“Home Sweet Home” or the “Where in the hell have I been?” post

So I guess I didn't scare you off, huh? Good! Welcome back!

I have somehow lost like an entire week. Between celebrating my birthday, freaking out over the idea that 40 is only 2 years away, getting in touch with old friends from high school and hanging out with an old boyfriend, and seeing my therapist again for the first time in several months just to discuss what we need to do before closing out my file, I’m having one of those identity crisis things I think. Not a big one, just enough to make me wonder how much of the old me is still around.

When I say “the old me” I’m talking about two particular phases in my life: Teenage Me and The Breakdown Years.

Teenage Me was nothing but trouble. I skipped class, I smoked pot, I dated bad boys who had longer hair than I did, I went to rock concerts, I slept with a cheerleader’s boyfriend, I ran away from rehab. My jeans were ripped, my stereo was always blasting, my hair was big and blonde (except for that one time I used some temporary stuff to color it red and apparently I got mad at The Boyfriend for saying he liked it better blonde but I don’t remember that.)

I worshipped guys like Nikki Sixx, Sebastian Bach, Rudy Sarzo, Steven Tyler, Rick Savage….I even wrote a letter to the dude that managed Poison at the time to ask him what it would take to become an entertainment manager. Music was my life. If I couldn’t BE a Rock Star, I was going to work with them. (This will explain why so many of my projects have the term Rock Star in the name. Like Rock Star Blog Design and the Rock Star Biz Network. And why some of my jobs and my friendships have been centered around music and bands.)

But some of that passion has fizzled over the past few years, some of which has to do with The Breakdown Years.

During The Breakdown Years, I was still involved in some of it…bands, concerts, drinking, bad boys. None of it was doing me any good. In fact, it damn near killed me. Between having my heartbroken and trying to save someone from the same addictions I had long ago freed myself from, it broke me. I lost sight of who I was and what was important to me. I let people treat me like shit because I felt like that was what I deserved which made no sense because I was always the type of person that swore I’d never take any crap from anyone.

That’s all over now. It all finally came to a head in the Summer of 2006 and I almost died. Twice. That was my rock bottom. And I’ve busted my ass to pull myself back up from there. I stopped partying, I stopped dating, I stopped going to concerts other than a few local bands and to kinda chaperone a few for my daughter and her friends.

I got my own place, I found a job working from home, I started my own business, and I stayed out of trouble.

So what does this past week have to do with all of this stuff? Well now that I’m in a better place in my life and got some control back, I’ve got room to let some of the old me back in without worrying about throwing away this New Me I’ve worked so hard on building.

I can have my loud music back. I can have a few drinks. I can hang out with the bad boys as long as they’re the kind that just seem bad on the surface but underneath they’ve got a heart of gold and would never intentionally hurt me or anyone else, the ones that have Been There Done That (like me) and learned their lessons (like me).

Over the past week, I’ve been thinking about that little space in my life where my professional life and my personal life are connected. Most of my life is lived online right now and I don’t want to have to worry about keeping them separate. I want to be myself in my business, I want to be authentic, I don’t want to feel like I need to apologize or explain myself to anyone in either of those circles. My friends will know that I can’t stay up drinking all night because I have a client project to finish, and my clients will know that I am not working over the weekend because I’m going to a concert.

In other words, I am who I am. Yes, I have a past but I also have a future. And all of the mistakes I’ve made have made me who I am today. Love it or leave it.

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Facebook doesn’t suck so much anymore

What’s with all of the polls and blog posts and status updates about how bad the new Facebook sucks? Look, when you create a website that turns into a worldwide phenomenon with millions of users and you’re laughing your 24 yr old ass off all the way to the bank and stopping to chat with Oprah along the way, you can do whatever you want with your site. Until then, just put on your big girl panties and accept the fact that Facebook looks different. Your 947 acres of li’l green plants and your SuperMegaGinormous Wall are still there, just invest a few minutes figuring out where they went or ask somebody who has already figured it out. 

Personally, I like the new Facebook. But then again, I liked New Coke too so what would I know. Seriously, I think its much more simple and a lot less cluttered. I’ve spent more time on Facebook this weekend than I have in the past year.

Of course, some of that may have something to do with the fact that I’ve found about 15 different people I remember from high school, one of which is an ex-boyfriend of mine that I was just absolutely crazy over. Its so bizarre! Like in a good way though. 

