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I’ve been through a metric shitton of therapy, both individual and group, to varying degrees of success. Spent two years in an intensive outpatient program (IOP), in fact. Grief recovery and suicide prevention was the main focus. Most everyone in that group – and I saw people come and go over time as I became the senior member – probably suffered some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (amongst other maladies).

I recall my very first day of IOP. I’d had a nervous breakdown and couldn’t work. Showed up at the encouragement of my individual therapist.

There might have been 6 or 7 others there that first day. I had no idea what to expect. The first (of four) hours of each day was check-in time. Everyone in group spent 5 minutes “checking in,” telling the therapists what was going on. Because it was my first day, I got to check in last. Which seemed to be a mistake.

As each stranger reported in on their life, I heard stories that made me question what the fuck *I* was doing there.

Jesus, I don’t have any fucking problems compared to these people. What’s my deal?

Horror stories, some of them. If I weren’t so polite, I might have just sat there with my jaw hanging open, listening to it all.

Turns out, as I’d learn over time, there were more than a handful of distortions I was clinging to. Everyone’s problems are different, everyone’s life is different. Trying to compare your struggles to mine isn’t a fair comparison most of the time. Apples and oranges, etc. Or, as I tended to say, one person’s savior is another person’s pair of lead boots.

We had these sheets we’d fill out called Trauma Sheets, where we’d discuss traumatic events in our life and “process” these things with the group. The first time I told a story from my past, I was stunned. Mostly because my group members were stunned and more than one of them were left with their jaws hanging open.

“What?” I said. “That’s not normal?”

Come to find out lots of things from my childhood weren’t “normal.”

You can’t spend five days a week, four hours a day, with a small group of people and not make friends. Some of us hung out outside group, spending even more time together. Naturally, there were rules in IOP. We weren’t allowed to engage in any sexual activity with each other. Group members weren’t allowed to loan or borrow money. (The group represented most cross-sections of society…some of us were poor and relying on food banks, others were pretty damn well off.) These rules were meant to keep the group a safe place. There was already enough conflict and stuff to deal with – didn’t need to create more drama between us (though there was some of that, too, because not everyone followed the rules all the time).

Lots of group therapy stories, but I ramble enough already. Oddly, I left group and quickly lost track of most all those folks. Haven’t been in a group therapy situation since.

So when the Matrix Therapist suggested yesterday the notion of group therapy, I said that I didn’t have a problem with it. EXCEPT that the groups she was suggesting were at the main VA facility in Tampa. Being in Sebring, there’s only a small clinic here…most anything specialized requires a visit to the main hospital, about 2 hours away from me.

“Depending on how often these groups meet,” I said, “that could be a lot of traveling.” I mean, two hours there, one or two hours of group (I’m assuming), then two hours back home? That’s a full fucking day. And even once a week, that’d add up pretty fast to lots of gas money.

Which is what led the Matrix Therapist bring up something I’ve never experienced: INpatient treatment. Meaning: you stay in facility instead of staying at home.

Whoa.

But let’s face facts: whatever I’m doing now ain’t working. I’m stuck. Again. Stagnant, even, and I find that to be the equivalent of a 4-letter word. The meds aren’t doing their thing (so far). Being in-house would let them aggressively play with meds while I’m under their watch. Plus, there’d (presumably) be a lot of structure with the group situation.

What terrifies me about this (much as I can see the potential good in it) is that I’d be totally outside my comfort zone. The likelihood of there being unrestricted Internet access is slim to none. And most all of my friends are living inside my computer. Yikes. Sure, they’ll probably let me keep my iPhone, but I’ve been to that hospital and the signal inside (as is true for many hospitals) sucks ass.

I’d be not only hanging with strangers – and sharing lots of stories/events with them – but living with them, as well.

*ring ring*

Hello?

Hi, Karl, it’s me, Social Phobia.

I don’t know how long this inpatient thing typically lasts, but the MT said yesterday it could be as little as 3 or 4 days.

