Skinny or die?...

Well, this is sure to get some feed-back.(no pun intended) Where to begin?...
I was 5 and a beautiful child, and I was praised for it. I was 8, 10 14, 17 and I was molded with my beauty as 'my special gift.' Was that all I was, my insecure self asked time and time again, only to be haunted by this curse for years and years to come? Let me be clear, I have never looked in the mirror and thought, "Hey you...God you’re just so damned beautiful!" Far from it! I had my good days and my insecure bad days, just like everyone else, I imagine. Was I blessed with some extra perks, sure. Full lips, good facial structure and thick long hair are very sought after attributes in beauty. But was I more than the sum of my looks and figure? I grew up thinking and believing through my constant contact and intake of information, that this was it, and I'd better run with it, cuz it was all I got!

So I began modeling at 14 and made some decent bucks through high school. I also had my ultimate fear cemented during those years of focus from photographers, designers and my mother, of course! Brooke Sheilds and I would have been close mates with tales of our mother's dysfunctions; vicariously living through us. But I digress, I had photographers wanting sex, teaching me how to exude sex, use it for power and love, and at the end of the day, I went to the bathroom filled with all that(LOVE?) and used a tooth brush to make sure I never lost that power! After all, it was all I had, right? I covered up my pain with a very extroverted, gregarious personality and I fooled them all. But the joke was on me and at a high price.

I spent a rough senior year, fraught with loss and stress and got down to 98 pounds. I was so weak I couldn’t walk and didn’t leave my bedroom for a few months. I had to leave school and was tutored at home. My mother has no memory of this time. I wonder now, as a healthy mother of three, how a mother could miss her child looking like an Auschwitz victim, while not going into full panic mode as to how to save her. I didn’t lose weight because I wanted to be thinner; I lost weight from depression and anxiety. I lost it from a family that neglected me and left me vulnerable to being abused in my own home by an older boy that was living with us. I was not lovable, was the message. I am nothing, repeated in my head daily. I was broken and I was neglected by those who should have protected me.

So I finally shattered from it all and couldn’t eat. Here’s the kicker, when I finally got the strength to leave my room for a few hours, all I heard from my friends and family, was how great I looked. “Hey skinny!” cheerfully welcomed me into my livingroom, the local stores and back to my high school. What a message, I had never been called skinny before. Add that to the repertoire of healthy self images and messages of love! I didn’t know better than to eat it up!It felt like love and I needed it.  

"Wow, I’m skinny and beautiful, I silently thought as I held the walls in my hallway for balance from feeling so faint…cool, I kind of half whispered to myself." I was eating one hardboiled egg and one packet of oatmeal a day. Not so cool but I was too sad to eat. I lost 42 pounds from May 24th to my graduation day, June 18th. I was bruises and bones from head to toe, and still no one saw.
 
The only person who had the accurate response was one of my sisters. I was at her house and I was cold, so I asked if I could borrow a sweater and a long sleeve shirt. I was rooting though her closet with only my jeans and a bra on when she came in; she shrieked and covered her mouth as tears filled her eyes, " oh my God, Tara". YES! I cheered with hope inside, Finally someone had seen I was not well. Sadly, nothing was done to fix me.

I slowly got to a healthy?... 116 and found that life was good when you were one of the beautiful people. Wow…weight really did matter in this world of love em and leave em. I was riding a rocket fueled ego trip that shot me into many lovers arms and beds, only to be left with a consistent feeling of emptiness. The man I first fell in love with, said he could never marry me because I was too beautiful, That he would be too jealous and worried to have a wife that looked like me. I was broken hearted.

Where was the right man that would love me for who I was on the inside? Why could they not see past my face, my ass, my smile? Again the fear consumed me, so I decided to marry a man that wasn’t right for me, that wasn’t… “The one”, but he was the only man that did see me for who I was at the time and loved me for it. In fact, one night, being so upset with my withering health; he picked me up and carried me out of my house. Brought me to his home and fed me eggs and English muffins. He was caring for me like I was a baby bird with no mother, and I needed that. I suppose, I was that.Why wouldn’t I marry him? This was the first person who loved me and cared for my welfare more than anything is his world.

