I’m keeping a blog over at posterous now, in addition to this one.
Its for stuff that I think is too short to require a true entry, although today’s entry about Bono is a little long.
instrument @ mpmf :: cincinnati, ohio :: september 24, 2009
I’ve had a rough couple of weeks.
This is not a place where I feel I should discuss my bipolar and the havoc it can wreak on my life in great detail because I know discussing it can make people uncomfortable. BUT. In a nutshell, bipolar disorder is basically something that runs my life and defines who I am despite my best efforts to be “normal”. It lingers in the background - thanks to modern medicine - but when it makes its presence known, watch out.
I’d been deeply entrenched on the manic side for a bit. When I get that bad, I withdraw. The feeling of invincibility makes me reckless and I didn’t need to screw up certain friendships. That said, there were some people who got treated in ways they deserved, but that doesn’t excuse the behavior. In other cases, I didn’t talk to anyone because I knew certain things would set off a chain reaction and quite simply, I didn’t want to clean up the mess I was about to create. Knowing I need to pull away makes me angry, which fuels the manic fire, so I withdraw even deeper. If you didn’t know better and couldn’t see the subtle signs, you would think I was depressed.
Meds aren’t the answer to everything. A lot of it comes from my high levels of self-awareness and ability to know when to pull back. I joke a lot that the meds quiet the voices in my head (another reason I tend not to parade the bipolar in front of people I don’t know well - they don’t get that it’s a joke). At the same time, when it’s really bad, I also waste time I could be using to do productive things by sitting on the internet and playing games on Facebook or MSN’s Zone. Those quiet the voices better than the meds. There’s a pretty heavy cost to that and I tend to let people down by not living up to my promises. I’m currently dealing with the fallout from one of those failures. It’s actually quite upsetting to me, because it was something I believed in and something I really wanted to do. I dropped the ball big time and I’m not interested in continuing with the project simply because I know it may happen again. They don’t deserve to be the victim of my screwed up brain chemistry.
That failure, and feeling like I was being forced to choose one path over another by someone else, sent me spinning in the other direction.
Then, I got some news that I was expecting but didn’t want to hear. It’s not directly “my” problem, but it’s affecting people close to me and it’s dredging up things I thought I had buried. It’s stuff that’s hard for me to process on a good day. When I’m depressed… let’s put it this way, it’s very easy to give in to The Ick and move into The Bad Place. I withdraw further, hide deeper in my world, blow every one and every thing off. (See? If you couldn’t tell, you’d just think I was just depressed all the time. One of my shrinks did and it only made the bipolar worse. Yup. One day I hope they figure this shit out and stop using us as guinea pigs, poisoning us with the different cocktails in the hopes that something works to dull the mood swings. Until then, I keep taking my current cocktail and hope I don’t get immune to it.)
It’s taken some time, and its taken spilling the Very Bad News to certain people, to make me feel that I can start crawling out of the hole I’ve dug. I owe a huge debt to my favorite platypus for simply letting it be known that he’s there for me. I also owe a huge debt to someone else for not hesitating to DM me on Twitter and check in. To the friends and strangers that sent me virtual hugs, I thank you as well. There were two certain boys who make me feel appreciated all the time, and gave me a super awesome present, and they were also instrumental in helping me crawl out, even though there was no way they could know what it meant to me. (And oddly enough, the certain boys were not in instrument… I just couldn’t think of a better word!)
I’m feeling hopeful for the first time since this nonsense began that I will get past this and get stable again. The Very Bad News isn’t going away from what I can tell so far… although a part of me does hope that it resolves itself sooner rather than later. (Those of you in the know, I think you understand why a quicker resolution is better than dragging it out. I’m not trying to be cold, just realistic.) It’s that hope which is so much more important than the drugs when it comes to my “recovery”.
And recovering I am.
instrument :: webster theatre, hartford, ct :: september 27, 2009
I had this whole entry written out about the price of fame and how it affects several different bands I know, but I just got some world-rocking news.