“No way,” I told her. “That’s not enough time to do shit with medication.” Hell, we’ve been playing this round of the Pharmaceutical Game for many months now. I’m no stranger to being a lab rat. Meds that mess with the brain take weeks/months to gain efficacy.

My educated guess for how long I’d stay is something along the lines of at least 2-3 weeks, if not more. Which, in Karl Time, is like 2-3 months of not sleeping in my own bed, not being able to get online any time I want to, not being able to stay up till 1 in the morning, not being able to walk around in my boxers all the time. The list goes on.

That’s a long time to be outside my comfort zone.

Nevertheless, I told the MT that I’m not averse to the options. So this morning I went back in and, after getting blood drawn for my diabetes, met with the Matrix Therapist again to fill out a qualifying questionnaire.

I should hear either today or maybe Monday from the VA about if I qualify and, subsequently, where I fall on the waiting list. Then I can ask questions like:

• How long is the average stay?
• What am I allowed to bring with me from home?
• What is the structure of the program? How many hours of the day are scheduled, and how much free time do we get?
• Is there wifi?
• What’s the bed time?
• Do I have to be roomies with anyone possessing that old-man smell? (What? This is the VA we’re talking about. I’m a young whippersnapper compared to most of these people.)
• How do we deal with things like my insulin and syringes?
• Is there live-tweeting allowed from group?

I don’t have answers to any of these yet, but hope to soon. If anything, as Sybil was keen to point out last night on the phone, I should get some decent blog posts out of it.

So there’s that.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Thanks to all of you that sent in entries for the Funniest Sex Story contest. We had eight funny stories. They’ve all been read and the votes are in. Thanks to Shannon, Mike, and Janet, my amazing judges.

The Runner-Up is Sandi, who wins a special prize from the SecondHand TryptoGear store:

As a diligent public servant, I worked as a court clerk in a public safety building which consisted of only 2 stories. Rumors were rampant as police, fire, and the courts were all in 1 building, and well, boys will be boys. I kept my nose clean and my reputation cleaner refusing to “fish off my own pier.”

I had been dating someone in the legal field, which often brought them to the building several times a week. As our relationship intensified (got closer to having sex), one day 3 dozen long stem roses were delivered to my office, to celebrate our 3 weeks of dating and his 3 weeks of waiting. This of course caused quite a bit of ruckus in the rumor mill and secretaries to cops were putting out APB’s trying to figure out just what innocent little me could have done to receive 3 dozen roses.

Shortly thereafter, he arrived at my office with a single rose. He had paid his penance and waited quite gallantly. We used the NEVER used elevator since the building was only 2 stories, pushed the emergency stop button, and I began to show my appreciation for the flowers. However, a building full of firemen and cops that hear an emergency bell tend to come running quickly, and our episode was cut short. It was clear to the huge crowd when we exited the elevator either something of a sexual nature had/was going to happen or this young man had a subway sandwich in his pants.

Embarrassed highly – but not thwarted – our hormones took over once we entered my office just off the courtroom. It was a Tuesday, meaning no court, no judge, empty huge room with solid furniture. I slipped on the judges robe (why? who the fuck knows? I was horny) and we began to “make mad passionate rulings” right there on top of the judges mahogany bench.

I had the gavel in my hand and it was just insane crazy good shit, like when you haven’t eaten in a week and you eat a cracker. Yeah, damn good cracker. We were letting loose over a month’s worth of pent up sexual anxiety and tension and it was awesome. Well until the point the mayor and the local news crew with cameras rolling came thru the court room double doors and looked straight at us.

Yeah, apparently it was “student government day” and there was a high school boy shadowing the mayor and the stupid TV News thought that was a worthy story. As the mayor was showing this kid around his kingdom, I don’t think they thought they would run across a court clerk being pounded on the judges bench with cameras rolling.

Much to my pleasure, the local news was kind enough (paid off) and didn’t air the story. The guy I was dating sent more flowers but I just knew it would never be as good as it was that day so I dumped him. Plus, the mayor kind of said something about conflict of interest. Oh yeah, I had to have the judge’s robe cleaned and apologize …that sucked.

