October 2013

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The story won’t wait. No matter how long I try to put off getting it done, it continues to scream, “Finish me, finish me!” Now, even my husband, my friends, my literary connections, are saying, “Please finish it. We want it to go out into the world.”

O.K. What better time to do all the hard work than now? Week after week of reading hundreds of blogs, commenting, connecting, appreciating. All of it has to stop. At least it must not remain the growing addiction it’s becoming.

I have health problems. And I want to get out of my head. But I don’t drink anymore,nor do I take any drugs other than those prescribed for me, AS prescribed. So I get into other peoples’ heads. And their minds. And their hearts, and their souls. Because they’re a lot like me. When I read some of their blogs, they ARE me. They say what I’ve been wanting to say; what I need to hear. There is a connection like no other. It is a fix.

It’s almost impossible to explain – this connection I have with many people whom I’ve never met and probably will never meet in person, yet know so intimately. It’s complicated, yet it’s so simple. They know. And I know. Our brains work (or don’t work) in a very similar manner. We have complicated emotions. Some say we feel more intensely than what they call “Normal”. But we know that normal doesn’t exist. And with the way things are, here in The United States of America, and all over the world, it’s a concept that’s beginning to catch on.

We have this thing between us. It comes from our keyboards, goes out into cyberspace, then, at any given moment, one of us clicks and the magic begins. We’re out of our minds and into the mind of someone else who deals with many of the things we deal with, every day, hour by hour, minute by minute, moment by moment.

But the story has to be finished. I have to let go and finish it. Two more drafts and I’m done. The outline, the sample chapter. The person who gave me the money to buy this mac a year ago, is waiting to hand it over to the publisher. And here I am, stuck in another addiction.

So, it’s down to this. I can’t spend almost every waking hour in the place I feel most understood. I have to reel myself in. I’m feeling better health wise. And even though my recovery isn’t over, the story won’t wait anymore. It won’t wait.

It has to be finished. I have to go back to work.


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Does anyone know the Robert Louis Stevenson poem, “My Bed is My Boat”. I went to bed with ‘A Child’s Garden of Verses”, from the ages of seven through nine. It wasn’t a collector’s edition, but it had really great illustrations. They were done in an abstract style, and became the backdrop of my dreams. Still to this day, those lovely pictures sometimes come to life and carry me in my dreams to a place that’s become a part of me. The little girl me.

That’s the “Me” that has come out on the boat today. I call my bed my boat. Especially when the wind from the Pacific blows through the cypress and pines so hard, it makes the walls creak, like what I’d imagine The Bounty feels like. Really. It must have been the Loma Prieta earthquake that shook this place so hard, it left its mark deep inside the frame.

When I’m sick, my bed becomes the boat that carries me through waking and sleeping, through fever and lightheadedness, depression and fear and eventually, to hope and strength.

I took out the small TV in my bedroom a year ago because I wanted it to be a place for rest. But I seem to have replaced it with the computer screen from which I’m typing these words!

It’s been about two months since I remember a dream. I usually tell whatever I can remember about my dream to my husband in the morning. Sometimes, I feel like Dorothy, in “The Wizard of Oz”, when she’s finally back in her bed, in Kansas, and she’s trying to tell Auntie Em et al, where she went and what happened.

Now that I’m older, I daydream a lot. I call up memories of my youth. My high school reunion (class of ’68) was about two weeks ago, back in New England, where I was born and raised, until I married at a very tender age (19) and came to California.

Maybe I daydream more now than I used to because my 95 year old father calls me every day, from the Veteran’s Home, in Napa. His mind is pretty good, but his memory is finally faltering. He has a photo on his wall, in his room ,that my daughter’s father took of her when she was about 15 months old, and Dad thinks that it’s me. I’ve failed at making him understand that it’s not me. Why do I care? I guess that’s because he didn’t have a relationship with his two lovely granddaughters. Until we moved him out here, to live with us, until he needed assisted care, he only saw his grandchildren four times. Four times in thirty-five years. And he wonders why they don’t call or visit him.

Why am I writing about my father? Probably because, at this time of the day, he calls.

Sometimes I wonder how I got to where I am. Here, in my bed. I’m not finished with this. It’s just the medication is starting to come on.

Love to You!

My Goal

Through blogging, I want to share my story, life experiences & give hope to others struggling with mental health issues & the stigma that goes with it.

Although diagnosed late in life, and with many challenges through the years, I'm finally living life fully and gratefully, with my grandchild, family & friends! I hope to make some new friends here.


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Feeling suicidal? Please dial 911 or contact the following:

National Suicide Prevention Hotline toll free:
1-800-SUICIDE (784-2433)
1-800-273-TALK (8255)

Veteran's Suicide Prevention Hotline:

International Association for Suicide Prevention (IASP)
National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI)
National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH)
Psych Central
Mayo Clinic
Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance


Information presented on this blog is not a substitution for professional medical care and a treatment program. If you or a loved one has bipolar disorder or any other mental illness or mental health issue, please immediately seek the services and advise of a medical doctor for accurate diagnosis and treatment.