Three children later, 50 pounds gained and lossed with each pregnancy and I was finally fading into the back ground a bit, as far as the 'beauty train of power'. But youth was on my side and at 23, when my last was born, my body snapped back in only a few months. Five years later, I was divorced and pushed into the dating pool. I was almost thirty and single, the trademark tagged me,‘you’re about as sure to get struck by lightning than find a man at your age’ and it will only get worse, they cooed.

I spent the next ten years feeling a bit weight obsessed, even though I was tiny and curvy, a killer combination. One that kept car line mother’s at bay and close girl friends sparse, especially after my divorce. You do truly find out who your real friends are during and after your divorce.

I did have four long, deep and meaningful relationships with men that I loved and who truly loved me. I was engaged three times, but the control of looks versus substance seemed an uphill battle. Until life threw me a curve ball in my mid- thirties with a medicine called,Paxil. Paxil put 60 pounds on me that year. I could finally walk into a room and no one looked at me. I was off the radar and it was a mixture of relief and sadness. Now who the hell was I?...

I of course got off the meds, but that first weight gain began a battle that I am still fighting. Up, down, goes the scale yearly. Back to feeling good through brutal South Bitch diet restrictions of all that is white flower or sugar based cut out. To a full-on blaze of carbs to fill the void of three decades of unhealthy body image messages sent, not only from the people that know you and love, but from media and Hollywood.  Vogue,Us, People, etc shoving down our throats what is and is not beautiful. Ugh. So I spent my higher tipped scale time under cover and recoiled from my life as a yoga teacher and artist.  Finally finding myself, learning to love myself and disconnecting some of the wires from ghost’s past, that had unhinged me.

Today, I am on the high end of the scale again from stress and the loss of my children; all having grown and taken flight into their happy lives. This year, I ate to survive it, I ate to comfort it and I ate to numb the pain. Today I need to learn to eat well to save myself and love my life, to soak up this new chapter of freedom, and the love of a man that is my best friend and biggest champion.

I don’t want Jennifer Aniston’s 14 year old, boy-body, nope, I’d prefer a more realistic and womanly, Selma Hyak or Scarlett Johannson type. I have no lofty ideas of what a 43 year old woman should aspire to be in order feel beautiful inside and out. I just know that I want to feel healthy, strong, and that I don’t care what the scale reads anymore, I will know where I want to be by how my body feels. By being strong enough to hike with my daughter, mountain bike with my beau, and go for a run at the end of the day. I see who I am now…I just need to live it.

I am learning to embrace my stretch marks from birthing three amazing kids, welcoming my silver hair that is peeking through the brown and blonde. I am looking forward to small boobs again and to just feel comfortable in my own skin. I don’t need the power or control or the drug of attention; God that was exhausting! I just want to be at home, in me. I think after all of the years as a mother and as a growing spiritual person who has sought help, friendhip and love through healthy people; that showed me love, unconditional love, for just being me. I know now; I am more than the sum of my parts. “I am not my hair, I am not my eyes, I am not this skin, I am the soul that lives within.”

The stillness in me...

It's nights like these, days too, that I wish I could smoke without consequence. It looks like a fascinating form of meditation or a sort of self indulgent play of self pity. Would that I could, but I have asthma and wouldn't dare risk cancer, as I have three grown children that I have a duty to be around for. It doesn't dismiss the desire though. Maybe it makes it a bit more tempting, who knows.
I moved from my home town on my birthday this past Saturday. I moved an hour north of all that I've ever known to be with the man I love. My kids are grown but they are staying close to home when back room college. In fact they are staying with their father as their home base since I am gone. Side note- it kills me. You may be wondering, "then why did you move?" It was the only way I could stay with my beau, plus my kids aren't around much, so I would be without the man I love and quite alone had I stayed. It seemed an obvious decision to my therapist and my friends, and to my heart.

I am taking this move, the unpacking, the having no idea how to find the nearest bank, a Gap,TJ Maxx or book store in stride. We have no Whole foods or Trader Joe's here, but we do have farms and road side vegetable stands. The kinds where it says, be fair marked on a box with a slit in the top.Another sign reads- 25 cents- as the price of each luscious fruit or vege. They even sell pies. It boggles my mind and I can't tell whether I am happy about it or freaked out by the foreignness of the concept. Deep down, I know it's darn cute and refreshingly honest and simple. It speaks volumes about the new place I am trying to call home.