And the Winner of the $25 gift certificate from Eden Fantasys is…

Certifiable Princess! Congrats, CP. Here’s her story:

So there I was, minding my own business.

No. Really. I was.

“Minding my own business” is probably a very polite way of saying “so I was in front of the computer, getting myself off, when all of a sudden…”

Oh yeah. Like you don’t. Pffft. Whatever.

Let me take you back, back, back…way back, to a time before the hotband was in the picture. To a time when internet porn reigned supreme in my life, because frankly A) I was checking out women, not men, B) The ex was a little lacking in the “give it to me night and day, baby” department and finally C) I don’t know. I was bored, it was there.

Again. Don’t judge me. You know damn well you do it too. You just don’t admit it on your blogs.

So there I am, in my computer chair. No kids at home. No (ex) husband was home at the time. It was just me, my computer and my portable little friend, Buzz Lightyear.

*blinks* Yeah. Like you don’t have a name for your vibrators (and/or penises!).

Lawdy, so judgmental!

I am pullin’ up some sweetass lesbo porn, a few threesomes, some gangbangs, couple of upskirts…you know, your average male porn, except it was being enjoyed by me…a female. Isn’t that so erotic? *eye roll* (I can literally hear my hotband panting all the way from NYC) *snort* HONEY! You’ve heard this story already. Get over it.

Anyway, when I feel I am primed and supremely ready for the thrills to begin, CLICK! On goes Buzz Lightyear! Yes! TAKE ME THERE! To Infinity…and BEYOND! Mouse in the right hand, Buzz in my left (yes, I am ambidextrous. I am also sodium free and low in monotriglycerides) and going to funky town! Wee hoo! When all of a sudden…

*snap*

My nail breaks.

Now, most women would have ignored this completely and continued with their quest to find the honeypot, the top of the mountain, the promised land. Nope. Not me. I cannot bear to look at the brunette babe, spread-eagle in front of me, a vision of celluloid perfection…WHILE I AM SPORTING A BROKEN NAIL! No. The Jewish princess in me takes over. This simply will not do. I mean, come on. How tacky is this? I won’t even look at porn that has a poorly manicured or pedicured model. It’s not that I am a porn snob, it’s just that I am…well, okay, so I’m a porn snob. But if I expect the most from my porn, then dammit, I will be nothing less than perfect when I cum too!

I place Buzz down on my bare lap, pants down around my ankles and lean down to my purse to get out my nail glue.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

*stab stab stab the top of the tube of glue with safety pin and SQQQQQQQUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEZE…*

SPLOOGE!

Crazy glue explodes everywhere. I drop my fingernail. Bends over to pick up said fingernail, gluing her extremely large tits to the crazy glue that has pooled in my lap.

“SHIT!” I exclaim.

“Bzzzzzzz,” replies Buzz Lightyear with a muffled cry from below my mammaries.

“HA!” snorts extremely hot brunette spread eagle on my computer screen. If she could be laughing at me, she would be.

“What the fuck could be worse than this,” I think aloud, while trying to dislodge her vibrator from between her nipple and her labia.

*sound of garage door opening*

“HOLY FUCK,” I shriek, and jump jump jump, bent over, ass out, tits glued to thighs, into my bathroom and turn on the shower.

“Honey,” says the (ex) husband, “are you here?”

“I’m in the shower,” I call back.

“But I’m here,” says the hot brunette still dangling on the computer screen.

Fuck.

It was sort of hard explaining to my (ex) husband why there was a naked woman on my computer monitor.

“There was??? Really???” I feign complete ignorance. “Oh my gosh, someone must have sent me a virus.”

*blink. blink*

After 8 years, I think the patch of skin on my upper thigh is finally the same color as the rest of my thigh. For a long time, I had a tell-tale dildo shaped white spot where my tan tore away in the shape of my vibrator.

