bipolar

Христос Воскрес! (like bread dough)


April 12, 2020 :: 6:14 PM

station of the cross :: lviv, ukraine :: november 2016

So… in Ukraine, for Easter, you say “Христос Воскрес!” - literally, Christ is risen.

Ukraine is full of religious icons, absolutely gorgeous ones, all over the place. In public! Oh, I was so scandalised by that.

Ukrainians - at least the ones I know - often have altars. My grandparents house had a Virgin Mary tucked in the corner. The relatives I met in Ukraine had one, too.

All that to say, I am not the least bit religious.

So, I find an inordinate amount of joy in the fact that wishing someone a Happy Easter in Ukrainian is basically a reference to a man I don’t believe ever existed, let alone rose from the dead.

I’ve been focused on what it means to be a Ukrainian more than usual lately… and it’s been weird.

Mostly because I wasn’t brought up as Ukrainian. My mother wasn’t having any of it, so I was only exposed when I was at my grandparents’ house. I have a lot of fuzzy memories… stuff that comes to the surface when it’s triggered by something: a news article, a blog post, a random word on a website. Sometimes, I remember things that surprise me and sometimes I wonder how I never put two and two together before.

Wow. I’m in a rambly mood tonight. Possibly, a wee bit manic. (Wanna know a secret? The tone of my writing changes. (I get very parenthetical.) I ramble.)

Back in 2013? 2014? I decided I needed to find myself. (The last time I think I said that in all seriousness was the time I’d told my father that I didn’t want a summer job… that I wanted to take the summer off to go find myself. We’d just thrown my mother into a hole in the ground and gotten served with a restraining order. I was trying to wrap my brain around all of it and being stuck working retail didn’t sound like a place I needed to be right then. Well, he grabbed a napkin and a pen. Drew a map of the house. Put a BIG FUCKING X in the kitchen and told me I was found. God, how I miss that man.)

So yeah. Finding myself.

Fun fact: There’s a book out there called “Losing Your Parents. Finding Yourself.” It was given to me as a gift after I was orphaned. I ended up setting it on fire in the backyard. ( Here’s why.)

Pyromania aside - the title, and the little bit I read before my mother’s ugliness was put out there for all the world to see, really resonated with me. If they hadn’t used my mother’s FUCKING WILL to prove a point, I might have read the rest of it. I might have found solace in it.

But… fire. Fire is good. Fire is cleansing.

Like a phoenix, I rose from the flames.

(Oh, shit, maybe I should take an Ativan and calm down a little bit. Nah, fuck it. If you can’t handle me now, you don’t deserve me later. Better living through science, amiright?)

Anyhoo… My father’s side of family appears to have sprung out of the ground in Nowhere, Maine. A town so small that it doesn’t even qualify for the Census. So that left the other side. HER side.

I’d shied away from everything and anything that reminded me of either my mother or my aunt, and then decided FUCK IT (and, oh, if you didn’t see that coming, I’m utterly disappointed in you.)

I decided to learn the language, re-learn the culture, discover myself.

I’d been a casual learner, Even when I went to Ukraine, I wasn’t anywhere near fluent despite all the lessons.

I’d kept up the lessons when we got back from Lviv, but then we moved to Florida and everything went arse over tits.

Now, at my temp job, I’m surrounded by Spanish speaking people. Instead of making me want to learn Spanish (God, I hate that language. I took Latin and French so I didn’t have to take Spanish.), I’ve been inspired to re-focus on Ukrainian.

And now, it’s fucking Easter.

The last time I spent Easter with a family member (Ukrainian or not), was the year we went to LL Bean to buy kayaks. A certain family member called me, yelled at me for not going to church like a good Ukie, and then asked me to come to Easter dinner. Blocking that phone number was one of the best things I ever did.

But, I digress.

Again.

A few months ago, I got a weird Facebook “call” from my youngest cousin. Shocked that she’d reach out to me, I assumed the worst. Nah. Nothing that exciting. But before I knew it I was FB friends with her, her sister, and my godfather’s daughter.

