Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Let There Be Board Games Everywhere


Sunday, December 22, 2013

Oh What a Day! Oh What a Rant!

We are hanging by a thread here.  Today was hell.  A Knockdown Drag-Out with my Parents plus added Holiday Stress is taking its toll.  How do I know?  Well, A.) I want to sit and bawl and B.) I flip from wanting to yell at He Who Must Not Be Named to wanting to talk to Him.  Of course, neither option is particularly helpful.   Let's be honest, why am I reacting this way?  Because its my fall back response, she says in a knowing tone. In times of stress I idealize his Sad Sack Life.  But let's lay all the cards on the table now: He's a dating (if that is what you can call it because my friends call it something else entirely) a Pseudo-Intellectual who resembles (if you will allow me to draw a picture) one of the Dancing Hippos from Fantasia but who is generally much less attractive and, on the whole, much more vulgar and crass. So what have I been pining for?: He's a washed up Forty Three Year old living in Central Indiana, working at a Pathetic Little College, and Who has Generally Failed at Life.  (No seriously, He went to an Ivy League University, and somehow landed here)  Combine this with his general lack of communication skills, seeming inability to form normal relationships, and what have you got?: The man I idolized.   Oh, how I would cry.  My brother reminds me that attachment was born out of extreme illness...and without the illness, perhaps, there would have never been an attachment.

Friday, December 20, 2013

Suburbia: Board Games and Problems

One of the hard things about cutting someone out of your life are the things you initially picked up because of him or her.  For me that "thing" was board games.  And perhaps because I am bipolar being left with something I am unwilling to give up is a problem.  You see, I've purged my apartment and my life of things that reminded me of He Who Shall Not Be Named.  A sweet thank you note and all my pottery went flying into the dumpster months ago.  Job well done...except those damned boardgames.  I first picked up only because he liked them.  I wanted to see if I could find them palatable.  What I did not expect was the smorgasbord of goodness I soon discovered.  I went on a gaming binge.  Since then I have picked up a quite a few games that His Nastiness had never played and, as far as I am concerned, I hope he never does.  Those are MY Games now and I've put my stamp on them....because I am Mature that way.  In all seriousness though, it remains a mental problem for me.  It shouldn't but it does.  Of course, it won't really get in the way of my gaming...my next purchase: Suburbia!!  Woo Hoo!

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Trains...One More Purchase

Twas the week before Christmas, and all through the house every creature was playing boardgames even the resident mouse.  When what to my wondering eyes did appear but a Comic Quest Game store (with a copy of Trains) beckoning that Christmas was finally here.  I snatched up the board game quick as a flash, then drove straight home to tear off the wrapper and gaze at my game stash.   Quarriors, Kingdom Builder, Ascension, Lord's of Water Deep, Netrunner, now Trains, a nifty game (with a deck building mechanic similar to Dominion combined with a train game) that He had never played.  Picked out on my own, not Ticket to Ride because He suggested that game I declined.  Instead, I choose my own games and remembered that Christmas meant something long before I loved Him.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

I Woke Up

Last night, I dreamed he apologized.  Then I woke up.

Kingdom Builder

I lied.  I bought Kingdom Builder instead, but, in my defense, the lady at Griffon Bookstore kept pressuring me to buy Trains and it pissed me off.

Saturday, December 14, 2013

Trains: Shut Up and Sit Down

Recently, My brother introduced me to Shut Up and Sit Down, and since then I've fallen in love with their videos and podcasts.  What's more these two board gaming aficionados have inspired my next gaming purchase: Trains (because Ticket to Ride just ain't my thing)

A Pinot Noir

So...I have been a little upset lately.  Just a little bit, you know.  My brother says I made He Who Must Not Be Named into an Idol.  That I let Him embody everything I wanted Him to be and lost sight of who He really is.  I think my brother is right.  Truthfully, the days I want to wake up and break my silence, I imagine Him as adorable, wonderful, and just misunderstood.  I start thinking that somehow if He was just provided the right type of affection He'd be great, like a fine pinot noir (watch the movie SIDEWAYS and you'll get that reference).  But the hard reality is He was a dick.  He hurt me when I was incredibly ill and didn't give a shit afterwards.  Not to mention, once someone has reached their forties its unlikely their poor communication skills and selfish/self loathing tendencies will magically disappear through the power of love.  A pinot noir is an amazing wine but eventually it peaks and from then on out its a downward progression.  There is no way around that, but it still hurts.  Thus, in hopes of lifting my mood, I purchased a new dice building game which I like, and have decided to force all my classes play Age of Empires III as a teaching tool...now I am considering buying King of Tokyo and a bottle of wine.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

The Great Dalmuti

Tonight, my brother and I trekked through the South Bend snow to Griffon Bookstore in order to purchase a new game.  It's my birthday, after all.  As I was browsing the establishment's rather large inventory, my sibling suggested I buy The Great Dalmuti to my total and utter horror.  I stared at him for a minute and then explained:

"I bought that game already and mailed it to an ungrateful bastard who couldn't be bothered to thank me for it but did update his boardgame website to say he now owns.  I'm afraid this particular game now comes with a few negative connotations for me so I'd rather not purchase it."

