Category Archives: Support

Teach Your Children. . . Well

Posted on by
21

I am getting so damned sick of having to bandage shaving wounds I inflict upon myself with gauze and medical tape to stop the bleeding, then having to go back to clean up scenes reminiscent of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho in my shower.  This is what I get for having epiphanies while holding a razor so near to my ankle.

But this time, it’s worth it.  I haven’t had words for a very long time, they had literally gone, but thanks to a friend of mine (whom shall be henceforth known simply as The Muse, she has inspired so much that matters in what I write) and a conversation we had, I have something important to say, and I know how to say it.

So sit down and listen, because when Mama Ruby talks like this, those who fail to pay attention do so at their own peril.

Now I am going to say one word, and I’ll only say it once, so you will not turn away because you are over-saturated-sick-to-death of reading and hearing about it:  Steubenville.

SIT.  BACK.  DOWN.

That’s not what I’m going to talk about, not directly.  A lot of people have already done a much better job than I ever could, and I’ll provide some links at the bottom for those who are interested.

But, as it would turn out, I have something to say related to this that hasn’t yet shown up on my radar as having been discussed.  And if it has, it bears repeating.  Mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, grandparents, anyone who is raising children, this matters.

I’m going to tell you how to talk your children about sex, and how not to.  I don’t mean I’m going to give you my value system, so you in the back there, getting up?  Yes, I see you.  Sit.

I had a conversation some time ago with a child of mine.*  I’m going to withhold all details of which one out of respect to her.  She’s old enough to be talking about sex (I think nowadays kids start doing that at preschool, right?), but what popped out of her mouth that day floored me.  It was a remark that came from some of her friends about rape, and if it hadn’t gotten me so livid, the subject matter probably would have taken me a bit by surprise.

The comment was how “such-and-such” behavior meant boys were going to rape her, if she didn’t do it differently.  Again, not mine to share, also not the point.  I got so whipped into a frenzy by this, I gave her the “doesn’t matter what you wear, do, if you’re drunk, etc.” and moved on and on, performing my denouement somewhere around, “I don’t care if you are lying naked on a bed, with a man you have had sex with hundreds of times before, I don’t care if he’s your husband, if you say no, he has no right.“

She got a little quiet by the end of my soliloquy — and I mean in demeanor, she never breaks in on me when I “get like that”, which isn’t very often.  In fact, she smiled a little inside.  Being able to read her, I can tell you it is exactly why she mentioned it, consciously or not.  She knew, but she needed the kind of fiery hot rage of reassurance that only Mama Ruby can provide.

She has good parents.  Wonderful parents.  And I guarantee that they have talked to her about sex.  Rape?

Here’s the thing, my loves.  I don’t believe in an abstinence only approach.  I also don’t believe that every child should be given condoms at a certain age.  I believe that if you are raising a child, you should absolutely do your best to instill your values into them (unless your values are really messed up, in which case you shouldn’t be raising a child and God help them).

But.

Your children are going to grow up, and they’re probably going to do some things you don’t agree with.  And even if they don’t, the odds are extremely high that they’ll have something done to them.  Every parent has that worst nightmare, and so do I, and every parent says, “not my child”.  That second thing I hope and I pray with everything in me, but I don’t say it blindly.  In the United States, one out of every six women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime.**

Here is where the conversation parents have with their children needs undergo a seismic shift.  Because we live in a rape culture, that is a fact.  It’s an ugly one, and one that needs to change, but I’m not dealing in what “should be” right now, I’m dealing in the ugly reality of what is.

Parents, when you talk with your daughters (and sons) about sex, if you tell them to wait for marriage, if that is fundamental to your beliefs, I support you wholeheartedly.  With two caveats.  And to clarify, the second caveat applies to whatever stance you take when you talk with your kids, so those of you who have no problem with pre-marital sex, back in your seats.

The first is that you do not ever use the words “wrong”, “bad”, “immoral” or even “sin” when you do it.  That isn’t going to change the mind of a child/young adult/teenager/adult when they have decided to explore sex outside of the bonds of marriage.  I know, I’m sorry, it hurts to hear that, but it just isn’t.  What it is going to do is plant a deep seed of shame within them.  Such that if they are ever molested, raped, or sexually assaulted in any way, they’re going to be that much more hesitant to come forward and talk to you.  After all, if sex outside of marriage is so bad and wrong and sinful, then they must be bad and sinful, too.  Think what that does to someone who has just been horribly traumatized.