All of whom are the children of Ukrainians.

My cousins have been slaughtering the Ukrainian language lately in their excitement to celebrate the coming of the Easter Bunny. I fucking hate when Ukrainian is transliterated. I hate it more when it’s transliterated and spelt incorrectly. If you’re going to use the language, use it.

Fuck, half the time, they don’t even know they’re actually speaking fucking Polish.

Not that there’s anything wrong with Polish, mind. My grandparents spoke both interchangeably, but at least I can tell the difference between the two.

OK. Rant over. I’m going to go watch a stupid horror movie and continue reading this amazing Scorbus fan fic. It actually makes the events of Cursed Child almost acceptable. Like if this chick had written CC? Oh, it would have been a beautiful addition to the canon instead of the trainwreck the actual CC was…

Run, Magic, Run!


March 28, 2020 :: 10:55 AM

Racery. In a nutshell

It’s time for Battle of the Fandoms IV!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(The battlecasts are the best part, tbh. Where else can you get quality commentary and awesome Facebook translations?)

This time I’m on Run Magic Run. (Reads completely different with the commas, doesn’t it? English is amazing.) It’s a Labyrinth themed team. My other choice was Hamilton (Talk Less, Run More), but at the last minute decided to give up my place on the team to someone else.

I think I’ve talked about my love-hate relationship with Bowie before, but here, around the the 28th anniversary of my mother’s death and the accompanying reminder of the restraining order from my aunt, it might be time for a retelling…

If any of her family is reading this, well, I can promise you that you don’t know the whole truth about your sainted godmother or mother. I could bitch about my aunt all day, but I only want to talk about Bowie. (And maybe his enormous goblin.)

Where do I start?

My aunt was always there for me when I was growing up. Her house was an oasis, a place of safety in the maelstrom that was life with my mother. It was, honestly, my favourite place to be.

She had three kids, a boy and two girls. The boy, forever in my heart as Inky, is also forever four years old. In a weird quirk of life, I am 7 years older than the middle child and 14 years older than the youngest. Middle child and I, I thought, always got along pretty well. In some ways, she was more like a younger sister than a cousin.

But I digress.

Home. Safety. There for me. All things that were important when I was growing up. All things I was desperately in need of, despite my father’s best efforts to provide them at our house.

There was always music at her house. ALWAYS.

I grew up with Bowie, the Stones, Mott the Hoople, Led Zeppelin, all the great classic rock. Then, hair metal joined the never ending rotation and I developed a love for Poison, Def Leppard, and strangely, Adam Ant. (I might be one of the few people in the world who knew all the lyrics to his albums.)

But Bowie and Mick Jagger… those were her men. They were almost always on repeat when the radio wasn’t on.

As much as I loved the Stones, it was Bowie that I really connected with.

Maybe it was his shifting personas. Maybe it was the two coloured eyes (which aren’t actually two different colours, by the way). Whatever it was, when I was at home, I devoured everything I could get my hands on. Let me remind you, back in the 80s and 90s it wasn’t nearly as easy as it is now. I had to save my allowance, get a ride to a record store, find something I didn’t already own. Now, if I’m craving a particular song, I drop two bucks, get points on my credit card, and move on with my life.

My parents were officially divorced, I think on March 13th, and then my mother died on March 18th. My aunt got something like 90 percent of the estate… none of which my mother rightfully had any claim to since she never worked. (That comment the other day about leaving nothing in death is an actual line in her will and I read it in a fucking book someone gave me. Fuck public records.That book was supposed to bring me peace after my father died and I ended up ripping it in pieces and setting it on fire. I also hired a lawyer to send a strongly worded letter, but that’s another story.)

My father had to take my aunt to court for a share of the estate - CT state law said that as a minor I was due a portion - and I got $2K. Nothing compared to the thousands she walked away with. I found out later that she also managed to get the other 10% from the other person named in the will…

And then there was the restraining order.

Have you ever been served?

It is a fucking amazing experience.

I highly recommend it.