I now refer to it as my “birthmark”. It’s this version of the story that allows me to keep my PTA membership intact.

a

Yesterday, in a move hardly characteristic of myself, I went to the YMCA to, ugh, exercise. Water aerobics.

First off, I’m not happy in a bathing suit. Yes, I hate sports, know nothing about cars, and I have body issues. So why the hell don’t I get multiple orgasms like the rest of you women? Huh? Not fair.

I didn’t even make it through the whole class, maybe 45 minutes. A bunch of old women kicked my fucking ass. My legs were burning, my heart was racing. The only good part was that it’s hard to sweat when you’re in a pool.

Apparently, you need an AARP membership before you can make it a full hour in a pool with floatie noodles and foam dumbbells. But I did it for 45 minutes, and that counts.

Tomorrow, I have two things to do. First, Tai Chi in the morning. Then, after over a month and a half, I’m finally getting my head CT. Yeah, from passing out and hitting the kitchen floor. The forehead is most certainly cracked; I can feel it. Plus, the headaches are getting more frequent…not where I usually get them, either. They’re in the front of my head. That’s not good.

I don’t know what they’ll do for me when they find out my skull is cracked. But at least I’m getting it looked at, even if it took a while to get approval to get a local CT scan done. Rather than drive two hours, I mean.

Work begins in earnest on the 2HT redesign this week. It’s one of the very few things I’m able to garner any excitement for. Most everything else feels hollow, like I’m just going through the motions.

Nothing seems to matter. Nothing seems to make a difference. I’m tearing up at the drop of a hat. Just last night, I was sniffling while listening to The Cars’ “Just What I Needed.” WTF?!

The fires keep coming, and I’m expected to put them out, to deal with the crises laying all around me. And I barely have the fortitude to get out of bed, let alone take care of problems or go do Tai Chi.

I feel unworthy. Unloveable. That fucking Permeable Teflon skin of mine. Bad goes in, good slides off. It’s automatic.

And when I have conversations like this, it gives me pause. I’m in green, by the way.

I hate when people tell me I need to agree with nice things said about me.

It’s that last bit that is so problematic for me. But Angel, she’s a smart cookie. Maybe you don’t see what she did there, but she used LOGIC. Because logic trumps emotion with me.

It’s the last sentence that really hits.

Your friends kick ass, and they love you, so you must not suck.

That’s a statement of logic. Three of them, actually.

1. Your friends kick ass. TRUE.

2. They love you. TRUE. I’ll accept this, even if I fail to see why most of the time.

3. So you must not suck. ???

That part, I’m struggling with. The first two statements are true, therefore…the last part must also be true. I mean, that’s the logical conclusion, right?

But soaking it up, as Angel says, is not just easier said than done. It’s nigh impossible. So she brilliantly played the logic card, and I’m fighting hard to negate it. Which seems stupid, mostly because it is. Why on Earth would I choose to reject love? Reject nice things? I don’t know the answer to that, exactly.

If I’m loveable, if I don’t suck, if I’m not the horrid vile person the voices in my head tell me I am…then what the fuck AM I? I’ve been this person for 43 years. If I take away the bad shit, what if there’s nothing left holding me together?

I don’t know how to be anyone else. I don’t know how to feel loved, to feel worthy, to feel…good. And it’s a very real threat to me, this loss of all the bad shit. Who am I without it?

I must not suck.

Does not compute.

And is this my midlife crisis, by the way? I’m due for one, I suppose. I’m middle-aged. It doesn’t FEEL any different than my usual depression and angst, though. I’m still not longing to sleep with 23-year-old’s or to drive red sports cars, so that’s something. Unless it’s a red ‘66 Mustang with USB connectors.

Seriously, if I HAD a midlife crisis, would I even fucking know it? I mean, I’m in crisis now. I’m at the middle of my life.

Shit. I am having a midlife crisis.