Yes, that right.  He Who Must Not Be Named willingly kept the game I sent him but never said thank you. Is he some sort of Mindless Amoeba that just sucks up gifts?  I dunno.  He kept it, obviously.  Seriously, the Man is definitely Socially Awkward but that isn't what I hold against Him.  Nope, its that he's Fucking Asshole.  Social Awkwardness I find endearing on some level.  Being an Ass-Wipe is a whole other story.  Also, for the record, I told HIM about a Few Acres of Snow (cool-ass game in which the two players fight the French and Indian War) and his gaming vocabulary suggests he's amassed a large quantity of information but never fully digested any of it.  In other words, he's a poser.  The Great Dalumti my Ass!

My Birthday to Me

Guess what?  It my birthday.  Yep!  And the funny thing is I'm kinda excited.  Why, you ask?  Well, my last two birthdays were rough going, to say the least.  I spent one gasping and sobbing into a pillow, and the other a nervous wreck, but this year is different.  I won't say I'm perfectly content but I am a lot happier than I was a year ago.  I don't check my email four hundred times a day.  I don't ache the way I did before.  I didn't send someone a Christmas present who couldn't bother to wish me a happy birthday.  Nope, this year I got a few things right.  So here's to me.

Friday, December 6, 2013

Run Run Rudolph.

Yours Truly is fighting the urge to Run.  For whatever reason, I cannot stand being in South Bend at the moment.  And the Christmas decorations hanging here, there, and everywhere are not helping.  Truth: I am having trouble with alone time.  When I'm with friends I forget about the hurts and worries, but on my own all the troubles come flooding back.  That unpleasant sensation makes its difficult to breathe.  Thus, the urge to pack up my car and hit the road is overwhelming.  But I can't.  I have responsibilities that require me to be in here...so I guess, for now, I'll clean the house and pretend I'm okay. 

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Tuesday, December 3, 2013


"Some hustle for respect.  Some hustle for love.  Some hustle for truth.  But we all hustle to survive." It's been a good day, full of fun, friends, and Christmas shopping...so why am I falling apart now that I am home?  Why did I look at his weblog?  Why do I care? I dunno..."he isn't necessarily in what you can call good shape."  I'm tired.  Maybe its time for bed.  As a side note, AMERICAN HUSTLE is gonna be awesome, Guys.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

White Blank Page

A White Blank Page and its Swelling with Rage
You did not think when you Sent me to the Brink
You desired my Attention but denied my Affection

Monday, November 25, 2013

Throne of Lies

Just as a Side Note, I would like the World to Know I cannot watch Elf now without Crying due to Him.  And I LIKE Elf.  To He Who Must Not Be Named: You Sit On a Throne of Lies!

Holidays and Hurting

I'm home for the Holiday, and, I'll admit, being surrounded by Family and Friends is keeping me distracted from the idea of Him, so much so, that I wish that Thanksgiving lasted longer.  There's last minute Grocery Shopping, Recipe Planning, Movies to Rent and Go See (more specifically, Catching Fire and Thor), and Black Friday Shopping.  I'm mailing off one Christmas present to Paris and hand delivering a few others this week.  I couldn't ask for more distraction.  Yet, amidst the business and fun, I still feel a twinge around my Heart.  I still hurt.  I still want Him to Care.  And I wonder: "When will this finally wear off?"  Then I remind myself: I don't fall for men often, but when I do, its an ordeal.  This too shall pass.  At least I'm not aching to wish Him a Happy Thanksgiving this year.  Nope.  That man is running a budge surplus when it comes to me, compliments, and basic civility.  I don't feel the need to say a single fucking word.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

Melting Down and the Meaning of Ladylike

I am officially having some sort of meltdown.  Every-fucking-time I play Christmas music I promptly burst into tears mourning,  I suppose, whatever is left of my existence. But here's the thing, Guys, I have got to gain control over my little waterworks display, pronto!  I cannot walk around like a psycho.  No one will get it.  Thus, in hopes of feeling better, I got up this morning, dressed like a person, deftly applied some makeup to hide the puffy spots around my eyes, and headed out into the world.  Now, I'm attempting to write a blog post.  

I thought about posting my Top Ten Meanest Thoughts About Him EVER...but that seemed unladylike, not to mention cruel.  Also, as a short diversion: To all you bitches throwing a fit over the word "ladylike" right now, get the fuck over yourself.  You like the men in your life to be something of a "Gentleman" right?  I'm not talking paternalism and you goddamn know it.  But you'd like them to give a fuck, don't you?  Well, apply the rule to yourself and get over your teenage angst.  Anyway, writing petty things seemed like a bad idea so I just outlined my day in rambling form.  What do you think?...  Well, I didn't like writing it so I don't know why you're surprised you didn't enjoy reading it!  Go Fuck Yourself!

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Mood Tracker 101

So a friend of mine suggested I keep a journal to track my mood and, as an appeasement to her, the following is my effort to do so.  Tonight, I am somewhere between this two gifs.  That's right.  In terms of outlook, I am swinging bipolar style between hollering an angry, semi-suicidal threat in his general direction (not really gonna do that because I do have a little bit of self respect left.  Let's be honest, if and when I kill myself there will be note so it all comes out in the wash, really) and simply drinking myself under the table.  Four Roses anyone?

