Tag Archives: music

Introducing: The Manic Jukebox! (Psst: Follow THAT Blog!)

Hello, beauties! Gosh golly I’ve missed you so! I hope you’re all still kicking ass and that my absence hasn’t been too unbearable. Anyway, if ya hadn’t noticed, Casual Bedlam has been silent for a little over a year and a half. A lot of that has to do with the fact that I felt it had run its course and, honestly, my posting had become pretty infrequent. Like once a month, if even, infrequent. No bueno. BUT! Exciting news! I started a brand new blog with a brand new twist and I’ve named it The Manic Jukebox! If you’ll pardon the pun, this one’s got a hook (Mmmm…pun…), and it’s about music and bipolar disorder. More specifically, I’m gonna be talking about songs that illuminate the bipolar experience through their artistry and radness. Also, you get to listen to the songs, which is awesome because music is awesome. If this sounds like it might be up your alley, do please come by and give it a follow! My plan is to post approximately every day or every other day. Also, because I read your stuff and I know how awesome you guys are, there’s an option to guest post, and I really hope some of you will consider it. I love hearing from you and I love variety! So, I likely won’t be posting here anymore, but, just in case you’re craving some vintage Bedlam, I will keep this guy up, especially for The Layperson’s Bipolar DictionaryThe Car Analogy, and all the wonderful comments you guys have left during CB’s tenure. So hop on over to the Jukebox! Check out some groovy tunes to go along with my thinky thoughts! Consider a guest post! I cannot wait to hear from you all again, it’s been way too freakin’ long. Let’s jam!

-LB

Advertisements

Smokey Knows

So I don’t have a whole post in me right this sec ’cause I’m working on some other writing thing, but I was listening to Smokey Robinson, my love of whom knows no Earthly bounds, and I got to “The Tracks Of My Tears” and it kinda struck a chord a li’l. So, alright this is a breakup song, but, my dear mood-disordered compatriots: tell me you can’t relate to the lyrics in the first ~60 seconds, almost eerily.

That’s pretty much it. Enjoy!

-LB

Medzzzzzzz…

I had like 3 fucking meltdowns over Christmas weekend which is sorta normal for me but this year was probably worse than previous years ‘n I don’t really wanna talk about it right now, not because I don’t wanna revisit that shit but because I’m sleepy as fuuuuuck…..

My doc and I decided to halve my Welbutrin dose ’cause I think neither of us is 100% sure that I still need it. I tried it a long time ago, pre-bipolar diagnosis as a treatment for depression and that didn’t really work out, obviously (see LBD: antidepressants). Then a couple years ago, while on mood stabilizers, my doc prescribed it again to help me quit smoking because I have like zero willpower and I get upset a lot and it’s super easy for me to rationalize breaking my tobacco fast if I’m really, really, really upset (so, like, often). Welbutrin makes smoking really uncomfortable (I frequently liken it to trying to inhale a large marshmallow I picked out of bag of wet garbage) and also disrupts your brain’s ability to enjoy nicotine so you may as well just be smoking the paper for all the good it’ll do in terms of calming you down.

The other reason we went with Welbutrin is that it’s kind of an upper – not in the same way that speed or even caffeine is, but among its peers, Welbutrin is the most likely to give you a little boost. All my other meds are sedating so the intention was to sort of counteract that problem with more meds (I’ve written about medicating my medication before, but probably not thoroughly enough, remind me to get back to it).

This time around, I don’t think I’ve been prescribed Welbutrin specifically to combat depression, but if it happened to do that, then yay? So last week, my prescription ran out and I was talking to my doctor about it and we thought maybe cutting to dose in half might be fun (ahem: a medically sound choice that is reversible if it happens not to work out). I didn’t start taking the smaller dose until after my Xmas meltdowns because I fucking hate the holidays and I didn’t wanna start experimenting until they were over. Which turned out to be, probably, a really good idea.

This is either day 2 or 3 of the halved dose and I’ve been a fairly drowsy. Which, I mean, is unsurprising considering the drug’s invigorating properties. I suspect I’d feel similarly if I switched from coffee to tea or something – which will never fucking happen, when I die, I wanna be ground up like coffee beans and served, hot or iced, to all my mourners (no I don’t, that’s gross, Laura). 