Fuck, who needs a drink?

a

So my blogging pal Renee at But Why Mommy whose birthday, you may recall, we celebrated here a few months ago is about to adopt a beautiful baby boy named Lion and our mutual friend Issa (who I adore and you should too) thought it would be a great idea to throw her a virtual baby shower.  Seeing as how I’m probably the only guy that’s been invited to this party, I thought my gift should be to both Renee and her husband Scott about how raising a boy is different than raising a boy - and how it’s not.  So, happy adoption Renee and Scott! Lion will be lucky to have you.

—————————————————————-

Raising a boy in this day and age is a challenge. On one hand, you want your son to be strong and confident enough that he doesn’t get his butt kicked out on the playground on a regular basis. On the other hand, you want your son to move beyond age-old stereotypes of caveman-like proportions. This means letting your son dress up in his sister’s princess gowns and try on fingernail polish whenever he gets the urge. It also means letting him play with dolls and fire trucks and dolls with fire trucks.

Raising a boy means you will have to answer questions Lots of questions. Some of these questions you will know the answer to and some you will have to make up. This includes questions like “How fast is that race car, Daddy?” or “Why do boys have penises and girls have vaginas?” or “Why do you keep saying, Sssshhhh?!” Questions. Be ready.

Raising a boy means messier meal times and a totally different rule book than the one you started creating for your lovely daughter. Rules that made your daughter cringe in fear will be laughed at by your son.

Raising a boy means really boring outfits. Remember all those incredibly cute outfits you couldn’t help but purchase for your little girl? Yeah, those don’t exist for boys. The biggest thrills you will get shopping for your son is deciding between jeans and corduroy pants.

Raising a boy means longer potty-training battles (”Point that thing down, son. Down! I SAID DOWN!!”). It also means dodging streams of pee shooting toward your face when changing his diapers. It will happen. Let’s hope your reflexes are up to the challenge.

Raising a boy means teaching him how treat the women in his life and the responsibility that holds. It means showering him with love and affection from both dad and mom so he has balance in his life when he goes out into the world. It means teaching him to express his anger with words, not with his fists.

Finally, raising a boy isn’t all that different than raising a girl. Love him and hold him close to your heart every day of your life. In the end, that’s enough.

So I mentioned that my Resolution this month hit a snag. Big time. Bottom line is, I got fired. From one of my gigs, not both.

Not that it’s a huge shock, mind you. After all, I haven’t worked in quite a while. I take the blame for that.

I won’t say exactly which site fired me, but it doesn’t involve travel blogging, and it might rhyme loosely with Brain Trawler.

No matter. It’s lit a fire under my ass. I plan on doing more travel stories until I find another gig to add to the hotel blogging. So if you know of anything, please let me know. Especially if it involves me writing more humor’ish, slice-of-life stuff. I’m also going to get my other little project going. I told you, I have ideas.

Course, this reaffirms what I’ve already said. TequilaCon is definitely out for me this year. And it doesn’t look good for BlogHer, either. Disappointing, to say the least. For you, I mean. Ahem.

In the meantime, I thought I’d write a little letter to any future employers I have. I’m sure they’re all reading this and are interested in anything and everything I have to say.

Dear Future Employers:

Hi, I wanted to take a moment to give you a list of things you might try in order to make my life with you more pleasant. Or more professional. Whatever.

1. You should know up front that I prefer being notified when I get fired. You know, as close to when you hire my replacements as is convenient for you. To clarify, telling me months later – only after I am ready to return to work – is just a tad late for my taste. I realize it’s a personal preference, but it’s MY personal preference.
2. If you simply must fire me, I prefer getting a phone call over getting an email 15 minutes before end-of-business. It’s more professional and, as an added bonus, it doesn’t make your company seem like it truly doesn’t give a fuck about their employees.
3. Please don’t try to explain your decisions for firing me, unless you’re giving me REAL reasons. I’m not as dumb as I look. For example, saying that it’s because of “budgetary constraints” when you only have a finite number of writing slots per day, and it doesn’t matter who writes them or gets paid for them, is kinda bogus’ish.
4. If you’re going to fire me, please do me the kindness of removing me from the company email lists first. I have enough email to wrestle with every day, I don’t need more.
5. If you happen to be in, say, the gossip industry, please don’t pretend to class up the joint by not using words like “butt” or “nude.” Especially if it’s a blog skewed toward mommies. Because moms happen to be nude a lot, and they also have butts. And they’re also there to read GOSSIP. Running a gossip blog – and again, this is only if you happen to be in that industry – and telling the writers they can’t use words like “sex” or “boobs” is a little like telling TMZ not to take photos. It can be done, mind you, but no one is going to want to read it any more. And I think the traffic reflects that. Or *would*…sorry.
6. I like employers who send me things like free coffee or Cherry Coke Zero. And massage gift certificates. Even without the Happy Ending added on, it’s still a nice perk.