I am not working until September and the days are odd and somewhat depressing in the loneliness and lack of structure. No friends as of yet, I look forward to my man coming home from work and I do so love the newness of seeing him every night. It is a wonderful kind of comfortable as we eat dinner and cuddle up to The big C and Weeds. He was a champ and even sat through The Bachelorette.We hang pictures, laugh, brush our teeth together and he feels like family, like my home. And then the nagging of the missing pierces the bubble and I want to cry like a homesick kid at camp and run to my kids, to my old life. But it's gone, time took it and I have to let it go and move on, one foot in front of the other now. Ugh, I want to shoot the empty nest that I now have. Just watch it blow away from my memory.

Today, I found the bank, the post office and then I even braved the new super market. After I came back...'home'- and began to make home-made meatballs. (Oh, that was after I killed the giant sized Ants that are so big, you can hear them coming across the kitchen floor.They freak me out, I've gotta tell ya) Then I fixed the spaghetti sauce, yup, homemade. After that, I sat at the small kitchen table beside the large window, glanced through the local Newspaper for a few minutes and sulked, walked into my new living room and ate my loneliness into a nap. I've had better days, and I certainly have had far worse. But this disconnect is hard. Tomorrow is another long day and I'm afraid I've eaten through the chocolate in the freezer. Must find Wawa to fix that problem.

I've just taken a pain killer, my bipolar meds, anxiety meds and 4 Advil for a massive headache. It's a Judy Garland kind of evening I'm afraid. My beau sleeps in the room next, happily snoring away. I envy him that. I envy much that he has right now and I am thankful too that he has been so tender and aware of my being lost and a bit anxious. He checks in during the day and rubs my back at night. I see his happiness at my being here and that seems to be a sign that this was the right move.

I hope to get the courage up to hit a yoga class, go to a book club and hope for a new friend. For that is what I so need right now. I great friend, that lives here. All of my friends are scattered about the country. 
I hope I have chosen a road that will bring me joy and one that keeps my kids close. 

Yup, camp is hard...thanks for reading my letter. Wish I could say we had a good day swimming the lake, learning archery and that I have a cool new friend named Katie.

Please send a care package.
Love, me 

the end of my blue period...

Something happens when we least expect it and it comes in millions of forms...change. It came to me a few days ago in a moment of freedom, and what that freedom has reaped already, is juicy, exciting and exploding with possibilities. Now that’s the kind of shift I like. I'm not afraid of it leaving, for this shift is inside of me, it can't be taken away unless I let it.
The road of love, sex and happiness are all carved from the same tree. I climbed up that tree on Saturday and have planted myself firmly in one of the nooks of its limbs. The wind is swaying me, rocking me as I take in the horizon; it is breath taking from up here. I don't even care that I scraped my knee and have now gotten blood and dirt on my shorts. I listen to the birds and smell the leaves and the earth. I can feel the heart of the universe beating inside her trunk. I press my hand against her ridged bark and I smile. Today, I stepped out of the dark blue, today I held a butterfly for but a second, only to feel, the setting it free. I felt my heart leap and flutter and I welcomed myself home again, as it took its erratic flight away from my clasped hands; only to come back and dance around me for a few delicious moments.

I speak to the tree in a gleeful voice, “I am falling in love again, I say. It's wonderful, I had been away, on a long journey of the heart, and at long last have returned. I'm happy about feeling love again. I had stopped feeling anything but sadness, and then I felt nothing at all, now I can feel everything. I simply took a deep breath and let it go, and like that, the love I had for myself, threw me out of my bed, like a late kid, running for the bus.

 So I ran to you, my sweet tree. You are the soul of God, all that calls of hope and love to me. I'm sorry I went away. But I won't leave again, even if I get sad. This time I know that the love I feel, the in- love I feel, begins with me. So even if my lover leaves, I won't. I will be here with you watching the sun and the moon, the stars, and the bats, as they look more like leaves floating against the night sky. I am a child again, with a whole life of joy ahead. So you see, I had to come and share it with you first! What?... oh, no, I can't know what will happen when summer comes to a close and the leaves get ready to turn, but I like that. I love that you never know what the end of a day will bring, or the end of a summer…I am free.

It's like Waiting for Godot....

