mommyjenny I cannot believe they got a Canadian mime to pretend to fix the Olympic cauldron. Even H is speechless. #ocanada #fearthemime
45 minutes ago via web

jennyfromtheblock I sort of love that they got a Canadian mime to pretend to fix the Olympic cauldron. #sortalovemimes
44 minutes ago via web

thesueyside If those white-clad Gidget snowboarders make a maple leaf, I will slit my wrists. In a maple leaf pattern. #fml #readyformyclosingceremony
22 minutes ago via web

mommyjenny @thesueyside Stay alive. The Marriage Ref with Seinfeld and Baldwin is next up. #laughteristhebestmedicine
15 minutes ago via web

jennyfromtheblock OMG. THEY PUT RUSSIANS IN INFLATABLE HAMSTER BALLS WITH CHRISTMAS LIGHTS AND EVERYONE IS KEEPING A STRAIGHT FACE. #killmysenseofirony
14 minutes ago via web

mommyjenny If I can’t get my kid to brush her teeth, I sure as hell can’t get her to the Olympics #parentingsux
12 minutes ago via web

thesueyside The Dan Jansen commercial makes me cry. Joannie Rochette’s hat makes me cry. Shawn White’s coif makes me cry. #wishiwerekidding
11 minutes ago via web

jennyfromtheblock @thesueyside The head of Canada cannot speeekez les Francais. I bet you can say merci beaucoups without pronouncing the p. #blamecanada
9 minutes ago via web

mommyjenny Bob Costas just said “Amen” to Neil Young. No, seriously. He actually said, “Amen,” and I snort-wheezed drool on the dog. #neilyoungwhatiswithyourhat
6 minutes ago via web

dreamyjenn WTF? Why is Doc Baker tooting into a harmonica under gigantic icicles? Where’s Project Runway? #adhdnotjust4kidz
4 minutes ago via web

thesueyside Someone just said AS IT WERE. Show me to the bridge. I want poisoned candy and I will lick and lick until I can lick no more. #arsenicnotSplenda
3 minutes ago via web

jennyfromtheblock Oh, William Shatner. You have never made love in a canoe, and we all know it. P.S. They spelled ‘prairies’ with only one ‘i’ on the big-ass floor postcards. #atleasticanspelleh?
3 minutes ago via web

mommyjenny O, CATH-er-ine O’Hara, I love you, but I hate the writers who gave you this material. Sorry, eh! #noEmmysontheway
2 minutes ago via web

mommyjenny @jennyfromtheblock They photographed PEE IN THE SNOW. Please tell me you saw that too. #urinedoesnotbelongintheclosingceremonyoftheolympics
1 minute ago via web

thesueyside I love Michael J. Fox. #totally
1 minute ago via web

mommyjenny I love Michael J. Fox. #absolutely
1 minute ago via web

jennyfromtheblock I love Michael J. Fox. #alexrulesbutiwoulddojasonbateman
1 minute ago via web

thesueyside But he said back bacon and poutine and now I want to cry again. I am pathetic. Pathetique. #fixme
45 seconds ago via web

jennyfromtheblock @thesueyside Buble Alert! With Mounties! SHUT OFF THE TV and call the Good Samaritans, stat #weloveyouandinflatablemountiesblow
30 seconds ago via web

mommyjenny @thesueyside @jennyfromtheblock THEY DRESSED A CHILD AS A HOCKEY PUCK AND BY GOD I WANT TO SMASH IT, HARD #sowrong
30 seconds ago via web

dreamyjenn Are those inflatable mountie sex dolls or should my mom be adjusting my med trays? #mountthis
25 seconds ago via web

jennyontheblock OH MY FUCK THEY ARE BRINGING IN THE BEAVERS #ohmyfucktheyarebringinginthebeavers
20 seconds ago via web

mommyjenny I think I just saw a mountie blowup doll hump one of the beavers #bleachmybrain
20 seconds ago via web

dreamyjenny @mommyjenny No, no, it was a beaver mounting a canoe. Someone stand on guard for me or I am going to piss myself in my sleep. #withglowingfarts
15 seconds ago via web

jennyontheblock I think the maple leaf nymph with the big titties just touched herself inappropriately #dragqueensfindingwork
10 seconds ago via web

thesueyside @jennyontheblock @mommyjenny @dreamyjenn I feel much better now. Made it to the Marriage Ref and they taxidermied The Fonz #perfectending
5 seconds ago via web

I was all like, you’ve got naughty cartoons in your bathroom! How can you get away with that?