So, like, I spent the day fucking around with my roommate’s mandolin and working on some poems just for fun, and I think I paid off the balance on my Target card. Like, I got some shit done. I taught myself this song on mando:

Don’t get impressed or anything, it’s not a super complicated song, just a really good song and a fun one to sing and play. But now my fingers hurt ’cause mandolin strings are a little more ouchy than guitar or banjo strings ‘n I’m not really used to them yet. But I did like, at least one or two things today and I didn’t actually have to do anything today, so good for me. Fine.

But it’s me, so I worry a lot about these specters of things that are pretty unlikely, chiefly here: I’ll be sleepy forever. Before my various Christmas freakouts, I had been doing really well. Depakote seems not to have given me the stupids like I worried it would. My moods were pretty even, almost predictable (!!!) and I was feeling good about myself and having all these neat ideas for creative projects which, at this point, I haven’t been neglecting as severely as I usually do when I have good ideas. Good. Cool.

But I wanna take as little medicine as I can get away with and Welbutrin, among my other meds, is the easiest to play around with, so here we are. Slightly less medicated, but markedly more sleepy. This should go away. I mean, if I were taking Welbutrin and nothing else, I’d be about 100% sure the drowsiness would wane after the physical withdrawal was over, but that’s not the case ’cause, like I said, I’m on other meds, 3 others exactly, and they all sometimes make me very tired. More specifically, they shorten my battery life. It’s not that I’m evenly sedated throughout the day, it’s more like I only have energy for one or maybe two activities in a day and I don’t like to stay out late anymore.

So right now it’s a little after 4 p.m. It’s rain-snowing like the goddamned apocalypse outside and I’m legit afraid my power will go out. I’ve run out of shit to do except take a shower which is only necessary because it’s my habit to shower daily, I’m not actually dirty enough right now to warrant bathing. After that, it’s very likely that I’ll get high and watch cartoons or something. Maybe reread my poems a few hundred more times. They are part in Italian and I’m like real stoked on that point. But that’s about it. I don’t have energy for much else. I could:

Clean something, like my desk maybe (nah…)

Investigate the meaning behind the text I just got from my sister which simply reads: “Butt fun?”

Learn more mandolin chords and maybe develop some muscle memory and build tougher calluses

Mulch Arturo more thoroughly (Arturo is my pet blueberry bush. He lives on my patio and should be able to withstand a northern Midwest winter storm but he almost died this summer so I worry about him a lot)

Play some solitaire chess. Gotta stay sharp ‘n whatever.

But I totally won’t do any of these things (except maybe find out what the deal is with “Butt fun?” ’cause there is zero context for that text and it’s fucking funny). I’m probably just gonna return my roommate’s mando to his room, take my evening meds (including the ones I prescribed to myself), move from the office to the couch, watch some Jaclyn Glenn youtube videos, lazily entertain sexual thoughts about this woman who I only know through her Etsy shop but who seems like my kinda people even if I can’t quite see what she looks like or tell how old she is from her tiny picture, and maybe see which of the cats is more amenable to being used as a pillow today ’cause one of them will usually let me do that, but it’s not always the same one. All eminently slothful pursuits.

Anyhowl, getting back to things, I’m gonna give it maybe another 7-10 days of grogginess before I decide if the new Welbutrin dosage is right for me. Like, fingers crossed real hard, I guess, ’cause, like I said, the less medicine I can get by on, the better. In the meantime, jammies ‘n couches ‘n…”Butt fun?”

-LB

Among Others

Would you mind just knowing when I wanna be alone but not alone alone, so like maybe you could hang out in the next room with the door open but I wouldn’t have to tell you to do this, you’d just know it’s what I need right that sec?

Is there any way we can ensure that you’ll say exactly what I need to hear, at the pace and in the tone in which I need to hear it but without my having to instruct you at any point regarding what is the right thing to say because I honestly have no fucking clue?

Can we make arrangements for you to be gone when I’m feeling spontaneously creative and would really like the house to myself so I can make all the noise I want for the purpose of later choosing which noises I like best except I’ll never have to actually ask you to leave?

Can you please refrain from commenting that I seem like I’m feeling better because it places a lot of pressure on me to stay better and I don’t know if I can do that, plus having this conversation has the potential to make me feel un-better, so just like, know not to do that, Ok?

Would it be possible for you not to take, “FUCK YOU, [LOVED ONE], COME CLOSER AND I’LL PUT YOUR GODDAMNED LIGHTS OUT!” personally when I’m having a panic attack, and while we’re on the subject, can you jettison your natural instinct to comfort me physically when I’m freaking out because your well-intentioned hugs feel like burning sandpaper, but I don’t wanna have to recoil when you touch me, so you’ll just not do it?