Raggedy Edge

"She's torn up plenty, but she'll fly true."  I need to run away, into the black.  I can feel it in my bones.  Running is my MO, Guys.  When life becomes unbearable, I tear out in the night.  Because, here's the deal, I can't, no matter how hard I try, fix the things that hurt, and, right now, that hurt is threatening to consume me.  And you know what's stupid?  Everyday, I still wait for an email from Him.  I dunno why.  But somewhere in the back of my mind and the recesses of my heart, I want that to happen.  I want him to care.  That's the irrational part of me.  The part of me that still believes in rainbows and happy endings.  The part needs to die.  There are no fucking rainbows and no happy endings, and he doesn't give a shit about me.  All I ever was to him was extra attention.  That hurts to say because I adored him...and probably still do on a lot of levels, but its the truth.  "So here's us, on the raggedy edge.  Don't push me and I won't push you."

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Horrible Isn't It?

Have you ever been in love?  Horrible isn't it?  It makes you so vulnerable.  It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.  You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life.... You give them a piece of you.  They didn't ask for it.  They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore.  Love takes hostages.  It gets inside you.  It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart.  It hurts.  Not just in the imagination.  Not just in the mind.  It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain.  I hate love.  ~Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 9: The Kindly Ones: (I still hurt, Guys...this is Holiday Season number 3 and I still hurt.  Life's not fair.)

Monday, November 18, 2013

Orgams and Paula Deen

I'm still sad. Take yesterday's upset, double it, and you have today.  Ho Hum.  Double Ho.  Double Hum.  In an effort to distract myself, I've been watching Food Network and listening to Christmas music, well The Nightmare Before Christmas to be more precise.  However something important happened while watching the former. Wait for it...Tonight's Realization: I want BE Paula Dean minus the Racism.  Yes, Guys, she's a terrible racist and I cannot abide that, BUT (Woah!! Back off.  Give the lady some space and...Hear...Me...Out!) everything else about Paula is fabulous.  Her big hair.  Dramatic Makeup.  Southern Manners (again minus the racism)  Thanksgiving Dishes Full of Sugar and Butter.  The fact that she has an orgasm each and every time she tastes her own food.  Paula makes me want to wear false eyelashes (which is horrifying by the way because no part of your face should peel off, but then again, I'm pretty Dean does and she can get away it, or she could until recently) and have food orgasms.  You know how some people ask why all the great guys are gay?  (Obviously, that is not my issue at the moment. He just doesn't give a shit).  My question: Why are so many of the Great Southern Ladies so damn racist?

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Small Pink Pills

I was looking for a pic to go along with my night and ran across this.  Something about all those tiny pills of Xanax scares me.  I can't really explain it, except to say, sometimes it feels like I have no control over my life.  Its as though my existence has dwindled down to taking small pink pills to dull the pain.  And I wonder...is it worth it anymore?

Boardgame Geek and Fish in the Sea

Okay, its just a bad day.  That's it.  Its not like I snuck online, looked at his BoardGame Geeks Site, read a couple of his comments, and burst into tears...  Okay, I did.   My best friend keeps reminding me there are plenty of other Nerdy Fish in the sea.  But, despite the hurt, I still want MY Nerdy Fish.  The one I picked out all on my own.  Everything Hurts.   And why does He still seem like the best Fish?  Why can reading a couple of his comments reduce me to tears?  I hate everything...so I'm going to do the dishes.  Though he once told me doing the dishes is relaxing...esp. if you listen to music.  Sob.  Gasp.  This has to be a mood swing.

Miss Him, Dammit!

I want to email Him.  I dunno why.  <Stop asking me to be reasonable when I can't.  God, do you know how hard it is for me to be moderately stable?>  To make matters worse, I cannot get a hold of anyone who will tell me "NO!" in a loud, firm voice that will make me put my computer away.  I don't even know what I want to say.  Nothing earth shattering.  The truth: I still miss hearing from him.  Even now.  Months later.  I almost sent him a blank email. No, I've no clue what that would accomplish.  I think its the cyber equivalent of calling and hanging up.  I miss him today, dammit. 

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Christmas: A Nonnegotiable Social Contract

I love Christmas.  I know.  I know.  Its not Thanksgiving yet, but my Christmas shopping is already well under way.  And its so much fun this year! Much better now that I'm no longer sick.  At first, I thought, "Oh, I might be sad because I cannot shop for Him Who Must Not Be Named," but then I realized I'm not.  He'd just say "Thanks" and not reciprocate like any normal friend would so why should I bother? (Yes, it stung.  Do you know how LONG it takes to knit a scarf?  Not to mention, the financial investment. Yet, he didn't even send a thank you note.  I got an email.  An email, MAN!)  I have plenty of good friends plus family to buy for and they care about me enough to get me something in return.  Its not that I need things but that's just what people do.  As Sheldon would say, its a nonnegotiable social contract.  And the truth is I LOVE shopping for my family and friends.  Thinking about each one's likes and dislikes.  Finding that perfect gift.  I hate to toot my own horn, but I am a fabulous gift giver.  Always have been.  Its the thrill of the chase.  Finding just the right Disney Princess activity books for my goddaughters, the Under Armour hat for my godson, anime for my brother, a graphic novel (on sale!) for his fiancee.  Then there's my best friend who I shop for year round and pick up whatever catches my eye.  So what is the point of my post?  Well, listen, Guys don't be like He Who Shall Not Be Named.  Christmas is a Nonnegotiable Social Contract, whether you enjoy shopping or not, so step up to the plate and spread some cheer.

