Tag Archives: Memories

DRINKING: Why I Miss It And Why I Stay Sober

I like to remember when I was drinking sometimes. Once in awhile I miss it. The important thing is to remember the good times and the bad times. I have a habit of only reflecting on the good times. I also have to remind myself why I stay sober. My reasons won’t be the same as someone else’s reasons and that’s fine as long as it works for me.

I loved the excited feeling I would get inside as I prepared each day to drink. It was a ritual. I had to do my hair and make up and pick an outfit to wear. Even though I was over 200 pounds these things still mattered to me. I make myself sound disgusting but I guess I had a pretty face and there were men who were attracted to me.

When I drank there was a physical change in me. I stood up straight and held my head up looking people in the eye with a confidence only alcohol could give me. At times this did cause trouble. Other times it worked to my advantage. I never would’ve met as many bands as I have if I hadn’t been drinking. I never had to pay for a meet and greet, my best friend and I would somehow end up meeting them. I was the charming one and she was the beautiful one.

I regret the fact I don’t remember some of the people I’ve met. How could I forget an entire car ride and conversation that lasted over an hour? I didn’t blackout often but we had been in the pit during the concert so it’s possible I hit my head. Guys hated it when we went in the pit so I would make W. go in with me just to piss them off. Drinking with me was like a box of chocolates, you never knew who you were going to get.

Alcohol almost always acted like a stimulant with me until I reached a certain point. I just never knew when that point would be so I would drink until I got there. I wanted to feel normal inside, I wanted the pain I couldn’t name to go away, I wanted to be able to talk to people and not feel like I didn’t belong all the time. And alcohol did that for me.

Alcohol also made me say things I wouldn’t normally say, do things I wouldn’t normally do, spend time with people I wouldn’t normally spend time with. Did I love meeting Lars Ulrich, Zakk Wylde, Sebastian Bach, Stephen Pearcy, Pantera and being at The Rainbow? Yup. But some meetings didn’t go so well and all I can say is I’m glad they were as drunk as I was.

Never being in a relationship wasn’t exactly fun either. The police knowing my name in three towns was bad too. Pepper spray is never fun, twice is just cruel (both by accident I was caught in the crossfire). A DUI is something to be ashamed of not to mention what I put my family through.

I’m sober now because I know why I drank. It became clear when I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. It didn’t take me long to stop drinking after that. As I learned more about why I drank it made things a little easier. Treating addiction has to go hand in hand with mental health treatment or you are not going to get far. I know this firsthand.

If I drank now my body couldn’t handle it. My brain would think I could drink like I used to but I only have one kidney now. I have thought about it recently because my medications are not being absorbed and I feel like I did when I was younger. I have my dad to think about. If he wasn’t here I can’t say for sure that I wouldn’t have some kind of light fruity drink. Which I never ever would’ve had years ago but now it’s the only thing that sounds appealing. Kind of strange.

I’m tired, alone, trapped, isolated, filled with grief but for who? Maybe everyone and myself the life I could’ve had and now never will. The 20 years I wasted or my mom who I still miss ever single day or my best friend who I never see or my twin who would rather commit me than have a conversation with me.

I always told W. if things got bad I was going to Vegas and pulling a Nicolas Cage. She always laughed and said “No you won’t”. This last time I said it and she started crying. She said she wouldn’t blame me and she knew how bad it’s been for me but she loved me. First time ever someone said the right thing.

So I’ll stay sober and try to help my Dad celebrate his 74th Birthday tomorrow. Do they sell cakes shaped like pigeons?

“You Do Realize You’ve Always Been Different Right?”

One of my earliest memories is a Birthday Party for my twin sister and I. At the time you could have your Birthday Party at McDonald’s. I believe were around 9/10 years old.

At one point in the party I was outside. I remember standing outside the glass doors watching everyone laugh and fun with such ease. My twin seemed to be able to do this with no effort. I stood there watching for a long time. I thought “why can’t I be like them?”, “I want to go home”, “I can’t do this it’s too hard”. Even at that age I felt uncomfortable around people. I always felt like I was on the other side of that glass door watching other people live normal lives.

This feeling has never gone away. Not in 44 years. I just deal with it better now by pretending or isolating myself.