Facebook is so bringing back my Big Hair days, the days when:

I lived on Mountain Dew and cheese popcorn

My friend drove a yellow Pinto

My boyfriend had longer (and bigger) hair than I did

Some football player cheated on his cheerleader girlfriend with some stoner chick that shall remain nameless

The most popular after school activity was hanging out and playing Excite Bike or Mike Tyson’s Punch Out

The new Guns n Roses album totally rocked

I had a huge crush on Jon Bon Jovi – ok, that one hasn’t really changed.

Oh, and the old high school boyfriend that had longer hair than me, the one that drove the old white Cadillac with an 8 track player, the one I couldn’t get enough of, the one that always made it onto my “I wonder whatever happened to….” list…. we’re going out this week.

I feel like I’m 16 all over again.

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Living with the crazy label

You know why most people keep their mental health diagnosis a secret? Stigma. Any time you admit to someone that you’ve been diagnosed with a mental illness, you risk being judged and labeled by people who are misinformed and uneducated.

And there will always, ALWAYS, be the assholes who will use it to try and insult and hurt you. I can’t even count how many times I’ve been called “psycho bitch” or had comments about voices in my head and multiple personalities directed at me. 

But here’s the kicker…you know who most of those comments come from? People who have never even met me.

Yet somehow just having that one little piece of information seems to make them think they know everything about me. They assume it means I’m a bad mother. They assume its the reason why I’m single or why my relationships have ended. They assume that every issue anyone has ever had with me is my fault because I’m the crazy one.

Oddly enough, I have my shit together more than most of them do. Some of the people that have tried to use my diagnosis against me have fallen into at least one, sometimes more, of the following categories:

• Full blown alcoholics
• Active drug addicts
• Adulterers
• High school dropouts
• Unemployed
• In abusive relationships
• Are the abusers
• Borderline illiterate (which is really funny when they try to insult me with a text message or post or email that’s filled spelling and grammar errors)

And these people will say stuff like that thinking they can hurt me with it…but do they seriously think that I’m going to give a shit what they think when I don’t even know or remember their name and couldn’t pick them out of a lineup? Do they really think they can hurt me with something that I make fun of myself all the time? I named my blog after it. I have a sticker on my roller derby helmet that says Crazy Bitch and it used to be the ringtone on my phone. Being called crazy is a joke to me, not an insult. Sticks and stones and all that…

Let’s get a few things straight here, okay? Yes, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. So were a lot of people –  successful people, brilliant people, famous people. And like anyone living with any type of illness, whether its diabetes or epilepsy, my illness is managed with medication on a regular basis. I am functioning at a level equal to (and in some cases, ABOVE) many non-bipolar people. 

Oh, and while we’re at it… schizophrenics are the ones that hear voices and its dissociative identity disorder that has more than one personality. I am bipolar. The only voice in my head is my own and I only have one personality, which just happens to be a fabulous one.

Morons.

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Its like PMS on crack

I was listening to some show on NPR yesterday and the topic was mental health, the DSM (Diagnostic & Statistical Manual) which is THE book that decides what’s an official disorder and what’s not. They only update this thing like every 10 years or so and the next one is scheduled to be published in 2012. Its kind of a hot topic in the psychiatric world world of psychiatry right now because there’s a review draft coming out in 2009. (I had to rewrite that because saying “psychiatric world” made it sound like it was the crazy people that are excited about it and, honestly, I don’t think most of them care that much. I do but then again I’m not exactly your typical crazy person.)

Anyway, on this show they were talking about what is being considered for inclusion in the DSM-V. The topic of homosexuality came up. Did you know that being gay used to be considered a mental disorder? Yep. It was officially listed in the DMS in like the 50’s and 60’s and they finally removed in the 70s.

They were also talking about gender identity as a disorder. Now I’m all for this one! Not because I think people who feel like they were born with the wrong genitalia are mental cases because they’re not. See, if something is listed in the DSM and is officially labeled a mental disorder, then its supposed to be covered by insurance for treatment. (Don’t get me started on health insurance.) So if gender identity disorder is listed then it will be easier for those living with it to obtain sex reassignment surgery.

Ok, that’s not the point of my post. As fascinating as it is, I have never ever felt like I should have a penis. Well, I did in my 20’s but that wasn’t so much wanting my own as it was someone else’s.