And he was all like, welcome to Urology!

No, seriously? Kudos to Urology. First off, the nurse was incredibly compassionate.

I was all like, I know I’m talking a lot to you, but I’m trying to talk fast and not waste your time. I’m trying to tell you what I know. This isn’t mania. Please understand. This is me having two little ones and being worried because I don’t know which way to turn.

And she was all like, I hear you.

How about that?

I hear you.

And she meant it, too.

I was all like, thank you. Thank you so much.

The urologist referred to the nurse he worked with as His Boss.

He was all like, I’ve got to check with the Boss, but let’s try to rule out a few things today, if you’re up to it.

I was all like, you bet, yes, please.

He was all like, okay then.

I was like, a urethral stricture seems really unlikely to me, how about you?

He was all like, hey, that’s cool that you’re smart, you’re right, urethral stricture is something we usually see in major pelvic trauma. But you seem like you’re in a lot of discomfort, and you’ve tried to urinate five times since you’ve been here. We could do a cystoscopy—

I was all like, ooh, yeah, that’s the long tube with a camera on the end of it that you guys like to push up into bladders.

He was like, well, it would rule out stricture and give us an idea if the bladder is the main problem, or if it’s an innocent bystander to some other growth in your abdominal organs that’s pressing on it. It might point us in a new direction, diagnostically.

I was like, you mean we could do it TODAY? In your office? And unicorns are real?

And he was like, yep, we could do it now, with the Boss.

I was like, bring it.

So they brought it. I was all like, hey, you’re sticking a camera up my spasming bladder. Won’t I pee in your face?

And they were all like, hey, we’ve seen it all.

And so they stuck the camera in. And I was all, yay, look at me, this is a cakewalk, I rock!

And then they looked around, and that kinda hurt, but I was still all like, look at me, I still rock!

And then they yanked that puppy out. And that didn’t hurt so much. But then I stood up.

And then my bladder said WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT, YOU SICK MOTHERFUCKER?!?!?!?!

And I got dressed. And when the doc came back in the room I was hunched and whimpering on a chair like a cat that needed to be euthanized.

And I was all like, um, do you have, like, anything HERE, not at a PHARMACY, for PAIN, like NOW, like IMMEDIATELY?

And he was all horrified, like, duuuuuuuuude. And that doc, God love him, he ran out of the room, brought me a cup of water himself (can you count the times a doctor has brought you a cup of water himself?), and two boxes of Vesicare, which is supposed to batter the angry bladder into submission.

And he was all like, um, I’m really sorry it hurts. Take one now, but it won’t work for a while.

And I was so touched, I was all like, thank you. I don’t care if it doesn’t work. Just thank you for your kindness and compassion, dude, because you played this one really, really well. And you should know that, Dr. Urologist.

And he was all shocked. Because, hey, I don’t think Urology gets a lot of kudos.

And so we went over the test results, with the Boss checking in too, and leading me to the private bathroom in the back when the spasms would take over.

Bladder’s not draining. Could be interstitial cystitis, but he’s not ready to make that diagnosis, because 1) ain’t no cure for THAT and 2) more fun stuff needs ruling out that covers the other scary weird painful symptoms that have been going on for over six months.

So next up: more procedures you won’t want to hear about. Colonoscopy. At 39. I have never felt hotter in my life.

And: Laparororoosooscospy. To see if something’s THEEEEEEEERRE. If I’m incubating ALIENS and they sleep on my BLADDER.

But in the meantime, I have to find a primary care physician as nice and smart and thoughtful as my urologist.

I’ll look for dirty cartoons in the bathroom. That’ll be my tip-off, clearly.

Bring it. I am going to Iceland this year even if I have a colostomy bag hanging out of my Sharper Image backpack.

