered. Then, I imagine all the women who experience fear for their lives on a daily basis, as well, because of the men who exist who want nothing more than to harm. I think of my female friends who have walked down the street to unsolicited sexual harassment, and that is the least severe thing I can imagine because I have friends who have been raped and beaten. I, myself, have been sexually abused.

            Many things go through my mind when I think of these things. I think of the #YesAllWomen movement on social media and I think about how it doesn’t apply to me, even though I’m a woman, because I walk down the street without fear… or so I think. I can’t stand to go anywhere alone. Is that a result of social conditioning?

            I think of the #BlackLivesMatter movement and how white people everywhere try to dilute the problem and separate themselves by saying #AllLivesMatter. Now it’s #NotAllCops.

            Well, it may be that not all men are rapists and murderers and it may be that not all cops are murdering sacs of scum that need to be eradicated from the face of the planet. But it is true that all women and all minorities are afraid. Every year. Every month. Every week. Every day. Filled, at least in some capacity, with fear. Fear of those who are supposed to be our peers and our protectors.

            I don’t want to live in America anymore. I want my family to move to Canada and live out the rest of our days in a peaceful country that has very little violent crime, even if it means I will not be allowed to own a firearm. After all, with the new laws coming to fruition in my own country, I can’t own a gun anyway because I suffer from mental illness.

            If I can’t fix it, I want to get away from it.

An Adventure in Puppy Fostering

This week has had an eventful start. I’ve managed to spend a good amount of time with friends, particularly one who regularly takes care of about five children, two of whom are pretty close in age with Persephone. Her name is Kita and she recently acquired a 2-year-old, half-Labrador/half-Chihuahua puppy.

            She needs to have someone take Milo, the dog, until her boyfriend’s lease ends in August and they move into a house. I thought the person to watch Milo could be me; after all, I have another dog and she could use a canine companion, and my cat is chill enough that it shouldn’t be a huge problem. She’d also told me that Milo was good with other dogs and cats, as well as children, so I had high hopes.

            So, Tuesday night, I took Milo home with me. Before entering my apartment with him, I took him for a little walk and he peed. I didn’t go too far or insist on watching him poop, as it was the end of the day, I still had to walk Baby, and I assumed he had probably pooped earlier in the day. So, I took him inside long enough to drop off his supplies, then grabbed my dog and took both of them outside.

            The greeting process was highly energetic. Milo was all over Baby, sniffing, and Baby was overwhelmed. My poor dog is so timid that this little 2-year-old puppy was intimidating her despite being smaller than she is.

            A few problems arose right away. First, Milo started barking the moment he met Randy. I put him in Baby’s crate almost immediately, to try shutting him up. We put a blanket over the top so that he wouldn’t have any stimulation and he could calm the fuck down in his own space. That was my thought process, anyway. I had to let him out, though, because his barking got worse in the crate. So, I let him out of the crate and put Baby in it so that he wouldn’t be able to bother her.

            That didn’t work. He was restless and would wander back to my bedroom, where I’d hear Baby’s growl arise from his intrusion. I managed to keep him in the living room for the most part for a little while, but then it was time for me to go to bed. Milo seemed slightly improved; he’d been listening to me, at least a little. I left him in the living room and went to bed, letting Baby out of her crate so she could lie next to my side of the bed the way she likes.

            That didn’t work, either. Milo whined, barked, and scratched at my door persistently enough that sleep was out of the question the way I was trying it. Still, I tried until I couldn’t stand the noise anymore and I got up to check on him…

Problem the second, he pooped all over our floor in front of the front door. And I mean all over—it was scattered little-dog poop (mind you, Milo is not an ankle biter; he’s about knee-high to me and I’m 5’8”). Randy had just gotten home and I saw the poop in the front hallway. Randy cleaned it up while I shoved Milo back into Baby’s crate with a new resolve to keep him there all night regardless of how much noise he made.

            Finally, his barking became whining and his whines became fewer and farther between until he was quiet except when Randy walked by. Then, he would growl and maybe bark once to voice his discomfort. I managed to get to sleep and it was glorious. I thought that the morning would be better.

            I woke up and began my day as usual, leaving Milo in the crate. I didn’t want to let him out before I was ready to walk him because I didn’t want him to potty in the house. This turned out to be an all-too-valid fear, as the moment I let him out of the crate—before I had the minute to put his harness and leash on to go outdoors—he peed on Persephone’s toys.

            I caught him the second he started, grabbed his nape, smacked his hindquarters, and shoved him down by his nape so he’d be close enough for a nice strong whiff of his piss. I didn’t rub his nose in it. He yelped and, while I don’t think I hurt him, I did reconsider the course of action I was taking to ask myself if there wasn’t some other way of punishing him for his actions. Meanwhile, I took him and Baby outside while Randy cleaned up the mess.

            This was quite early in the morning; I don’t think it was even 09:00 yet. I walked around the entire apartment complex, thinking all the while that Milo has a great deal of energy and the regular shortness of walks I take with Baby would not be sufficient. I also wanted to make sure he got out as much pee and poop as he had in him, so I was quite pleased when he did poop outside—a decent amount, it seemed, though it could have been more. I learned that later…

            It’s one thing to have a dog who is noisy and needs correction. It’s another to have a dog who seems completely un-housebroken. I took a shower yesterday to take my friend Katherine to City Hall to get her passport. After my shower ended, somehow, both Randy and Persephone ended up in the bathroom with me. When we stepped out, there it was again—

            Poop. All over the front entry. Again.

            Jumbo Chihuahua shit.

            That’s the best way I can describe it. If you’ve seen dog poop, you’ve seen the different ways it comes out of dogs’ asses, and you know that little dog shit looks different than big dog shit. Well, Milo’s shit has the aesthetic of little dog shit, but is on a slightly bigger scale because of the Labrador in him.

            Milo had shit all over my front entryway again.

            I had been considering, while in the shower, giving it a couple of days with Milo to see how things would go. With the second scattering of dog shit on my floor—and the second bout of relief at my refusal to live in a carpeted apartment paying off with the ease of cleaning up animal waste—I realized that watching Milo would be overwhelming, despite my best hopes.

            He had seemed better behaved after the initial pee incident on Persephone’s toys. I thought the pee was just an accident from being kenneled all night and not going potty. When I saw the poop on the floor after my shower, though, I knew that watching him would be too much. I don’t have a yard; there’s no way I could have put him outside. If he stayed, I would have had to monitor him practically every waking moment, watching and waiting on edge to take him outside to avoid indoor pottying.