I have other ideas, too, if you care to ask for my input. Most involve naked women, but I do have a great one that includes a shaved giraffe.

Sincerely,

Karl Erikson

a

February 1. Shit, why did I agree to do TWELVE resolutions this year? What the fuck was I thinking?

Gonna make this short and sweet. Don’t expect that on a regular basis. I’ve got a lot in the air right now.

February: Financial

I resolve to start working again. Two stories per day for Famecrawler, one story per week for Uptake.

Yes, I have actual writing jobs. No, I haven’t acted like it for a long, long time. Since Lisa passed on LAST February, truth be told. I’m tired of being broke and bitching about it when I’m the one who has the power to fix the fucking problem. So I’m doing it.

I’m fortunate that I haven’t permanently screwed up those gigs. And that I get to work from home, especially right now with Mom in bed most of the time.

So that’s the deal. I begin working in earnest tomorrow.

Over and out.

a

Watched half of the last “Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien” before bed last night. Funny, funny shit. Conan is funnier than I’ve ever seen him. I can relate. I often find that I’m near the top of my game when I’m in crisis mode. Not lately, mind you, but other times.

His ratings the last couple of weeks were up by over 60%. And NBC is still ditching him because, well, NBC is being run by rabid monkeys. Clearly. I mean, it makes sense. Jay Leno did so fantastic in prime time (*cough*) that anyone in their right mind would want to move him back to 11:30. Cue the Jaywalking and Monday night Headlines…comedy gold, people. *cough*

I don’t know who the fuck thinks Jay Leno is still funny, but the monkeys sure seem to dig him. Something tells me that Letterman’s ratings are gonna stay ahead of Leno’s now that this shit has gone down. But we’ll see. Either way, I’m back to not watching NBC late-night.

It’s like “Dallas” in the 80’s. That time when Bobby was killed, but a year later he wakes up and realizes the whole last season was a dream? Yeah, that’s the shit NBC is trying to pull.

“Just pretend the last 7 months never happened. You never saw Conan in the 11:30 slot. See? Jay Leno is host of ‘The Tonight Show.’ You must have dreamt the whole thing.”

Er…right. I was just imagining that “The Tonight Show” was finally funny again.

So. Back to me.

I slept last night. Finally. For about 6-1/2 hours. My brain finally shut off, thanks to classical music. And a beer. And a sleeping pill. And exhaustion.

Music has always been there for me. It’s critical in my life. But lately, naturally, music is trying to kill me. Every song that plays on the radio or my iPod (even on Shuffle) has lyrics that are speaking directly to me. Yes, music is trying to make me have an emotional breakdown.

Normally, I go to sleep to music, whether it’s my iPod or this retro 80’s radio station called The Point (101.5). But with me in manic mode, everything I see and hear is just more stuff for my brain to chew on. Actually keeps my brain BUSIER when I’m trying to relax and sleep.

So the classical music last night (thank you, WunderRadio! ) did the trick.

Yes, you heard me right a couple paragraphs ago. I think I’m manic right now. It definitely explains a lot of my behavior of late. The racing thoughts have really been out of control lately…far worse than usual.