If possible, can you try not to resent me when I’m in bed at 6 p.m. reading and rereading the same news article for 45 minutes because my brains turned to gutter slush while you’re downstairs both cooking and cleaning up dinner which I probably won’t eat until 4 hours later, and I probably didn’t clean the litter boxes either but you’ll just understand that an apology for this shit may or may not be coming several days later?

Is it alright if we have an implicit understanding that when I say I’m gonna “power down” for the evening it means I’m gonna get stoned and watch episodes of cartoons I’ve seen so many times I can recite them by heart and then fall asleep at 9:15 when my Depakote kicks in ’cause I’m still not totally used to it?

Can I not have to defend my irrational attachment to the 3 saplings that took root in the yard this summer so we can plant them in the spot I picked out and cross the low-hanging power line bridge when we come to it because destroying trees of any size makes me cry?

ch870113-1

Thanks. I love you a lot, though.

-LB

Gift Horse Teeth

I mean, it’s not like I was enjoying being horribly depressed. But I was getting some shit done with it. I started a musical project that was a really fun kind of weird. I’ve been getting bored with this lone woman + acoustic guitar, neo-folk, verse-chorus-verse shit for a while. Out of of ~150 tunes I’ve written over the last decade or so, I’m only unashamed of 3 of them. The banjo was in double C tuning (which probably means nothing to you if you don’t play banjo, but standard tuning for a 5 string banjo is open G – meaning if you just strum it without touching the frets, it plays a G chord, music lesson over). Double C tuning sounds haunting and weird and I wanted to make it sound even more haunting and weird, so I borrowed my husband’s spare bass bow and bowed chords on my banjo. It came out really neat – even neater after I fucked around with it in a mixing program a little. I have cooler toys than you do.

But I’ve been feeling mournful, suicidal-ish, unstable, beaten down by the world, and generally miserable for a while and I hadn’t been writing anything really, not with the enthusiasm I’m used to, anyway. And then finally I started getting my hands dirty again. I worked on a tune structured around strange, multiplying background harmonies, erratic cajon percussion, and lead vocals the devolve into open weeping. This was before I even got my hands on the banjo for that second one, which I approached with a doleful melodic quaver that I really dug. Things were looking up, but not too up. I wanted to make stuff that was grotesque and frightening while still being elegant in its construction. I’ve done odd shit like this for years, collecting objects that are not intended to be used as instruments, and misusing actual instruments to get some bizarre sounds to play around with. These are my Legos. I felt like I’d finally gotten a workable foothold in this area. I had the right mixture of deep sadness and the motivation to sculpt it into a shape I liked. 2 songs in, I felt like I had a fun project on my hands. I didn’t expect to run out of the sad that was fueling this engine.

To my paradoxical dismay, I feel better today. I felt better yesterday too. What the fuck? How can I plumb my abysmal depression for source material if my depression deserts me? Now, look, I recognize that there’s a sophomoric element to my feeling that I need gloom to make gloomy music. I should respect my own talents more than that, right? ‘Cept I don’t. This morning I woke myself up by laughing. I had a dream wherein I put 51 cents into a CoinStar, accidentally received $2.99 in bills and change, and used it to buy a kickass camel that I intended to use as my primary mode of transportation. I woke up and laugh-yelled at my sleepy husband that someone took away my goddamned transportation camel. It was a Bactrian camel too. They’re like the rarest dromedaries on Earth. GIMME BACK MY CAMEL, UNIVERSE. I mean, I know I paid less than $3 for it, but if life offers you a $3 camel, dude, buy the camel. No brainer.

I feel exceptionally spirited today. I’ve been loud and boisterous. Earlier, I hopped up and down like I was jump roping without a jump rope for about 30 seconds (which was weird ’cause there was an actual jumprope a literal foot away from me while I was doing this). Jumping pointlessly and running rather than walking through the house are both things I do when I feel hypomanic. I’m also more affectionate and playful with my husband and I have cool dreams. I slept a couple hours less than usual and my eyes are tired, but nothing else is. I actually expected to feel depressed this morning ’cause I drank the equivalent of like 3 beers last night and I’m almost always depressed the morning after I drink – even a little bit – which is why I basically stopped drinking for the past several months. I hadn’t planned on drinking at all last night but we had some friends over to watch the GOP debate and I made it about 20 minutes before I was like, “Fuck it, I can’t get through this with only water.” So I killed an oversized bottle of 9% beer, which I honestly expected to leave me smashed, but which ended up leaving me mildly buzzed at most. This is not what I’m used to. Normally, I feel hypomanic when I’m intoxicated and then really depressed once I sober up/wake up (which is why I all but quit drinking since I’ve been depressed). Why am I feeling this feeling I’m feeling?

