It’s about time.

I can’t even remember when I created this account, I just know it seemed like a good idea at the time. And it still does, if I only start posting to it.  A warning to ye who enter here: I have no idea what this thing will end up like.  I hate journaling: I’m not one to describe the events of my day in great detail and let everyone know that I’m sitting on the porch or going shopping for new divine shoes or so disappointed that Safeway was out of my favorite cucumber melon banana Tabasco salad.  What I do is deal with emotional battles and huge philosophical issues.  So if you’re not into substance and the occasional manic-depressive extremes, don’t subscribe.  I’ll torture your delicate sensibilities with doses of angst and introspection.

You can call me M.  As I already alluded, I’m crazy.  Unfortunately, I didn’t find this out until recently and have done a brilliant job of fucking up my life in the past several years.  It has its perks, like the ability to say whatever I want without worrying what people think, because if they disagree with me they’ll just say, “Oh she’s crazy,” and they’ll be right.  Also, despite the fact that I have a family and small children, I haven’t been completely relegated to the realm of the domestic.  I have a very strong, if often misguided, idea of who I am as a person and not just how I fit into other people’s lives.  Of course, not all people I know are this way, but so many of the parents I know feel like their families have sucked the individuality out of them.  Since starting medication for my disorder, I’ve been doing a pretty good job of connecting who I am as a person with who I am as a mother without letting one completely consume the other.

Being crazy definitely has its downside though.  I spent so much time going through manic-depressive cycles that I alienated almost all of the people I love.  It’s quite an intriguing labyrinth to navigate, the maze of attempting to repair damage you can’t even remember inflicting.  I used to be brilliant, and I lost a lot of that because of constant self-doubt and deprecation.  I’ve made a lot of progress in recognizing that I’m far more fantastic than terrible, but I still have a lot to do.  When you’ve spent years seeing yourself through an old-style lens that adds twenty pounds, a strong dose of pessimism, and every aspect of “what the hell did that mean?”, it’s pretty difficult to adjust the glass see the svelte and structured silhouette (please refer to figure 1).  I’ve been through the ugly duckling story twice in my life, and believe me when I say that re-incarnation is both true and a bitch.

Now you know know me on a basic, creepy, beyond-the-first date way.  Which is good, because that’s how I roll.  (I have a thing for using ghetto slang.  The complete ridiculousness of the suburban white girl saying things out of her league is intensely amusing.  I really hope people laugh at me for the dorky loser I can be.)  I’m very offensive, very open, and I always wear my heart on my sleeve.  I’ll probably say things that make you cringe and others that make you cry.  And I’m slowly adjusting to the idea that it’s not always a bad thing.

Cheers, M

Figure 1

I'm pretty sure this illusion was created in honor of a bipolar woman somewhere.

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