Don’t tell me it doesn’t work like that, either.  You expect them to listen when you say don’t have sex before marriage, but not remember all the other things you said when someone forces sex upon them against their will, their want, the very beliefs you have instilled?  Uh-uh.  No way.  You can’t have both.

Which brings us to caveat number two.  When you talk to your daughters and sons about sex, talk to them about sexual assault and rape, too.  I know.  Really big and really scary and my guts are churning just thinking of how to broach it.  But bite the damned bullet and do it.  Make sure that whether or not you think sex should only occur in marriage, when you teach your child about sex, you also teach them that if they are raped, if they are attacked in any way, it is never their fault.  That even if they have broken every rule you have ever made for them, if they have had sex before, if they were out drunk partying, I don’t care, doesn’t matter, they can come back and tell you what happened and you will support them with all of your heart.  And follow through on that.

If, God forbid, your daughter should come stumbling in at three a.m., clothes a mess, sobbing, and tell you she was assaulted, don’t ask what she was doing out, don’t ask her where she got that dress that’s so short.  Sit down with her and tell her that you love her and will do anything she needs you to.  I can’t tell you what that may be.  Maybe the foundation you laid will be enough to help her want to call 911 and report it.  Maybe she won’t be able to do that, and it won’t be anyone’s fault but the scum who put her in such a state.  But at least she’ll know that you have her back 110%, that you don’t think she’s “bad” or “sinful”, and that you want to do whatever you can to help her.

And, sadly, even that won’t make her magically feel better, like when you used to be able to kiss a bump and make it go away.  But it may make it easier for her to see herself as a worthwhile, valuable, beautiful human being once again.

*For those who don’t know, I have no children of my own.  I do have several “daughters of my heart” that I used to care for and still consider “mine”.

**Source:  RAINN | Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network

Relevant Reads:
I’m angry | Meizac
The Wrong Message | The Bad Luck Detective (trigger warning)

And if you read nothing else, please read this piece:
Steubenville’s Jane Doe asked people to do something…

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Three Weeks

Posted on by
32

And two days, for those of me keeping track.  That’s how long it’s been since I stopped my miracle med I was going to take for the rest of my life.

Since I wrote The Finish Line, things have improved quite a bit with my psychiatrist.  And I was cautiously optimistic about the three drugs we had decided upon to replace the one I had to stop.

Things started off well enough.  I was getting up mornings and doing yoga, then going over to the rec center and using the bag for an hour.  I was feeling motivated and determined to fight with everything against depression, because that had been creeping on for a long time even before the med issue.

After about a week or so, I noticed by the end of my day my head was in a complete fog, and I felt like I had been up for three days in a row, mentally (though I wasn’t requiring any extra sleep).  The only thing this could have been coming from was the medication I was prescribed for the immediate relief of my depression.  I held out until the middle of last week, when I realized that even when I doubled the dose, it would only help my depression for half-an-hour, max.  I then said enough.

Strike one.

The second, more long-term medication that was meant for my depression is one you have to start slowly and raise the dose of incrementally.  The reason is there is a small chance of a potentially deadly rash in reaction to it.  You may know the one to which I am referring, but I would lay down 20 to 1 you don’t know half the fun, detailed, descriptively vivid particulars about the two distinctive rashes you really need to watch out for, the ones that are actually serious.  My former psychiatrist believed education was key, and God bless the man for that.

I did very well on this drug before, no reaction, good response, took it for years.  Earlier this week I raised my dose on schedule, and the next day the tip of my tongue hurt a bit.  I figured I must have burned it, or perhaps I was dehydrated.  When I woke up Friday it was in so much pain that I couldn’t move it around my mouth, all I could do was take little sips of tepid water and hold them on it a bit before swallowing.  I knew I wasn’t dehydrated at that point.  I put in a call to my psychiatrist, and even though it looked completely normal, I had already decided I was taking no chances by the time he called back.  He found it odd, had never actually heard of anything like it, but was in agreement with me.

So I didn’t take any yesterday or today, and my tongue is improved enough for Fugdesicles.  My father got the sugar-free kind by mistake, so that’s a good 80 calories a day right there I’m living off of!

Strike two.

The third medication, which I insisted upon because I had no anti-manic. . .  Well, now I’m off the amphetamine all I’m doing is sleeping.  I increased the dose to treat what I rightly identified as prodromal mania last week.  So the last two nights I quartered the dose I had gotten up to.  Tonight I’ll go down to a half.  And maybe, by Monday — when I next see my psychiatrist — I’ll be able to stay awake for more than an hour-and-a-half at a go.