My mom was extremely close to one of her sister’s my Auntie Lee. I love my Auntie Lee. She does remind me a lot of my mom. It’s selfish but it’s one of the reasons I love to spend time with her. She is also the one other person who has accepted completely for who I am. Although like my mother she has no mental/verbal filter. lol

I  talked to her the other day and told her I’ve been having a hard time lately. I also mentioned that I’m having trouble making the smallest decisions like what underwear put on! She laughed at that one. (Her laugh makes me happy and breaks my heart at the same time. It’s exactly like my mom’s.) She did say to me “Honey, you’ve always been that way. I think you’re just now noticing it. You’ve always been different. You were always more sensitive then the other kids, you would rather be around the adults or by yourself, you didn’t talk much you just soaked up what everyone else said and did. You were always observant, way more than kids your age. But you were so quiet it was painful to watch”.

In a way I was relieved that someone had noticed something. I was also sad that some people could see those things in me and not do anything about it. It’s hard to explain to my Dad or my sister that I’ve had symptoms from an early age. It’s hard for them to understand how much I’ve been through. I don’t want pity, I just don’t want what I’ve been through to be dismissed. Years and years of suffering I can’t even describe. And now medications do not work.

When I was younger Manic Episodes were great. Tons of energy, babbling, spending sprees, getting dressed up and going out, taking off to wherever I wanted, my own version of a Rockstar  life. As I got older my Manic Episodes started to change. Specifically when I started to go through Menopause early. Now Manic meant irritability, anger and resentment. A feeling of being trapped in a cage. My Depressive Episodes started to last longer.

Bipolar Depression I suppose is different for everyone. I know I wouldn’t wish mine on my worse enemy. (Okay maybe I would) It’s the giant aching hole in my chest that’s filled with loss, grief, worthlessness, self loathing, guilt, shame, and just overwhelming sadness. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel. My brain plays memories of events I would rather not go over again constantly. Thoughts race around in my head about things I had no control over but somehow blame myself for anyway. And I keep asking why my twin sister doesn’t love me as much as I love her.

That is a big issue with me. When she told me she hosting Pre Party for Women’s March then going with a group of women I was happy for her. But she never once asked if I wanted to go. The march was focused on the Affordable Care Act and defunding Planned Parenthood. My sister brought up her “harassment” when she used to get her birth control pills from Planned Parenthood. The more she talked and the more I realized I wasn’t going to be invited, the angrier I became.

I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to ask her if she’s ever been called a “baby killer” at a party for everyone to hear. If she ever walked into an apartment for a party and saw hundreds of photocopied pictures of dead fetuses taped to the walls. The apartment owner thought it would be punishment because he had just become a Born Again Christian. I will remind you that this is the same person who sold drugs, slept with underage girls, and beat me to the point of unconsciousness. There were about 30 people already there. Instead of leaving like a normal person would do I sat down without any expression on my face and drank a pint of Firewater and about 16 beers. I wanted to ask her if she’s ever been called a “baby killer” and spit on by her best friend’s boyfriend. I accidentally punched him in the face. But it was pointless. I keep expecting people to understand things they are not capable of.

I go to the Psychiatrist on February 7th and I’m scared. Nothing has been working for a long time now. Only the fast acting medications like Adderall and Klonopin work. Everything else doesn’t. I’m tired of being an experiment. There has to be a better way. I’m getting worse. I leave the house once a month. I don’t want to do anything or go anywhere. I have no interest in anything. Something has to give.


My mother was never given a diagnosis for a specific Mental Illness. Judging from her past and behavior, I would guess she was Bipolar. I could be wrong, she could’ve had Borderline Personality Disorder. It’s hard to tell because although I’ve researched many topics I do not have a degree and we are blind when it comes to our loved ones.


My mother was the oldest of seven children. She was often left to care for them on her own. Her mother liked to go out and have fun (play poker, drink, be around men that were not her husband). Her father was an Army man and a Plumber who worked hard but never stood up to his wife. (For the record not many stood up to my Grandmother. She was tall, big boned, and strong as an ox. She was also from the south and used to hard liquor, dealing with men, and getting her way). She was in and out of their lives from months to years at a time leaving my mother to quit school and take care of her siblings. A thankless job.