Friday, November 15, 2013

Out of How Many?: Baccano!

Despite what you might think, that lost blog post took it out of me.  In fact, I cried after I wrote it.  Maybe because it was true.  Maybe because I still hurt.  I dunno.  Why belabor the point more than I already have?  Anyway, after I dried my tears and updated my HuluPlus account I realized Baccano! is now available.  Baccano! <sigh> with its humor and violence will help heal my wounded heart even as I imagine Him reading my post and saying dismissively, like the Vice President: Three Hundred Nineteen Points while I whisper crestfallen: "Out of how many?"  And you won't get that reference unless you watch and, no, I'm not explaining it.

Brave: A Confession

 You can be the outcast or the backlash of somebody's lack of love.  Or you can start speaking up" ~Sara Bareilles  You know what, Guys, I'm not sure I ever said to Him what I wanted to say so here it goes:

I tried so hard to be whatever it was that I thought you wanted, the Ultimate Cool Chick, the Geek Girl, to somehow prove I was good enough for you.  Smart Enough.  Pretty Enough.  Enough of Something. I fell for you when you didn't notice me.  I liked the way you talked to me early on.  When you thought I wasn't paying attention.  You said funny things and got eager and goofy over little stuff.  You said we'd go to Woodford Reserve together.  You lied.  I knew you were insecure and I suspected from your Twitter feed and Facebook you had been very lonely and deeply hurt.  I promised myself I wouldn't cause damage to you if you let me in.  I never thought you'd hurt me the way you did.  Even that very first time when I confessed my feelings you responded in a flippant manner.  "Fair enough," you wrote.  Like I didn't mean anything.  That was the night I broke wide open.  Drove in tears to find my brother, sobbed through pancakes at the Runcible Spoon, and turned up the radio as loud as it would go in hopes of drowning out my thoughts and the pain.  It was my first dissociative episode.  I was so numb.  I fell fast and hard.  And you didn't care.  I dreamed you would.  That you'd find me and make it okay.  I thought, "God, can't he see how hurt I am?"  I think you did see.  It just didn't matter to you.  I let you back in because I was ill and I thought somehow you'd care.  That you'd see that everything fell apart the night you broke me.  But what I learned was that you would never see and never care.  I can speculate as to why, but I'll probably never have those answers.  So tonight I'm being brave and saying: I wanted you more than anyone I have ever known and You hurt me more than anyone ever has.

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Owls and Tornadoes

"I'm an owl on your window sill in the evening," sings Neko Case in "This Tornado Loves You." 

I have waited with a glacier's patience
Smashed every transformer with every trailer
'til nothing was standing
65 miles wide
Still you are nowhere
Still you are nowhere
Nowhere in sight 

Still you are nowhere.  I waited, Guys.  Longer than I should have for Him.  Hoping, praying even, he'd care about me the way I cared about him.  Maybe that's why can't I go home at night.  I'm still crestfallen during those supposedly restful hours.  I night I have time.  Time to think about Him.  Time too mourn.   Time to cry. My days are so full lately, you'd think I'd be tired when night falls but I'm not.  I don't want to go home.  I don't want to sleep.  I'm a Tornado or maybe I an owl, or maybe both at the same time.  Sometimes the owl, sometimes the tornado.  Either way always whirling about.  I don't want to think about him.  It hurts.  I hurt.  The frustrating part is that on a very basic, rational level, I should be fine.  I shouldn't have to avoid the city He resides in.  I shouldn't hurt anymore.  But I've never been that way.  "Its never easy come easy go with owls you know."

Me and the GRE

For the first time in my life, I am studying for the GRE.  Yes, actually, I did take it about six years ago, but I thought it was some sort of aptitude test and, apparently, Notre Dame just didn't get a shit about my scores.  Now, an older and wiser Jenni Nicole realizes she has to study.  The verbal section isn't the problem.  Its math that's a bitch, Folks.  Why would any sane person need to know the shaded in area of a circle inscribed in a square?  What the fuck?   In my defense, I've learned to figure probability problems again, find the volume of a cube, and solve geometric sequence problems.  Really, I've come a long way from the random guesses I was making last week. All I know is until I take this damned test, I hate the GRE and all who support its evil ways.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Why Bother?

Every night, I go home, and I think about ending myself.  You're not suppose to say that but its true and I'm so tired of pretending I'm okay.  During the day, I can keep busy.  Study for the GRE.  Fill out applications.  Write personal statements.  Pretend I believe there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  But, I think, I've given up on lights.  Depression and His Total and Utter rejection stamped it out of me.  I am so dangerously close to wanting nothing now.  Its not about the tears and hysteria.  That passed long ago.  Now, its methodical, rational even.  Why bother?