My gift to myself is not a Zhu Zhu hamster, as coveted as those little suckers may be this season. My gift to myself is to find a way to stop dragging the stinking corpse of my old self behind me in the snow. We are leaving quite a trail, she and I, and a crowd is beginning to gather with their Nikon Coolpix. Ashton Kutcher’s speed-dialing Demi Moore, saying, “Baby, you gotta see this hot mess.” No good.

Step One: Revamped blog

.

I’ve been taking an informal poll. I tend to agree with the folks to say that Breed ‘Em and Weep is the Best Blog Name of All Damn Time, and I shouldn’t change it. My corpse in the snow? She says nothing, poor dear, although she is secretly pissed off that someone else stole the blog name and tacked on a little something extra to make it hers.

You, Lady A! You can do better for yourself. You have it in you! You are unique and lovely! Go, tiger lily! Get a better freakin’ name for yourself! I believe in you.

Anyhow, back to me, my longtime labor of love, and my decision. This is the original, circa May 2005, authentic, wackdoodle, hardscrabble, “oh my freaking LORD did she just SAY that?” Breed ‘Em and Weep, and I’ve decided that—for now—it’s not going anywhere. Decided. Done.

However, it is getting a superfierce makeover for the New Year. And as drag queens and bloggers around the world know, before the superfierce, must come the superawkward. And my poor old corpse self, she’s silently horrified that you are going to see all of the superawkward mistakes as I attempt to put together a superfierce superedgy superburlesque supermazeltov new-old blog. CASE IN POINT: MISSING GORGEOUS HEADER. Yeah, yeah. Getting around to that. It’s going to knock your panties off. Make sure you’re in the right company when that happens.

Step Two of this 2010 process: I have to let go of who I wanted to be at almost 40. Don’t worry, we’ll make the old Jenn a nice burial spot in a perpetual Winter Wonderland. You, my truly beloved, unbelievably loyal readers (so loyal and good, I can’t think of you without finding my hand has inched up over my heart), you can help me with this. Because if I don’t let her go, I’m not going to be able to live out the rest of this life of mine. She and I, we still share the same essence. But I have to let go of all that she wished for or we’re both going down.

It sounds scary, because, frankly, it is a little scary. I’m scared. So I’m pulling out my bulletproof tutu and ordering some fishnet stockings online. And researching the most intimidating tattoo parlors in the area. Because I’m going to meet the second half of my life head-on. I have to.

Step Three? I have some creative ideas I’m going to try out here. I have a BOX. (Si, behaaaave.) See Black Box, to the right? I am going to say hi from time to time, tell you some stories, show you some things. Let me know what you think about what happens in The Box. I will be operating inside The Box in order to put together something that may be very, very outside The Box. If that happens, dear ones, you can bet you will be the first to know.

Old Jenn is still, quiet, in a snowbank. Facedown. Some kids are poking her with a stick. That’s all right. It’s not really disrespectful—they’re just poking to understand. Isn’t that what all of us are doing, really?

I know more than a few women (I’m one of them) who will only go to a female gynecologist, because of the infamous “would you trust a mechanic who’s never owned a car?” theory.

I’m not saying it’s an intelligent way to choose a gynecologist. After all, my brother has ob/gyn privileges and delivers babies like a champ. I’d trust that guy with my life—and my parts, if it were necessary, although that might send both of us into therapy right quick.

It’s just a gut thing. I’m just not comfortable, in general, talking froufyhooha with Dr. Hoojackapiffy.

Bipolar disorder and major depression are lonely hauls, partly because of a similar theory. A lot of folks with mood disorders like bipolar—when they’re in the downswing of illness—wake up thinking:

Jesus, I don’t want to wake up. Why am I alive when there are so many good people dying, when so many people have lost vibrant loved ones too soon? Who could possibly understand this? Why am I so ungrateful for my life?

It’s a pretty heavy way to start the day. No one wants to be ungrateful for a life. NO ONE.

This is why isolation goes with the terrain of mental illness. We don’t know who the hell to talk to, besides our therapists and doctors (if we’re fortunate enough to have those in our posse). Because we’re deeply ashamed.

We think you can’t understand. This may or may not be true.

We want to believe you could help. But our gut says you probably can’t. This may or may not be true.

We can’t seem to “get better” for good, and we’re pretty sure you’ve noticed. This may or may not be true.