As her story goes, she was being overwhelmed with the amount of mail my father was sending to her and she asked her attorney to ask my dad if he would send that stuff directly to the lawyer handling the estate. The lawyer “misunderstood” and well… the rest is history.

She also forgot my birthday that year.

I always made the excuse that it was because my mother’s wake was on the 20th and her funeral the 21st, but FUCK, WOMAN. It would have taken two seconds to wish me a happy birthday. (Then again, five years after my uncle’s death, the grave stone still wasn’t engraved with his information. FIVE YEARS.)

Then there was the time when she blamed Youngest Cousin for playing with the answering machine and deleting all the messages I would leave.

In the end, I don’t know who walked away from who first, but the relationship between us was over.

I mourned it for a long time and I broke up with Bowie. It was too painful to listen to him.

Even today, twenty-ish years later, it’s rare that I listen to his music. I generally do when I’m sad and need to cry. All the pain and confusion of 1992 - today, really, comes pouring out. There are few things that can create a spontaneous crying fit, but I always reach for Bowie at those times.

I rarely play Bowie when I’m happy.

I never forgive and I never forget. Not sure if that’s learned behaviour (thanks, mom!) or just hardwired in my DNA, but I don’t.

Especially when someone fucks me over.

So… what does this have to do with Racery? Why would I pick a movie that heavily features Bowie (and his enormous goblin)?

Because, simply, running when I hate the fucking world is the quickest way to calm me down and make sure that I don’t go manic. Anger is my default mode during mania - and being pissed is normally the way to trigger a visit to that other side of the equation. Mania makes me do and say things I should regret, but since I have no filter even when I’m stable, I normally just shrug it off. Whatever I wouldn’t say to your face (because manners), I’ll happily do when I’m manic.

Rage running. It’s a thing.

With all my IRL races cancelled or postponed, I’ve been slacking. This might be the thing I need to get motivated again.

Thank you, aunt.

I know you come for the scathing commentary on my life and openness about the bipolar, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t include the long awaited commentary on Bowie’s massive goblin.

But first…

OK. On to the scholarly commentary…

Critical analysis of David Bowie’s crotch bulge

Who Is Jareth In Labyrinth (1986) and Why Has He Got a Bulging Penis?

The Dick Debate: “Labyrinth” Edition

And, last but not least:

Crotch Magic - Tribute to David Bowie’s bulge in Labyrinth (link in case video breaks - bonus points for use of the words wang and dong.)

Hands… (not) touching hands….


March 24, 2020 :: 8:28 PM

lack of races equals lack of motivation

I had a really bad birthday week.

Like top three worst birthdays.

Considering that birthday #1 was the year my mother died and birthday #2 was the year after my father died, to crack the top three you know shit had to be bad.

A 10K, a half marathon, another 10K, and Rival Run were all cancelled within a few days of each other.

Universal was shut down.

People who should have wished me a happy birthday disappeared.

No special birthday meals.

No birthday cake.

A whole lot of nothing.

And yes, I am perfectly aware that this is a minor issue compared to some people’s lives during our new reality, but… I’m bipolar. This sort of situation will create a very dangerous low. When it swings the other way, it will be a very dangerous high. I purposely make a big deal out of my birthday for a reason. In order to survive, my birthday has to be surrounded by fun and I need to be distracted. Those are the rules. I don’t make them.

So.

Let’s talk about that low.

I had (rather foolishly) thought that all the shit I went through after getting fired was as bad as it could be. As depressed as I could possibly get.

Ooooooooh, how I wish I had remembered Birthday Depression.

Holy fuck, I didn’t think I’d ever see the sunshine again.

As it is, it’s still dark and cloudy as fuck, but there’s light on the horizon.

 

- - - - - - - - - -

My mother and I had a (thankfully) short yet ridiculously complicated relationship.

She died two days before I turned 17. She was 45.

I, myself, just turned 45.

That alone is a huge mind fuck. I know I’m not an alcoholic and that I won’t die from the same thing she did, but… when your time is up, it’s up. My only question is whether or not there’s another ticking time bomb in my DNA. I mean, she already gave me bipolar, and a family with a history or heart disease. (Thank you for the SVT, mom… and possibly, the heart murmur, too.)