No, the reason I’m so interested in this is because there is talk of including PMDD in the DSM. (Sorry for all the acronyms but even if I did know how to spell some of this out, I wouldn’t. I’m lazy like that.) Ok, so PMDD…in the DSM…YES! They should do that! Because I have PMDD and I can tell you it is not normal. Don’t you dare say “Oh its just PMS, suck it up” because PMDD isn’t the same as PMS. Its kinda like PMS…if PMS was going through heroin withdrawal. Living with a woman with PMDD is like living with Jekyll/Hyde’s evil crack-addicted stepsister.

Luckily for me and everyone I come in contact with, I’m medicated. Zoloft does the trick. Zoloft keeps me from wanting to rip the head off of the checkout clerk who put my People magazine next to the ice cream in my grocery bag. Zoloft keeps me from ramming my little Saturn into the SUV that cuts me off on the Interstate then goes 10 mph slower than I was going. Zoloft keeps me out of prison.

So to all of you big shot shrinks out there who have a say in this whole DSM-V thing, please do us all a favor and include PMDD so women can get their insurance to pay for their drugs without having to be slapped with labels like “bipolar” or “depression” just to get treatment. Their husbands and kids and co-workers (and checkout clerks and random drivers) will love you forever.

If you do this, Mr. Dr. People, the world will be a much brighter place. Because you know how that saying goes…if Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

Thanks!

P.S. Seriously, if you even suspect that your “PMS” is really bad, talk to your doctor. And if you’re like me and don’t have insurance, I can tell you that I pay $30 for a 90 day supply of Zoloft at Wal-Mart. The generic version, sertraline, is on their cheapy list.

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The Philosophy of Prince

One of the cool things about having a highly intelligent child is that you can have some pretty deep conversations with them about stuff like religion and politics. My Bubba is one of those kids. He’s a lot smarter than I was at his age and he’s definitely more in tune with what’s going on in the world.

But sometimes some of the most bizarre topics can resemble something bordering on existentialism. We can end up making a Q-Tip sound like the greatest invention ever.

Take our recent conversation about Prince’s The Very Best of Prince CD as an example.

Sissy’s boyfriend bought me the CD and I had been listening to it in the car for like two weeks straight. I was telling Bubba about it, reminiscing about the days when my friends and I had gone to see Purple Rain at the base theater and became obsessed with His Royal Purpleness.

Me: “Prince was like the catalyst for women my age falling for that whole bad boy stereotype.
Him: “How is Prince a bad boy?”
Me: “You know. Rides a motorcycle. Plays in a band. Moody.”
Him: “I suppose.”
Me: “Remember the scene where Apollonia gives him that expensive white guitar and he gives her the hoop earring out of his ear and she acts like its the best thing a guy has ever given her?”
Him: “Yeah, I don’t get that. How did he get women like that?
Me: “Because…he’s sexy.”
Him: “But look at him! (Points to the ‘Kiss’ video I’ve dug up during the conversation.) He’s wearing a cropped shirt, eyeliner and boots.”
Me: “He has to wear the boots. He’s about as tall as I am. But look how he can dance in them! I’d end up in a cast if I tried that.”

I head into the bathroom to do my hair and makeup for our weekly trip to Wal-Mart and Bubba plays the video for “Little Red Corvette”. (Don’t ask me why I do my makeup to go to Wal-Mart. I’m not quite sure myself but I think it’s pretty much the same reason I now consider changing from sweat pants into jeans “dressing up.”)

Me: “Ya know, I didn’t realize until a few years ago what he meant by Little Red Corvette.”
Him: “Mom. Come on. Seriously? Even I knew that.”
Me: “Well, I knew it was something dirty because, well, its Prince. This is the guy that sings about a girl getting off in public with a copy of Field & Stream.
Him: “Huh?”
Me: “‘Darlin’ Nikki.’ Look it up. Wait. Don’t.”
Him: “But how could you not know what he was talking about? Think about it…”
Me: “Well I know now. I just didn’t know before.”
Him: “Pocket full of horses…Trojans…some of them used…jockeys…riding”
Me: “I get it. I get it.”
Him: “But why would anyone keep used condoms in their pocket? That’s pathetic.”
Me: (examining my ‘fine lines’ and aging skin up close in the bathroom mirror) “You know what’s even more pathetic?”
Him: “What?”
Me: “The fact that your mother has more of a mustache than you do.”

Is that a typical conversation in our house? You betcha! *Sarah Palin wink*

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