Facebook is stalking me.  No seriously, due to my painful attachment to Him, I haven't been on Facebook in nearly two years.  Yet, twice a week, every week for two years now, Facebook has sent me emails notifying me of impending updates.  I Goddamn hate you, Facebook.  LEAVE ME ALONE!

Kentucky Bourbon Ale

My new favorite drink.  Just had one on the house at Brothers Bar in South Bend.  Yum!

Hurting Tonight

"I want to be able to look at you, and not feel so hurt by you."  That's what I want, Guys.  I can't fix my life right now, though, I'm doing my darnest to make that happen was well.  But I want to be able to wake up and let him cross my mind without pain tearing through me so deeply I almost gasp.  But I understand the reality.  He will never apologize for hurting me and I'm not about to initiate that conversation so I just gotta drink and wait it out.  And, lets face it, things are getting easier.  I don't cry the way I used to when he and I still talked.  Okay, now who wants to drink with me tonight?

Sleep Be Damned!

I officially have a Xanax hangover.  Its not pretty, Folks, and besides the ugliness of the entire affair, said hangover is frustrating. I have work to do, but all I can think about is sleep.  To add insult upon injury, I've been going to bed early to avoid this problem.  Crawling into beneath my sheets around 9pm, like a seventy year old woman, in hopes of productivity the next day.  The problem is that, lately, I think about sad things all the time.  Hurts I could of mitigated.  Situations I could have handled better.  Hopes that were dashed.  The thoughts become overwhelming so in the evening, at least a couple nights a week, I take my doctor prescribed Xanax so I can turn off and get some much needed rest. But the drug leaves me flat and unproductive...and I'm considering stopping it all together.  Sleep be damned!

Saturday, November 9, 2013

The Nothingness

"Perhaps we find ourselves wanting everything because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing." ~Sylvia Plath Some nights, like tonight, I think I am done with living.  We must exert so much energy to just exist, all the thoughts and feelings that go into one day, one moment.  Its too much.  How can we keep this up?  This constant effort, spinning and toiling and for what?  Is there even a point?  There's Hurt.  Frustration.  Rejection.  But not much in the way of an actual reason for living.  I am so close to wanting nothing now.  And it wasn't a bad day at all.  I'm not hysterical.  In fact, for the most part, it was a lovely time, but when darkness falls, I think of what I want and what I can imagine and the nothingness comes back.


"I have had a manic-depressive illness, also known as a bipolar disorder since I was eighteen years old.  It is an illness that ensures that those who have it will experience a frightening, chaotic, and emotional ride.  It is not a gentle or easy disease." ~Kay Refield Jamison  Discovering, Diagnosing, and Treating my Bipolar Disorder has disrupted every aspect of my life.  As if its not enough that I take four medications every single stinkin' day while attempting to not feel like a "sick" person, I also have to question the legitimacy of my emotions and actions.  Am I feeling confident because I am well or become I am hypomanic?  Do I think of my Him because I still care or am I simply OCD?  Am I scared because my life is falling apart or is the anxiety problems?  I don't know.  I do know I'm terrified that the illness will overshadow who I am..and perhaps afraid the illness is who I've always been.

Vincent Price and Kermit

Friday, November 8, 2013

Isn't Fair

Because being bipolar isn't fair.

Nothing Is the Same: Jamison and Wyatt

He was never going to be the Richard Wyatt to my Kay Redfield Jamison no matter how much I wanted it, and that still hurts, everyday.  His flippant twitter feed and banal blogging serve to remind me that he never cared.  Not even a little.  Certainly not like Kay and Richard.  But who were Wyatt and Jamison, you ask?  Jamison is a renown psychologist known for her work on mood disorders.  Wyatt was an equally brilliant psychiatrist who specialized in schizophrenia and happened to be her husband.  She suffered from an ailment of the mind, bipolar disorder.  He suffered from an ailment of the body, cancer.  Though love, like life, is imperfect, as he told her, theirs was a beautiful union: colleagues, friends, and lovers until Wyatt succumbed to his cancer in 2009.  Now, she writes: Nothing is the same. 

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Right From the Bottle

My day has gone from bad to worse, Folks.  Only one thing left to do: Go home and drink right from the bottle!

Total Mortification!

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Poor on Poor Crime

Dear Criminals,

If you must steal please rob wealthy individuals who own nice things and happen to have renters insurance, like Coach Kelly of Notre Dame.  Case in point, if you're one of the Dudes who cleaned out the Kelly household well, good on ya mate!  But my dear Criminals nothing is more loathsome than robbing the poor.  We members of the poor population:

A.) Don't have nice shit so why are you bothering?

B.) Have no renters insurance so you us left truly in need

C.) We don't live well (and neither do you or why would you be a criminal). Don't make our days worse.

I'm not asking you to stop robbing.  I'm just saying steal where it counts.

Case Nightmare Green

Ruined My Life

I ruined my life.  Fell for the Wrong Guy.  Chose the Wrong Career.  Ended up Jobless and in Debt.  On top of all of that, I found out I am Bipolar.  At my sickest, I was going to kill myself, but I failed at that as well.  There is no point to the is post just like there is no real point to my life.  Guess its time to move on to my next goal: Drinking myself to death.