Our theories can keep us locked up pretty tight. We strap on our smiles like oxygen masks and ain’t NOBODY gonna budge ‘em in the school parking lot at pickup time after school. Uh-uh. Smile and wave, boys, smile and wave. We’ve already burst into tears on you a few too many times, just as you were trying to climb into your Subaru.

Fibromyalgia, Lyme disease, TMJ, bipolar, depression, anxiety disorders—in the lunchroom of the world’s many illnesses, we’re a few of the ones sitting at the table in the back, at the iffy table of misfits, eating our stigma Jell-O. Not everyone’s convinced we really exist. Sometimes, we’re not sure we really exist, or if we’re just f*ckups.

Despite your memories of malingering Aunt Ethel or raving Cousin Fred (who were probably hurting pretty bad), most of us aren’t whining about it. We’re honestly just staring into our Jell-O, trying to figure out what to do next. We can get real quiet, trying to figure out what’s going to get us through today. And the next.

Heart disease, HIV, cancer, diabetes, MS, muscular dystrophy, cerebral palsy—now, ain’t nobody gonna argue with you guys. You exist. We all see you, and we wish we could take away your pain. Your people have one hell of a battle, and as it should be, hats off to you. We’d do anything to give you back what—and whom—you’ve lost.

At the same time, we’d do anything to get back what—and whom—we’ve lost. Manic-depression steals you away from yourself, hijacks you. You no longer know what’s real. Is that happy thought about climbing Mount Everest an optimistic goal, or an absurd manic delusion? Are those tears (the ones that come so often when you’re alone) signs of depression, or simply part of your natural loser-weirdo temperament?

Here’s something that sucks: I no longer remember what I like to do. How odd and sad is that? The door to that information is shut tight and bolted. When asked what makes me happy (besides my daughters) I can’t answer the question. I stammer. I tear up. I don’t remember what it was like to wake up happy.

Did I, once? Wake up happy? Yes, I think I did. People who have known me for a long time tell me I did, but now I wonder what was real, what face I was showing them, back then.

My gut says, yes, I used to be happy. I’ve been keeping a list of remembered happiness, moments in which I could feel myself glow. Days of contentment.

But my gut doesn’t say anything when I ask it if I’ll ever be happy again, for more than a half-day, here or there. My gut goes quiet. I don’t like the quiet.

It’s hard to keep going.

I keep a gratitude journal. I take my medicine. I go to my doctors, tick tock I don’t stop. I try to get out, adopt kittens, hike with the dogs, pick daylilies, see the ocean sometimes.

My best energy goes into being a mother. I am a real mom, a good mom. They know the “polar bears” eat at me on some days more than others. I acknowledge what they are seeing. I want them to know that their experience of their mama is honest and true. I want them to trust their guts, their instincts. So I apologize when things go wrong. But I am firm when I know I am right. They complain that I am not a softie, and that I don’t put Nutella sandwiches in their lunchboxes every day. I complain that they need to learn responsibility and put their own damn underpants on and stop with the sniveling.

We do all right together, the three of us. I’m proud of that.

But it’s still hard to keep going. I put the girls to bed at 8:30. I put myself to bed at 8:45. Because, most nights, I can’t think of a reason to stay awake any longer.

I write not to be a drag. Trust me, I’ll say it over and over—being a drag is THE LAST THING anyone with mental illness yearns to be. I believe many suicides occur because the person battling his or her brain’s death spiral of vicious activity couldn’t take the thought of being perceived as a burden any longer.

I write not to scare, but to try to put words to a very slippery disorder. I think bipolar illness—like most mental illness—needs more words than have been offered up so far.

I was diagnosed in 2005. I made the choice to write about this damn illness some time ago in the hope that it would be helpful to someone else.

It’s real, this mean old manic-depression. It ain’t no joke. And the triggers that worsen the spiral—up or down—are happening all the time. Breakups, relationship issues, no jobs, divorce, death, money problems. We can’t “get over it” because…wait for it, wait for it…we can’t get over it. Aw! Snap! Our thought patterns are a snarling, nasty, miserable tangle. We swear to God to you that we are working on these technical difficulties.