It’s been twenty eight years.

Twenty eight years of freedom.

Twenty eight years of wondering if I’m going to die at 45, too.

Twenty eight years of living with the fact that “I gave everything in life, I leave nothing in death…” was published IN A FUCKING BOOK.

Twenty eight years of knowing a double life was lived… and that I got the worst of her.

Twenty eight years of conflicting emotions.

Twenty eight years of not forgiving because I earned the right to hate her.

Twenty eight years of not forgetting what she did to me.

Twenty eight years of starting my day singing “Ding dong, the witch is dead.”

Twenty eight years is a lot of life to miss out on, but she didn’t deserve to be in my life and I’m glad she’s gone.

(Did I say we had a complicated relationship? It was… Complicated.)

Truth.


February 28, 2020 :: 1:21 PM

somebody’s been reading my blog…

Dear South Florida,

I gave up everything to move here.

A house I built.

A job that was OK, but I could have had some real longevity at.

Friends.

Music Therapy.

My entire fucking life.

And what happened?

The stress of the move and not really fitting into the Cats’ mold got me fired. It’s a long story and does not end happily.

Then, I went to a company where being a complete asshole was rewarded and wearing a skirt an inch too short got you written up.

Then, I went to a company that is no longer financially viable.

I’ve spent the last two months wondering if there would be enough in the bank to cover payroll. I was even told to start looking by the CFO. She was pretty great and allowed me to interview.

Until Thursday.

I have this little problem: I live near Boca, but work in Fort Lauderdale. 95 is a shit show at any point of the day. For me to interview up north - where I live - meant leaving wicked early. She was cool with that until I needed to take time today in order to interview. I was taking too much time off and not getting my (totally non-existent) work done.

I was given an ultimatum that was basically stop interviewing or resign.

I resigned. I didn’t know what else to do.

It’s easily an hour to get from FTL to Boca / West Palm. That’s if traffic on 95 behaves. (It doesn’t. Doesn’t matter what time.) If I left work at 5, I wouldn’t get there until after 6. Who the fuck wants to hold a job interview at 6? They were all at 3 or 4 PM. I couldn’t get a “decent” time to save my life.

So… yeah.

My inability to assimilate down here is causing me some serious issues with employment.

Can you please help a girl out and let me find a fucking job with a company that doesn’t punish me for being me?

I’d really appreciate it.

Hugs and kisses,

Me

 

The kotyonok and his asshole


December 21, 2019 :: 8:50 AM

it is hard as fuck to slow burn two characters you desperately want together

OK. So. Fun stuff first.

I didn’t win Nano, but the complete re-write of my YOI fan fic is going particularly well.

Telling it from the point of view of a fifteen year old under extreme amounts of pressure has been interesting. My headcanon for him is pretty brutal, but - shockingly - it’s not as bad as I’ve seen in other fics. I’ve given him anger issues, anxiety, everything fifteen year old me experienced long before it had a name. I’m not necessarily making him bipolar, but he’s definitely got issues. I’ve also given him an amazing version of his already pretty awesome grandpa, though. And brought in some of my experiences growing up Ukrainian. A lot of that cultural knowledge has been lost to time - and the swiss cheese my memory has become due to some of my meds - but I’m able to remember enough to google what I need and then find a Russian translation for it.

The biggest issue I’ve had is not digging up the ghosts of my past brushes with undiagnosed mental illness, but instead the fact that Yuri is 15 and Beka is 18. I hate the aged up fics because it feels like Barcelona is just foreplay. The whole side story of Beka meeting him five years prior to the Grand Prix final gets lost when Yuri is suddenly 18 as well. Beka’s a patient man. He’s been waiting FIVE YEARS to spend time with this boy, and instead of it being creepy, it was so well written that you know Otayuri is going to be canon. Later. It’s a slow burn of the slowest type.