…life is now. So why are we caught up occupying ourselves, we eat, sleep, converse, argue, sing, play games, exercise, swap hats, and contemplate suicide — anything to keep away from the now and to fiercely not give up on the dreams we have had etched into us since we were children. Our dreams may be quite different, but the waiting, the loss of time in this one life, is a disease of sorts and one I am full of, top to bottom. I shower, thinking about time as it ticks by and about what I will wear upon drying off ; I dress while imaging where I will be in an hour, and who it is I shall be seeing. I pour my coffee and rush to do the dishes, so that I can get into my car and not be late. Have I enjoyed any one of these pleasures?...not really, not at all in fact.

I think to myself each night as I collapse into my bed and turn off the light, how life will be better soon. How the life I have wished and dreamed of all these many years, will appear suddenly. I drive the familar roads and daydream about all theses visions created over time, and I have even spent almost two years writing a novel, which at the heart of it, I am again waiting, waiting for the imagined to become tangible, alive, an affirmation that I am not a failure, proof of it, and to finally exhale all of the years of the yearning.

Where have the years gone? It's like that drive we all take, when suddenly, we snap out of our thoughts and realize we have no idea how we just got from point A to point B, without any memory of it. We have been on auto-pilot. That can become a life...a life of auto-pilot, waiting for the man, the kids, the house, the career, the love, safety, strength, courage, the peace we may have never felt as a child. Everyone's waiting is different and made up of different fabric, but the threads the same, and the beating of our hearts, the same.

I have tasted my dreams, which have made waiting for them to show up again, in full blue ray,  high def-surround sound, all the more excruciating and numbing to endure. I catch glimpses of simple joys, certainly, many and every day; my kids laughter, the light streaming in and washing across my walls, my best friend as he smiles or the wind billowing my white cotton drapes. I do find the moments, but they are as difficult to cling to as a restless lover may be or a dream that you long to retell just minutes after waking. I am waiting, and in doing so, missing out on my life. I don't know yet or haven't found the balance perhaps of, not giving up the dream, while drinking in my life. For this moment, this is your life.

Even now, while I write, my head is ten paces ahead, wondering if it will be well received, liked, relatable. I rush to the Buddha’s side, beneath the Bodhi tree, begging for enlightenment. I have often said, contentment is a state I strive to attain, and yet it remains so allusive to me. I had taught yoga many years ago, played guitar, sang and performed, given birth three times, raised a family on my own and let love wash over me with lovers, music, nature, and yet, I wait, the one constant that never disappoints; never leaves my side, never changes. I wish for money as freedom, love as safety, beauty as power and praise. I wish to be thin, confident; all in the hopes of the perfectly imperfect marriage to arrive. Really, I mean it, perfectly imperfect, if you know what I mean. I am flawed, and I like that about me, and so I don’t want, nor do I expect something different from my husband. But there it is…something I don’t have and that I am waiting for.

All the things I fill in each day, just waiting for my life to arrive. I have no pithy ending here, no perfect lines to unravel. No sigh of satisfaction in my words. Oh, I do so love words though. Instead, I wait, and if I am really honest with you, with myself, really brave and raw; right now, I wait for you, the reader, to connect with me, reach out to me and make me feel not so alone in this world. Each day, each second that I am waiting for Godot, I wait for my death.

eat, pray, bathe...

 

eat, pray, bathe...

The house sold, move out date is September first, though I can move earlier if I find the sunny and character filled home I have in my mind. Every time I close my eyes and welcome sleep, I can see it, all Zen and cozy, filled with art and love. This move is a move of the soul, a leap of faith, and the first time I will live on my own. Kids grown, I venture away from the home where I was a mom for 21 years, now to be introduced to, a me that I've not known since I was 20. I have a new and exciting career at Anthropologie; its ceiling is limitless with artistic and business opportunities, and new friendships offering camaraderie, at just the right time.
I have beautiful things to fill the new nest, and a strong sense of what I would like my new life to feel like when I land. I hope to find a place near Suburban Sq. so that I can ride my bike to Trader Joe's, Starbucks, The Farmers Market; and most of all, to my daughter's store for quick visits, and perhaps the occasional purchase. It doesn't hurt that the R5 is right there to hop on and meet up with her at the Reading Terminal Market for coffee and some shopping. It is new to think of, a me that doesn't include: Frisbee tournament weekends, kids at dinner time; playing music and laughing. No more sleep-over’s, parent/teacher meetings and unexpected E.R. visits. Yes, I loved these things and I miss them more than I can say, but that cannot be my state of mind today or I will never make this transformation of the heart. I have to get excited about liberation. I've never been a woman who sought much more than being, 'bare-foot and pregnant' planting roots and nurturing all that surrounded me and my family.