I know you think yoga would help, and more fish oil. They probably would, but if I’ve got four units of energy a day, and I’ve already used up three, I’m going to apply that last unit to putting words on a page.

I write because writing is something tangible I can point to. It’s one way of taking on this bully that won’t quit. It’s a truthful, meditative act with something to show for itself. (Although I’d rather just club the bully in the knees and be done with it, once and for all. But they haven’t come up with that med yet.)

Writing here reminds me that I made it through another day. Writing at BEAW reminds me that I am still here, and surely, surely, that must count for something, even if it often feels like nothing, nothing at all.

***Spambot eating your comments? You can comment over HERE. Or feel free to write me at breedemandweep atttttttttttt gmail dot commmmmmm.

Lovies.

Brain not working as well as I’d hoped with the newest med addition.

Couldn’t do an editing job. Tore my hair out. Holes in brain. Had to return the job.

Afterwards, in the empty house, I lay on Sophie’s bedroom floor staring at her overhead light, for a long, long time.

I keep seeing the catchphrase “epic fail” these days, and that’s sort of the nasty feeling I’ve got in the pit of my belly.

Going to put the computer away for a week or so.

Going to find some cheap sun and play with the girls and hang out with Mom.

Going to see my oldest bestest friend, who’s got it rough too.

Going to redefine love. Don’t know that it will ever feel the same again. Don’t know that it could.

Going to lower all expectations like a limbo stick handled by the drunk.

Going to keep trying to figure out how I can be useful in this world. How to support my family, and myself, in a different way.

Gotta come up with a new line of work—zero multitasking—and a new line of thinking, with the brain I have now, not the brain I used to have.

Thanks eternally for all of your continued support. You mean the world to me.

It is true: My old bike is back from the dead.

In the words of Jesus: Wake, Lazarus, wake! Wake and jam your purple steel self into the crotch of a middle-aged mother whose body ripples with cellulite the way a good Fudge Ripple ripples with rivulets of chocolate!

My dear friend E, who fixed Lazarus, loaned me a biking outfit.

Except it is not called a biking outfit.

It is called a kit. A kit.

As I understand it.

Which is clearly not very well.

Because the kit consisted of these counterintuitive items:

1) a hot, scratchy merino wool jersey that unzipped to my belly

2) Spandex bib overall shorts with see-through panels on the sides, all the better for spectators to tell if you are or are not wearing underwear

Whaaaaa?

E informed me that underwear is a no-no for cyclists. They just slather up with odd ointments featuring cartoon images of pink-cheeked derrieres, ooze into their performance fabrics, settle their privates onto bovine vulva replicas, hop, and go.

Um, okay.

I attempted to be a real cyclist, with Lazarus the Bike risen from the dead, as he was. I really did. E adjusted my bike seat and borrowed helmet and did not laugh at my pitiful attempt at rockin’ the kit.

I put my feet on the pedals. I forgot to move the pedals. I fell over, rolled off the bike, and hit my head on a trash can.

Jennstrong.

And so The Tour de No Pants began.

We went for a ride. We came to a full stop. I fell off Lazarus again, flattening some cellulite and a calf in the process. This time my bike was the one calling out for me to rise from the embarrassing dead of the asphalt of my own street.

I could feel the neighbors at their windows, wondering why Jenny from the block had taken up such a humbling sport — as if her own life were not humbling enough, what with the overgrown lawn, and the rotting air conditioner and gutter in the weeds next to the house, casualties of heavy icicles from last winter.

“Honey, why is Jenny wearing a maxi pad on the outside of her shorts?”

“Beats me. Looks like a Spandex vagina. Keep the kids away from the window.”

We went 1.9 miles. E encouraged me to go a tenth of a mile more, directly up a hill. I fled the sadist, went off-road and dashed through a gravel parking lot to get home. I was already fairly certain the padded bum patch had embedded itself in my uterus, and we ladies can’t take chances like that.

Still, it’s a beginning. Almost two miles, numerous photographs taken by my proud mother (“You look thinner already!” “I’m surprised you can wear those!”), and chain grease on my legs? Worthy achievements for the faint of heart and plump of saddle.

I looked in the mirror and faced my own camel vajayjay. And I lived to tell.