            I have a lot on my plate. Those who regularly read my blog are aware of this; you’ve read about some of the struggles I face with raising my daughter and getting recognized for my artwork to make money with it. The last thing I need at this stage in my life—in an apartment with no yard—is an animal shitting all over my house all the time.

            So, much to my chagrin but to Kita’s understanding, I took Milo back and explained the situation. Randy was quite angry with the puppy and probably especially angry that he was the one cleaning up the shit and piss. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with the puppy, but still I’m grateful for his actions because I was busy after my shower with keeping Persephone in my room with me, away from the dog shit.

            It was difficult having a puppy in my home, but having Milo for the night and morning made me realize how wonderful Baby is and how blessed I am with the animals I have.

On the Road to Health

Things have been changing for me as time progresses. I’ve been calm and generally happy, lately, which I would gladly attribute to my smoking marijuana. More than that, however, I’m happy because smoking usually gives me the munchies, but lately that hasn’t been the case. I’ve overeaten a lot lately regardless, but my realization that I’m no longer feeling the munchies feels significantly important to me, like the realization itself was the first step to making the health changes I need to.

            This morning, I woke up shortly after my alarm, rather than simply shutting it off and going back to sleep to await when I need to react and get up. I’m tired of living my life in a reactionary way; my goal is to live my life in a proactive and productive way, so it gave me a measure of pride to rise before 07:30. I cooked breakfast this morning; last night, I changed the bed sheets and folded a load of laundry. These are some recent things I consider successes in my life.

            My health is not at its peak. I’m sure I’ve gained weight again; I can feel it and I can see it in the mirror. The fat is in my face and I can’t un-see it when I take a selfie or look closely at myself in the mirror. Keeping the munchies at bay while smoking weed has been my dream since I started smoking weed; the fucking munchies ruin me. I binge-eat and hold it down rather than puking like I really feel like doing. It’s unhealthy and it needs to change and that’s a fact that has been solidified in my mind since taking my health and wellness class.

            It might help me to publicize my physical health journey. I feel as though I now have the ability to control what and how much I eat, more than ever before; part of that is my starting to cook. I cooked breakfast this morning; I can start cooking breakfast every day and gradually include lunch and/or dinner. This would give Randy a break from cooking and we wouldn’t go out as often, since the cooking burden would be shared.

            This blog would serve as a decent way to log my journey and I can begin now by reporting that I ate a handful of scrambled eggs with broccoli for breakfast and Wendy’s for lunch. I’m full now but I didn’t feel too stuffed after my fast food meal; moreover, we walked over to the thrift shop and wandered around it for a while to burn off some of the calories right away. I’m exhausted now because meandering around stores takes more energy than I understand; I did eat some dumplings with my friend Katherine, as well, as we smoked a blunt together after I took her to City Hall.

            I finished last week’s homework all on time, as well. One of my assignments was to create a blog entry about an infectious disease. I chose bacterial vaginosis and I’ve been considering posting it to my actual blog, as it is good information to spread but I’m not sure it’s the most relevant thing in the world. Not as relevant as, say, climate change, that’s for sure. My first assignment was a PowerPoint presentation on Alzheimer’s Disease. That’s another topic I considered blogging about, as I am at an elevated risk for the disease due to my great-grandma having dementia.

            My healing journey is progressing steadily, I think. I’m still taking Ziprasidone at night, which may also be helping my mood. I’m excited about the new development with my marijuana habit; not having the munchies makes it really easy to just drink water or some other beverage, instead of stuffing my face continuously.

Asshole

You’re an asshole.

            You try to save face and say that you’re just an “ass,” and that it isn’t a bad thing because you’re not a bad guy, but you’re a liar. You are a fucking liar and you don’t even know it. You think you’re doing all right because you defeated addiction and continue to defeat it every day. Good for you! You got clean! That’s not the end of the journey and I know you know it, but here you are, acting like a fucking child, avoiding your daughter.

            You post things to social media that are transphobic, homophobic, and otherwise rude and insensitive. You don’t think that your daughter actually cares about these issues and if it ever did cross your mind that she might, you don’t care. You think, “She can get over it,” or, “It’s not a big deal, it’s not serious.” But it is serious. It is fucking serious because I have a friend to this day who is shamed, hated, and abused just for being who she is, because she has a man’s body.

            It’s a big fucking deal because hate crimes still happen. You think that whatever you post is your business. It’s your Facebook, right? Sure. It’s yours. You can post whatever you want and you can think it’s funny, but maybe it should cross your mind that what you put into the world actually affects other people. Those who see your Facebook posts react to it in one way or another.

            Your “mind your own business” attitude is loveless. I don’t know who you are anymore. I thought you were my dad. I thought you were someone who had turned over a new page in his life and would actually be there for his family, but you’re proving once again that you’re not there for me.

            You never really were.

Loneliness

All I want is a community. I don’t know why it’s so much to ask, but it seems that it’s actually asking for the whole world just to wish that I had a community of friends around me.

            Don’t get me wrong, I have friends. They’re just not nearby. They’re anywhere from a three-minute drive to a day’s plane ride, away. They’re introverts. They’re busy. They don’t have time to make for me in the way that I can make time for them. Things always come up…until they want a favor.

            There is a lot I would do for any one of my friends if they needed my help. I’m always there for my friends and I feel like they know it, but they don’t extend the same back towards me. At least, not the ones who are close enough to actually see me in person and spend time if they ever had it.

            If you need a ride to the airport, I’m there. If you need ginger ale to settle your stomach because you’re too sick to get it yourself, I’m there. If you need a ride to work, I’m there. If I can be there, I am, and I don’t ask for anything in return but the same courtesies in friendship.

            So, why is it so hard to find people who share my values?

            I want to build a community of houses—decently sized houses with yards, maybe some land—where I can live with those friends who do actively make time for me. If I could, I would move next to me all my friends who actually take the time to send me a message asking how my day went; I’d move in those friends who reply to me when I send a message and actually take the effort to keep a conversation going for any length of time; I’d move in those friends who do for me as I do for them and those who invite me out when something comes up, or come out with me when I invite them and they’re available.

