Ivy Roller

It never fails to amaze me how drastically things can change—yet remain the same—in only one year.  A year ago I was preparing to go back to Columbia, excited and full of hope, completely unaware of the 5-month long bout of mania and psychosis that was about to hit me like a tsunami.  Leaving in its wake a twisted combination of shattered dreams, financial debt, over 50 pounds of sand & shells (just a guess), and enduring love.

Needless to say, I won’t be returning to Columbia.  At least, it’s very unlikely anytime in the foreseeable future.  That’s a tough dream to let go of.  It would seem I’ve had rather poor timing my entire life regarding the advancement of my education.  Yet when it comes to meeting new people, the people that cross your path for a reason, I’m dead on.  I met my fiancé on June 3rd of last year, while both barkingly manic and on a date with another man.  Two weeks from today we will be tying the knot on Sanibel Island.  Perhaps coincidentally, yet fitting (considering we’re both Irish and like to booze it up), it will be on St. Patrick’s Day.

Which brings me to the things that have not changed.  I still enjoy drinking a tad too much.  Although I seem to be keeping my indulgences in check—for the moment.  Then there is March madness, and I’m not referring to basketball, unfortunately.  Or fortunately, depending on who you ask.  I’ll try and contain the dualism delves for the remainder of this post.  Mania… that lovely little lift in mood that begins innocently enough and inevitably ends in destruction.  I equate hypomania to a “good buzz” and full-blown mania to a “drunken stupor”.  I want to maintain that buzz for as long as possible, yet it’s impossible to do so without becoming drunk.  A decided dilemma.

Regarding the “American Dream”, mine is not the generic version with the 2.2 kids and the white picket fence.  Indeed mine is much richer, and continually being fulfilled, in ways that cannot be seen by most.  But I’ve worked very hard to achieve my dream, at times astonishing myself at the things I am capable of accomplishing.  And perhaps not-so-coincidentally, I happened upon the song American Dream by Jakatta while transferring all of my Ultra Chilled albums to my iPod touch the other day.  I’d never actually listened to it before, and instantly fell into lust.  So all of the remixes I’ve been able to find thus far (hopefully I’m just getting started) have been added to my Music page, yours for the taking.

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There have always been two things that I enjoy, albeit to my own detriment, above all else: mania & drinking.  I find both to be intensely pleasurable, however, in combination the two are a recipe for disaster.  Unfortunately the two tend to accompany one another, yet my past experience has proven I seem to be an “exception to the rule” of sorts in that respect; as my manic episodes take me so high I have no desire to drink.  It is when the mania recedes, like the tide from the coast, and the vast array of debris-that of a tattered and torn life-are revealed, that I want to drink.  In contrast to how low tide ensues a treasure hunt, low mood incites a desperation chase.  And I will chase a manic mood at nearly any cost.

It was actually during my five-month long manic episode while on a trip to New Hampshire, that I discovered Absolut Raspberri vodka.  Returning home on a balmy night in August, my mania rapidly dwindling, I mixed some light lemonade (gotta cut calories somewhere) with the flavored vodka.  It was hands down the Best. Drink. Ever. However, unlike most brands of flavored vodka, Absolut maintains the full 80 proof (40%) alcohol content in their product.  This might explain the trainwreck-looking atmosphere the following morning: partially naked bodies bent over tangled limbs folded at such angles only a contortionist should have been able to achieve.

Always fortunate to be “that girl” that never gets a hangover, instead I woke up energized and rather hypomanic.  I had a sudden and intense desire to go and snatch some sunflowers from the grounds of the private school up the road.  It was just after dawn on Saturday morning and I threw on my jeans and a sweatshirt, grabbed some chicken shears from my kitchen drawer and a couple oversized shopping bags to collect my winnings.

The manic (and quite possibly still slightly intoxicated) mind doesn’t think in a manner that would be considered reasonable or logical, and there is an overall lack of judgment most of the time.  Rather than simply walk around the fence to get to the flowers, I felt it necessary in case I needed to make a quick escape, to literally go through the fence.  Here are a couple of photos of the (fortunately) superficial damage the sharp wire of the fence inflicted:

Despite a few very minor scrapes and one small poke, what I was able to cut with a pair of cheap chicken shears and subsequently sneak home undetected with was amazing, considering how thick the stalks on sunflowers are.  Here’s a photo of the yellow sunflowers after I trimmed them and put them into a vase:

Here’s a photo of the red sunflower trimmed and in a vase, it was my favorite, absolutely beautiful:

Needless to say I satisfied my desire for sunflowers that morning, and admittedly I went back at least two or three more times, as recently as early this month.  But I’m pleased to announce that I never again felt compelled to go through the fence to get them.