In which case we’ll call that one a foul tip.

422326_354277791315851_1883817905_n

I added that ‘specially for you, Sailor.

Thank you so much to everyone who has shown me such love, support, understanding, caring, and kindness, and to all of you who continue to do so. It means more to me than I could ever find a way to put into words.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Implications Speak More Loudly Than Words

Posted on by
27

So.  That jerk behind the blog A Clown On Fire just made me do two things I need to be doing less of: think and cry.

Let me explain.  He actually did something very sweet (don’t tell him I told you, it’ll ruin his image of himself).  I was involved in a conversation on Twitter with his lovely wife, Sara (of Laments and Lullabies), and another dear friend of ours, DeeDee (of Disorderly Chickadee) about. . . well there were many things, but it led up to smoothies and alcohol.  I informed them that I was “on the wagon”, as it is put, and Eric immediately chimed in with praise, tweeting, “Good for you, Ruby.”

In about 30 seconds, things got a little muddy in my mind.  Because my reason for choosing to never again drink is a good one.  It’s a very important one.  It’s a mentally healthy one.  And it isn’t an easy choice.  Actually, it’s really fucking hard.  I’m not an alcoholic, I can honestly say that there has only been one time in all of my 32 years that I have used alcohol in any way that crossed the line between “acceptable” and “not”.  Ideas, by the way, that are completely individual and as unique as each person who has ever imbibed.  Point being, while I didn’t drink often or much, I really loved occasionally to have a  few bloody marys, a couple of glasses of champagne, a really yummy cosmo, or my favorite strawberry margaritas.

Except.

Except I began to notice something.  I have been stable and healthy and happy for eight-and-a-half months now.  And in that time, I’ve discovered a few major things that were lost in the confusion of bipolar and its sidekicks.  One of the things I discovered is that when I drink, the three or four days following I am very, very. . .  There needs to be a word for this, but I can’t find one (and not for lack of a thesaurus).  If I hadn’t been where I’ve been, I might say depressed.  But it isn’t like that.  Certainly it’s a much stronger, different state than sad.  Heartsick comes close, but soulsick captures it better.  That’s about how I feel.  And it’s strong enough, and it affects me enough that I did the math and decided it was a really bad idea for me to drink.  At all.  Ever again.

I’ve had quite a few conversations with friends and family members about this.  And reactions have varied from ‘Oh, I feel that way, too’ — no, you don’t, if you did you would either have stopped drinking or be drunk all the time, trust me on this — to ‘Well, that’s smart.  Good for you.’  Only the ‘good for yous’ I have gotten are about on par with what I would get if I told someone I was exercising more.  Kind of a ‘That’s nice, it’s healthy, but it isn’t really much of a thing.’

Why is that?

Everyone acts as if me quitting drinking isn’t really very important.  As I said, I’ve never had any problems with alcohol, I’ve never even drunk-dialed an ex, therefore my consumption/lack of consumption really only affected one person.  So I guess, in the end, I shouldn’t expect any kind of ticker tape parade.  Alcohol is such a staple in most people’s lives that it really has to be fucking you up before they are willing to admit that making a decision to rid your own life of it forever is something difficult for you and worth recognition.*

Which is why those three little words, “Good for you”, catching me completely off my guard (and clearly in a vulnerable spot), reduced me to tears.

So thank you for your words of support, Eric.  They mean more to me than I ever want anyone to know.

*To be inescapably clear, I am not dismissing, criticizing, or trying to minimize how amazing it is for an alcoholic, or someone abusing alcohol in any way, to make the decision to become sober.  I actually don’t have the words to express how incredible and courageous that is.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Why It Matters

Posted on by
39

Today, one of my favorite baristas at the Starbucks near my house asked me what I do for work.  Which is not such an unusual question for one person to ask another, but it’s one that has been trending in my life lately.  And I finally realized I want to share my answer with everyone.  There is a reason for me wanting to share it today, but I’ll get to that.

Some of you know, maybe some of you who will read this don’t.  Right now, I don’t do any kind of “work”, not in the conventional go to a job and get paid for it kind of way.  I am on government disability (SSI) for bipolar disorder.  I live with my parents, because I can’t afford to live on my own.  And for a period of long years, not so far back, I needed to live with my parents, because I was so profoundly ill.

Five months ago, I finally reached a state where I can say that I am well.  Not just “okay”, or “doing better”, I have come to an amazing place as far as my mental health is concerned.  I am somewhere I had stopped dreaming I could ever possibly reach.  The last six years of my life have been a hell of medication roulette, therapy, and even the evil electroconvulsive therapy.