Re: the musical project I started: what made me feel really good about it was that I felt like I could capture my depression in all its bald-faced, gargoyled glory. I want(ed) whoever would end up listening to it to feel as uncomfortable as I’d been feeling. I wanted it to be difficult and disquieting, both in content and presentation. What now? Things that are beautiful aren’t always pretty was one of the things I was trying to communicate. I dunno. Maybe when it comes to songwriting and musicianship in general, my reach exceeds my grasp. And, comically enough, it’s when I feel better that I wanna quit.

There’s a lot of cool literature, ranging from the highly accessible to the impregnably academic that examines the well-established the relationship between bipolar disorder and creativity. But I don’t wanna be the plaything of my moods (…duh). It’s really fucking hard to get shit done like that. The proverbial acreage of my abandoned project graveyard is measurable in light years (as is my capacity for hyperbole, apparently). I don’t want to keep shedding good ideas all over the place because I feel like I’ve temporarily misplaced the tools I’d been using to craft them – not out of carelessness, but because my furniture got rearranged. By me, I guess, but as if I were sleepwalking.

So I really don’t know quite what to do here. But I don’t appreciate the intrusiveness of this sudden uptick in mood and energy. I mean, I guess that’s something we all struggle with. It’s kind of the nature of the disease. I wanna say that the upside is that if I am becoming hypomanic, it means I’m likely to crash into another depression at some point, maybe soon. I guess it’s the part of me that views that likelihood as a potentially good thing that disturbs me a little. As it should. I mean, as I said first thing, I wasn’t enjoying my depression. But I found a way to make it useful right as it started to evaporate.

Just wait. Tomorrow this’ll all be different. And different the day after that. I’ve had issues with rapid cycling before, but this feels more like firing dozens of ping pong balls out of a t-shirt cannon. I have a pretty hard time keeping up, as anyone probably might. It’s an oddly flavored frustration. I do so wish my mental illness would start using a calendar.

-LB

YES, I Hear You Knocking, Geez!

I usta do blow a lot. And pain pills. And obviously I drank a shit ton. I got drunk for the first time when I was 15 and my best friend and I did that thing where we each told our parents that we were sleeping over at the other’s house so we could stay out all night. We went to a party with these dudes. One of them offered to make me a drink and I said Ok but I didn’t know what kind of alcohol I was supposed to be drinking so I was like…um vodka? And he assessed that I hadn’t really had to make this kind of decision before so he suggested a rum and Coke instead (PSA: Never do this. Seriously. If I had a dollar for every friend who’d been drugged by a guy who made her a drink, I’d have 3 more dollars than I’d EVER WANT. Make your own drink and hang onto it).

So I had a couple rum and Cokes and I started to feel pretty euphoric. This older girl asked me if I wanted to make out and I was like, “Hell yeah I do!” I had a blast, crashed on some guy’s couch and woke up at the crack of dawn the next morning so my friend and I could go home and each make up a lie about how we felt sick so we wanted to go back to our own house and cut the slumber party short.

But I felt initiated or something. I had – along with many of my friends – been against drinking since the start of high school. I always boasted that I didn’t need booze to have fun…which was probably because I was already having a shitload of fun with sexual experimentation in various parents’ basements every weekend. I guess I changed my tune or something. But after that night, I wanted to recapture the jollies I got knocking back sugary rum drinks and acting lasciviously toward anyone within grabbing distance. I’m a charming drunk. Most of the time…

I really, really hate to espouse the “gateway drug” model of behavior I was warned about in Jr. High because I think it sends a confusing message. I also think it sets up a no-going-back kind of construct that damns adolescent stupidity as irreversibly damaging, and demarcates the do’s and the do not’s within your larger social sphere and kids are not nice about that shit. But more on that and my other anti-D.A.R.E.-type rants for another day. There are better ways.

AHEM: So I felt like I’d found something in alcohol. I’ve mentioned this before, but alcohol tends to affect bipolar people somewhat differently than non-bipolar people. It makes us slightly manic. That euphoria I felt after my first rum and Coke was probably fairly exaggerated compared to my friend’s. She teased me about how crazy I acted that night even though she’d been drinking too. Booze made her relaxed and more social. It made me impulsive and HIGH.