My mother started to become like her mother. She drank and was often at local bars with various men. This became worse after the suicide of her first husband. I don’t know who she left my brother with. It was at a bar that she first saw my father. She had known about him from Middle School and as the “Navy Guy who beat up the Marine (her brother) at the Bowling Alley. It was love at first sight for her anyway.

Whenever I went anywhere with my Mom she would put the Oldies on the radio and sing along. She had a beautiful voice that fit those songs. The songs would always bring up a memory. Sometimes I think she forgot the person she was talking to was her daughter and probably not old enough to know the information that was given out.

She mentioned having to leave the State we lived in with my brother and going to live in California for a few years. I asked her why. She said because she knew “something” she shouldn’t and a “group” of bad men were mad at her. (Translated this meant she pissed off the Mafia somehow but when a member of the family married someone with ties to the “bad men” she was able to come home). I always knew too much.

She also told me on one ride that she trapped my dad by getting pregnant on purpose. (Unfortunately she even told me where and what song was playing at the time) She my dad panicked halfway through her pregnancy and took off. No one could find him. He came back when we were a few weeks old and never left. He grew to love my mother more than anything in this world. My mother also mentioned that they didn’t get married until we were 5 years old. When she told me this I was around 14. The first thing I thought was “I’m a bastard. My father never wanted me. He only stuck around because he had to.” I pushed all of those thoughts and feelings down for a rainy day. I never told my sister until years later.

It’s strange how things that hurt us come to the surface at strange times. I was drinking one night and came home late. My dad heard me and turned on the lights. He started yelling at me about drinking. I’m not sure what pushed me. Was it him or my mom standing there in her shortie nightgown? I started yelling back at him “Shut up! You never wanted me! Mom trapped you and you took off! I was born a Bastard how fitting! F*ck You!”. I don’t think I have ever personally hurt my father so badly with words before. I vomited for 5 days. The anxiety over what I said to him was tearing me apart.

The only thing he said to me is “You are my world and so is your mother. That’s all that counts. Your mom saved my life, I would be dead without her and you kids. I love you”. I heard him but continued on a path of self destruction anyway. Nothing anyone said was going to stop me.

There was one thing that contributes to my not drinking. It was right before my mother died. She asked me over to her side of the hospital bed. I bent my head down and she said “I’m sorry I f*cked up your life so much” and she cried as she fell asleep. That was the last thing she ever said to me.

Mommy, you never f*cked up my life. I did that by myself. All you did was love me.


As far back as I can remember my twin sister and I always received the same amount of presents under the tree. My mom made sure that neither of us felt that one got more than the other. It mattered a great deal to her. I just wanted her time. I still do.

When I was old enough to buy presents for my parents I went overboard. In our teens and early twenties my sister and I put both our names on the gifts. I was the one who usually paid for them. I let it happen. I knew every year that my sister would mysteriously or conveniently forget her wallet. It didn’t matter, I wanted to make sure my parents received the gifts they deserved. Neither one of them had much growing up and Christmas was probably not a good time for either of them. That’s why they made sure it was for us.

When my parents were married my father gave my mother a gold plated wedding band from K-Mart. They were married by a justice of the peace with only one witness. My sister and I were five years old. My mom didn’t care about fancy rings as long as she had my dad.

Secretly, she did want a “real” wedding ring. I never thought of my father as being the romantic type or very perceptive when it came to women. I didn’t give him enough credit.

I can’t remember how old I was. I believe I had to have been in my in my early teens for this special Christmas. I may not remember the year but I’ll never forget what happened.

My mom opened her usual gifts from my dad, household items. What every woman wants on Christmas. But there was one large box left. As she unwrapped it she found another wrapped box. This continued until she came to a small wrapped box. My dad didn’t make it easy. He used packing tape on all of the boxes. When she opened the small box it held a ring box. I immediately saw her face change. She wasn’t laughing anymore. Her face was red and she was silently crying. She looked afraid to open the ring box thinking it was a joke.

My dad finally cleared his throat and said “Honey, it’s okay, open the box”. When she did there was a beautiful diamond ring inside. I couldn’t stop crying at this point. Just watching the pure love and joy on that sweet woman’s face was enough for me. She didn’t care that it wasn’t a large diamond. What moved her was that my father did it out of love and on his own.