As one friend observed, “If the people in my life need to know what is happening in my life every 20 seconds, there is something very wrong, either with them, or with me.”

Facebook gives you a fighting chance. If you’re not the brightest bulb, not the sharpest tack, you can still hang out and find your posse. Addictive as it is (Facecrack, Crackbook), one can skip a daily dose and still pick up pretty much where one left off. Yes, Andrea is still in a relationship, heart heart. Yes, Gayle’s pictures from her trip are online now. No, you have not been Superpoked by Etienne, but Tim wants you to join his mob.

Brain. Can. Process. Yes.

Twitter is Facebook as played by Lindsay Lohan on Red Bull minus her daily Ritalin. It’s Racebook, run by people who are tethered to their Blackberrys and iPhones, pithy, clever people who always have a good line. I watch them in amazement. They make bathroom stops hilarious. They multitask with a vengeance. Sparks fly out of my computer when I log into Twitter.

I tweeted, briefly. I was a twit at tweeting. #? @? Er???

I do not have the passion it takes to be a tweeting, blogging, Facebegging mother of two. Something had to give. My occupation, my breasts and my thighs have already given up the ghost (RIP, darlings) and Twitter was the next logical thing to go.

I can be funny. I can’t be funny THAT FAST AND THAT REGULARLY. I have nothing to market. I have nothing to tweet. I am tweetless.

So tell me: are you a Twitterer or a Facebooker? Both? Neither? Do you blog too? Are you aware that we bloggers are in danger of becoming obsolete? Soon, there will be a site where people will type one character, say, an ‘R’ or a ’3′, and everyone will type back, ‘*’, which will convey that they found the ‘R’ or ’3” sidesplittingly funny.

This is seriously odd. We are approaching the Age of Absurdius. And you were (are) there.

Do we bring it on ourselves? Whatever gory mess is happening, have we wished for it in some way, created the gore?

Hellz no. DONE WITH THAT. I’ve heard those theories, and I am TURNING MY BACK ON YOU, THEORIES.

I have also heard stupid-ass theories that we are the other character in our dreams, or that our dreams have profound significance. HA! HA! I just had a dream that my next door neighbor was Steve Martin, and he had cancer. So I had to leave a screening of ‘American Idol’ (full of scary teenage BOYS), a screening that I never wanted to GO TO IN THE FIRST PLACE. I had to leave the show to go care for Steve Martin. But when I tried to LEAVE, the scary TEENAGE BOYS surrounded me and so I had to yell at them, “I HAVE TO GO TAKE CARE OF A MAN WITH CANCER!” Which worked, because even a teen boy with evil in his soul is no match for a woman begging to care for a MAN WITH CANCER!

And when I got there, to Steve Martin’s house, he had all this great FOOD that I wished I had in my refrigerator, and he was mocking the FOOD! So I ATE some. Stuffed some in my mouth when he wasn’t looking. Felt bad that I was STEALING FROM THE TERMINALLY ILL. But, dude, a tormented girl has got to EAT.

And when I went to straighten up his BEDSHEETS, Steve Martin pressed up behind me with a BIG OL’ STIFFIE, and I was all like, “Um, Steve Martin? You have cancer and a chubby, and if I gave into your lusty last wishes, I wouldn’t feel good about myself, because I see that you have a COLLECTION OF EARRINGS FROM YOUR PAST CONQUESTS.”

And then Steve Martin was all like, “Oh, you got me there,” and then beautiful women started STREAMING THROUGH THE DOOR WITH FABULOUS CAKES for him and rendered me virtually INVISIBLE. Until I told them they had to LEAVE, because Steve Martin was about to DROP DEAD and it was my job to usher the dirty deathbomb into his nicely made BED. At which point, he tried to have SEX with a few of them, but they DECLINED because I had called him a DIRTY DEATHBOMB, and even star-f*ckers know better than to drop down that manhole.

So I put Steve Martin to deathbed. And he sighed patiently, WAITING. I crawled into bed with him and told him I wouldn’t have sex with him while we WAITED FOR HIM TO DIE. Because he would only DUMP MY SORRY ASS before he made it to St. Peter’s Gate, where he’d hook up with a flight attendant. I told him I wanted to be SPECIAL. Steve Martin understood this. So we just waited. And waited. And waited.