            No, I don’t believe that friendship requires constant contact. But that doesn’t mean I want my friends to burrow into their introverted holes and never come out to play. My schedule is changing but I’m requesting friends to come out on a weekend night, which is typically when everyone has time off anyway.

            It doesn’t help that I have a child. The moment I found out I was pregnant, I knew I was going to lose at least a couple of friends. I get it. They’re child-free. They don’t like spawn and it’s nothing personal against me, it’s against all parents and their offspring. Knowing doesn’t change my feelings.

            Knowing that the child-free people avoid me based on principle and not on my own actions doesn’t prevent me from feeling shunned—maybe even more shunned than I’ve felt my entire life, and I’ve literally always felt shunned.

            Knowing that there are people I call friends who avoid me because of my child makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong in becoming a mother. It makes me feel like children are terrible and my child is the fucking devil just because she exists; because she’s the reason people don’t want to see me.

            How am I supposed to find joy in my child when she is the cause of so much misery in my life? I can’t take my daughter to karaoke. I can’t watch anime with my daughter, or hold philosophical conversations with her, or share a joint with her. These are all things that can happen when she’s older, but she’s a toddler. I need other toddlers for her to spend time with and I need other mothers to be my friend and take time for me the way I take time for my friends.

            Sure, I can take my child swimming. I can take her to the zoo, or the wildlife reserve, or the children’s museum, or the park. Those are all wonderful daytime activities, but now I’m going to be working nights.

            It seems my new shift will make me lonelier than ever unless my nights off correspond with my friend who also works nights. Let’s hope I get lucky again the way I got lucky to work so close to home. Otherwise, I’ll live a very lonely life.

Unsolicited Human Resources Visit

I was taken to Human Resources, today.

Today started out quite badly but has ended rather well, much to my fortune. Unfortunately, I woke up extremely exhausted and had such difficulty staying awake that I could easily have crashed the car had I not managed to stay just vigilant enough… but I couldn’t stay awake in class to save my life. I practically slept through the PowerPoint presentations and I’m not sure how I managed to pass the tests. Kat told me it’s because I have more brains than the average bear, and I’ll take that. I’ve always taken pride in my intelligence, particularly when others recognize it and commend me for it.

            While I’m not sure why I was so exhausted this morning, I’m equally unsure of why suddenly, around 09:00, pain shot through my chest near my left shoulder when I shifted and raised my arm slightly. The pain persisted, so I went to Kat’s office and asked if I could enter for a minute; she accepted and I closed the door behind me to sit before her and explain what was happening.

            I explained the pain and that I didn’t know why it was happening. She got up from her chair and instructed me to sit in it and lean back after she told me to take off my duty vest and belt. I followed her instructions and leaned back as told to do, then broke into some tears.

            “I can’t seem to stay awake—it’s making me really emotional, I’m sorry,” I said, my voice cracking as tears broke free from my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. She looked at me kindly and said: “It’s okay. I know it’s from frustration. You’re frustrated with yourself because you can’t stay awake.” She explained that she understood because she got the same thing; she tends to cry when she gets overly frustrated with herself. It felt so good to have someone stand before me and tell me that they get it.

            Kat told me to rest my head on her desk and get some sleep. She said she was going to go “do uniforms,” which meant going into the back room and picking out uniform items for us to take home today to wear tomorrow and for the rest of our time working on the Sound Transit account. I couldn’t believe my ears—I was being instructed to get some sleep—while at work! I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I moved the chair to the place she’d indicated on her desk and laid my head down, when she added, “and if you feel like crying, go ahead and do that, too.” I can’t remember feeling so blessed.

            I know that I fell asleep because I woke to a knock on the door. I’m not sure why, but I thought it was Kat, perhaps announcing her presence before entering since she knew I was sleeping as she’d told me to. Instead, it was Ryan, one of the instructors.

            “Are you okay?” he asked me. He’d asked me this quite a bit over the past couple of weeks and it made me slightly concerned because I felt—still feel, really—like more attention is on me because I’ve had a couple of difficulties that I view as minor but I understand how those above me view them as major. For example, when I had difficulty breathing, it would be a major problem if it persisted and I was unable to wear my duty vest because it prevented me from getting enough oxygen while breathing. I said I was okay and that Kat had told me to wait in her office for a little bit.

            “Are you okay to talk?” he asked. I thought he would want to talk to me again, as he’d done twice before. I was wrong.

            Instead, he led me to the head of Human Resources, Heather, and dropped me off in her office. I sat before her while she explained that falling asleep on the job is a terminable offense in my line of work, which was something I already understood because it had been covered in our first day of orientation. She repeated this probably three or four times before our conversation was through, but she did allow me to explain my situation to her and exactly what has been going on with me, which at first made me feel like she was truly listening… but by the end of the visit, I was left relatively unsure, in part because she got the last word.

            She led me back to Kat’s office and I re-entered after Heather left, sitting in front of Kat again.

            “What happened?” she asked. She asked if I’d gotten any sleep. I felt jittery, then, the way I feel when I’m woken suddenly from a sleep that may or may not have been very deep. It was a kind of jittery that comes from anxiety, I later discovered, but at the time I explained it to Kat as “the jittery I feel when I’m woken up suddenly, so I know I slept,” at least a little.

            “Ryan came and knocked on the door and then took me to her—her name was Heather?” Kat nodded and said yes. “He took me to Heather’s office and she explained to me that falling asleep is a terminable offense, which I already knew…” I explained what had happened and Kat looked at me. I’m not sure if her expression was sad, irritated, or a little bit of both, but she then explained to me that she had not wanted to involve HR.

            She had wanted to take care of me and help me feel better without involving HR because she understood that with me, like with her, all I really needed was a little rest and I would be good to go. And I was, for the most part. I still took a nap after I got home, but I did feel more awake after the short nap I’d taken in her office. She told me that she’d told Matt, the other male instructor who actively taught classes during the first three weeks of training, but that she hadn’t told Ryan, and she’d wanted me to simply rest for a bit in her office without needing to involve HR.

            Suddenly, it felt as if Human Resources was the enemy. Like involving them was my first step out the door of the company for which I’ve just barely started working. Thinking back on it, I’m still not quite filled with dread, but I am wary. I’m aware that things I cannot control could cause me to need to find different employment, and the idea is terrifying to me because I feel like I’m in a job that’s actually a good fit for me. I don’t want to be proven wrong by forces outside my own control.