Liberation...it was an almost, dirty word, as if it was to be emancipated from my tribe, and now, it is the word I cleave to, as I would a lover in the middle of a stormy night. The messages imprinted upon me as a young girl were that of dependence =family=love. Hence, liberation/freedom would mean being let go of, left, and alone. Oh the tangle of mixed messages imprinted on us as kids.

I enter, on the side door of my life now, and welcome a time to nurture me.  Why is that so daunting? I've successfully launched three bright, loving and happy kids, I root herbs, I champion friends, causes, etc. So why can't I seem to champion myself? I feel a kind of punishment by this supposed 'freedom' and all that it has to offer. I never asked for it, in fact I have lived a life that called for everything that looked nothing like,' an unmarried, career gal, in her forties' kind of life. I thought I would be a wife, leaning on my hubby about now, as the last of my flock prepares to fly off to college. I thought that we'd take up tennis or scuba diving to fill the void, or maybe we would be drawing up architectural plans for that addition we'd always wanted, but never had the time or money to get to. Maybe there would be loud sex again and nude cavorting about in the middle of the day. You can bet that I haven't given up hope on that as something soon on the horizon. Marriage means everything to me; it means family in its deepest form. That one person, that will love you, and you them, having each other's back, through it all, every day, for the rest of your life. For me, why bother without it. The rest is just stuff to do before we move on from this place. Marriage is as integral to me as my kids and my heart. They are one thing that moves, beats and breathes together. We are a tribe. And I can feel that someone missing from it. I can feel the missing of my other half.

And so it goes....

eat.... one would think this would be the longest of the three chapters, but as I recognize most of my readers as woman, I'd be preaching to the choir. Well, it began with stress eating because of the lack of the traditional love I so yearned for, from desired things that couldn't fill the void, from pain I saw in the ones I loved, that I couldn't remove. So, I fed my soul with food, yummy food, expensive food, junk food, diner food, standing at the island, kind of eating food, food. I ate to celebrate, I ate to hide, I ate for control, although that was the last thing I had over it. I shared fabulous meals out with a wealthy friend that had me along as her five star companion at meal time. She and I became quite close and suddenly, she moved across the country and left me, so I ate some more. And this is how, after two years of love and loss, and 20 pounds to prove it, I found myself in need of divine intervention.

pray....I prayed to be skinnier, better, married, funnier, sexier, more...whole, peaceful and after all the searching and eating....to be enough. I had to look myself in the mirror and answer the hardest question of my life. At the end of the day, no matter where the chips may fall, no matter my marital status, or my kids living near, am I enough?... My answer came quickly, I don't know, I shrugged, naked in the mirror...I just don't know, but I need to be. And there was the answer, I need to be enough. So God, help me, because I cannot find myself as such, if not through your eyes. And this is the leap of faith that I trust in myself, even though I feel at times, alone, wanting the safety of a traditional family life. So with a deep inhale and open eyes, I spread my wings, and I dive out, into the dark sky of life; knowing that I will either land on my feet, or learn how to fly. Though mostly with me, my faith had been rattled these past few years; dating an atheist didn't help. I'm no holy roller, but I believe in God and I have always found comfort in the Episcopalian faith and in Buddhism. The Dalai Lama's messages have comforted me through many storms. I had my time wrapped up in Hindu text and Yoga mediation; all wonderful roads that held my hand through the years. And so, I am back, walking the cemetery of my church on Easter, having a conversation with God in my head. This journey of finding a more centered place to share my faith is where I am now. I think I have a good foundation to build upon after all these many years of a deep love of God, trees, nature, and of love itself. I plan on attending church this Sunday. It will be the first time back in years, partially because our past Reverend was a very young and sexy version of Jesus. He was a hippie at his core (just my type) and I found that while he was delivering his sermon, I was imagining him in ways that were, let’s just say, not Godly, although, in these fantasies, I was calling out  God's name with gusto! I kept catching myself and thinking, "holy-shit, I am so going to hell; but a few verses later, a few turns of his long black robe, purple sash swaying, his fingers running through his tousled brown hair, and I was back there, worshiping Jesus in the most lustful of ways. I left church as to stop sinning. All is safe now, our new Rev. is in his mid-sixties, I think it's safe to say, my head will be in a pure place as I sit in those old wooden pews. I digress; I can't wait to smell the incense, hear the choir, the sermon, take communion, and just be, with each moment. My someone special will be by my side. God and I will be in deep conversation over this man I love and seek a life with. Just be...I remind myself, just be.