Not the good type, either. And it’s not something I can share here.
not my kid with my bass drum mallet :: ucmb alumni day, the rent :: september 26, 2009
I use the term, “my boys” a lot - the UConn hockey team were my boys, my coworkers are my boys, the Storm hockey players were my boys, my friends in Instrument are my boys. It’s not really as possessive as it sounds, though. It’s not like I’ve lifted my leg and marked my territory to the exclusion of all others. I share. Honest.
Certain events in Cincinnati proved that, on some level, the boys in Instrument really are “my boys”. In this case, it is a wee bit more possessive.
Sometime during the day and a half the four of us hung out, I did become the band’s “mom”.
Yeah. Those of you who know me well are shaking your heads. I can see you. Quit it.
I think it started when I booked my hotel room. I just knew that they hadn’t considered where they were going to spend Thursday night. D had, but I knew the others weren’t going to be cool with it. I decided to book a room with double beds. Within walking distance of most of the bars involved in MPMF. Just in case. (You see where this is going, right?)
I had Aaron, Ben and Dave crash in my room. (Jonah’s left the band to spend more time with his family. He will be missed.) Of course, having the three boys stay with me couldn’t be easy. Nope. After the show, they came back to the hotel with me to drop their stuff off and then went out to an after party. I was exhausted but I was afraid to fall asleep because I knew when they got back they would wake me up. I don’t sleep as it is, so I really didn’t want to get woken up when/if I managed to fall asleep.
When they got back, they were all drunk and hyper. At 4 in the morning. I was not amused and at one point I yelled at them, “STFU! Mommy wants to go to bed.” (Yes, Peanut Gallery, I can’t believe I said it either. Stop laughing!) But I did and they really enjoyed making fun of me for it.
I was told to “not be cute” and say things in a “not so secret way”, but I can’t resist telling you that I woke up with a boy in my bed. Wasn’t a band member, though. I REALLY would have preferred it. But nope. I woke up with my traveling companion, Mr. Headache. The next one to wake up was Aaron, followed by Ben. For the longest time, I thought Dave was dead. I really wanted to go poke him and see if he’d react, but I refrained. Once he joined the land of the living, I had to corral the boys and feed them lunch. I do not recommend trying to corral three hungover boys. Especially when you have the killer sinus headache from hell and aren’t supposed to take Sudafed (the only thing that works) because of your broken ticker. Honestly, there are a lot of things I don’t recommend doing with three hungover boys… there was a field trip and a discussion about something so disturbing that it will not be repeated on teh interweb. Don’t get me wrong, both activities were enjoyable and funny as hell, but in retrospect, I don’t think I’d be present for either event if I knew then what I know now. Boys are gross sometimes. Wicked gross.
When it was time to go our separate ways, we stood outside the band’s van and waited for my car to get fetched by the valet. (I normally wouldn’t have, but it was a lot safer looking than my other options!) We talked for a bit and I asked them what they were doing for the rest of the weekend. (They had a show Friday, were trying to get one on the way back on Saturday night, and had one in CT on Sunday.) With that kind of schedule and the 16 hours drive, PLUS being stuck in the van together, I was a little concerned and I made my concerns known.
Not my best move. If you’ll remember their amusement with my “mommy wants to sleep” comment, you might be able to figure out what happened next. I was so floored by the comment that I don’t remember who said it. I think it was Ben… Whoever it was, they looked me square in the eye and told me I’d make a great mother. I’m pretty sure it was Aaron who said I’d make a good JEWISH mother because I know it was Dave who started acting like one. He was spot on in his impersonation, which of course, cracked me up and softened the blow. Of all the words in the english language, mommy is right up there after Tammy and groupie when it comes to things I hate being called.