Before that there was a period of steep decline, I can’t tell you how long it took before I finally came to a place where I said, “I need help.”  But it didn’t happen in the blink of an eye.

I can’t distill for you what life was like for the six years plus I have just lived through.  My brain has a difficult time conceptualizing it, and I lived it, so I know I couldn’t possibly explain.  Some of you saw me through some of it, and some of you I talked to, or you heard about my life from friends and family.  But the only two people outside of myself who come close to having a grasp on what things were like for me are my mom and dad, because they lived in the same house with me.

Anyway, I don’t want to get into all of that now.  The point is that now that I am doing well, I have gotten inquiries on what I am going to do next, am I going back to school, am I looking for a job, etc. (and not just from baristas).  And let me assure anyone who may have asked that I take no exception to questions like that.  I don’t think you’re pushing and you don’t hurt my feelings.  In fact, I can’t even remember who has asked me these questions, that’s how much they don’t matter.

As far as formal, common society’s definition of “working”, I can tell you that it’s probably going to be a little while before I do that (unless any of my friends Where I Live needs a nanny, that I could totally be on board with).  Yes, I am doing very well now.  But after six years, I’m not exactly going to push myself into something that will be a huge stressor, even a positive one, after just five months.  The way I look at it, I’m convalescing, just as I would if my illness were 100% physical.  I need to build my strength back up and get to fully understand my limitations.

My psychiatrist and I talked about this last week, and one of the things we discussed was volunteer work.  And I expressed to him that I’m not even quite there yet, because you have to be available specific hours, etc.

But that brought us around to what I wanted to write about, and what the title is referring to (yes, all of that was just a preamble).

A year ago today, a very good friend and fellow blogger and I co-founded a site, A Canvas Of The Minds.  The easiest way to explain it to people is as a “community mental health blog.”  Basically, we have gathered together a group of individuals who blog about mental health, and they all contribute pieces to the site.

Some of you have heard me talk about Canvas until you’re sick to death of the topic.  That is, if anyone whom I know outside of blogging reads this, which is what I’m hoping will happen.  And unless you are involved in the blogging community (and especially the mental health sector), you cannot possibly know the degree of support and the many true friendships that are a product of it.  It isn’t “real” or “important” to a lot of people, which I completely get.

Only, here’s the thing.  I pour my heart and soul into Canvas.  No, I can’t “work” right now.  And I’m not ashamed of that fact.  But Canvas allows me so many things that are denied to people who have basically had to retreat from society for one reason or another.  It gives me a way to spend my hours.  It is a creative outlet.  I have formed friendships because of it, both with co-authors and readers (with people all around the world, no less).  Real friendships.  Just because the bulk of our interaction is online, doesn’t take away from the truth of it.

But there’s more.  I am the admin of the site, so that means I am responsible for implementing all the behind-the-scenes stuff.  Ideas come from everyone, but I have to actually do anything major with the site.  Which gives me a sense of responsibility to everyone involved.  It gives me a reason to focus, to meet deadlines, and to think beyond myself.  And it also gives me a sense of pride and worth when someone compliments something I have written or done.

It can also be frustrating to no end.  I started out with practically zero technical know-how.  And even though we have a facebook page and even, recently, a Twitter account, I still am facing a steep learning curve.

But when I think about all we have accomplished in the space of a year, and the important part I played in that, my heart swells.  Because I am doing something that I not only love, but that is benefiting countless people.

So if I seem to go on, or am posting to facebook things from the Canvas page, or telling you something that happened with it when we talk, or asking for you to show your support in some way, stop for a minute and think.  Do you keep what you do all day to yourself?  Would you pass up an opportunity to promote a cause you are passionate about, one that affects you at the most personal level, because you think that it might bore or bother people?  Would you keep to yourself a project you are working on that has been your lifeline, or not talk about all of those who help to make it a reality?

That is why it matters.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

“Psychotic Drugs”

Posted on by
13

a.k.a. “My Extreme Dystonic Reaction And How I Wound Up In The Emergency Room For The Fourth Time In Less Than Nine Months”

It was my intention to write a post about another night, another ER visit.  It was also my intention to get a little rest first.  The latter was not to be.  About the former, I guess we’ll see.

(If you think I ever actually know and plan and decide upon what I’m going to write here, you’ve lost the thread somewhere along the way.)

