Bipolar I or Bipolar II?


My moods have been a shifting morass of muddied feelings based on circumstances beyond my control of late. People outside my body have been making profound influences on me. Or on my deductions and inferences.

Every part of my life seems under attack. Work, family, money, it never seems to end. Its affected my disease as well. I’m beginning to think I have bipolar I, not II. Food consumes me. I buy as much as I have money for. Living below the poverty line but spending $200+ one week and $150 the next for 1 person. My fridge, freezer and pantry cannot hold more. And its not like I can eat it all, so all that food is wasted. I am globally conscious of the ramifications of too much versus too little food. I just am not aware of the expense and overload while the impulsiveness lasts.

There are so many expenses I have and have coming up. A friend has suggested I get a caseworker. It makes me feel like I am backsliding. Some of the people in my apartment building have caseworkers, I did too a long while back. God, I HATE this Disease! I feel so alone with this but if nothing else, this blogging has shown me I am not alone. I belong to a Bipolar clubhouse. They are great people but some are so sick its scary.

My trouble is I’m too smart for my own good. But is it arrogance or fear that keeps me separate? And how do I resolve myself to this being a life thing? Day by day? Sometimes truisms just don’t cut it. Sometimes you just need to know how to successfully negotiate today. Good idea – just wish I could remember it when I need to.

Changing the Diagnosis

As I have mentioned before, I have Bipolar II. I always thought I had no manic stages but I’m rethinking that. Most of the time I stay in the depressed side of things. Normalcy is an exciting thing.

But I have an obsession with food. When I get paid I generally go immediately to the store. If I have $100, that is what I pay out. You need to understand, I am the only one who lives here and I don’t have visitors. Right now my refrigerator, freezer, and pantry have no room for anything else. Food containers are piled on top of each other.. There is no way I’ll be able to eat it all. I often give it away. The week before I spent $200. I’m not as bad when it comes to clothing but I can go beyond what I should spend and its always impulsive. And I live below the poverty line.

I’m not sure if that constitutes mania. begun to think I should have a keeper when I go shopping. There are so many things that money is needed for.

So, for all you bipolars’ out there – what does it sound like? Does impulsivity define bipolar I? And how long does it last? Does it last only for that time I am shopping? It is all quite confusing. Thanks.

Struck Deaf

Struck deaf by confusion –
your lips, I know, are moving
yet come voiceless to my ears.
Words rich with portent,
holding the essence of that
which I need to understand
fall short of their intent,
fluttering in the breeze
only to drop at my feet
before first their meaning
is understood . . .
It seems I must sift each thought
carefully, weighing its worth,
slowly digesting its content,
before a day might come,
often long after
the truism was heard
when I think the thought my own
and proudly display
new found knowledge to those
who first sought to enlighten,
and now nod with cautious mirth
and tender compassion –
rejoicing in my final understanding,
Always the student I must be,
but like an unruly child,
I learn at a pace of my own keeping,
comprehending only when
comfortable to do so . . .
and my teachers continue
to wave scarlet banners before my eyes,
trying to catch the attention
of ears too often deaf.

They Are Me


They are me – this I know.
The white and grey heads
bobbing over meals,
tremor of hands,
wheelchairs and walkers,
dentures and damage,
irreconcilable too much
of the time.

Broken hips, broken minds.
I know people who were
trailblazers, powerhouses,
corporate heads, adventurers,
housewives and plumbers
who no longer recognize
that old person in the mirror . . .
who walk and walk and walk
for want of something to do
but still remember love and smiles.

Lost minds –
I’ve already lost some
words and abilities,
and perhaps, if I live,
my head will be bobbing,
my hands will shake more than now,
my body will continue to degenerate.

God, please let me die first.
My father lost his songs
one word at a time
I already know
too many of those tunes.



Reflecting sides of a prism,
full of light and diversity . . .
each time those eyes
burn with that special brand
of intensity
I want you more
than days before.
As layers peel, dimensions surface,
complexity interweaving
in subtle variations
of themes my own, yet
seen within your mind –
the pull between
your essence and mine
binds, grows, straightens
and that certain allure
only you possess
comes into increasingly
sharp focus.
A unity of spirit exists
as we spin tales of days past
or speak in reverent tones
of a future misty and vague –
and a tiny voice
growing in strength
says I want to be there
to see that person
as he unfolds.


Rolls upon rolls of your dense mass,
flow upon the carpet, staining it,
as you eat the fruit of the vine
of summer’s harvest, denying goodness
and simple pleasures in your hedonist splurge.
And the paupers pay for their ill-deserved torment
as your laughter echoes (hinting of petty cruelty)
along the chambers of time’s corridors –
The peasants- simple minded in their purity
grovel at your feet for an ounce of forgetfulness,
as even that is denied in your perverse,
Machiavellian torture . . . Oh, Bacchus,
why is it you who seek to deny
to those who need most, as your thieves,
small-minded rulers, and arrogant anarchists
reign in sovereign glory – casting shadows
upon the countenances of those for whom life
is a struggle with no ending . . .
Your baseness is exceeded only
by the excesses in your form. And who,
upon entry into the hallowed gates shall
inherit the earth? Has God become
a handmaiden of yours as well?
Or perhaps, your monstrous form
one day chanced to alight on Apollo
snuffing out life’s light
as all became cloaked in darkness.