Sunday, I went to the show in CT and did my normal stuff… helped the boys bring their crap to the stage and back again. Took my pictures. Got yelled at for helping someone else and got guilt tripped for not helping them with the same stuff. It was a little rough because I want to help, but I don’t want to do too much for them. My biggest fear is to smother them and piss them off. I know I go above and beyond when it comes to going to shows, but I like live music and I like supporting them. So anyways, awkward!
Dave and I were talking a bit about what I do for the band, since I’m not the manager (even though someone asked me point blank if I was. No, but it is my goal… even if I’m still not ready to admit it yet. Oh wait, I just did. Crap.) He ended up calling me the “marketing mom.” Meh. Honestly, I’m still not sure how I feel about being called that, even though it did lead me down the path of clarity, closure, cookies with a side trip to the land of boys of st00pid.
So, to get back to my point, the boys in Instrument are “my boys” now, for better or for worse. Like I said, it is a wee bit possessive, but more in a motherly way. I do take care of “my boys.” (In the mothering sense of the word and not in the take care of them sexually sense. I am The Married, after all. They are definitely the dessert cart in the diet of my life: wicked fun to drool over, but so off limits it’s not even funny.)
In other news, BU raises the National Championship banner tonight and I’m beyond impatient. I can’t believe how slow time is going this afternoon! I am thankful that they are doing the banner raising at 6:30 instead of during the game because I have to leave early and head to Hartford. It’s Soup’s birthday and they’re playing at Up or On the Rocks. I probably would have blown off the hockey game since it’s just an exhibition, but because of the banner raising, I’m going to stay for the first period and then bolt. I’m meeting Michele in Hartford and I’m really looking forward to the show. (See? It’s not just Instrument that I’m hell bent on seeing at every opportunity. I support my friends and after getting to know All Crazy, I definitely count them among my friends.)
OK. It’s time for lunch and then it will be time to leave for Boston. It’s the braids’ last night out. They’re getting chopped off next Saturday, so they better have fun tonight!
$13,205 raised this year :: something like $63,000 since this started in 2002 as ‘boobies to florida’ :: THANK YOU!
I had an interesting day yesterday…
I got a vicious email from a reader of this site and several odd DMs via Twitter from the same person. So much hate towards me.
Now, I’m used to not being liked. I’m not really here on this planet to be friends with most of the people I cross paths with. I’m a loner and an introvert… for me to say, “I don’t need people” is pretty much the truth. I don’t need you and I really don’t need your drama.
But to be attacked for spending seven days pimping a fundraiser that I believe in… for spending seven days overusing the word “boobie”... for putting my rack up on flickr and the boobiethon site… for fighting a disease that is attacking my loved ones… well, that’s just really unnecessary.
Did you think your venomous words were going to stop me? Seriously?
I said a lot of what I needed to say to you yesterday in my email, but I also wanted to blog it. To make it perfectly clear to you that not only was your opinion unwelcome, it was also pretty asinine and to let you know, again, that you crossed the line when you called me a pervert.
I didn’t realize that sharing pictures of my boobs and constantly hyping a fundraiser - where ALL funds raised go DIRECTLY to the recipient - made me a pervert. If that’s so, then I must be a huge pervert.
But tell me this - what did you do over the past seven days to help save boobies? I know you’re female… do you ever think about a day when you might be diagnosed with breast cancer? Or one of your loved ones? You should. If that day ever comes, and you find yourself thanking Komen for all they’ve done, think about my perverted, softcore pr0n peddling friends and I and how we worked our tails off this year to raise over $11,000 just for Komen. That’s ELEVEN THOUSAND DOLLARS that went DIRECTLY to Komen. Not one of us made a dime on this fundraiser. Not even our fearless leader who worked countless hours backstage, making sure everything worked the way it was supposed to… Not. Even. A. Single. Penny.
We engage in this “immature” fundraiser every year because we want to. Because it’s important to us. Because we all love boobies and want to save them.
Don’t you love your boobies?