            I left early today to make at least one appointment with the VA. I ended up leaving a message because the nurse didn’t answer her phone—perhaps she was on lunch—and she has yet to return my call. In the meantime, I’ve purchased melatonin to help me sleep at night and niacin to wake me up in the morning, as the sleep issue has been relatively persistent since starting my 07:00-15:00 training shift. Perhaps that persistence is why Ryan took me to HR.

            Regardless of the reasoning for what happened this morning, today did end on a positive note. I had a good nap after I got home and left my voicemail with the nurse who works for my doctor at the VA, we took Persephone to play at the mall, and we had a decent dinner. Here’s to hoping melatonin and niacin are enough to fix my sleeping problems.

Happy News

My mother gained custody of me when I was 7 years old, going on 8. I spent two years with her and moved back in with my grandparents; this is no secret. I lived with my grandparents from 4^th grade all the way through high school graduation, until I left for the military. I even lived with them again after separating from the Air Force and while my little family was homeless after our first apartment as civilians.

            Living with my mother was difficult for many reasons, but one of the biggest reasons was my lack of friends. At any given time, I had one good friend, maybe a second not-so-good friend. This carried over to 4^th grade, after I’d moved back in with my grandparents; I had two friends at Roy Elementary and one of them was a bitch. Their names were Rose and Kaydee, in order of importance.

            Rose was a phenomenal friend; I loved everything about her. She was kind, thoughtful, and friendly; we played with our Barbies together and talked about school and our bullies and crushes. My memory isn’t the best for specifics, but it’s as they say: People will forget what you said to them, but will never forget how you made them feel. Rose made me feel included. I will never in all my life forget that.

            After 6^th grade, Rose moved to Illinois. For a while, we wrote each other, back and forth. Then, one day, my letter came back with a “Return to Sender” stamp on it. I tried again and again, each time in vain, to get the letter to the address I had for her. Every time, it came back, until I finally gave up and assumed defeat. That is, until I made a Facebook account.

            It occurred to me that social media could be used to find Rose. I remembered that she’d liked being on the computer as much as I’d liked it, when we were kids. Neither of us were able to spend as much time as we wanted to on our respective household computers. I thought, If I have a Facebook account, maybe Rose does, too! And so, I searched for her.

            Nothing came up. I searched again. Still nothing.

            Over the years, I searched for her less often, but none of my search results resembled the friend I’d had.

            Until today.

            Today, I typed her full name into the search bar during my lunch break. I was on my phone and I don’t know why, but I suddenly figured, “I’m gonna look for Rose, again. See what happens.” And there she was! The first result in my search was her!

            It has been a long time since I’ve felt such elation. Immediately, I sent her a friend request and a message—a rather enthusiastic message—and told two of my friends what had just happened, since I was in conversation with them at the time. I sent another message shortly thereafter, upon realizing that perhaps the first one might have come across a little creepily.

            At this time, I await a response. I don’t know if or when she will get back to me, but at least now I know I can hope. Now I know that my friend is out there, still in Illinois, possibly working in a library, and I have done my part in finding her. My hopes are that we can reconnect; she was my best friend and we’d both agreed that our only other friend, whom we shared, wasn’t much of a friend at all.

            Now I can rest more easily and perhaps with a smile in my heart, knowing that she grew up and is still out there. If we reconnect and our friendship is still strong, I sincerely hope to visit her, perhaps in June when we go to Indiana.

            For this reason, as well as the fact that I received my paycheck and learned that I will be posted as close to home as is possible within my client’s properties, today was green! I haven’t had such a green day in so long, I’d forgotten what it was like to feel so good. First, I found Rose. Then, I learned that I’ll be posted close to home. Then, I received my paycheck. Then, I received a Labyrinth T-shirt and Horcrux socks from Loot Crate!

            I live in Federal Way, Washington. Nearby cities include Kent and Auburn, both of which have stations attached to the client to which I’m assigned through my employer. The area is called “King,” while the area the rest of my class is going to is called “Paul” and includes Seattle and some areas nearby. The fact that I was assigned to the King section is not only extremely lucky for me, it’s extremely rare!

            This information came from the man who first interviewed me for the company for which I now work. He entered the classroom, spoke with the instructor for a while, and then pulled me into an office to ask me about the breathing difficulty I’d had, the other day. I told him that I don’t think it will be a problem, that I think I’ll be able to wear the ballistics vest for 12 hours without incident and I don’t know why I’d been short of breath. He then told me, first, that he almost never assigns people to the King area; he then informed me that he’d placed me there! Happy news! I grinned from ear to ear, to be repeated upon my arrival home…

            Overall, today was the greenest day I’ve had in a long time. Finding my old friend, learning my posts-to-be, the arrival of my paycheck, the Loot Crate merchandise… I can sleep well tonight, I think, and it’s the weekend! I don’t even have to get up as early as usual!

A Bit of Rambling

Today marked the start of my second week of training. Those of us on the Sound Transit account received our batons and went through training for how to use them properly; those of us on the King County Metro account went to another room and sat through training from a book. I understand KCM’s day was much more boring than mine, as a Sound Transit security officer.

            I look forward to the completion of my training and the start of my day-to-day (or, perhaps, night-to-night) work routine. I look forward to becoming stable and secure in my position and moving my family forward in purchasing a second vehicle for myself, a new couch (sectional!), and, hopefully by August, a home. It’s a lot to look forward to in the four short months before our lease ends; not every goal may be attainable by that time, but I’ll find out as I go.

            My second official paycheck should appear in my checking account on Thursday, this week, assuming the company has my direct deposit information all squared away. If I don’t see my available balance increase, I’ll know to ask some questions, at least. I look forward to using that paycheck to re-enroll Persephone into KinderCare, if nothing else. The size of the check will be a good marker for what I can look forward to in the future, as my pay will increase from the training amount of $13.00/hour to the transit security officer pay of $15.95/hour. Some of you might think that’s quite a bit—and it’s certainly nothing to sniff at—but consider…

            I live in Washington State and the cost of living is pretty high, especially to the west of the mountains and the closer to Seattle/further north you look for housing. Houses in Thurston County are less expensive than King County but sometimes more expensive than houses in Pierce County, but the overall cost of living is relatively high compared to a state like Kentucky or Indiana. In fact, the low cost of living in other states is what has me considering moving us to another state when our lease ends, but we’ve moved so much over the past year and a half that I really just want to find a place and settle down. I also don’t want to transfer elsewhere within my company—since it is all over the USA—and have my pay cut, even if the cost of living is much lower.