Little Miss Sunshine: "I Failed at that As Well"

Frank: Well, no.  What happened was: the boy I fell in love with fell in love with another man. Larry Sugarman.

Sheryl: Who's Larry Sugarman?

Frank: Larry Sugarman is perhaps the second most highly regarded Proust scholar in the U.S.

Richard: Who's number one?

Frank: That would be me, Rich.

Olive: So... That's when you tried...

Frank: Well, no.  What happened was: I was a bit upset.  I did some things I shouldn't have done.  Subsequently, I was fired, forced to leave my apartment and move into a hotel...

Olive: Oh... So that's when?

Frank: (Hesitates) Well, no.  Actually, all that was okay.  What happened was two days ago the MacArthur Foundation decided to award a "genius" grant to Larry Sugarman.  And that's when...

Grandpa: You tried to check out early

Frank: Yes, and I failed at that as well.

Monday, November 4, 2013


Houston, we have a problem.  My anxiety is so bad today that I feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest.  We are not okay today.  Nope. nope. nope. nope. nope.

Sunday, November 3, 2013

Bottoms Up

I'm going home to start drinking now.

Bah Humbug

We are having a MELTDOWN.  No seriously a Nuclear Explosion is happening right here in South Bend, Indiana.  I hate EVERYONE.  Okay, maybe I don't. I don't know.  I took my GRE practice test, and while my Verbal Score was respectable, my Quantitative Score (and I should admit I gave up started just picking numbers) left more than a little something to be desired.  I worry I'm not smart enough to succeed and earn an living wage.  The girl who flew in the face of reality and won is long gone.  In her place stands someone who has been burned so many times she resembles a piece of blackened toast.  And I hate him tonight.  I dunno why except when Yours Truly is stressed out I fallback on reminding myself what an incredible Douche-Bag he is.  The Douchiest Douche-Bag that EVER lived.  Yes, that's right.  I said it.   Bah Humbug!

Me and Taylor Swift

Its been a rough week, Folks.  It went something like this: One adviser refused to write me a letter of recommendation and suggested that while I am a "nice person" I probably cannot have a career.  I had a minor breakdown.  Then defended my life choices to the rest of my faculty. And after I finally figured out the Letter Debacle of 2013, I rededicated myself to studying for the GRE which isn't quite as easy as I was led to believe.  At the moment, I'm working on the Quantitative Portion of the Test while mustering all the self-restraint I have in hopes of not murdering three moronic eighteen year-old who keeping exclaiming in high pitched voices that they "Don't want to be friends with Taylor Swift."  Guess what, Bitches.  Taylor Swift probably doesn't want to be with friends with you either and neither do I. 

Saturday, November 2, 2013


Its hailing in South Bend.  Woo hoo.  At least the weather echoes my outlook.  In hopes of making matters worse, I had a sushi roll I can't afford (12 dollars) for lunch.  But who cares.  I'm losing it.  I've no idea what is going to happen to me. None at all.  And, you know, its not that I don't believe in Providence...I do, but, lets face it, Providence rarely follows my best laid plans.  In fact, Providence often seems to ignore my plans all together.  I suppose that's the point though.  My identity is in Christ.  I believe that too but I also know I'm worn out.  That my life seems wrecked beyond repair...my best friend keeps telling me it only feels that way, and she's probably right.  But, at the moment, I'd give anything to know its gonna  be okay.

Friday, November 1, 2013

End it

I'm not sure I have anyone to write me a letter of recommendation.  My current advisers have been less than moved by me since I got sick.  He Who Cannot Be Named won't offer and I can't ask...so here I sit.  I'm pretty sure my life might be over...and I feel ready to end it.

Need a Hug

It's a hard day.  I'm not sure why except that everything is up in the air.  I am finally hypomanic.  Something my psychiatrist has been trying to achieve with my meds for months now.  I still sting over the things that didn't work out: Him, the Degree, My Life.  I need reassurance things are going to be okay.  I need to get out of South Bend.  Or maybe I just need a hug.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Psychology Application