A few months ago, over dinner, my friend Conor and I had a brief conversation about how we don’t think we know any other people with bipolar who have zero substance abuse in their past (or, in some cases, present). The general conclusion was that, when you’re young, usually before diagnosis, you know there’s something different about you. Among your peers, you wonder why they seem more comfortable in their own skin than you do. They seem more relaxed. They seem like people and you feel alien (let’s just ignore the reality that most teenagers feel self-conscious at some point…or many points). So you turn to intoxicants to try to erase those parts of your brain that make you feel like a total fucking weirdo whose weirdness is visible from the goddamned moon. It’s not just about fitting in with your peers, it’s about fitting in with yourself – or at least the version of yourself that’s happy, comfortable and fun. When you’re drunk and when you’re high, you, somewhat paradoxically, feel more sane.

So after booze, I thought I’d try weed. I like(d) it. Then I gave ‘shrooms a shot. That was fun as hell. I got into my parents’ medicine cabinet and found Vicodin and codeine. My friends stopped there. I did not. After a really bad fight with one of my best friends – the teenage kind that brandishes the gravity of a thousand suns – my sister came home to find me in tears. She had some cocaine. I thought it would make me feel better, so we did some. I did feel better. We stayed up really late talking and I felt like my pilot light had been lit. I went to school the next day with the residual high you feel after having done something bad that you need to keep secret. I knew my friends would be really pissed at me if they knew I was doing blow. I knew they’d try to make me stop. I didn’t wanna stop. After about 3 months on this merry-go-round, I came home from a party one night after having killed well over a gram of coke, a bunch of beer and some weed. I hadn’t eaten in like a day and half and I crashed really hard. I was sweating bullets and shaking and crying and frantically tapping my feet and my fingers because sitting still at that moment SUCKED. One of my feet started to swell. My sister almost woke my parents to take me to the hospital, but after a few harrowing hours, I fell asleep. After that, I decided to back off on the blow. I did it a few more times over the subsequent years, but very sporadically and eventually not at all ’cause my sister and I promised each other we were done with that shit.

I tried out some other drugs over the years and I had kind of a rocky relationship with alcohol up until maybe a year ago. But I think I chased drugs the way I did ’cause I wanted to feel like my best self and I didn’t believe I was capable of feeling that way on my own. So I sorta wonder sometimes: are we destined for this shit? Is there a shred if inevitability in people with bipolar regarding substance abuse? It seems pretty plain to me that, on the whole, we’re a group given to self-medication, especially in the absence of prescribed medication and definitely pre-diagnosis. We don’t wanna feel like oddballs unless we’re the glorious oddballs of our own design.

I guess the obvious followup here is: how do we prevent this kind of shit from happening? I guess I don’t really know. I got pretty lucky and the damage I caused to myself and the people around me was fairly minimal, but I know a lot of people who can’t say that (because some of them are dead). So, I won’t lie, I did have a lot of fun when I was younger. I wouldn’t repeat any of those actions today, but I don’t regret them ’cause at least I learned something, right?

Oh, and I guess an appropriate note: don’t do cocaine. Cokeheads are the MOST BORING PEOPLE ON EARTH. You will think you’re fascinating and special. You’re not. You won’t shut up and HEAVEN HELP YOUR FRIENDS if you get your hands on the tunes at a party ’cause you’re gonna rock out like a total dumbass to this song, and this song is about 5 minutes longer than it needs to be:

I mean, yeah, the intro guitar lick is pretty cool and the drums are solid, but the rest of it is self-indulgent crap (which is basically shorthand for most of the Stones’ catalogue and I WILL argue with you about this, don’t start me up…see what I did there? Spar with me verbally if you dare!).

So that’s one from the trenches. Some of my ugliest memories hang out with some of my shiniest. I guess that’s life, but for us, life is often amplified. I just wanna feel good about myself. So does everyone, probably. And I do feel alright about myself, but getting here was tricky and I’ve still got more work to do. I mean, I’ll always have more work to do. Just maybe more psychotherapy and less coke for the future, y’know?. That’s probably pretty good advice for anyone, bipolar or no.

So, got some war stories you wanna share? Please do in the comments! (I’m allergic to judgment when it comes to this shit, tell me anything.)

-LB

Live! From An Implausible Afterlife!