When I woke up, he still hadn’t died yet.

As you can clearly see, there is NO SIGNIFICANCE WHATSOEVER in a dream like THAT.

That was my digression.

I meant to say: There is something wrong with my digestion, a word that looks a lot like ‘digression.’

I had to go to the ER, but not because I was CUCKOO! But because I doubled over with stomach pain last week, out of nowhere, and I was pretty sure Steve Martin was in the other room smoothing my sheets.

ER. Big ol’ nightmare! They pulled out the IVs, people. You KNOW how I feel about IVs. I tried to be a sport, but then they told me I had little girl veins, so I became a little girl and started bawling my eyes out, because they couldn’t get one started. Then they made me drink lidocain and sparkly unicorn pee so they could see my insides during a CT scan. They injected IODINE into my IV to see if I would explode!

It is almost better to be cuckoo.

I have an ultrasound on Friday. An early birthday present. I wish it were for a baby, and not to see if I have Steve Martin’s tumor living in the base of my esophagus.

They say not-quite stomach ulcer, not-quite gallstone, not-quite good, and oh, by the way, is there a history of stomach cancer in the family?

They don’t know what I have. It’s not presenting clearly. Rather like myself.

Had another attack yesterday. Felt like Steve Martin’s cake knife was slicing through my stomach and back. Damn you, Steve Martin! Go into the light! Go into the light!

Anyway. This is the last straw. No, that WAS the last straw. I no longer believe I am bringing this CRAP on myself. It is a run of terrible luck that is now reaching comic proportions (I would have said, thus, Steve Martin, a comedian! Or: I obviously can’t STOMACH something. But now I am an anarchist and I don’t believe in anything).

But I AM NOT TO BLAME FOR ANYTHING ANYMORE.

THAT IS ALL. I’ll keep you posted.

First, a moose.

Then, the other day, on the same road: a small dark lump. I was doing 50 mph and held my breath as I steered over it, careful not to smash it with any of my tires.

There were cars behind me.

I could have kept going, except, of course, I couldn’t.

I pulled over. I made a U-turn. I drove back, holding my breath again.

The lump was still in the middle of the road, unsquashed, but surely not for long. A box turtle.

Dear God. I pulled over in the gravel, cringed as traffic flew by, narrowly missing the turtle with zooming tires.

I sprinted. I seized the little guy. I took him across the road, in the direction he was pointed. I hope I got him close to his intended destination. I did my best.

We do our best.

This same week: another small lump in the middle of a road. Crikey! Barely anywhere to pull over. And yet.

Of course. I jogged back to find him. Her? This one, feisty. When I touched her shell, she sprinted. I had no idea turtles could be so zippy. I lunged over and over for her. She was surprisingly strong, too.

Finally, I scooped her up, managing to avoid being squashed myself in the process. Crankiness emanated from the shell. She’d tucked herself completely inside it, and was surely grumbling. I bolted up a nearby lawn and set her down in a grassy, dewy, leafy glade. No thanks from the shell. My friend K insists I thwarted a tortoise suicide attempt and thus did not deserve thanks. She may be correct, but I could not bear to drive that stretch later in the day and find a crunched shadow.

I can only handle so much, these days. You know.

A moose, two turtles, and today, a deer. An arc of light tan motion, hurtling between my car and another. Gone. Safe. I exhaled, possibly for the first time in a week.

How many spirit guides can one have?

There are several books about bipolar disorder—manic depression—that I believe are must-reads, if you happen to be in the unfortunate situation of trying to comprehend this nearly unfathomable illness. Here are two:

An Unquiet Mind, by Kay Redfield Jamison

Madness: A Bipolar Life, by Marya Hornbacher

There are others, far more clinical and practical in tone, but these two autobiographical accounts hit this crooked nail on the head, often with humor and smarts, and without self-pity.

I turn to these books when my own demons begin acting up again—despite medication compliance, despite what the docs like to refer to as “sleep hygiene” (regular sleep patterns), despite the whole rigamarole of being a well-behaved bipolar bear.

The meds can work for a time, then decide they’re through with you. You have little say in this. Most bipolar folks, after being diagnosed, spend a lifetime of tweaking meds with their doctor, trying to get them “right.”