No matter what life had thrown at them they always faced it together. No matter what I did to them they loved me together. They were best friends, husband and wife.

My mind blocks out how long she’s been gone. I think it’s been 9 years but it still feels like yesterday. We stopped celebrating Holidays my father and I after she passed away. The rest of the family didn’t. Both of us just want to be left alone. I spend the time punishing myself for all of things I did not do and all of things I wish I had. I remember all of the things said, some good and some horrible. I am told that because I went undiagnosed for so long and also have Conversion Disorder that grief is different for me. I will most likely never be able to achieve any kind of closure.

In a way I’m okay with that. My father is 73 and on Dialysis. His health is slowly deteriorating before my eyes. I live with him and we are close. I’m not sure how I will handle losing him. I don’t think I will do well. This gaping hole in my chest that aches constantly can’t handle much more. I treasure the days I’m numb and manic. But there aren’t enough of them. There’s just this limbo.


I had forgotten that today was Veteran’s Day. It’s also a Dialysis day for my dad. He probably went to the Cemetery to see my mom. Because my dad is a Navy veteran she’s buried in The Veteran’s Cemetery.

I have a hard time going there. One of the biggest reasons is seeing my dad’s name on a headstone before he is even dead. The date of his death is left blank. I’m not sure how he deals with it. It’s hard enough looking at my mom’s name with her date of birth and date of death. I refuse to remember her like that.

I will always remember my mom as a ladybug landing on my arm or when I happen to look up at the clock and it reads 11:11. This happens often when I am on the phone with my sister. I will not remember her by going to a place filled with people she didn’t know and talking to a headstone or dirt. SORRY IF I OFFEND ANYONE WITH THIS. THIS IS HOW I FEEL AND MY OPINION ONLY.

My dad I will remember with every bird in the sky, every ticking clock, and every animal I come across that needs help. I’m in trouble. lol

My father joined the Navy because his father had passed away unexpectedly at an early age. This left his mother with 8 children to raise on her own. One of them was going through leukemia treatments at the time and would pass away also. My dad felt it was for the best. My grandmother signed a document saying he was old enough when he wasn’t.

When he was much younger, I’m not sure of the age, he looks about 8 , he was on his way home for lunch. Back then you could leave school and go home for lunch. You had to cross over railroad tracks to get to where his farm was. He heard kids screaming. One of them had gotten his foot caught in between the tracks. The other kid was kind of frozen to the spot. Of course a train was coming. This is called the “Cook Curse”.

My father was able to get the kid’s foot out and carry him to the side. He looked back and saw that the other one was still frozen in fear. He ran back and grabbed him just in time. The conductor of the train almost had a heart attack and called it in. The newspapers caught the story and it grew. Next thing my dad knew he was on his way to Washington, D.C. to meet Nixon and receive an Award and a Medal for Bravery. I can’t remember what position Nixon held at this point all I know is that it was before his Presidency.

My father doesn’t talk about the Navy that much. What he has shared hasn’t sounded great. I know he learned to be a Master Boiler Room Technician/Plumber type person. I know there had been a plane/helicopter crash somewhere and he had to pick up the pieces of bodies, as many as they could find to help with identification it was that bad. When he starts to talk about that he stops and stares into the distance like he remembers everything. At this point I try to get him to focus on something else.

He has mentioned Guantanamo Bay, Cuba often but won’t go into specifics. He spent some time there long enough to be stung by a Portuguese Man Of War. But there’s stuff he refuses to talk about. My dad is a stubborn man to put it nicely.

My mother used to say “You’re just like your father”. I take that as a compliment.



My time in Junior High has gaps. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want to remember or if I can’t. It is possible it’s both. I wasn’t the tallest in my class but close to it. I did have the biggest breasts and was the 2nd or 3rd largest concerning weight.

I met my soon to be bestfriend W in the 6th grade but we never had classes together. It wasn’t that I was unintelligent. I didn’t have patience to study anything I wasn’t personally interested in. W did what they told her. She scored higher on tests and was placed in classes for students that were headed in a “College” direction. I wasn’t. They didn’t put me in a class where students ate paste either. By the time I had arrived at 6th grade I had already read and understood books like Lord of The Flies, The Call of The Wild and various Edgar Allen Poe tales. My brother left his books for High School around the house and I read them if I was bored.