Filed under: Mania by cindy
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This girl was ahead of me in the checkout line at the grocery store the other day:

Now, I’ve been graced by many exposed ass cracks in my time, but never before has there not been an obvious reason for the indiscretion.  She’s neither a plumber (blue WIC sleeve in her left hand) nor an overweight middle-aged man, she has neither a tramp stamp nor a whale tail, and she’s not trolling for a trick because her boyfriend (or baby daddy?) was with her.  So why the purposely displayed ass crack?  Does she think that’s attractive?  Stylish?  Sexy?  Seriously… it’s not.

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Without me, Jack would likely make it past the first date with a woman or finally receive that promotion at work.  Without me, he’d probably not feel the need to get loaded on liquid courage to help him feel more at ease when in the company of attractive women or even men whom he feels threatened by.  Oh but wait… there’s that pesky catch-22 that Jack hates me so much for!  With me as inherent to his existence as oxygen, he feels threatened by everyone!  Male or female, genius or jerk, with me on board Jack spends most of his waking existence overcompensating for the fact that he’s plagued by me.  Heh, heh, poor schmuck — the harder he tries to hide me from people so they won’t discover his “dirty little secret”, the more obvious it is to them, dates and colleagues alike!  If I only left the impression that I’m simply an annoying or embarrassing problem for Jack he might at least be taken pity upon.  Instead I’m the underlying force driving his inappropriate behavior consistently earning him snickering and criticism behind his back from most of the ladies, and choice comments and nicknames from most of the men.

Ultimately, I confuse Jack; as I complicate nearly every facet of his life, unbeknownst to him of course.  Without me he’d actually have a relatively solid sense of self.  It wouldn’t matter if he wasn’t the most confident guy around, he’d at least have a fundamental sense of who he is and an awareness of what his innate abilities and flaws are, regardless of how developed either of them may be.  In reality however, I make Jack try to be all things to all people.  With me by his side he can never respond to a question by simply saying “I don’t know.” even if he has no idea what the answer is.  With me he is always trying to impress everyone; he is desperate for recognition, praise, acceptance; perhaps all of the above, and it shows.

Without me he could respond to a few sentences without seeming inappropriately excited, would know when the natural conclusion of the brief exchange was, and wouldn’t feel compelled to prove his vast understanding and knowledge about the correlation between worms and rain, in the case of a simple comment about the rainy weather that day.  Without me he could engage in a lengthy conversation and spend equally as much time listening as he does speaking, and wouldn’t feel it necessary to “one-up” the person talking with him, nor would he feel the need to have the last word.

With me the company he keeps, Jack is shooting himself in the foot.  Time, and time again.  He doesn’t know how not to try too hard to keep me a secret, and ironically this is how I am so easily discovered.  Without me, Jack could very well build and sustain relationships, both personal and professional.  The reason for this is yet another practice in irony — Jack could more easily relate to other people by simply being human and clearly displaying his strengths and weaknesses.  As opposed to giving everybody the impression that he’s a know-it-all, arrogant jerk who’s not only been there/done that, but did it faster, harder, longer, and stronger.

Finally, without me, Jack might not have thought it necessary to lie about his height by telling his date he was 5′ 10″, prompting his 5′ 5″ date to remark he was clearly not 5′ 10″, as he stood shorter than her in the 5″ stilettos she wore that evening; and subsequently, without me, he probably wouldn’t have launched into a tirade about methodically measuring himself every day and proceeded to sulk like a child until his date abandoned him at the table.

Filed under: Men by cindy
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Not that I expect anyone else shares my enthusiasm over these, but I’ve uploaded all of the remixes from the Eiffel 65 – Blue (Da Ba Dee) Maxi Single to my MUSIC page.  You can help yourself to all 9 of them for free here.  The “Molinaro Parade Mix” particularly makes me rock out.

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Waiting for laundry has never been this much fun.  Not surprisingly, I don’t recall why I opened the Photo Booth application to begin with, but what I captured was 143 snapshots of how I spent my time waiting on my laundry to finish washing and drying.  Here are a few of the highlights:

It starts out innocently enough, but before long…

There’s a headbanger’s ball…

Chocolate pudding gets involved….

I rekindle my inner contortionist…

And wax nostalgic.

You can see the entire set of photos here.  That link takes you to the detailed view of the set which displays the captions for each photo.  I’d recommend viewing them chronologically to preserve the stream-of-consciousness thinking that accompanied the photo taking.  However, for a quick view of the entire set you can click on the “Thumbnails” link on that page.  I have a feeling this may be just the first set in a series of manic moments I’ll document during this episode.