Sadly, like life, there is no permanent “right.” The pain and frustration of trying to follow the rules, trying to be “good,” knowing that your loved ones are holding their breath each day over your fate—it is exhausting and sickening, and feels anything but a “right” way to live.

I know I’m slipping some. I know because I see faces. Terrible faces. (Cue the “I see dead people” quip, yes, yes, get it out of your system, aren’t you funny! My!) The faces let me know that my brain is protesting, that the meds will soon need another round of adjusting. When I close my eyes, the faces are stunning in their detail, and make sleeping more difficult than it already is, even with the medication. Sometimes, they stare directly at me, leering, or simply studying me. Other times, they morph into gory scenarios beyond my capability of imagination. I am entranced but terrified.

My voice is (so far) the only voice I hear, but it becomes cruel. It lets me know in no uncertain terms that I am wretched, that I am wrong through and through, that I have nothing to offer to anyone in this lifetime. One look into my little girls’ eyes, and I know that is not—cannot—be the case. My heart and soul tell me this, and they are strong. But when the voice becomes louder, more insistent, the fear kicks in. I become paralyzed. I start at every simple noise, my heart pounding. Nothing, nowhere, feels safe.

And so I call the doctor. I try to speak the truth to those that I love, and who love me. I do my best not to let fear get in the way of the truth. Whatever “truth” is. I try not to pretend that all is well. This is no easy feat, after a lifetime of pretending.

When the bite-sized pieces of madness begin assembling themselves in my mind—another face, another vicious voice—soon I cannot remember what I have told others, what they have told me. Memory is one of the first faculties to go, in bipolar disease, making us exceedingly frustrating, irritating people to have around. Trust me: we are horrified by all the gaps in our memory, by what we cannot remember. Our brains are simply racing too fast to make sense of your words, or our own thoughts. Or, our brains are shutting down once again, turning into miserable slugs. We cannot imagine what good it will do to be near you, with slugs for brains. So we hide.

I have said this before: if you have a bipolar bear in your life, or suspect that you do, be kind, oh, be kind. The illness is selfish and takes what it wants, but the bipolar person is usually trying her best to keep moving, keep going, be someone of value. Bipolar disease is a constant death match—a fiery brain at war with itself, burning itself to ashes.

What can you do? What should you do, if a loved one struggles in this dark, ugly place—manic depression that is not responding to medication, or likely manic depression that has not been diagnosed or treated?

Asking too many questions is confusing, and reminds a bipolar bear how little he can recall, just how flawed he is. Tread gently, as you would around a real polar bear. Arrange the meds in pill cases. Offer to call the doctor, the dentist, during rough periods. Confirm appointments. Surreptitiously check limbs for signs of cutting. Take a look at sinks and counters for signs of too much self-medicating with alcohol. Walk dogs, feed cats. Bring food and sit with your bear and share a meal. Clean the kitchen. Remember that emotional triggers can really knock a bipolar bear out of whack and convince them that the grief will never leave: “anniversary” dates of difficult moments in time; seemingly simple things like jetlag; sending the kids to the ex-spouse’s home for a spell.

Always: Keep lines of communication open; leave judgement at the door with your shoes.

Again: there is no “right.” There is nothing right about a disorder that convinces the one you love that she is appalling, vile, hideous, guilty as charged and not charged of everything wrong in the universe. There is nothing right about a disorder that persuades the one you love that he can (and must!) work 90 hours a week as a copywriter, to save the human race, and then go out drinking all night, in search of sex and drugs—because the brain says, Yes! Yes! This is living! You must live!

It is a tragicomic disease, until the comedy flees and only tragedy is left in its wake. The suicide rate for bipolar bears is staggering. If you are in over your head with a beloved bipolar, do not hesitate to get help from a crisis team. When your bipolar loved one becomes unrecognizable to you, yes, it is time. It may be time, before that point, but who can say? There are stubborn bears. They don’t want you to know how bad it’s gotten. They want to be like you. They want to be good, calm, normal, successful—like you. Like they think you are. Roll your eyes if you must, but your life looks pretty damn good from the bipolar bear’s point of view.

There is simply no “right” here. There should be. There just isn’t.