            Randy had the brilliant idea to take us to Dairy Queen for dinner and then to the swimming pool! I was happy as could be to hear that he wanted us to go swimming; I’m a total wannabe fish and I love being in the water, although I don’t go to the pool nearly as often as I’d really like to, because I hate—and I mean, I hate—doing anything alone. That means that no matter how much I like to do something—i.e. swimming—I will avoid doing it if there’s no one to join me in my endeavor. Since our gym is typically empty and devoid of all souls, I tend to avoid going, not because I want an audience, but because I want company. Much as I may identify with introverts, I am an extrovert at heart; as I grow older, I realize that the introverted side of me exists solely because there was such a long period of time in my childhood when I had little to no friends.

            It’s my desire for companionship that has me determined to get back into martial arts classes. The problem is, the more I think about it, the less I think it’ll be feasible; I think my work schedule will not allow me to join a regular dojo and go the two or three times a week that are offered for my skill level and because of this, I wonder what I might do to get back into shape. I ask myself, Would it be enough for me to do my workouts alone and blog about them?

            The answer to that question is not a simple one. I require companionship and support, although I tend to be shy when I’m actually placed in a group. For example, I’ve managed to make a couple of acquaintances in my training class, but I’m not sure I’d call anyone my friend; I tend to avoid approaching people of my own volition out of fear of rejection, but the couple of times I have approached individuals in my class have turned out quite well. So, would it be enough for my fragile ego to blog about my exercise routine? Perhaps.

            After all, I did manage to get out and work out by myself when I was in Germany. The only reason I had to work out was to improve my PT score, but it was enough to get me out of my dorm room and to the gym—so what’s stopping me from putting on my running shoes and blogging about what I do for a workout each day? After all, I had no one cheering me on from the sidelines when I found my motivation in the Air Force, while I now know that at least one friend would openly support me should I make a point of publicizing my progress at this time.

            I’ve questioned myself as to why I’ve been unable to keep myself motivated since separating from the Air Force. I think the answer lies in the problem: My depression and, as my doctor believes is the case, my bipolar disorder—but mostly, my depression. My diagnosis came after my separation and shortly after I gave birth to Persephone, but the weight of the diagnosis didn’t sink in until more recently.

            People underestimate mental illness. They tell us to get over it. They tell us that it’s all in our heads. They tell us to get over it. They tell us to stop feeling sorry for ourselves. They don’t realize how debilitating the illness truly can be—and neither did I, at first. Before pushing my daughter into this world from my body, I hadn’t the slightest idea that depression could keep me sitting in a chair for days on end, accomplishing nothing. It never occurred to me that the very idea of motivation would be pushed away by the monster holding me down, the name of which had been dubbed “depression”. Now I know better. Now I can do better—but it’s hard.

            My new job makes it easier. My new medication will help. But the biggest trick in the book is to take life in chunks—one day at a time, one week at a time, and so on.

A Chance to Start Over

I’ve completed my first week of training at Securitas and I’m bruised and sore. It’s the most amazing feeling in the world. I can’t believe how much I missed being bruised and sore from training—and by training, I don’t just mean my job training; in this case, I mean physical training, specifically hand-to-hand self-defense. Also, learning how to properly use handcuffs was a plus. I have bruises on the back base of each hand, on my left thigh, and on at least one hand; all of them are practically invisible but I expect they could turn color by morning.

            In moments like these, I find myself thinking pain is weakness leaving the body. I find myself wondering, why don’t I have this attitude towards running? I think the answer is, before today, I hadn’t a solid enough reason to run. Feeling sore and feeling bruises form on my body—particularly my hands, which I use so often—has me feeling like I’ve actually felt serenity again. This brings me to my next idea.

            Humanity needs violence. Violence may not always be against other animals, including humans; violence is simply destruction and that also happens in art. Art, however, is not enough for me. I prefer a certain amount of structure, which I have learned from the Art Institute, but which writing has always held for me; I can use what I learned and what I know to illustrate the things I write. My plan is to begin the day I buy a new Surface Pro because my friend dropped the one I have and it broke, last year. I’m upset about the fact that it’s been broken, but I’m not angry with my friend; she held it by the tiny plastic thing and something happened with her body—maybe it was her bad hand she held it with—and it dropped. I didn’t have the case for it then that I do now and I hope a Surface Pro 4 will have the same measurements so I don’t have to buy new shit. I digress; while I love art and I am an artist, I also need discipline in my life and the only thing—literally, the only thing—that has given me the amount I need is martial arts.

            I have missed it since the day I left in 2007. I have certificates in my file celebrating every belt transition I made, all the way up to First Degree Red Belt. Then, before I could test for Second Degree Red Belt (1^st Degree Red is a red belt with a black stripe through the center, run horizontally; 2^nd Degree Red is a red belt without the stripe), Sifu came to me to have a conversation—which I found actually meant, to talk down to me and make me feel like shit.

            He told me that I wasn’t “giving it 100%.” I couldn’t fucking believe him, but I felt guilty. I felt like I was disappointing him, and he had been “Big Sweaty Guy” in the Bill Nye the Science Guy episode on Heat! I told him I was doing the best that I could, He, a 7^th Degree Black Belt (far and above black belt by an additional 6 level-ups or however it works after Black Belt) at the time, told me that if I (a 1^st Degree Red Belt, remember) had to keep up with him when he led class, otherwise he would bump me back down to White Belt. The very bottom of the belt hierarchy; he would start me over again from scratch, after all the years I had already put into the program and all the money my grandparents had spent.

            To give you a sense of what this meant to me, I’ll tell you the belt hierarchy, beginning with White Belt. After White Belt comes Yellow Belt; then, Orange Belt; Green Belt; Purple Belt; 1^st Degree Blue Belt; 2^nd Degree Blue Belt; 1^st Degree Red Belt; 2^nd Degree Red Belt; 1^st Degree Brown Belt; 2^nd Degree Brown Belt; and finally, Black Belt. I wanted so badly to make it to Black Belt and I was willing to do anything I could to attain it without going backwards.

            I freaked out and internalized everything he said. I vowed to keep up with him, caution be damned, and I got hurt. Sifu led us in lunges wherein we pretended to lift someone up; thus, while deep into the lunge, we had to lean back with our arms out like they were around another person. Looking back, I’m pretty sure this happened because my knee overextended my feet. Sifu had not properly taught us to lunge without overextending our knees. My left kneecap popped out of place—and right back in as I hit the ground like a screaming sack of potatoes.