Yeah, fuck it, I don’t have a fully formed post in me today. But I’ve been missing. Kinda. Sorta. I’m not dead. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m not dead. I posed a hypothetical to a philosophy buddy of mine (never do this) where I asked, What if when we die, we don’t know we’re dead, we just keep on trucking like normal, but, over time, things get incrementally better and better in ways too small to feel implausible, into infinity, each day getting slightly better than the one before but not so much that we legitimately wonder if we’re actually dead and in heaven?

Which is just bananas, let’s be serious. But wouldn’t that be kinda cool? I think so. But not grounded in reason, as are not most (all) conceptions of a human afterlife. Feel welcome to disagree, but, after having given it like a decade of thought, the notion that human consciousness survives the death of the body strikes me as wishful thinking in the best cases and a manipulative threat in the worst (Hell). But I’m an atheist, and I will see your Pascal’s Wager and raise you a Russell’s Teapot every time, up unto the point where doing so is illogical, but that has yet to happen, not to me, at least. When I die, I’ll be dead. Like, I’m pretty sure I’ll be dead after I die. But I can’t prove that so much as ponder it deeply, so I welcome any arguments to the contrary. I like to be proven wrong when I’m wrong, but only when there’s actual proof (see: necessary truth and my further abuse of Wikipedia’s watery philosophy articles today).

ANYway, you can close your textbooks ’cause I mostly came here to tack up the following stray thoughts in a lazy, disorganized manner because I’m fucking depressed and my motivation’s in the can, and words, more words, larger words, showoff words, curse words, edited words, reedited words, precisely selected words, words I don’t mean, words I do mean but not as much as I’m making it seem, words I mean more than I’m making it seem, and then close with a curtsy.

AHEM:

– The Welbutrin dosage increase is fucking with my already fucked appetite and it is SUCH A GODDAMNED PAIN IN THE ASS. I want my protein pills, Bowie. Will supply own helmet. Don’t let me down, dude. I’m hungry.

– I started journaling again. It seemed like a good idea. Plus the journal I bought is really pretty and accommodates my stupid, gigantic handwriting nicely. But the best thing is that it’s intended to be completely private, so I don’t need to edit anything or spellcheck anything and I can write down the things I probably won’t ever say to anyone but which do weigh on me uncomfortably enough. You guys, I’m totally cheating on you.

– I’ve been having panic attacks and then getting mad at my Klonopin for making me feel better – erm…mad at my Klonopin because I sorta need it to make me feel better. Which, I mean, that just further underscores the reality that I probably can’t have a real life without my meds which makes me even more depressed. There are like a dozen reasons why we bipolar folk are hard to medicate. This is one of them, for me anyways.

– I’m pretty busy being a bigger pothead than usual, but I semi-promised my psychiatrist that I’d stop getting stoned so much once I ran out of weed, so it’s gonna be a few minutes.

– My aforementioned stoniness is not helping my aforementioned appetite problem as much as I’d like it to. So, the only logical step here is to smoke more weed? Uh…

– I’ve gotten even better at rationalizing my vices and I was already really good at that. Depression will absolutely do that to you. I feel a twinge. I shouldn’t walk on this leg, I really shouldn’t. I did plenty of standing and walking and bathing and speaking yesterday, better nurse this mystery twinge. I taught my husband how to use the French press. The coffee I’ll badger him into making me will not be as good as if I’d made it myself. Sub-par coffee is the second or third worst thing human beings do to each other, now I’m doubly wounded. Go on without me, just go. I’ll make sure to turn myself periodically to avoid bedsores.

– I recently bought body lotion that’s supposed to smell like a mojito, so it’s probably good that I don’t drive.

– I told my psychiatrist that I’ve been having problems feeling secure in my identity, or that I feel like I jettisoned my identity five or six years ago and have been basically a nobody for several years. She recommended that I read Oliver Sacks ’cause she says that he discusses ideas of personal identity a lot in his work. Anyone wanna back her up on this? I’ve had him recommended to me before but that was when I was still on lithium and couldn’t read very well because of it.

– I wanted to jump rope today. Jump roping is fucking hard. I have to do it for 5 minutes at the beginning of each of my MMA classes, so I thought I’d do it at home some so I wouldn’t tire out so easily in class. I’m not gonna jump rope today. My belly hurts. And I’m sad. And twinge. There’s always tomorrow. Unless I am dead.

Words, curtsy, shut up, bed.

-LB