So I am sitting here in these pajama pants I bought in my size, washed maybe twice, and it hits me…My legs are cold. Because even with socks, the pant legs leave four inches of bare leg. I am oddly proportioned. Not short, not exactly tall, but too tall to fit average height clothes apparently.

And that’s how my life feels, how I, on  whole, feel. Nothing fits me properly. I can get the waist right but not the leg length. I can get the legs long enough, but the waist is too snug.  Rarely do I find the “right” fit. And it describes bipolar to a T. There is no happy medium to be had because I don’t fit the tried and true size charts or mood charts. I am disproportionate in everything. Rather than trying to fit a square peg in a round hole, I have learned to exist over here, floating freely, on my own, isolated, outside looking in, because no matter what I do, or how hard I try…I just don’t fit. Like these pants apparently.

I still remember one of my most “wtf” moments in therapy. The counselor told me I was “failing to regulate my emotions.” Which sounded like the most ridiculous thing to say to a bipolar client. Bipolar is the epitome of emotional disregulation. My responses to things aren’t regulated because my chemicals fly wily nily. Thus the disproportion there makes absolute sense, except to the therapist. What is that? If it were as simple as regulating our emotions by sheer will, we wouldn’t need meds, we wouldn’t be advised to take them. I know some behavior can be modified by breaking old thought patterns but really…Telling a bipolar person they’re “failing” at regulating emotions they’re not even in control of, and never have been, is borderline malpractice. It’s akin to a doctor telling a pregnant woman her hormones are illogical and she just needs to “regulate” them.

So, yeah, that’s where I am today. Feeling disproportionate and castigated for being so, except as far as bipolar standards go, being disproportionate is pretty standard fucking issue.

Spook went down around seven thirty last night, slept the way though. I checked on her several times (I mean, it’s not like I slept through, wake and sleep is my thing apparently) so I was up multiple times anyway. She bounced up this morning, elated at my alarm ringtone of Sam and Dean from “Supernatural” ordering, answer the phone, you have a call, is someone gonna answer that? ANSWER the phone. That made her giggle, she wants it to be our default alarm sound now. And I asked if she felt better and she was already up and getting dressed. Thank pegacorn she rebounded quicker than I did, just hope it’s not a faux recovery like mine was. Guess she wanted that field trip so much she healed overnight.

I dealt with R’s part issue straight away, because I didn’t want him text nagging me all morning and fucking up my shows.( “How to get away with murder” was fucking awesome!) Tis another cold gloom filled day so my mood is in the “meh” zone. I almost caught up on biohazard home and one day of inertia and the being overwhelmed by the dish as well as a kid that’s sick…I’m drowning once again in housework.

(For the record, telling me my place is a pigsty is NOT helpful, otherwise my mother would have motivated me 20 years ago, so if you ever visit…Don’t do that. I will likely launch you out a window if anyone does anything to set off my mommy issues. Besides, it’s rude. An offer to help with dishes, helpful. Reminding me of my housekeeping shortcomings…Hindrance. Just saying, I’m hypersensitive about this particular shortcoming because I am supposed to care and yet…truthfully, it’s not even in my top ten of priorities.)And ya know, many people have family and roommates they live with who help out. I’ve got me and a kid. No one helps me. So if my pigsty falls short of standards…Keep that in mind. I am TRYING. If guilt and self loathing motivated the place would be a surgical suite. One of the reasons I never want Mrs R coming over, I couldn’t meet her standards hopped up on speed and with a cleaning crew.)

Yeah, I know. No one can see my mess so I am the one harping on it, why don’t I shut the fuck up and fix it or accept it. Because I truly do feel shitty about it. Much like holding a job, though, guilt and sheer willpower don’t make it happen. Kind of a sore spot with me because I have excessively low standards and everyone else it seems has excessively high standards. On the plus side, at least I keep my kid and myself clean. It’s something. Hell, at this point, it’s a damned marathon and I won it.

One more thing that’s disproportionate ( and I reminded constantly)- the perpetual exhaustion of depression. “You don’t work, why are you so tired?” You don’t know until you are *there*. You can’t know. I wouldn’t be able to fathom it either if I didn’t live it. I loathe it, resent it, try to battle through it…It’s depression. It’s legit. Otherwise, I’d be a bohemian in New York going to sleazy underground metal clubs and taking my kid to art museums instead of rotting in the rural midwest and having no grasp of the future except to make it another day without chugging Drano.

Ray of fucking sunshine, ain’t I?

Well, here’s some optimism: it’s the weekend. I pick my kid up today and I am beholden to a schedule no more for two days. There, that’s my positive thought.

And methinks tonight I will have Mangoritas as I have been such a good girl. Maybe fall asleep without a ton of sleeping pills taken throughout the two hour sleep and wake cycle. A ghoul can dream. Sometimes, I miss the ass trash shrink who nearly killed me with the meds but told me I was allowed a glass of wine at bedtime rather than shoveling out sleeping pills. The wine helped way more.





22 Responses to “Disproportionate”

  1. You’re Morgue that’s all. You seem perfectly normal to me and I have a pigsty too, just no dishes since we eat out.

  2. I want a mangorita. I’m feeling genius so I’m gonna go out on a limb and say Margorita except mango flavored? Fuck do I rock. I just spent the past hour avoiding my manuscript and searching the house for quarters for a bottle of wine. That’s some stable behavior, right there. Only even found one quarter. Wtf. My parents are loaded there should be quarters everywhere. Dimes and pennies for misfit bipolar child “writing his book.” When it gets turned into a Hollywood blockbuster – hahahaha — I’m giving you a cut so you can go Bohemian gangsta in New York and traumatize Spook with metal shows and modern art (the latter being way scarier.)

