Oh, my brain. How fickle it is. Today it was against me, every step of the way. From refusing to wake up to an emotional breakdown to end my day, it was my enemy for sure.
I am tired of the self-consciousness that hounds my mind like a coon dog that’s treed it’s prey. The constant nagging on my weight, my skin, my looks in general…..leaves me worn and torn beyond belief. It continues – relentlessly – until my brain believes that every person I come in contact with is judging me just as harshly, if not more so, than I judge myself……
I am tired of being bipolar. Depression and anxiety were not curbed today. Instead they doused my brain with putridness, much like dirty mop water. Due to the imbalanced chemicals, my body and mind tend to create their own worlds for me. Today, the world they created was unkind, and deliberately sabotaged all the work I had put into myself in the past couple of weeks. My mirror became an ungodly tool that broke my spirit as it pointed out the lines and sagging skin. My wardrobe was full of ill-fitting armor that reminded me of my lack of gym attendance and my love of carbs and margaritas. Words spoken by those who care about me all turned to daggers. Daggers with tips dipped in poison of inconsequentiality, causing my emotions to bleed down my cheeks in hot rivers of pain.
I am so tired of myself and todays world. Crashing like waves onto the bow of a ship, the chemicals wreaked havoc, slinging perfectly happy moments to the side and scattering all forms of sanity; leaving me battered and bruised with a headache and tired eyes. Exhausted does not even slightly describe me right now.
I am tired of myself. I’m tired of knowing these things aren’t real, yet falling into Alice’s rabbit hole for days at a time. I’m tired of faking it more than making it and wearing a mask more often than not. I’m tired of medication, meditation, music, and even God not working. I am tired of seeking validation.
I am tired of this episode and actually crave a manic episode, just to feel a little normal again.
So, this is it people. Bipolar depression and anxiety 101. If you love someone who is Bipolar, hug them a little more today, or don’t – which ever they prefer. Be their someone today, even if they don’t need it.
“It was Poppa”, I said to myself as I watched 4 silver dollar sized pancakes start to bubble in the middle. Cooking breakfast on the weekends is my “thing”. My love language to my kiddos who are 21, 19, and 15. I get the honor of fixing them such goodies as cinnamon rolls, waffles, biscuits, or – like today – pancakes to celebrate us making it through the week!
Although I use a mix, I always add a little extra “love” to my pancakes. A little bit of sugar to sweeten them, vanilla for good flavor, and cinnamon and nutmeg to add a little bit of “holidays” to the joy of eating them. I experimented quite a bit to get the perfect concoction of “love”. My kiddos were always very nice by saying how good they were, but it was the day that I honestly couldn’t make enough for them that solidified I had reached my goal. My 15 year old doesn’t even use syrup or powdered sugar. We have recently added a bit of bourgeoisie to our sweet breakfasts with a compote of powdered sugar, cream cheese, and vanilla on the side.
Although all of these things should hopefully by now have your mouth watering, there is one more element that I am positive makes all the difference – frying them in butter. A pat of butter will make the outsides a little crunchy and the inside just as fluffy as can be – think doughnuts, but flat.
It was my poppa that taught me about making pancakes. Now, mind you, he would have put his nose up at the cinnamon and nutmeg and the compote, but everything else was from him. Of course, on the Saturday morning he taught me how to make them, it was because I had requested them before the restaurant opened and he said “You can have ’em if you make ’em”. My little 15 year old self had no clue where to even start. So, he began spouting off ingredients as I ran around getting them together. Then he showed me the how to mix it together – making sure not to over-mix. It was the butter that sizzled on the flat top grill that he said “Okay, it’s ready. Put you a scoop of mix on there.” I was impatient and kept asking when it would be time to flip them, to which he replied “You gotta be patient. See them bubbles starting to pop up? Wait until the whole pancake is full of bubbles…. then you flip ’em”. As we waited for each one to bubble up we talked about school and family. He hated when I’d ask him questions about his childhood and teenage years. Honestly, he hated talking about himself at all.
He was in such a good mood that day. The COPD wasn’t so bad this particular Saturday.
After I ate and we cleaned up, we opened the shop waiting for the first customer. It was a slow morning, so I did what I always did when it was slow – I hit up the jukebox. I put in my coins and picked some of my favorites: Cat’s in the Cradle, Leader of the Pack, and my absolute favorite American Pie. He sat, with his arms propped up on the counter, wearing a white t-shirt and a red flannel with a pair of suspenders. He just shook his head at me as I sang and danced around him. When American Pie came on, I grabbed his hands and urged him out to the middle of the dining area. “C’mon Poppa! Just one song! I remember when you used to dance with Grandmother!! Dance with me, pleeeeaaasssseeee!!!!” I’m sure he did it in part just to shut me up, but he gently stood up and walked with me to the “dance floor”. It wasn’t fancy, just a little shuffle here and there, but it was my last dance with him.
Bill Parker was a hard man to most, but to me he was just perfect. He would tell me things like black eyed peas would make my eyes more blue or keeping my hair tucked behind my ears would cause them to stick out. He watched Mash and listened to Scotty Rhodharmer in the morning. He made biscuits and yelled at anyone who was in the kitchen, which was insane because he refused to cook most of the time but no one could do it as well as he could (eye roll). He smoked and drank and made me things; like a hope chest that I still have to this day. He was a carpenter by trade, and there are many houses locally I can say he worked on. He made me laugh and would chase me around the yard. He would also hold me on his lap as we all sat outside watching and listening to the rain fall. He made me love fried cabbage, cornbread, greens, and beans. My favorite memories are of his smile and his blue eyes which, majority of the time, could show just what kind of mood he was in.
He fought a hard battle with COPD, which he succumbed to the day before my 18th birthday. He was so frail at that point and the only thing that still showed his spirit were his smile and eyes. A week before he passed, I spent an afternoon with him. I rubbed his feet and we laughed about family, talked about me graduating, and he gave his opinion of my now husband. He told me he was proud of me and that he “guessed” my hubby was an okay kinda guy. I told him that he would get to be there for it all : the graduation, the wedding, any kids……. Only, he wasn’t.
If you still have your grandparents, love them hard. If you are like me, and have nothing but memories of your grandparents, talk about them. Keep them alive by telling their stories and teaching your loved ones the things they taught you.
jennidayton 