They didn’t know what to do with me. I scored off the charts for reading and comprehension but not so well in Geography, Math, or History. Go figure.

If anyone was to give me a map of the United States but left it blank and I had to fill in where all the states were, I promise you it would be a disaster.

I’m not very good with directions either. I have to turn down the radio to see where I’m going. It’s sad.

Young Adults are cruel little animals. I’m not sure if it’s the pre-pubescent hormones, home situations, social class, clicks, or if even the teachers should be held accountable. I do know that what was said and done to me and countless others should never have been allowed to go on for so long. The human mind can only take so much before breaking or shutting down completely.

Bus rides were particularly unpleasant. There was a boy with orange/red hair on our bus.  He threw rocks at my sister and I. My brother was good for a few things. Scaring the shit out of people was one of them. My sister never bonded with my brother. Right from the start they butted heads. Rocks were being thrown in her direction but the hateful words were meant for me. I told my brother and he came out to the bus stop the next morning. Problem solved. Of course my sister wasn’t happy. She didn’t want to involve the person who had now become the “bully” and was feared by most people. The person she spoke about talked to me for hours and let me talk about how I felt hours. He didn’t think I was being a stupid kid. He knew my fears and pain were real because he felt them. In a year or two he would choose to numb his feelings with drugs and alcohol ripping our family apart. Until then he was my protector.

The boy with the red hair had moved. Unfortunately he moved where there was a girl with a bigger target on her back. I was lucky enough to have straight white teeth, eyes the color of the ocean that sometimes became lighter, and for someone as overweight as I was it didn’t show as much in my face. This poor girl came from a family that had given up on everything a long time ago. She was probably 275-300 pounds, her hair never looked or smelled clean, her clothes didn’t either. The boy had no compassion or mercy. I have no idea how or why there was a broom on the school bus. One day she had enough. She picked up the broom and wacked him over the head with it. At first everyone was quiet. Then blood started to pour down the middle of his forehead. He just looked confused. The medics and police came. No one asked us what happened. I wish they had. While I don’t condone violence everyone has a breaking point.

You ignore things so much it becomes a natural response. You grow a callus where your feelings should be. What you don’t know is that it’s all being put in storage for later. You might not feel it at the time, but you will later, when you least expect it.

I loathed all dances but went with W, my sister and her friends, anyway. I would stand as far from the light as possible. I had a habit of constantly pulling at my clothes as if they didn’t fit. The reality was I wore everything 2 sizes bigger than I was. I thought it would hide everything. I kept pulling my shirts down to hide my ass and front even though the shirt was already to my knees. I never wore anything that came higher than mid thigh. My brother jokingly said one time ” Do you even have an ass? Just saying sis cause those shirts are bigger than mine.”. He was trying to help in his way and I wasn’t mad. He was the only one who noticed what I was doing.

I stayed in the shadows for as long as I could. Then High School came.

Scientists believe when an inmate is sent to prison for any long period of time, that person stops maturing and stays at the intellectual and maturity level they were at when incarcerated.

They now believe the same is true for Alcoholics and Drug Addicts. As soon as you start to habitually use/abuse a substance you’re stunted intellectually and socially. 10131616112.jpg.jpg

I believe them.


I had my appointment with my Psychiatrist yesterday. He spent more time with me than usual because another patient had cancelled. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t great. He really thinks doing this blog helps and that my family does not help. He appeared genuinely shocked that my twin sister isn’t more involved. He thought she lived in another state these past few years. I laughed a little too loudly at that one.

I’m still in a memory purge zone so that’s what I’m going to do.

My bestfriend W who has been my only close friend now for 30 years never judged me, or said anything about my drinking. It may have been because she was usually drinking too. She could have 4 or 5 beers and stop where I wouldn’t. I had to have 15 to 20. I did everything in excess. Shopping, drinking, and eating. The Queen of Excess. It would blow her mind the amount of alcohol I would put away in a few hours. Sometimes it frightened her. I didn’t think anything of it until a guy Sean who was an alcoholic said “You know that you crack a beer, light a cigarette, crack a beer, light a cigarette, look down at the ashtray and your empties man.” I looked down. There were 7 empties and 7 smoked cigarettes. We had been there 50 minutes. I was guzzling like I was in a contest. I chose to place this thought in the back of my mind.