    • Meh, R bought my Mangoritas last night but decided not to bring them by cos of Spook’ flubola, so I just gotta fetch ’em. I’m saving my dimes and nickels to buy Christmas gifts for my crappy family. I mean, fifty cents each will get them a crappy card from Dollar Tree and I will cook them chicken and noodles. I’ll probably get an “I O U cos we spent all our money on people not related to us.” Same shit, different year, not that I am bitter.
      And yeah, art is scary but I was talking classic art, not these new modern stuff where people get a nosebleed spray it on a canvas and make a gazillion bucks.
      We are a sad sad society.

      • Right? Here’s a shark in a vat of formaldehyde, thanks for the twenty mill. Here’s a blow up candy colored puppy saying something ineffably deep about pop culture: thanks for the fifty mill. I read in the Times a few months ago that one of Giacometti’s skeleton men sold for a record 104 million. Giacometti was a sad tortured fuck, and the sculpture is pretty run of the mill, really. And it sells for 104 million. How are these peoples’ heads not on pitchforks being carried through the streets? Oh, I know, did my study of world revolutions: gotta threaten food and shelter, that’s when heads roll. Has to get that bad. Should be any decade now.

      • I am one step from dipping my ass in ink and painting a canvas of epic $$$$ proportions. I am sure if I named it socially relevant term like “the obese ass epidemic”…I could buy us wordpressers that island.

  3. I’m on the outside too (kinda self preservation?) ~ ‘Outside’ Staind.

  4. I LOVE you and your rays of fucking sunshine! Thanks for sharing them.

    • Awww…That’s really nice…I gotta add you to my list of “people not to stab in the eye with a spork” list.

      • I’m deleting old emails and I came back to this one. Thanks for not stabbing me in the eye with a spork! 🙂 ❤ I bet your art would sell for millions. Encourage protesters to mill about the gallery doors as long as they're quiet about it.

  5. Screaming Jean Says:

    OH boy thank you for writing this, it’s how I feel so much at the moment what with hmmmm doctors constantly telling me I don’t fit the regular bill of their other patients, it’s so nice to hear that when you know it yourself – nothing like positive reinforcement! I am so glad Spook made a quick recovery, kids can bounce back so fast sometimes it is scary, they’re almost magical. Fingers crossed she stays healthy and enjoys her day trip. Laughed at ‘a ghoul can dream’ you never know Morgue, you never know!

  6. Screaming Jean Says:

    Uhhhhh something really fucking weird is happening to all my comments left on people’s blog posts – it is coming up under their name?! Am I missing something here WTF? I just noticed now on here and another comment I left on someone else’s blog (it’s screaming Jean here btw in case WordPress is lying to you too) uhhhhhhh if anyone else is having this problem or if I at last need to be wheeled away finally please assist…….

    • No issue on my end, you came up as you here. Though apparently wordpress has a different userface now (I use a tab marker from a year ago to avoid that bright ass blue and white template) and is all kinds of bitchy glitchy.

      On Fri, Nov 20, 2015 at 3:28 PM, Take a Ride on My Mood Swing wrote:


      • Screaming Jean Says:

        Thank the pegacorn for that, I really really sat here for ages staring thinking……I wrote that but Morgue has written the same thing. What the fuck. Anyway, thanks for clarifying. WordPress has changed a lot of things lately and it’s really making me wanna throw my computer across the room.

  7. Sunshine’s overrated, Nobody ever suffered from moonburn or needs to buy moonscreen to protect thier pasty untanned skin!
    As for cleaning, do what my sister does “Going for a month, can you look after my house”….. You mean sort it all out dear brother
    And if you need a thought to cheer you up, think of the anti-social shade (myself) having to attend a major social function, if you ain’t smiling I’m calling the cops, someone has taken Super Bipolar Women’s place and you’re an imposter
    Back to Hell now, see you there!?

    • Social event? ARGHHHH. Your pain is felt. Beyond an impromptu meal at my mom’s, social events don’t exist for me. You poor poor thing1 We shall lube up the Jalepeno barbwire dildo launchers and aim them overseas in your defense!

      On Fri, Nov 20, 2015 at 6:29 PM, Take a Ride on My Mood Swing wrote:


      • The word ‘unconscious’ is used a lot in this world, after my week so far and tomorrow’s ‘Trail by social pressure’ the words ‘Beyond the reach of even the dead’ will blissfully apply!

        You truly are a one in a kind, a reject model on the shelf that beats the shit out of the cookie cutter mass production types I am forced to endure

      • I give it my best effort. 😉

        On Fri, Nov 20, 2015 at 6:55 PM, Take a Ride on My Mood Swing wrote:


  8. Failing. To. Regulate. Your. Emotions.

    I’m speechless.

    • Sadly she was a decent therapist compared to her replacement. That one saw me twice, basically shredded 20 years of concurring diagnoses, and declared me borderline personality. Her “just got my degree four years ago” genius trumped all else. I did not go back.

      On Sat, Nov 21, 2015 at 12:07 AM, Take a Ride on My Mood Swing wrote:


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