bathe...  Since I was a little girl, baths have held a magical place in my heart. I can take a bath any time of day, and it is always a treasured time. I run the steamy water full blast, fingers wiggling through the rush of water, testing it's temperature as I pour in the bubbles or the bath beads; will it be lavender scented or will they be red beads or the dolphin shaped blue ones the kids brought back from a trip with their father. I took baths with my kids for years when they were little, all four of us in my huge claw foot tub. One time, as I lay on my side, stretching down the length of the tub to make more room for three toddlers, my youngest looked at me with the deepest of concern, contorting his sweet cherub face, and said, "mommy!, your boob is drowning!" I laughed so hard as I tried to console his sincere worry, while also popping my breast up, out of the ominous water. Funny, he was the only one I had breast fed; the other two could have cared less if my boob drowned in a sea of bubbles. Priceless moments. Bath time is like Christmas, I watch the bubbles run over the lip of the tub, I strip my clothes off with delight as I sink down below the surface and listen to my humming, as it echoes off the ceramic sides, and stare up at the ceiling, just allowing the water to dance below my nose; every so often taking in a deep breath and submerging like a whale, all still and silent. It is so peaceful, wonderful, and all that is good seems better, and all that may have been hard, seems lighter. The whooshing, the warm wash cloth placed over my breasts as I chat with my daughter, the traveling stream of bubbles, tracing my belly button, the brilliance of my toes, as they measure the tentative turns of the cold faucet, to adjust the liquid valium that swirls around my body. I'm even weightless here, my skin appears tan under the water, and I am breathing slower, more deeply. I turn over on my belly and let the water rush in a wave over my back, splashing up to kiss the nape of my neck and wisps of hair. I'm a kid again, sitting with my foot tapping on the silver drain, as it produces cyclones, until every last sip has been gurgled up by its stainless steel mouth. Standing, I feel the cool breeze from the window feather me as I watch the bubbles run down my body; finally wrapping myself up in a large white towel, with a smile from ear to ear. Pure contentment, pure delight. Always welcoming me home...

bipolar-bears, listen up...

 

Everyone has heard their share of horror stories about the "crazy people" with bipolar, the shock treatments, the bizarre behavior, suicides, walking around town in a ball gown or a bathrobe. Yeah...we've all seen, One Flew Over the Coo Coo's Nest, and it has done its job of putting a stigma on mental illness like nobody's business. I recently saw that Catherine Zeta-Jones has come out about having Bipolar II Disorder. I was really happy about it. Go you, I thought. People are really uninformed about the disorder and all of its side effects.

So, I will start with this, my name is Tara, and I am a bipolar II bear. If I could choose just one person, to help you see it as a non-scary thing, I would stand beside a fellow bipolar person,...drum-roll.... Sting! Yup, Sting is bipolar, as are most of us artistic types. I've listed below just some of the amazing people in our lives that have shaped and transformed our world.

What's the difference between the two bipolar's? Bipolar type I is the more severe version. Severe ups and downs, a sense of euphoria when manic as well as feeling they are invincible, capable of flying, spending thousands of dollars in flurry and a heightened and sometimes dangerous sexual appetite that lands them in hospitals, jails and sometimes needing alternative methods of treatment to navigate through life as "normal" as possible. Type One is a rough road and one that Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Robin Williams, Carrie Fisher and many more have struggled with, and some sadly, have ended their lives because of the abyss that swallowed any light left in their lives.

We bipolar II types have it easier than our other brother bears, but that is not to say, that we have it easy by any stretch. Our version is a more gentle animal. Yes, we have super energy, we are highly creative and uber passionate beings, with an amped up sexual drive, that can put any 25 year olds libido to shame. We feel things bigger and stronger than the average bear. Our love is BIG and our pain is BIG as well. At our mid to high place, we are seen as being extroverted, funny, super confident people. We are all of those things, but we tank out at times. Most people envy these qualities, wishing they had some of that magic dust, in their back pocket, and we become a light that others can't help but feel a magnetic pull to be near. Hell, we are our own sun in our "manic" state. You know those people that just light up a room, make people laugh and love giving lots of love...that's us. Inside, deep down, we are saying, like me, like me, love me...please. 