Below you will find my personal statement for my psychology program applications:
One of the things so bad about depression and bipolar disorder is that if you don’t have prior awareness, you don’t have any idea what hit you. ~Kay Refield Jamison
My mind was racing and my palms were sweating as I sat down to take my oral exams at the University of Notre Dame.  I hadn’t really slept in weeks.  Fueled on little but caffeine and an unreal rush of energy, I would later learn was mania, I gripped the table in front of me and tried not to throw up.  I knew everything, had memorized every reference, and took every outlandish studying cliché to heart.  All the facts were floating in front of me just waiting to be plucked from the air.  Now was the moment of truth.  With my mind whirling in a ten different directions, I fought to control myself, listen to the questions being asked, and speak clearly, as speaking slowly was no longer a possibility for me.  For forty-five minutes my committee questioned me about the 19th and 20th century American religious history and for those forty-five minutes I thrived.  Completely un-medicated and unaware I was bipolar, I had no idea the hell the next few years had in store for me.  At that moment, all I knew was that I had become a doctoral candidate.  I had arrived.
            Now, fast forward past a successful dissertation proposal, a flurry of fellowship and grant applications, and a fully funded month in Europe during which I discussed my work at two different international conferences to the beginning of my fifth year.  I was teaching classes at Indiana University South Bend, and dissertating while attending therapy for anxiety issues when I began noticing that I was sleeping ten to fifteen hours at a time.  My therapist, a young psychologist, assured me this was normal, but I knew something was wrong, just not what.  I normally ran on very little sleep and, suddenly, slumber was all I cared about.  By December, my problems had become more serious.  A minor relationship hiccup manifested itself in what I would later learn was a dissociate episode and something close to hysteria.  Combined with the inability to pull myself back together was a complete loss of my once prolific productivity.  It was as if my creativity, my drive, everything that defined me had, like a light switch, been turned off.  By January, I was sitting in the school psychiatrist’s office having scored a 25 out of 26 on a depression inventory.  I was considering suicide, and, if I had been a little healthier and capable of rational thought, I might have wondered where the girl who powered through her exams, proposal, and grant applications had gone.
            For the next year and a half, my psychiatrist saw me on a monthly basis, diagnosed me as bipolar, and found the proper drug regiment to stabilize me.  Slowly at first, and then suddenly, like a breath of fresh air, I returned to myself, and yet, the person who existed prior to the diagnosis had changed.  At first, I fought with the stigma.  “I’m bipolar,” I’d think.  “Something is wrong with the way my brain works.”  Due to the embarrassment and shame I felt, for a time, I hid unwilling to share my experience with others.  Until, finally, in the midst of my self-imposed exile I came the realization my brain chemistry was not a death sentence to my productivity or my ability to contribute as a member of society.  In fact, in some ways, my being bipolar better equipped me to help others.  Because with the diagnosis and proper medications come understanding and empathy.  Psychological principles such as mindfulness and behavioral regulation suddenly took on a new meaning, and I wanted to help others struggling with mental illness which brings me to this application.
            My goal now, at the age of the thirty, is to pursue a life of studying mental illness and applying what I have learned to help others.  In particular my research interests center on how anxiety issues, ruminations, and obsessive thinking intersect with unipolar depression and mood disorders.  If accepted into the clinical psychology program, I will dedicate myself to pursuing the mission of the University of Kentucky’s psychology department.  I will communicate the knowledge of psychology to undergraduates through teaching positions, to scholars through my research, and to my patients through therapy.  I will research and develop new knowledge in the field of psychology in order to better meet the needs of my community, and finally to apply what I have learned through the wisdom and guidance of my academic advisers to the needs of others.  In sum, if accepted into this program, I will dedicate myself to life of service.

Halloween: Boo!

I hate, and I mean hate, The Addams Family.  That television show scared me when I was small and I still find it creeping and annoying, like Disney's Haunted Mansion which my parents took me on when I was four.  Why is Halloween so fucking creepy?  I hate it.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013


This was my reaction to the sticky toddlers I had to babysit this morning.

Monday, October 28, 2013

Insult to Injury

Also, just to complicate matters and add insult to injury, allow me to point out that: There is one program in Indiana I am a fucking shoe in for but guess what?  I can't apply there because His Awfulness happens to live and work there.  So fuck me.  Yeah, I know.  I hear you. I could apply anyway and just ignore him, but its not in my nature.  I'll move back to that city when hell freezes over!  I'm nothing if not committed to my refusal to deal with him.

Answers NOW Please

I have sent out a shit ton of emails tonight asking various and sundry questions about graduate school applications. And, okay, yeah, sure, many of these emails went out about two hours ago, but that doesn't change the fact I need answers. NOW.  Not later. NOW.  Do you people have any concept, even a remote idea, of the kind of stress I am under?  Come July, I have no freaking idea where I am gonna live.  None.  I need more than a plan of action.  I need fucking income and quick.  I'm not a nice person at the moment.  In fact, I'm probably not a sane one either.  Give me my fucking answers and nobody gets hurt!

Wine FOR Dinner

Listen Folks, Yours Truly is hanging by a thread here.  No, seriously, my sanity is slipping.  Case in point, I had wine for dinner.  Not wine WITH dinner.  Wine FOR dinner.  This day needs to officially end.  And, just so you know, I have no sympathy for other people's problems at the moment: SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!

Sunday, October 27, 2013

Wide Awake and Waiting

It is going on 2a.m. and my email obsessive adviser has yet to reply to my message.  As a result, I am laying awake, wide eyed and nervous.  Technically, I'm not positive she can actually do anything to me because my co-chair has already bestowed his blessing.  But I'm nervous nonetheless.  There's nothing like uprooting your entire life to make a person rather uneasy.  I just need her to answer.  Of course, when she finally does, I'll slam my laptop shut without reading her reply because I'm scared to read her reaction.  She's the nicest person...but you never know. I keep imagining her replying: "Curse your surprising, but inevitable betrayal" except not in a funny.