Filed under: Mania by cindy
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Troll the torrents til time stands still searching for the elusive 8 tracks from the Sia – The Girl You Lost To Cocaine: Remixes album and try your patience or click here to download all of them for free from my MUSIC page.  Note the absence of the [John O'Callaghan Analog Tech Rework], [Jens O Remix], and [Jens O Remix Radio Edit].  These tracks aren’t featured on the “Remixes” album, hence my not including them.  Lose the lazy and look on Limewire.

For those unashamed to fly their freak flag high, I’ll be posting the 9 remixes from the Eiffel 65 – Blue (Da Ba Dee) album before long.  It’s the one-hit-wonder feel-good-song of 1999 gone full circle in honor of its 10th anniversary.  You know you love it!

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It occurred to me in the shower this morning that I should probably at least be attempting to document everything that’s going on.  Simply because I remember wishing I’d done so back in June of ‘07 when I had my first psychotic episode.  The subsequent questions such as What was I thinking when the really fucked up hallucinations took hold?  and Why didn’t I ever consider calling my shrink? and How did I think the situation would be resolved? and When (and/or) would I have sought help if left unfettered? remain unanswered.  I can surmise that the psychosis descended upon me so slowly, so seamlessly, that the line differentiating reality from illusion blurred and blended.  I liken psychosis to a plane crash in that such rare and tragic occurrences happen only to other people, inconceivably to me.  Therefore despite maintaining a remarkable degree of what doctors term insight—awareness that hallucinations experienced are not real—throughout the ordeal, deciphering how I could know that people weren’t conspiring to kill me, yet believe they in fact were regardless, is simply not possible.  Ultimately what I was experiencing was real to me.  The debate for “perception is reality” never looked so good.

Familiarity prepared me for the weirdness that has infiltrated my present, and was instrumental in my compilation of Crazy Clues*, a list of warning signs designed to aid in the early detection of psychosis, making full tilt episode prevention possible.  The presence of 4 or more “True” answers to the following statements indicates positive onset of psychosis and likely need for pharmacological intervention.

1. In public everyone stares obviously, knowingly at me.

2. An indiscernible, unyielding fear permeates the hollows of my awareness.

3. Distinguishable human faces grow from apparent to prevalent among wall surfaces.

4. I constantly question the probability and consistently deny the possibility that I’m psychotic.

5. “Conversation Crawling”: critical comments I hear about me slowly displace spoken for unspoken cyclically.

6. Uncomfortable suspicion of everyone and their motives emerges as paranoia locks down in tightened grip.

7. A stagnant sense of non-human origination rooting my identity fosters feelings of omnipotence incarnate.

*Crazy Clues is not professional medical advice; if you suspect you are psychotic, go to your local ER.

Filed under: Psychosis by cindy
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I want to donate one of my kidneys.  To a complete stranger.  I arrived at this decision after much consideration of the benefits and risks that donating a kidney would pose.  My research has shown me that the benefits to the organ recipient far outweigh the risks to me as the living donor.  I only need one of my two healthy kidneys to live, and I cannot think of a greater gift a person could give another human being than the gift of life.  It was an easy, albeit deeply personal, choice for me to make.  The idea first came to me shortly after my last episode of full-blown mania in July of 2008.  I had been thinking a lot about how unpredictable and life shattering both mania and depression can be, and for some reason it occured to me that if I donated one of my kidneys and subsequently didn’t survive a future manic or mixed episode than my life wouldn’t have been a total waste.  So perhaps my decision isn’t entirely self-less; it’s important to me that I do something of value, of meaning, with my life.  And even though everything is back on track for me and the future has never looked brighter, donating one of my kidneys just seems like the right thing to do.

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I seriously suck at it.  The blogging, that is.  While looking for the perfect demotivator to capture which aspect about it (consistency, quality, etc.) I seem to fall the shortest at, I stumbled upon this:

Now that is perfect.  In fact, all of the featured demotivators at www.despair.com are fabulous for the same fundamental reason—they’re true.  As for this one in particular, it’s dead on.  The vast majority of blogs blow.  You generally won’t find people who really have something to say publishing their insight and ideas on a web blog.  Personally, I decided it was time to kick the book into high gear and have been revising and editing some of the hundreds of scraps I’ve put together over the past couple of years.

In addition to this, I’ve also been busy writing my re-enrollment statement for Columbia University, which I submitted earlier today.  It’s still hard to believe I’m actually going back to Columbia.  Not even a year ago I had all but abandoned that dream.  Yet here I am… months and months of hard work and determination have paid off, and I can hardly wait to return to New York City.  The experiences of the past two years—everything from psychosis to homelessness—have been humbling, and I now find myself grateful for my suffering and struggling.  To think that I could not only come back from such devastating illness and circumstances, but that I could be even stronger and better than before was unimaginable to me not too long ago.  I’m finally beginning to know what contentment feels like, and it comes from within.

Filed under: Observations by cindy
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