We do however, know that we cannot fly, and we know that if we don't take our meds, go to sleep on time, stay away from alcohol for most of us, and really keep a schedule and structure in our lives, well, shit falls apart, and fast. The tough part, the manic state feels good and why wouldn't  it. I once painted my dining room in one night, and what I mean is, I decided out of the blue that I wanted to paint my dining room and in five minutes I was at the paint store, colors picked, home and set up, and I painted until 5 a.m. It was finished, beautiful and I was up to feed my three toddlers an hour later with a smile and pancakes to greet them. (Not quite normal) Fun though! But if we stay on that ride and dismiss our reality, dismiss the precipice that awaits, well, it is a long way down and a tough road for medicine to bring us back up to zero. Who'd thought zero would have ever been a good thing? Well, it really isn't, but when you are under the covers, shades drawn, and can't find hope or joy in any one thought, this is usually when you have hit the negative numbers.

Our goal is somewhere about a 5, in terms of a 1-10 idea of stability and happiness. When shit collapses, we hit the negative numbers and getting back to zero is the first slit of light that pierces our depression and says, okay...it may just get better. "Don't forget not to come back here again", we beg. The tough part, even if we do all the things we need to do to stay in the 5 area, life happens. And when our kids move out, our dog dies, we lose our jobs, a lover leaves, etc, Well, we can up the med's, increase doc time and push to do all that we can to avert the crash, but we are not built with the average non-mentally ill brain, so we fall harder and faster, and we stay there longer, by no choice of our own. No choice...that is such the struggle!

What I want most, is to have people feel free to say out loud, yeah, I've got bipolar, whatever type, as easily as we have finally be able to say, "I struggle with depression, and I'm on Prozac", or " I just had a panic attack, do you have an Ativan?" All met with support and non-judgment. But mention bipolar and people have this preconceived notion that you are bat-shit crazy and may just show up on the evening news, in a straight jacket. "Hey bob, didn't you know she was bipolar, so sad, (Susie says with pity and a hint of elitism), thank God that isn't us honey" You've just done it Susie-Q, you've divided us. Sad and not at all evolved or compassionate. Tsk-tsk says God, Buddha, The Dalai Lama...not to mention, your mother Miss Q. Speak up Bob, you know she's a hair away from crazy town herself.

"Well, I'm bipolar and I take Lamictal and Klonopin for my depression/anxiety and to keep me in the fives. As of late...been in the mid 3's with all that's going on at present, but I'm headed upward. Fingers crossed, taking care of myself, reaching out to friends and staying as Zen as possible in hopes to hit a happy 5 sooner than later. Listening to the Dalai Lama on tape as I drive around town; The Art of happiness cooing in my ear. Certainly not planning on any evening news shenanigans, Bob.

For all of you that find yourself in therapy, saying to your doc, "I'm finding myself feeling happy part of the day and then in an instant, I can crash and I don't know why." You may just be bipolar and the good news, once you know, you can get on the right meds! They didn't diagnose me correctly until I was in my mid 30's. I suffered far too long due to a lack of information.

It took a long time to come to terms with the fact that this disorder was something I had, not something that defines me. So thank you Katherine Zeta-Jones! Speak up and join me, come out of that crazy closet and lets do what we can to get rid of the stigma! You never know, you might just see Susie poking her head up too, Kate Spade bag, still in hand. No worries Susie, you're in good company...mostly;)

Actors & Actresses

Ned Beatty
Maurice Bernard, soap opera
Jeremy Brett
Jim Carey
Lisa Nicole Carson
Rosemary Clooney, singer
Lindsay Crosby
Eric Douglas
Robert Downey Jr.
Patty Duke
Carrie Fisher
Connie Francis, singer and actress
Shecky Greene, comedian
Linda Hamilton
Moss Hart, actor, director, playright
Mariette Hartley
Margot Kidder
Vivien Leigh
Kevin McDonald, comedian
Kristy McNichols
Burgess Meredith, actor, director
Spike Milligan, actor, writer
Spike Mulligan, comic actor and writer
Nicola Pagett
Ben Stiller, actor, director, writer
David Strickland
Lili Taylor
Tracy Ullman
Jean-Claude Van Damme
Robin Williams
Jonathon Winters, comedian

