Friday, March 1, 2013


I’ve been keeping my chin up about this. I’ve been on the sunny side of the street and I’ve been being nice to everyone who deserves being nice to, but oh, sweet Jesus, if you haven’t been nice, I have been the wrath of God and then some. My already vituperative, waspish and extremely verbally-crossing-over-to-the physical side has been sorely tempted. I’ve worked damned hard to not give in. Yeah, I know I'm bipolar. Yeah, I know I have Asperger. I piss most people off, so what. 

I am just so damned tired of being on the verge of crying. Not once in a while. Not just at the sad parts. All the damned time. What the hell is this? I don’t really think that the fact that 3 Blind Mice were running around London during the Restoration is cause for tears, but there you have it. And if I do start crying, Holy Mother of God! My tremors and all of that other bullshit gets worse! What the Hell?

I'm not gonna cry over a bunch of damned blind mice 

Is this some new facet of PD blah blah blah of which I’m unaware, like with the twitching underside of just my tongue, which I still get, or is this part of some other weird condition? I suspect it’s my PD blah blah blah, because I had this briefly when I first manifested overt PD blah blah blah symptoms. But still, how ridic, you know? I like the laughing part better.

Last night I almost busted my spleen over this cat who was working as an Elmo character. I guess he got cranky towards the end of his shift, because he started running around telling people he "worked for John Gotti." The jokers on The Smoking Gun said “today’s episode of Sesame Street is brought to you by the letters “W,” “T,” and “F.” That’s way better than blubbering over 3 Blind Mice.

Who knew Elmo was a made guy in the Gambino family?

Honestly, this PD blah blah blah is like the joke from God. I can understand the losing shit and putting the paper towels in the refrigerator and following myself on my blog, and flinging food around the kitchen. The legal blindness just makes it extra-special. I insist on trying to wear make-up because I look like a walking, talking onion with out it, so I put it on and tend to wander around with some interesting effects. Actually, I put it on between tremors and have always worn it lightly.

My hair is what it’s always been, a mess, so no changes there. Clothes, the same. But for god’s sake the one thing I can’t do is take stuff out of the oven, or put it in if it’s hot. I burnt myself twice in one week on the synovial side of my hand. The carpal side hollered as if it had been burnt. I can deal with all of that, and the weird twitches, tics, pain, ear hooting, sundowning and all of the other crap. I can deal with all of it, but one thing.

I cannot deal with the crying. If it's this pseudobulbar affect I've heard affects people with PD blah blah blah, I'm going to have to learn to deal with it. some how. I hate crying; I couldn’t when I was a kid, because my mother wouldn’t let me. It was a sign of weakness. So, here I am, fighting this stupid fucked-up autonomic response to I know not what and I won’t let myself do it. No wonder I’m bipolar. No wonder I never played well with others. 

No wonder I have no self-esteem and just feel horrible. I realize that that is probably not true, but our minds work with our rotten little demons and tell us this shit and make us feel more unworthy, if such a thing is possible. Trying to work through this is hard. It’s almost a year since I was Baker Acted. I know anniversaries cast their own spells and I’m wondering if a little visit back to the Laughing Academy isn’t in order. But I hate the thought of doing all of that and JC hasn’t been well, either. So, we shall see. I feel better just talking about this; sometimes, that’s all it takes.

Post a Comment