I watched the movie Serendipity instead.  Everyone reading this should know by now how I love the concept (why haven’t I made a category for it, I need to do so, post-haste. . . okay, done).  I don’t just love it, I hold a very strong belief in it.  The movie is cute as can be, at any rate.  It also features a wonderful score, with a particular song running through it that was also in another movie released I think around the same time, also wonderful and with a not dissimilar concept, Practical Magic.

I don’t know why I stopped liking movies, but if anyone could, please tell me in the comments, what has John Cusak done lately?  Or Sandra Bullock, Nicole Kidman, even Kate Beckinsale?  I’m terribly out of my element with modern-day movies, I’m forced to admit.

So.  I’ve put it off long enough.

What happened was this.  I had an extreme and acute (I promise you I am not overstating the situation by deliberately using two absolute declarative adjectives to describe it) dystonic reaction to perphenazine, also known by the name Trilafon.  It’s a conventional antipsychotic, and thus much more prone to cause this (and other neuroleptic symptoms and syndromes).

Which forces me to explain dystonia, a task I don’t much relish, particularly after experiencing it so severely.  Here goes (I’ll also throw in a couple of links for a more clinical picture).

It started with my voice, actually.  It had this funny affect, and it was hard to get my tongue to make the sounds I needed it to.  But I got that under control and didn’t worry too much (that would have been. . . Monday night).  Last night (Tuesday) I noticed it again a little, but everyone went to sleep and so I did no more talking.  But as I lay on the couch, and later in bed, trying to fall asleep, I noticed some rigidity and tension in my face, my tongue especially.  I couldn’t fall asleep, and it spread through my body, little by little.

I kept talking myself down from thinking it was anything, except something in me must have known better.  I got out of bed and went and got my mother, at my age and at three a.m.  And then we sat on the couch and I cried, because I was terrified.

I settled down some, and even tried a few odd moments of humor, which were lost in translation because I basically couldn’t speak.  Long rest of the story short, I got worse, my mom got more concerned, we both put on our shoes and coats and got in the car to go to the emergency room.  I remember when she was backing out of the driveway, I just about told her to call 911 instead, but I lost my direction at that point.

It was worse on my left side, my toes were curled tightly, my head tilted, my abdomen locked.  I couldn’t keep my eyes open.  I described it to my mom as like a very long, drawn out, slow motion seizure, and she said she had thought the exact same thing.

Apparently I was as gone as I think I was, because she also said everyone in the ER seemed freaked, and I couldn’t even sign my name to consent for treatment, I had to do a “verbal consent” (policies).

My blood pressure and my pulse were high enough to set all of the machines beeping, and then after a minimum of discussion and the magic word “perphenazine,” a wonderful young doctor had a dose of Benadryl shot into my IV that knocked me silly.  Seriously.  I kept going, “Oh wow.  Oh, wow.”  My poor mother sitting there, eyes filled with tears from her terror over my state, and I had to reassure her that they were good “oh wows,” because I was feeling completely back to myself within a minute or two.  Well, kind of floaty, but otherwise very much myself.

So with some discussion, an injection of diazepam (Valium) for good measure, a prescription and instructions, I was sent merrily on my way, better than before.  Better, because now I know to say “fuck all” if a doctor tries to put me on a conventional again.

Add those to the growing list of drug allergies.

Moral of the story:  “Don’t ever hit your mother with a shovel, it leaves a dull impression on her mind.” ~ Paul Newman, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid

I decided this one needed a light moral, because it’s been a heavy post for me.

And, oh, the links:  Dystonic Reaction (one link, I’m tired)

Whoops, a last note:  The title of this post, my mom was trying to find the word ‘psychotropic’ in reference to my meds, but came up with ‘psychotic’ instead.  Based on recent experience, I’m coming to agree with her Freudian assessment.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

So What’s A Girl To Do Then, Exactly?

Posted on by
4

Time for a sing-a-long.  If you read this blog with any regularity, you know this refrain well.  If you don’t, take it to heart and learn it very quickly.  Everyone ready?  Okay, here we go.

“You don’t tug on Superman’s cape,
You don’t spit into the wind,
You don’t pull the mask off that ‘ol Lone Ranger
And you don’t mess around with Jim.” ~Jim Croce, ‘You Don’t Mess Around With Jim’

I was doing pretty danged well for awhile there (and I can’t believe I just used the word “danged,” it just is the right one).  You can read the highlights in my post from the day before yesterday, In 5. . . 4. . . 3. . . 2. . .  Then yesterday I went to my eldest’s youngest brother’s birthday party and had the most incredible time, I talked a bit with their mom – something I had forgotten how much I enjoy doing, because it has been that long – and when people asked me how I had been lately, I could reply with both honesty and conviction that I had been really, really well.