W started to date a guy Will. I wasn’t fond of Will. She had met him at J’s apartment. I personally thought she could do better. She was in a 4 year college, she was beautiful, smart and funny. But she thought he was cute and she loved a guy who could make her 1338828079261974laugh. He did have a good job. I wasn’t crazy about how controlling he was with her. We started to see less and less of them at J’s. I still talked to her on the phone all the time. I started to hear rumors at J’s that Will had hit W once or twice. I cut back on going to J’s and started going to Will’s apartment so I could see W.

At first things were ok. Will was actually funny. Half the time I was laughing at him. He reminded me of a shorter version of Jerry Seinfeld with a mullet. One night he drank too much and was smoking pot. He fell asleep on the couch while W and I watched a movie. He dropped the lit joint down the leg of his shorts so it went into the crotch. He started jumping up and down screaming. To me it was hysterical. I didn’t laugh in front of him. W and I waited until later. I also went out with them a few times. I noticed every time W left me alone with Will he started whining about her or saying stuff about her that I wasn’t going to listen to for long without punching him. She knew he did this when drinking and just wrote it off. I wasn’t as quick to let it go.

There were 2 incidences that played a hand in my decision to stay away from them until W decided to leave.

The first incident was at a Fight concert. Fight was Rob Halford’s  band when he left Judas Priest. It was an extremely small venue. W and Will were going and I was to meet them there. When I saw W she looked horrible. She was pale and the thinnest I’ve ever seen her. She immediately pulled me into the ladies room. “Daner I have to leave him but I don’t know how. The other night I ran from the house in my nightgown and jumped in his brother’s car. He shot out the back window. I drove to the police station. I didn’t want him arrested, I was confused and we had been drinking. When I got home all of my stuff was on fire on the front lawn.”. I was more than angry. You can say and do what you want to me but NEVER TO MY FAMILY. W was closer to me than my sister. I asked her to tell me the truth if he had ever hit her. She was looking at the floor and said “Yes” quietly while she cried. W was normally someone who didn’t show emotion, who never let a guy get to her. I told her she wasn’t leaving with him that she was coming home with me. She looked frightened. I told her I would handle Will and to stay in the bathroom. Yes I was drunk. I found Will doing his usual holding up the wall eyes rolling to the back of his head drunkenness. I always found this level of inebriation revolting. I know it’s the pot calling the kettle black. I know for a fact that no matter how much I’ve ever drank in the past I have never been like that. Loud-definitely, Annoying- definitely, Repeater- definitely but not eyes rolling , falling down, spilling my drink on everyone, drunk.

When I stood in front of Will and he finally recognized who I was he immediately started to blame W. He said stuff about her that was so crude and out of line and in a public place that I was stunned. Other people could hear him because it was intermission. He was yelling that it was like “F*cking a dead fish with her, she doesn’t love me, she doesn’t love anyone, she’s a whore, she was f*cking everyone when I first met her at J’s” after 2 minutes of this I accidentally punched him in the face. He slid down the wall and was passed out either from alcohol or something.

The problem was when I went to get W and told her what had happened she was upset. She went to see how he was. You can probably guess what happened. She went back home with him.

I never understood why she stayed with him. A few months went by and everything had blown over. We had been invited to my sister’s house she shared with her college friends for a party. (Big shocker here!!!! It would be the first and last time) W was good friends with one of my sister’s roommates so she really wanted to go. We were both a little worried about Will.

Everyone was having fun. It actually lasted for half the night which was a lot longer than I had ever thought it would. Then I heard my sister yelling. You never want to make my sister angry. If people thought I was bad when I was drinking my sister was bad sober or drinking.