Rain streams down the window pane,
echoing a mourning deep within me.
Dank, dismal liquid carrying a message –
no matter that other days bring cleaning
in that water – for the rain
is an outer reflection of insecurity today.
You are too far away, and last night
the phone was silent – your comforting
voice fell on other ears.
So quickly I move toward casting aside –
belief in myself, in you, in us,
is shallow indeed. Needing constant affirmation.
I grow scared if a song drifts across the radio,
crying of pain . . .and think that soon
it shall be mine. Come home,
sometimes I am fine when you are away –
when you are away – today I am scared.
I miss you, am scared for us,
call me, come to me, hurry home
that I might be comforted within your arms.

In the end … We only want not to be forgotten

Lately, whether I’ve been feeling sorrow at the huge holes in parts of my life or the fact I’ll be 60 this year, I’ve thought, off and on again, about the likelihood of my being remembered when I am gone. I’ve moved about 15 times in my life. Most I knew have forgotten me, of that I am sure, even when I have not them.

I have lived alone for the past 20 years and am a private person. Who will remember me? With a gentle spirit, one who doesn’t waves, do I have a presence? Does a pond, clear as glass, with nary a ripple to mar it’s surface, have a presence?  Unless the fishing is really great, will others choose

We all want to think we have made a difference in those we knew and hence, the world, in ever expanding ripples. My mother was a fiercesome, generous, loving, gregarious woman whose death filled our large church. My Dad,a quiet,gentle soul, had fewer people even though he had been a beloved pastor there in years back. My mother died at her desk of a massive heart attack. Believe me, she could give people heart attacks, me so on a regular basis. But she was also generous, pro-active, and a self-starter who created her own businesses, one of which still runs through my sister. My Dad drifted away into demensia for the last 12 or so years of his life, loosing his presence word by word – a sin for such a smart, wise person. But who do you think I have thought so much more of? The person I had the most issues to work through … Mother.

My children are fabulous people who have been achieving successful, happy, fulfilling lives. But it is their Father they will remember more. Not only is he nearby, but he can do the most for them. I love them with every breathe I take but in the end, it won’t matter. I am the passive pond, 3,000 miles away, with nothing to leave them when I go.

There is no real end to this piece. Only the future can answer these questions. A homeless, mentally impaired, nonviolent person will likely be forgotten before he even dies. I’ve worked with the elderly, in these later years, within Memory Care units and I can tell you, most of them are obligatory marks to be checked off the calendar on certain holidays or birthdays. And many have been warehoused there and forgotten. Nursing homes are even worse.  People can be mere chattel there.

I once knew a wonderful woman who died at 104. She lived in my mother’s residential home for the elderly. Her many progeny lived all over the valley she lived in. In the years I knew her, I knew of 2 people who visited, extremely rarely. That was over a 17 year period. She was gentle, Godly, and kind .. . and forgotten.  Another woman I knew had been placed in a mental hospital with a nervous breakdown. Her husband died, she couldn’t be released unless to family but all her family was in Sweden.  Although fully lucid, gentle, Godly, she was forgotten in a ward of 40 women – all stark raving lunatics and forgotten as well.

So in the end, are we forgotten? Most of us, yes. The detestable or the famous ones who created much good in the world, theirs are the lives which will go on with a resounding ring. We push our heads out of the earth, blossom, and provide our smell and beauty. And then die. But, like a single blossom, quickly forgotten. I guess the world and its people must always be future facing for our race and the world to continue. So cheers to the forgotten ones. May many blossoms grow where they lie.

If Only I Had My Dream Job

First, and this has nothing to do with the prompt, every time I sit down with my laptop, my cat, Spike, jumps up on my chest, sticks his face two inches from mine, then settles in.  As he is 26 pounds, it is a little hard to see around him and continue to work.  He can ignore me all day but the laptop is Pavlov’s dog to my one and only.

Now for the prompt:

Since I was thirteen, I wanted to be a missionary.  Even when I was exploring other religions, I wanted to be … only I called it a humanitarian.  I envy those who have the money and health to pursue this need.  I am working on the health (although it often works on me) but money is still a major factor.

My minister’s husband has gone on an annual mission for the past 17 years.  He is taking this year off but as he is the minister of a wealthy church, he is taking me on his next trip.  I am thrilled!  My daughter went on a two year mission to Malawi and I envied her so much.  I lived, as much as she would let me and telecommunications would allow, live vicariously through her experiences.

Now it’s going to be my turn!  I’m not sure where we are going – it doesn’t matter.  I just want to be of service.  I am also developing programs (if the Church Council and Board of Trustees give me the go ahead) to do this year and longer as interest allows.  I also want to re-establish a Women’s Club with the intent of drawing in the few middle-aged women we have. (But at 60, can I really call myself middle-aged?  I’m entering the next phase already) So much of my church is elderly.

I have done acts of service all my life, but on a one-on-one level primarily.  This is my heart . . . and I so want it to be so. So pray for me, all you so inclined, that these mission and service works take wings and fly!

Oh, and the second part of this is for an article on each of these be published and paid for so I can keep paying it forward.  Getting better skilled and getting paid for what I love to do anyway would be the icing on the cake or should I say nourishing food for hungry stomachs.




I’ve noticed a disturbing trend lately.

Authors are retiring their old works and peddling them as new. If you are like I was, but will no longer be, you see a favorite popular author’s new book and grab it only to find you’ve read it years ago. That might not be a problem for people who reread books over and over again but I’m not one of them. There are too many books I want to read to waste time reading the same words.  

I guess I am gullible but not anymore. Shame on the Publishing Houses and Authors who practice this practice. If you want some respect, go out and earn it.