It wasn’t until I was at the doctor’s today, talking to him about potential sleeping medications (because there’s a topic I just cannot get enough of) and I found myself fighting back against tears, and hard, that I remembered how it works with me.  Actually, it wasn’t until after, while I was scheduling a follow-up appointment with the nastiest bitch of a medical assistant ever to have disgraced my presence.  Mania is always followed by depression for me.  Always always always, without fail.  Occasionally I can get a little hypomanic and catch it early enough and I don’t fall down, but with a full-blown mania, subsequent depression is an inevitability.

I’m not going to get into the finer points of why this thought never came to my mind, every keystroke is an intense effort for me right now and so I want to spit out the most relevant particulars and get to my point with as little typing as I can.

The good news is that it seems to be fairly proportionate, so the less intense and more quickly controlled the period of mania, the less severe and shorter the depression.  Actually I can’t unequivocally call it good news, because while my mania lasted for only a little more than two weeks, it was the most acute bout of it I have had in recent memory.  What does that mean for this depression?  Fuck, I don’t know.

But where Jim Croce comes in is that the words I send out into the Universe have shown time after endless time that they have an actual effect on the course of my life (tugging on Superman’s cape).  I can’t say out loud (or write) that things are going well for me, because that is tantamount to asking for it all to fall apart.  This isn’t the nature of manic-depression, nor is it superstition or delusion.  You’re going to have to take me at my word that I have investigated this concept thoroughly, because I would like to draw to a close.

Keeping this in mind, what am I to do?  Spend the rest of my life making noncommittal utterances when someone who loves me asks how I am?  Lie to them and deny them what joy they can have for me, when they spend so much of their time concerned?  That can’t be how it works.

Moral of the story:  Get a flu shot.  I’m going on a Roman Holiday.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

In 5. . . 4. . . 3. . . 2. . .

Posted on by
5

So two days ago (8 September 2011), I had my six month anniversary of when I began this blog with my first post, The ‘Miracle Max’ Moment.  It’s a little different from (but also much the same as) the type of posts I have come to write since.  It’s a bit of a process to get from throwing out a random thought and seeing what happens to it to letting anything and everything fly and not giving a rip who may be reading it and how they may respond.

For the record, I’m proud to have gotten here from there.  And thank you to everyone who reads what I write, and who has been brave enough to subscribe and be inundated with my ramblings on a near-daily basis.  A very special thank you to those who have stuck out my moods and my life, in non-blog interaction (of course), but also specifically among the bloggers I know, and those I ‘kind of’ know.

I am good at times, I comment and reply to comments and give quality feedback on posts on other blogs (I think, anyway).  And then there are the times – recently, for example – that I turn almost completely to myself and my world.  I may read, but I don’t comment.  I may not return emails or reply to comments on this blog for days.  I may struggle to do anything, both online and off.

But this blog has been my lifeline.  Lately, if nothing else I try to make myself post each day.  Sometimes I just fiddle around with the bright work (the behind-the-scenes stuff that usually no one can really pinpoint, but makes the experience better for everyone).  But this thing truly is my baby.

Thanks also to all of the bloggers who have decided to help in painting Canvas with their wonderful Minds.  ;P  Lulu, Always, ManicMuses, Novalee, and Manic Monday - you are all wonderful, and you occupy a special place in my life.  Being the site’s Admin (though not the only one behind the concept, ahem, Lulu) has given me a taste again of something I wasn’t sure if I was ready to handle, and it has done it in such a way as to not overwhelm me, or even really show its true face until I was well past the biggest hurdles (well, we’ll see about the hurdles part).

It has given me a responsibility and accountability to others.  It may not seem like much, and at the moment we’re in a place where there aren’t too many things I need to do in an Admin capacity (except for recruit more bloggers, we really want for you to join your voice to the chorus, everyone).  But there have been other times, with setup and implementing new ideas and contacting bloggers individually and all the various and sundries. . .

In any case, it’s different from writing this here blog in so many ways.  Not just in that I have a responsibility to other people (though I do), but also in that what I contribute there has to be more ‘focused and directed,’ and less ‘rambling whatever’ – the way I write here.  :D  So I am honing my craft as well.