I’m not the best with writing slow burns because I’m impatient… but it’s important not to rush this. Granted, the age of consent is low enough in all the concerned countries where it doesn’t matter, but American readers are often squicked out by it. Yuri is considered underaged, which is why he’s aged up by other impatient writers.

It’s challenging to write a young boy who wants everything NOW. Who wants the acceptance of this skater he looks up to. Who actually likes him. Despite the walls he’s built due to his backstory, he really wants Beka in his life. He thinks he loves Beka… On the flip side, Beka’s waited five years. I don’t see any reason why he can’t wait another three. I’ve made it obvious that he has a crush on Yuri, but he has the self-control required to not devour the boy.

It’s been hard, and it’s gone off the rails a few times, (I’ve rewritten one chapter multiple times!) but it’s better for the additional edits.

 

- - - - - - - - - -

OK. Serious stuff now.

Trump’s been impeached.

And he’s not going to pay the price of essentially breaking the law. (Gross simplification. I’m not a political scholar.)

I understand WHY it became a matter of parties. I understand WHY a lot of people say that the Dems wanted to undo the 2016 election.

Hell, I’d been wondering what it would take to impeach him and remove him from office - WHILE HE WAS STILL RUNNING.

He’s an absolutely shitty person and his followers… obviously have no morals. No sense of right and wrong. And his own party condones his shitty behaviour. TWITTER condones his shitty behaviour because his tweets are “important” and “historical”. He’s sexually assaulted women, announced that he could kill someone and people would look the other way, has attacked multiple people for really, what amounts to no good reason. (I mean, John McCain wasn’t necessarily one of my favourite people, but he didn’t deserve to be treated so harshly by Trump.) The reporters, the girl speaking out about the environment…there are so many I can’t list them all. OH! What about wanting to hold the G7 Summit at his PERSONAL property? Emoluments clause, anyone? (Not that that’s the only time foreign officials have visited a Trump property…or that the taxpayers are putting money in his pocket since his visits to Mar-A-Lago are essentially paid for by us.)

And the most mind-boggling bit? The part that drives me up the fucking wall? Trump attacked Greta Thunberg not once but TWICE. His fucking wife who has this anti-bullying campaign, has stayed fucking silent about the fact that her husband, the fucking PRESIDENT, is bullying a SIXTEEN year old girl with Asperger’s. Especially when people think he’s lashing out because she’s Time magazine’s person of the year.

Yeah. That pisses me off.

You have no idea.

I have been hoping and praying that they find a way to remove him from office since day one.

Unfortunately, being a shitty person is not one of the impeachable offences.

He handed the Dems exactly what they needed, but because Trump has visibly pissed the Dems off since day one, it’s definitely caused the impeachment to fall along party lines.

I’m disappointed that the Republicans have decided to protect him at all costs.

I’m disappointed that the Dems can’t figure out how to get a decent candidate in front of the American people… I hate all the front runners, for multiple reasons, some of them - admittedly - not rational.Call it the gut check. I could never verbalise why I hated Clinton and Sanders, either. I just knew I didn’t like them.

I think the impeachment is going to hurt the Dems come this next election and that pisses me off… I wish there were a fair trial coming up instead of this fucking shitshow.

Then again, if I’m going to waste my time on pointless wishes, I might as well wish to go back in time and not move to South Florida. Or I might as well wish for the bipolar behaving itself and not getting fired from my dream job because I had a complete breakdown and couldn’t function. (By the way, I was protected by the EEOC, but they found a loophole. Long story and you’re never going to get the full story here.)

Whatever…

I’m off to binge the Mandalorian… I’m only allowing myself to watch it if I’m on the treadmill. Six episodes at about 30 minutes each is about 3 5Ks or 9 miles at my slower pace. That’s not too bad. I could also make it a game: run full out when Baby Yoda does something adorable or when Mando shows emotion… but then I might be running full out for the 6 episodes. (How the fuck does Pedro Pascal manage to convey so many emotions when you never see his face?!?!?!)

And yes,  I know there are 7, but I’m not allowed to watch it alone and the husband not’s home right now.

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