It Can't Be Quantified

"I remember everything. I remember too much. And some of it's made up, and some of it can't be quantified, and there's secrets, and..."  Tonight, I told my adviser I'm leaving my University in May.  Now, here I sit waiting, nervously, on her reply and thinking about the past couple of years.  Coming out of the closet, so to speak, about being bipolar hasn't been easy.  My close friends have been super supportive, but other reactions have been less than comforting.  And I'm left wondering whether I will ever be whole again.  Whether my life will come back together.  Because right now, everything is in shambles.  Like River Tam, minus the super powers, I remember everything.  I remember too much.  And some of it's made up, and some of it can't be quantified, and there's secrets.

Nobody Cares!

This is how I react to other people's success at the moment.

Saturday, October 26, 2013

Can't Break Free

"It's about a girl who gets turned into a swan and she needs love to break the spell, but her prince falls for the wrong girl so she kills herself." ~Black Swan.  Dear Lord, help me.  Its a Xanax night.  No, seriously, this Lady is coming unglued.  The obsessive thoughts have taken hold and I can't break free.  What happens if I don't find a job by this July?  What if no psychology program will accept me?  What if I never get over him?  I've got no answers and there's no fixing me at the moment.  The best I can hope for is sleep.  Sadly enough, it should have been a good day.  I attended to a rockin' Halloween party and successfully made a Jack Skellington pumpkin.  He's awesome...  Now sleep.

Friday, October 25, 2013

Guess Who!

Guess who might have a paid internship to plaster onto her psychology program applications?!

Thursday, October 24, 2013

Doom and Gloom

The weather is gloomy and so am I.  Nothing worked out the way I'd hoped.  Not graduate school.  Not the job market.  Not him.  I hate that I'm still hurting over all this, especially him.  I never get over things easily, no matter how hard I may try.  I guess all I can do is wait it out.   Eventually, I'll heal.  Find a new career path.  Move on.

Unread Email: Scared

Admitting you are bipolar never gets easier, or at least, it doesn't for me.  Things have been rough going lately, Folks.  I am applying to psychology programs in December and leaving my Phd program this May while balancing "playing the game" in my current program long enough to keep my health insurance.  In order to fund this little venture and then get a job (psychologists are somewhat in demand; at least more so than historians) I had to email my former adviser from undergrad.  Now keep in mind, said Adviser is the nicest guy you'll ever meet.  He has always been my advocate, but he doesn't know I'm bipolar or I'm leaving my program....so last night I emailed him, admitted the truth, and asked the questions I needed answering.

1.) Do you admit being bipolar in a personal statement?

2.) Would he write me a letter?

3.) Is studying mood disorders out of fashion these days (i.e., do I need to pick another topic?)

And, guess what?  My kind Undergraduate Mentor emailed me back at 5am this morning.  But here's the catch.  I cannot bring myself to open his email.  I've just got no idea what it says and, maybe he's kindly told me to forget getting a degree in psychology and go on with my life.  I dunno.  Maybe he's said if I couldn't hack it at Notre Dame then why would I be able to get a degree in a different field.  Or maybe he's just answered my questions and everything is fine.  The problem isn't with him.  Its with me.  I admitted two scary things: A.) I'm bipolar and B.) I'm leaving Notre Dame.  So here I sit with an unread email.  I guess I'll just go back to sleep.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Move Up, Moron!

This is exactly how I feel when dumb-ass drivers refuse to pull into the intersection when making a left turn.  Pull up, Moron!  (If you can't tell its been a long couple of days)...its also the look I wear after dealing with colleagues or my adviser.

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Jobless and Sad

So this is what being jobless feels  like (and without family money to pay for school)

Saturday, October 19, 2013

This One's For You

So, according to my therapist, the fact that I respond to any mention of He Who Shall Not Be Named with anger and disgust is normal and healthy.  That's right, I'm talking about the bastard that played with my head while I was sick.  For the longest time, I blamed myself for his actions.  If I had been better, prettier, smarter, something more, he'd have treated me right.  Of course, that's bullshit.  He was NEVER gonna treat me right.  He can't.  Maybe not because he's a bad person but because he's an incomplete one.  Someone who isn't strong enough to just be a real friend or let me go.  Instead, he strung along a bipolar chick and never felt remorse.  My friends assure me I dodged a bullet...and that they didn't like him to begin with...so that's good.  But tonight, I still feel anger and hurt.  Hurt because he never even apologized and anger because I let it go on so long.  These middle fingers are for you, Pal! 

Can You?

“There’s always going to be part of me that’s sloppy and dirty, but I like that. Can you say the same thing about yourself?"

Friday, October 18, 2013

My Reaction

You Think I'm Crazier than You?!

How I feel when I look back and think about him: You think I'm crazier than you?

You Know Blue Moon

Money is beyond tight.  I have yet to find a job.  And my car is quite literally coming apart at the seams: clogged air conditioning line, problems accelerating, check engine light flashing, a broken shifter, and my bumper is duct-taped to onto the frame.  Oh, and my great uncle died today.  Peachy.  The hits just keep on coming and I am left wondering at what point do I take to the streets and start screaming?  The human mind can only endure so many traumas, so says, Jasmine (see above), a woman who rambles nonsensically to herself and anyone who will listen, mumbling: "Blue moon was playing...you know blue moon."