I decided that six months of good, solid work here – I haven’t posted every day, but I averaged it out to 23 posts a month – deserved a reward.  If you are highly observant, you may have already noticed something a little different (and no, not the background color).  If you are a subscriber and are reading this in your inbox, I think you have to actually visit the page for this to work.  It’s alright, we don’t mind waiting for you. . .  Are you here now?  Good.

Now everyone look upward, all the way to the top of your screen, almost. . . look at the search bar. . . look at my address, my URL. . .  Notice anything?  Notice anything missing?

Yep.  I have my own domain, no more .wordpress.com, just .com!

It’s really much more symbolic than anything.  WordPress still hosts my blog, but I feel more now like it is in fact my blog.  It may seem like a baby step, a little tweak at most, and in a way it is.  But in another way it’s a huge leap from where I was.  I inched along in itty bitty bits, but I got so far.

I think the biggest factor involved is the symbolism.  Because doing this was a big, scary thing for me.  It was an acknowledgement that yes, I have done something worthwhile and kept up with it, and it was a sort of vow to myself that I will continue to do what I love and I will grow it and expand it in any way that I can.

Happy girl.  Actually. . .


(This song and video are solely the property of their respective owners and artists. Absolutely no copyright infringement is intended.)

And as it happens, I opened my curtains this morning for the first time in ages, I swear with no conscious motive other than to let in the light.  I thought in the moment it was pure practicality, but it makes me wonder now.

Moral of the story:  I am Ruby.  See me shine.

(And in case you’re confused or concerned, you can still enter in my old address with the .wordpress.com and it will re-direct you here.)

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Why I Am A Catholic

Posted on by
10

Anyone who knows me should be shocked already, or at the very least quite conpuzzled.  I’m not a Catholic, at least not a “good,” practicing Catholic.  I was Baptized as a baby, I have taken the holy sacraments of Confession and Communion (though not lately), and I even was Confirmed.  And then I fled the Church, mostly because I couldn’t really be bothered with it anymore at that age, but I also think I had a decent amount of genuine conflict within me about what I had been taught to believe, more so than most teenagers.

Gosh, I wanted to write an actual post, something that spoke on how my beliefs aligned and disaligned with Catechism.  And I also wanted to include some pictures I took today.  That part I will do.  The rest, perhaps on another day, in another post.  ;)

Today I went and had a saint medal blessed by my priest.  Yes, I consider him my priest, though I’ve never so much as heard him say Mass.  He’s a wonderful man from Spain, he’s kind and understanding and a little shy and hesitant, but wonderful to talk with about all sorts of things.  And he always remembers my name.  He is truly filled with the Holy Spirit.

The saint on the medal is Saint Frances de Sales, who is the patron of writers, teachers, and the deaf.  Guess which of those patronages is the reason I bought the medal.  But after my conversation with Father ~ today, I actually think another applies.

In any case, though I am not a “good” Catholic, it’s in me, and not because of conditioning.  I know Catholicism lives very deep in my soul (though not alone, and not without some dissonance and broad interpretation) because I have chosen to let it make its home there.  I know this beyond a shadow of a doubt because of many things, but I’ll share a specific. . . well reason is the best word I can come up with, but reason has nothing whatever to do with it.  But the “reason” is this.

I purchased this medal two days ago.  It was a beautiful sterling silver necklace, an adornment, I liked it very much, but until I had it blessed today – well it was just a thing.  A thing like any other thing, nothing terribly special.  Now it is something else, it has been completely transformed.  Call it holy (technically that’s the right word), call it lucky, call it magical.  Just realize that this is no longer ‘a beautiful sterling silver necklace’ to me, nor ‘an adornment.’  I can’t describe it in any material way.  It’s love and hope and help and guidance.  Remind me some time to tell you about my other saints and their patronages.

The pictures below were taken in a little garden outside of the parish offices.

The statue in the garden

These two were side-by-side, at the perimeter.

LOVE PEACE HOPE

GOD LOVES YOU

These pictures I actually took with my phone.  Apparently the quality of the images is pretty good when my hands aren’t trembling.

Moral of the story:  Never assume.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Why Floating In The Gulf Of Mexico Is Like Incredible Sex

Posted on by
5

(This one obviously had to be cobbled together after the fact, because blogging is not really something you can do while floating in a large body of water – nor while having incredible sex.)

I live in a land-locked state.  So every time I get near a large body of water, I have an uncontrollable urge to dive in, head first, fully clothed, even.

At least this time I stripped to my twosie.  And then I went in, and under, and on.