When I went to see what was going on she was yelling at Will and W was begging her to let “it” go. I yelled at my sister “What the hell is going on?” she said that Will had slapped W and bent her arm behind her back. She wanted him out of her house. He was refusing to leave. Will could be nasty when he was just the right amount of drunk. I told my sister I would handle it. She then turned her anger on me. “This is what happens when you bring your scumbag friends around” so then I started arguing with her. I then turned around to tell Will to shut the f*ck up. Will replied “I’m not going to listen to some fat baby killing whore” this may have been when the red veil came over my eyes. The next thing I know we’re both outside and I have him by the throat against a car. W wasn’t happy about any of it. I told her “This is it W. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t listen to him talk about you and now he brings up personal stuff about me in public? Until you leave him I can’t do this”.

It was a few more years before we spoke again. She was with Will for 7 years. The last 2 years she made him the victim and treated him almost as bad as he had treated her. None of it makes it right. As soon as I heard her voice I felt something inside me break open. We talked for 3 hours and promised ourselves that nothing like this would happen again.

Those 7 years with Will were really W’s first relationship. It left her a cold person when it came to men. She never was one for “feelings” to begin with. I can count on my hand the number of times I’ve seen her cry. Almost all of those times had to do with me. None had to do with a relationship. I’m not the only one who has some issues I’ve realized. She’s extremely moody, obsessive compulsive about odd things like her lawn and certain areas of her house, and the way she is with men. Her brother has Mental Health issues but refuses to see anyone and their parents refuse to acknowledge it. W does see it. It wouldn’t be so far fetched that she would have something going on.

I do realize that as an alcoholic in remission I see alcoholism in everyone. I do realize as a Bipolar person that I see Mental Health issues in everyone. This doesn’t necessarily make me wrong. Does it?

Bipolar Memories

I recently read Polishing Dookie’s post “The Piano Man” on her blog and found so many similarities that it had me thinking. I thought of my own Grandparents and immediate family. I then went through some pictures. I’m not sure if this was a good idea or not.

I never knew my father’s father. He passed away at a young age from bleeding ulcers. I know he was stern, hardworking, and did not show affection. I’ve only seen one photo of him and it was blurry. I know my dad was born and raised mostly on a farm. He’s the oldest of 9.  My father’s siblings do not talk to each other at all. They do not show emotion. All the men on my dad’s side of the family have these famous Popeye forearms. I’m not kidding. My dad, not realizing what his looked like, had an anchor tattoo on one and a skull on the other. The tattoos were so horrible no one was surprised when the tattoo artist was shot to death a few years later.

My father’s mother was 4′ 9″ and also stern. She didn’t do hugs until she was in her 70’s. She didn’t tell her children she loved them until she was in her 70’s. She had been adopted and the circumstances of her childhood were less than ideal from what I can piece together. My sister and I would be left with her on occasion when my parents needed a weekend alone or there was an emergency. It wasn’t our favorite place to be.

For some reason we spent most of our time with my mother’s side of the family. My mother’s mother was loud and overbearing. She wasn’t the best wife or mother. Of course my mom always longed for her approval. She never got it. Even though she raised her brothers and sisters and was the one who sacrificed the most. My mother’s father was a plumber and served in the Army. He let my Grandmother do as she pleased without question or responsibility. Eventually she left him with 7 children, there was 8 but she had given one up for adoption when they were first married. It wasn’t my Grandfather’s.

My mother was close to her father. When he was diagnosed with Colon Cancer and Bone Cancer she was devastated. He insisted on being treated at the VA Hospital. He was diagnosed too late but as a last ditch effort they had taken bone from his neck to fuse something. He had a halo screwed into his head. When my mom would take us daily to see him she would have to clean him, change his diaper, there would be vomit running down the front of the halo and his top. She would clean this too. Her siblings couldn’t see him like that. When we received the phone call that he had passed away I could hear my mom screaming at someone on the phone. The Hospital was refusing to remove the halo saying it would break his neck. She thought this was insane since he was already dead. He had suffered with that thing on him and she wanted it off. She told them she was coming there with a screw driver and if it wasn’t off by the time she got there she was doing it herself.

My mom was one of the toughest most loving people I will ever know. Her experience with Lung Cancer changed her personality and changed the rest of us forever. I’ll never fully recover from those years.