            Everyone told me to walk it off—carefully. Everyone. It felt like it healed well enough, until I thought it had healed well enough to wear short but skinny heels to my sophomore year Open House at my high school. I had barely made it upstairs and started to stride down the hallway when my knee gave out and I fell again. It didn’t hurt as badly as the initial incident, but I limped heavily for the rest of the day and my grandmother finally agreed to take me to the doctor.

            They found that I’d broken some cartilage off inside of my knee and they opted for arthroscopic surgery, wherein they would remove the cartilage and create scar tissue in its place so that it would heal better. It was agreed upon and that’s what happened; I was on crutches for six weeks and I never went back to martial arts.

            I don’t know why I didn’t go ahead and drive to Prague regularly to take martial arts in Germany. I guess the place lacked the structure I sought—the structure that had been given at Lenderman’s Academy of Martial Arts. I felt that it was not worth a 2-hour drive to have no direction before grappling with another person. If I had learned nothing, how was I to defend myself? I saw myself then as I see myself now: starting over. The difference is, I believe I’m finally coming to terms with the fact that I truly am starting over; with my fitness level, I may as well know nothing. My soreness and bruises remind me of that.

            My self-assurance that I’ve come to terms with having to start over: I want to get started, rather than get back to it. Breaking my ankle the day before having Persephone—in addition to actually giving birth to my daughter—was like pressing the reset button.

            But that’s no reason to give up. It’s just what I’ve been asking the universe for: A chance to start over.

12.04.2016

Some days, the smallest things must be counted as successes in order to maintain forward momentum.

            Today, I managed to stay awake a little better than yesterday. Part of that may have been because I had the rest of my second energy drink from yesterday, as well as a Rockstar, this morning. It’s relatively miraculous that I was able to stay awake while driving early in the morning, however; it took me forever to fall asleep, last night, even though I went to bed at 20:00. That’s 8pm for those who have difficulty with the 24-hour clock.

            Today, I learned about verbal judo—the art of redirecting energy and dealing with difficult people. The problem isn’t that I, too, am a difficult person; the problem is, I am highly susceptible to being “under the influence”—usually concerning emotion rather than controlled substances, sadly. As it turns out, I’m a better person, generally, when under the influence of controlled substances.

            Although I meant to ride the bus this morning, that didn’t happen. Instead, I drove. I’ve asked myself, why didn’t I do what I had planned? What made me forego the bicycle and the bus in favor of the Chevy? Answers are difficult to come by, but to put it out of my mind, I told myself it was because I was ill-prepared for this morning when I woke up, which means that in order to better meet my bicycling and bus-riding goals, I need to make sure everything is ready before I go to bed. That being said, I have a sinking suspicion that the biggest reason I didn’t get out my bicycle and ride to the transit center is because, rather suddenly, I didn’t feel like it.

            Now, many people might say, “It’s okay if you didn’t feel like it. It happens. Sometimes, we don’t feel like doing things and it’s okay to put it off for a day and get to it another time.” That’s wonderful and I’m not going to say it’s wrong, but I have fear. I fear that my emotions will continue to get the better of me. Perhaps it’s an irrational fear; after all, healing isn’t linear. I can’t just stop having bad moods or bad days, but I can allow myself forgiveness and I can get back up from the fall.

            I am allowed to forgive myself. I deserve to forgive myself and I deserve to be happy—even if it isn’t every day; even if I stumble and struggle, I deserve to see myself through the journey of healing and I deserve all of the good things in my life that depression forces me to overlook and underappreciate.

            Thanks for reading.

Turning Tides

My training for Securitas started, today. I woke well before my 04:00 alarm and slept fitfully until it finally went off, only to jump out of bed and finish getting ready for my first day a good hour before the time to leave, because I’d realized it would be better to drive with the bags of uniform items I needed to return upon my arrival. I took a quick nap before leaving, but it ruined me….

            It is so interesting—refreshing, relieving, and revealing—to have a new job, especially one that can become a great career for me, depending on my choices. This morning reminded me of basic training in that we were fitted for uniforms and made to sit through some PowerPoint and even take a test. I love the sense of militarism, for lack of a better word, that I get from the position. Moreover, I love that I come home to my husband and child at the end of every day. I also learned that I definitely need to be getting to bed by 20:00 in order to get sufficient sleep for the day.

            I could barely keep my eyes open as I drove to Securitas in Bellevue. The ride wasn’t terrible, but my ability to stay awake was and I’m still surprised I made it without crashing. It wasn’t until lunch at 12:30 that I went to a gas station and purchased two NOS energy drinks, which helped immediately and banished the sleep from my eyes and mind, like magic. If only I’d had them this morning, I might’ve passed the test 10/10: 100%, but I did pass, at least.

            So, now, I am a married, working mother who is also a full-time online student. I have reached a turning point in my life wherein I can decide who I want to be, moving forward. I’ve decided.

            I want to be a woman who is capable of managing her time like a Time Master—or Time Lord, if you will. This weekend was the beginning; I made time for family and friends. This is something I can continue to do, especially with my new job, and I can use the money I make to take my family on trips to see our far-away friends, like Lauren, who graduates from college in June and has no one to attend but the promise of Randy, Persephone, and me. I intend to fly us across the country to visit my friend David, my friend Seth, and my friend Skyler, to name a few, and I plan on organizing road trips to Oregon to see my dog-loving friend, Nick, and to Canada to visit our Canadian friends. All this, I can do, as long as I can continue to fight my bipolar disorder, which remains unofficially diagnosed by my psychiatrist, who has prescribed me bipolar medication but may or may not have documented the illness as a diagnosis for me.

            It is a daily struggle to deal with depression. Assuming that I do, in fact, have bipolar—which will likely be determined by the effectiveness of the drugs my doctor has given me—it becomes a struggle as it has never been, before. I mentioned previously, in another entry, that my manic episodes have felt, in the past, like happiness. That is true, but I have realized other behaviors that stem from mania and tend to be non-issues during depressive spells and those behaviors all have to do with impulsiveness. Impulsive spending is my worst manic habit and I fear its return because, even in the depths of this year-and-a-half-long depressive spell that I feel I may be climbing out of now, I’ve become a much more responsible person, particularly concerning money.