Artists

Alvin Alley, dancer, choreogapher
Ludwig Von Beethoven
Tim Burton, artist, director
Francis Ford Coppola, director
George Fredrick Handel, composer
Bill Lichtenstein, producer
Joshua Logan, broadway director, producer
Vincent Van Gogh, painter
Gustav Mahier, composer
Francesco Scavullo, artist, photographer
Robert Schumann, composer
Don Simpson, movie producer
Norman Wexler, screenwriter, playwright

Entrepreneurs

Robert Campeau
Pierre Peladeau
Heinz C. Prechter
Ted Turner, media giant

Financiers

John Mulheren
Murray Pezim

Miscellaneous

Buzz Aldrin, astronaut
Clifford Beers, humanitarian
Garnet Coleman, legislator (Texas)
Larry Flynt, publisher and activist
Kit Gingrich, Newt's mom
Phil Graham, owner of Washington Post
Peter Gregg, team owner and manager, race car driver
Susan Panico (Susan Dime-Meenan), business executive
Sol Wachtier, former New York State Chief Judge

Musicians

Ludwig van Beethoven, composer
Alohe Jean Burke, musician, vocalist
Rosemary Clooney, singer
DMX Earl Simmons, rapper and actor
Ray Davies
Lenny Dee
Gaetano Donizetti, opera singer
Peter Gabriel
Jimi Hendrix
Kristen Hersh (Throwing Muses)
Phyllis Hyman
Jack Irons
Daniel Johnston
Otto Klemperer, musician, conductor
Oscar Levant, pianist, composer, television
Phil Ochs, musician, political activist, poet
John Ogden, composer, musician
Jaco Pastorius
Charley Pride
Mac Rebennack (Dr. John)
Jeannie C. Riley
Alys Robi, vocalist in Canada
Axl Rose
Nick Traina
Del Shannon
Phil Spector, musician and producer
Sting, Gordon Sumner, musician, composer
Tom Waits, musician, composer
Brian Wilson, musician, composer, arranger
Townes Van Zandt, musician, composer

Poets

John Berryman
C.E. Chaffin, writer, poet
Hart Crane
Randall Jarrell
Jane Kenyon
Robert Lowell
Sylvia Plath
Robert Schumann
Delmore Schwartz

Political

Robert Boorstin, special assistant to President Clinton
L. Brent Bozell, political scientist, attorney, writer
Bob Bullock, ex secretary of state, state comptroller and lieutenant governor
Winston Churchill
Kitty Dukasis, former First Lady of Massachusetts
Thomas Eagleton, lawyer, former U.S. Senator
Lynne Rivers, U.S. Congress
Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States

Scholars

John Strugnell, biblical scholar

Scientists

Karl Paul Link, chemist
Dimitri Mihalas

Sports

Shelley Beattie, bodybuilding, sailing
John Daly, golf
Muffin Spencer-Devlin, pro golf
Ilie Nastase, tennis
Jimmy Piersail, baseball player, Boston Red Sox, sports announcer
Barret Robbins, football
Wyatt Sexton, football
Alonzo Spellman, football
Darryl Strawberry, baseball
Dimitrius Underwood, football
Luther Wright, basketball
Bert Yancey, athlete

TV & Radio

Dick Cavett
Jay Marvin, radio, writer
Jane Pauley

Writers

Louis Althusser, philosopher, writer
Honors de Balzac
Art Buchwald, writer, humorist
Neal Cassady
Patricia Cornwell
Margot  Early
Kaye Gibbons
Johann Goethe
Graham Greene
Abbie Hoffman, writer, political activist
Kay Redfield Jamison, writer, psychologist
Peter Nolan Lawrence
Frances Lear, writer, editor, women's rights activist
Rika Lesser, writer, translator
Kate Millet
Robert Munsch
Margo Orum
Edgar Allen Poe
Theodore Roethke
Lori Schiller, writer, educator
Frances Sherwood
Scott Simmie, writer, journalist
August Strindberg
Mark Twain
Joseph Vasquez, writer, movie director
Mark Vonnegut, doctor, writer
Sol Wachtler, writer, judge
Mary Jane Ward
Virginia Woolf