I’m at the point in my life where my father is thinking of what he needs to do with the house and anything else he has. He’s been trying to figure this out for months. My mother wanted the house split 3 ways. My dad isn’t so sure it should be like that. He knows everything that I’ve done for him and my mom. I’ve also paid for a lot of things and pay monthly bills. I’m on Disability. My sister is married with a house, my half brother makes a lot of money that he usually gambles or drinks away.

It’s already started. My mom had a ring made for me from an extremely gaudy ring my Grandmother had. When she showed it to me she said “This is for you after I’m gone. I know you’ll probably never get married like your sister so I wanted you to have something for yourself”. Now my sister debates this and my father doesn’t know what the truth is. I doubt the ring is even worth much. It’s just the point of it. I can only imagine what they’ll do when it comes to my dad’s antique clocks or if he doesn’t make a will or a decision about the house. I’m not looking forward to it. Neither one of my siblings would have a problem with me living in a shelter or my car. At one time my sister had said something about me living with her. They have a good sized house and a spare room. I wouldn’t because of her husband. I mentioned it in passing recently and she denied ever saying it.

Family. Do we have to like them? No. Do we have to love them? It depends on who you ask.


Have you ever found yourself all dressed up with no place to go? Driving fast, listening to the songs of your youth (Skid Row Slave to The Grind) and thinking or wishing you could go back to that time. Not how you were then but how you are now. A prettier version of your former self some might say. And it hits you like a punch in the gut. You want a drink. You want to recapture some of that fun you think you had. Just one shot and you would be fine. The song playing (Wasted Time) wouldn’t be shredding your heart and tears wouldn’t be rolling down your face as you sing the words. The people that once knew you would be envious and you’d buy them a round.

They wouldn’t know that somewhere inside of you, you are dying piece by piece from the loneliness and fear of your demons. They wouldn’t know you spend seven days a week in your pajamas by yourself. They would only see what you let them. The shots would go down smoother as the night progresses. You wouldn’t be thinking of the shame that follows in the morning only of the fun you are having in the now.

I stay in my car and drive past the bar. It is not because I fear going in. It is because I fear never coming out. So I do as I am supposed to and head home. I feel numb but angry. I go inside to be questioned by my father about the groceries I didn’t buy. He’s angry because he knows the truth that I am manic and searching for something, anything that will make sense to me and comfort me. There isn’t anything. I didn’t “work a program” like others I know. Somehow this makes my accomplishment of sobriety less than theirs. It’s so easy to excuse someone’s behavior when you can say “but he/she is working the program, putting in an effort, all they have to succeed, so we’ll let it slide.” No one has ever let me slide or not be held accountable for my actions everyday for the last seven years. Because I didn’t work a program, become a friend of Bill’s, go to a church basement or a rehab. I did it on my own. Now I stay on my own.

Grieving (The Loss Of Lemmy)

When I found out this morning that Lemmy Kilmister had passed away I cried. My father was in the room with me. He was aggravated that I was emotional about a man I didn’t know who was 70 years old and dead from cancer.

What my father couldn’t and wouldn’t understand was that Lemmy’s music and voice represented a time in my youth where things were good. I laughed, I left the house, I went to concerts, I had friends, and I did a good impression of The Ace of Spades that would make my best friend laugh until she almost wet her pants. It was that time I was grieving and the man.

I was also remembering my vacation to L.A. where we went to The Rainbow. A favorite spot of Lemmy’s. He wasn’t there but his motorcycle helmet was. My friend borrowed it for our ride back to our Hotel. It was the best vacation I’ve ever had. I will probably never have another one.

To be reprimanded for how you feel on a daily basis is tiring. I am constantly told I am too emotional. You try walking around like you don’t have a layer of skin protecting all of your nerve endings. Everything I see and everything I hear effects me. I can’t shut it off.

I know my medications are not working. I know I am not acting rationally. How many times do I have to explain I’m in kidney failure and not absorbing my medications? I’ve been manic for a week now. I want to hit myself in the head with hammer just to sleep. The pain on my right side where my kidney is only working at 20% is immense. I can’t take any pain killers. You try living like this. Sometimes I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t.

I still have not talked to my sister. Actually not many people talk to me at all. I’ve been forgotten. Everyone is making plans for New Year’s Eve. They do not include me. I’m used to this but it still hurts. I’m not allowed to show it.

When will I be allowed to be me?

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