            My fear is that I’ll become manic and spend the money I have, leaving nothing in savings and possibly leaving us with so little at any given time that we would struggle to pay for something important. After everything that has happened and everything I’ve learned since my daughter was born and even beforehand, I do not want my finances to get out of hand again. My fear is that I’ll make a great amount of money over two weeks and use the entire amount for a weekend trip to Vancouver, B.C. or Rogue River, OR, which would make for a great trip but possibly leave us without the money for food or gasoline or bus fare. Realizing these fears makes me grateful for bipolar medication and I look forward to the drug’s integration with my system.

            In the meantime, I am doing what I can to take life one day at a time. It’s the biggest challenge I have to face—even bigger than raising Persephone—because I have to slow down and look at my immediate next action, rather than the next hundred actions I have to take to achieve a goal. I honestly believe that goal-setting is unrealistic for me at this time, if only because I then feel obligated to do multiple things at once, which is a breach of my capacity for responsibility, which I am working on growing.

Some Thoughts Regarding Religion and Spirituality

Do this. Don’t do that. Feel this way about these issues, but feel that way about those issues. Contradictions. Paradoxes. Confusion.

            This is religion.

            I’ve done my research. I know, in this year’s political race, Hillary Clinton had the audacity to tell Bernie followers to “do their own research,” as if we haven’t already done our Google searches and unearthed her inconsistency and even flat-out lies. Thanks, Hillary, we did what you said and we still don’t like you, you vote-pandering bag of bones. I digress. In this case, I have done my research on religion.

            I don’t care if you’re Jewish, Catholic, Muslim, or part of one of the countless denominations of Christianity. Of these, all are the same at a fundamental level and none seem to recognize it of the others. All have a certain level of respectability and I believe it is that level of respectability that made each one as alluring as the next, throughout history.

            Judaism is the parent language. From it, Catholicism broke out and took over much of Europe, if not the whole. Islam was born from Judaism and came to being with the prophet Muhammad. From Catholicism came the Protestants, later to be known as Christians, and from Christianity came Evangelists, Latter-Day Saints, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Baptists, Southern Baptists, Jesus freaks, and more. Islam has the Qur’an; Mormons have the Book of Mormon.

The rest, as far as my still-limited knowledge goes, have the Holy Bible. The be-all and end-all of books; the most popular book in the world. The greatest work of historical fiction ever to hit the presses and people follow it like their lives depend on it because they believe they do.

I don’t care if your god exists. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t, but my argument here is not about the existence of some invisible deity in space. My argument is against the brainwashing, the indoctrination of children, the hypocritical self-deceit, and the very idea of sin. You can’t take a breath without sinning, according to the Bible.

Religion is different for many people. Perhaps it is true that the majority of Christians are loving people who would rather not shove their precious books down the throats of their atheist neighbors. Perhaps you follow your religion in such a way that you simply believe God exists to help you be happy and be your guide, but if that’s the case, why are you where you are now?

Maybe my friend would tell me that she’s in her place because she turned away from God and that has caused parts of her life to unravel and lead to her current situation. My thoughts run a different course.

Perhaps God gives her light in her life, but I don’t see it. I see an insecure woman who needs to feel validated for her feelings and that’s okay because it seems her family didn’t make her feel important enough as a child. I see someone who sees the good in her pastor and the good in the people at her church and thus infers goodness to the religion because she believes that God Himself is good.

Religion is not good. Religion divides. Religion has been a divisive tool used for conquest since the dawn of time, it seems. How can your religion bring you light and love if you truly follow the book that has been written and rewritten countless times with countless translations and two to four different versions?

My friends, if you believe that your religion gives you light and love, then I have news for you in the form of an opinion: You are, in fact, a spiritual being. We are all spiritual beings, but some embrace it better than others, while still others know of their spirituality in a way that keeps them from so much as naming a religion. The “majority” of people with religion who are instead loving and accepting are seen as people who “truly follow God.” I disagree.

Perhaps it is true that following God includes only love and acceptance and tolerance. If so, I believe God is misrepresented and thus misunderstood. However, it is the spirituality of people that I mean to discuss. You who follow God in the name of love, light, acceptance, and prosperity are spiritual, not religious. You name a religion and say that you follow it but it is a lie. You follow your heart and your soul and that makes you spiritual, not religious.

            Disagree all you like. That’s the beauty of opinions, my friends.

A Letter to A New Friend

I care about you deeply. You are important to me because you are a good person, underneath it all. Underneath the needless apologies and automatic defenses; behind the walls you’ve erected to protect yourself from the people around you, you have a heart of gold and all you really want to do is help people. I resonate with that.

            All I’ve ever wanted to do—short of being an artist—is help people. Part of the reason for me to get a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology is because I want to help people; what better degree to pursue for such an endeavor? Naturally, I want to help you. The thing is, I’m not even sure you realize you’re damaged; or, perhaps you do, but you don’t know how to accept constructive criticism from another person because all you’ve experienced have been negative people who have nothing nice to say.

            You’re not trying to be mean. I can accept that and appreciate it. What I think you don’t realize is how you sound to those around you even when you think you’re being “just fine”. Your voice is so sharp—as sharp as the nose on your face, as sharp as your very chin, so is your voice—and when something comes unbidden from your mouth in an environment you don’t prefer while you’re surrounded by generally undesirable people, your voice is sharp.

            Tone of voice means a lot in communication, my dear friend. The very sound of your voice when you say something—your inflections, as in, the way your voice rises and falls during speech—including the speed with which you talk and the words that come out of your mouth are all parts of the communication process. I don’t think very many people think of communication as a process; I think people think it consists only of what is said, rather than how.

            It is clear to me that you pay attention to what you say, friend. Many people do, when communicating. What I’m not sure you know is the meaning of your words. I’m not sure you know the true message you send with your body language, the words you actually say, and the tone of your voice.

            It’s different with me. When you’re with me, your tone is softer. But even when you’re with me, you’re so defensive of yourself, like you think your defenses must be up at all times and like you believe that the best defense is a good offense. God forbid you should ever offend anyone, though, so you preface many of the things you say—things that are hardly ever offensive by any nature—with “No offense.” None offense is taken and I feel like there is a larger underlying issue with you that perhaps you don’t recognize, where you feel the need to disclaim yourself before saying anything.