For those of you who don’t know (I didn’t), the Gulf of Mexico is actually quite shallow.  Shallow, yes, to be underestimated or not taken properly into one’s considerations, no.  I was starting to walk out into it, and the water hit to about my shins.  And knocked me flat onto my front.  And I laughed with sheer delight.  And then I got back up, got out a bit deeper, and dove into the waves – wavelets – waves.  I kept on going until my feet would no longer reach the bottom, and then I paddled out a little further, just in case.  I’m not much of a swimmer, although I think I learned more and learned it better in this past week than I did in all of my life.

I used to be terrified of drowning.  Like if you could pick the most utterly horrifying way for me to meet my end, it would have been by water.  I lost that fear some time ago – I lost most of my fears, I stopped trying to figure out where they had gone and why, and just rejoiced in it.

So out I am in the Gulf and I flip onto my back and I relax and float.  I have a good float.  And the better the float, the more I relax.  Until I’m lying there, eyes closed, ears below the water’s surface, entirely at peace.  The only thing above the surface of the salty water is my nose, and from time-to-time my mouth.

And I begin to realize that this feels like the most amazing sex in the world!  The water and I are merging together, I am completely at peace but completely aware of every movement taking place, every sensation in and around every part of my body.  I’m not even thinking of drift or shore or depth or any type of consequence.  That is what incredible sex should be, being entirely aware of your environment, in a sensory way, but completely unaware, in a cognitive.

Eventually even this great coupling had to end.  I promised I would come back the next day, if the water would be so gracious as to have me, and I headed back to shore.  I said to my cousin (as though I had just discovered a cure for life), “That is like the most incredible sex ever!”  She heartily agreed.  You, my lovelies, must stop being voyeurs here.  Anything else she or I said is entirely between the two of us. . .

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

55. Never Index Your Own Book

Posted on by
2

I’ve been going completely mad.  I haven’t written anything in three days – maybe I did for Canvas, I don’t know, I honestly cannot remember and I’m not checking dates.  The aforementioned venture is going to be my death, I swear it.  Until I can form something worthwhile, here are some thoughts.

Categories:  I decided since I was contributing to a blog about mental differences, I should try to make it easier for readers from there to find the posts I wrote here specifically dealing with my crazies.  There is now a widget on the right for categories and all post have been “categorized” and “cross categorized” and “re-categorized.”  It took me two days straight, there are over 200 categories in various hierarchies, and I probably made things more confusing for the reader.  I also wanted to kill myself by about halfway through.  That’s what happens when you take a mind like mine and try to make sense of it to other people.

F.U.N:  I made a page of sites and things that I find beautiful, amusing, intriguing, and funny.  There isn’t much on there right now, but that’s because I’m snobbish about what I promote.  Check it out anyway - F.U.N. (the main page) and My Version Of F.U.N. (the page with the actual links).

Informational:  I am working at this section, but there is a crapload of stuff I want to add and include, and it I will more than likely keep expanding it, even after I’ve decided I’m finished.  It’s paltry for now, but too much tedium makes me feel like my soul is dying.  I’ve got Informational, the main page, which pretty much says what I just did but incredibly concisely; Definitions, the first drop-down – reallllly not much there, but some day when I have a little patience and am not on a deadline, it’s going to be my very own mini-dictionary and something beautiful to behold; Clinical Shorthand, the second drop-down, just look at it, it explains itself; Books, third drop-down and the section I will enjoy most, once I expand it, and its only section right now, Resources For Parents And Caregivers; and finally Links, the fourth drop-down.  Everything is still embryonic, but I take personal pride in all that I put up on this site, so there is much investigation and expansion to be done.

Intellectual Property And Copyrights:  This is my official PSA.  You need to protect any work that you put online as much as possible.  People will plagiarize, people will re-word your work – usually very obviously and badly – people will do all sorts of shit when they lack any actual talent or originality themselves but want to pretend like they have something worthwhile and interesting to offer.  If you blog on WordPress, here is your page for one stop shopping:  Prevent Content Theft — Support — WordPress.com.

And finally (for now), thank you.  All of you lovely, wonderful people reading this have stuck by me through madness, distraction, neglect, confusion, and so much more.  I can’t express to you how much that means.  I love you all.

Moral of the story:  Here’s something to make you hurt and hopefully change your life for the better.  It has mine.  


(This song and video are solely the property of their respective owners and artists. Absolutely no copyright infringement is intended.)  

Tell people.  Tell everyone you know, every day of your life, how important they are and what they mean to you.  You never know if you will have another chance, and I often think the things we always meant to say are the saddest things in life.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.