            Anything I say is met with, “No, I know, but—” something. Do you realize that you always say “No,” first? The first word out of your mouth when we are speaking is “No,” when I have something to say that isn’t a general nod, “mm-hmm,” or silence in listening. I might tell you that, while I understand your point of view, I think differently about the situation. The first word out of your mouth is, “No,” but I don’t think you even hear yourself say it. You hear yourself say the following “I know,” before you continue with your point and your endeavor to make me understand what you’re saying—which I do, dear friend. I do.

            I want to help you, friend. I want to help all of my friends, but I think the struggle for you is internal. Perhaps it is something only you can work on yourself and I am so glad that your goal for the year—if not beyond—is to help yourself. My hope for you, dear friend, is that you are also sincerely interested in personal growth. Perhaps there is something subconsciously that makes you speak the way you do or even act a certain way.

            I want you to remember that I love you. No matter how hard it gets for you, my love for you as a friend remains. Remember, too, that when everything is a joke, nothing is, and there is always truth in jest. I recognize your jokes as a method by which you wish to be understood and communicate your true thoughts to the outside world, but you’re so afraid of ridicule or backlash that it cannot be said in sincerity. Or, so you think.

            Where is your fear founded? What kind of terrible past have you endured to make you feel so insecure? Secure people speak sincerely and unapologetically, my friend, and you do not fit the bill except when you’re with me. Perhaps it is my sincerity that helps you to relax every so often and if that is the case, I want to move with it. I want to spend more time with you to help you feel sincerity and know it for yourself. I want to wrap you in security and make you realize that it’s okay to have your thoughts, your feelings, your opinions, and it’s okay to share them, but there is a time and a place for everything and there is always a good way to communicate a thought, even if there is no good way it can be received. Fear not, my friend, for I feel that most of what you could say would be received without judgment.

            I fear that your religion gets in the way. Perhaps it is what keeps you going and helps you see the light in life. Who am I to judge your feelings? Better that you tell them to me, in due time, as you will. Just remember, my friend: I love you.

Suddenly, Mania!

I lie in bed, doing everything in my power to get comfortable. Rolling over for the umpteenth time, eyes closed, I think once again about the benefit of sleep versus the hours left in the night before my daughter wakes up and my dog needs her morning walk—a walk that I, too, cherish, for it is time moving and being physically active. Physical activity, as I’ve long known, helps with mental activity, and gods know I’ve been doing everything in my power as of late to get my mind activated. It seems to have worked, now, as I lie in bed, wondering when I might fall asleep.

            It’s no good. I open my eyes as I move my left leg, flexing the muscles in my inner thigh in a vain effort to somehow, magically, build muscle that has atrophied due to past injuries and then never come back. In my mind, my thoughts are a jumble. I have so many ideas in my mind and they all want to come forth. They are like a crowd of people at the mall on Black Friday, moments before the doors open; my thoughts are fighting with each other for dominance and I cannot distinguish one particular topic from another because they may as well be brawling. Imagine a group of people, three to five of them, grappling about for the top spot in a tournament. They’re all in the pile and as you look at them, you can’t tell who that left foot or right hand belongs to. In the way that body parts become intermingled in a wrestling match, so, too, are my thoughts difficult to separate and identify.

            Earlier in the night, I wrote a blog entry that felt more like a letter, so I titled it “A Letter to An Old Friend.” In my head, it feels like that should have broken the dam that holds my thoughts back; it feels like I should now be able to pull one topic from the tangled mess of knotted strings that are, indeed, my thoughts. Pulling on one string only brings the entire ball of strings forward, as they’re wrapped around each other and it may take a great deal of effort to wean one string from the other, or to pry one man’s arm from between the other two men’s legs—choose your own analogy to go with, here, as I’m sure I could come up with more.

            I took my medicine late. I discovered the time at midnight when my friend, three hours away, mentioned that it was 3am. I looked at Randy and told him we needed to go to bed and it was after that when I took my medication for the evening and when I found that I was unable to sleep, I thought at first that it was because of the activating side effect of the medication. I’m no longer so sure and I’m relatively convinced, actually, that I’m experiencing a rare and wonderful manic episode.

            Those of you who have bipolar might think, “What the fuck is wonderful about being manic?” Those of you who don’t have bipolar might think, “How is it wonderful if you can’t sleep?” I suppose, given the myriad of thoughts coursing through my mind, I may be able to disentangle this particular topic and tell you exactly what I think is wonderful about being manic.

            To begin, I’ll tell you about my struggle with depression, which began, as far as I can tell, when I was 7 years old. Prior to this age, I’d lived with my grandparents, who took great care of me and tended to my every need. When I was 7, going on 8, however, my mother gained custody of me and I went to live with her. It was something I thought I wanted, at the time. It didn’t take me too long to figure out that it really wasn’t something I wanted, but I couldn’t go back as easily as I’d left from my grandparents’ home.

            I felt down and blue. I felt angry and upset and frustrated. I felt a myriad of negative emotions and the vast majority of them were based on self-loathing. I had one friend at any given time and there was no guarantee that she was even a decent child, as one of those “friends” stole a birthday present from me when I turned 8… or 9. The age isn’t as important as the act; it certainly did nothing for my self-esteem, which could only continue to plummet after I finally moved back in with my grandparents and was only able to bond with the outcasts at school and thus, I was still shunned and had a grand total of two friends—100% better than previously, to be sure, but I wanted to be well-liked and accepted by everyone. What kid doesn’t want acceptance by their peers?

            So it was that depression was a constant in my life from an early enough age. Relief from that depression came in some kind of extreme. When I was happy, I was elated. I was on top of the world and nothing was going to get me down! Except for that pesky depression, always crouching on the sidelines, ready to swoop in and lay waste to all the brightness and joy I was feeling previously—and why? Because what I felt was not true happiness. What I felt was mania. So it is that I tell you, mania has been a friend to me except when it has helped me spend money frivolously and impulsively. That kind of helpfulness, I do not need.

            It turns out that explaining was rather easier than I thought—or perhaps I’ve simply reached the end of that thread and thus the end of my thinking capacity at this time. After all, it’s after 2:30am now and I do feel the need for sleep, though my body remains restless and my mind active. I’m glad to have time-stamped this within the writing, as I intend now to leave it alone until later in the morning, when I can read through it and make sure it is sensible, rather than some inane ramblings of a manic woman who desperately wants to be productive if she’s not to sleep.