I have a hard time explaining racing thoughts. Here’s what Wikipedia has to say about them:

Racing thoughts refers to thought confusion which occurs in manic episodes, hypomanic, or mixed episodes. While Racing thoughts are most common with patients with Bipolar disorder, they are also common with Anxiety disorders, such as OCD. Racing thoughts are also associated with use of amphetamines. ^[1]

Racing thoughts may be experienced as background or take over a person’s consciousness. Thoughts, music, and voices might be zooming through one’s mind. There also might be a repetitive pattern of voice or of pressure without any associated “sound”. It is a very overwhelming and irritating feeling, and can result in losing track of time. Sometimes racing thoughts are accompanied by an elevated pulse, including drumming in the ears.

Generally, racing thoughts are described as an event where the mind uncontrollably brings up random thoughts and memories and switches between them very quickly. Sometimes they are related, as one thought leads to another; other times they are completely random. A person suffering from an episode of racing thoughts has no control over his or her train of thought and it stops them from focusing on one topic or prevents sleeping.

Accurate. This site has a great chart, along with a list of symptoms of bipolar disorder, too. I’ve experienced most every symptom on that list. Lots of big ideas, rambling more than usual, restlessness, careless spending, paranoia, the whole shebang. Heh, I said she bang.

I think of racing thoughts in cartoon form, because I really try to relate most everything to cartoons at some point. Cartoons explain things so much more simply.

You’ve seen Pinky & the Brain, right? Imagine the Brain, mulling over his amazing Take-Over-The-World schemes. He’s sitting there – while  images of da Vinci’s Vetruvian Man, chemical compositions, quadratic formulas, Acme Rube Goldberg device blueprints, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, quotes from Andy Warhol, and giant Pi’s go swirling over his head. Tons of different ideas and thoughts surrounding him, consuming him.

It’s like that in my head. Most all the time. As if my reticular formation is malformed…or nonexistent.

For most of my life, I thought that was how EVERYONE’s brain worked. I was stunned to find out that wasn’t the case in the 90’s. Stunned, I tell you.

It’s astounding, really, knowing what I know now about bipolar disorder and racing thoughts, that I was a straight A student throughout the bulk of my academic career. But somehow I managed to compensate for the mess inside my head.

Growing up, my parents always called me “a dreamer.” But not in a good way, really. A “dreamer,” as in someone who daydreams all the time and gets nothing accomplished. And I always just bought into that. It’s not as if they had any understanding of bipolar disorder, or depression, or any of the other mental shit I’m afflicted with.

My problems were easily explained. Karl is a dreamer, his head is always in the clouds. Karl is lazy. Karl is very smart BUT doesn’t apply himself. Etc. etc ad nauseum. These were the things my parents were dealing with, and I can’t blame them for not knowing the warning signs or symptomology associated with BPD. It was the 70’s. Back then, divorce was still a “taboo” word, kids could go trick-or-treating unescorted by parents, and we still thought that shag carpet was a good idea. Our collective conscious was obviously afflicted.

One of the more prevalent threats I used to get from my folks when I’d misbehave was this: “Do you want us to take you to a psychologist?”

“Noooooo!” And I’d start to cry and beg for them not to take me.

Jesus, I wish I’d said yes. My life might be totally different. But back then, a shrink was a very scary threat. Shrinks were BAD, and proof that *I* was BAD. A fuckup. A loser. Crazy. Irreparably Broken.

Now I know better. Shit, I know a LOT of things better since I started going to therapy and psychiatrists. Not that I don’t often see myself as irreparably broken, mind you. Those negative tapes are still prevalent between my ears. I hear them at full volume a great deal of the time. It’s why, whenever I make a mistake, the first thing I say in my head (and usually out loud, too) is, “Gah! I’m an IDIOT!” Because I am literally hearing that shit in my mind, as clearly as I hear the television or a real-life conversation with a friend.

I tell you all this, about the racing thoughts and some of the other shit inside my brain, so you have maybe a little better understanding about the stuff I have to constantly compensate for. And because yesterday I had an appointment with the Matrix Therapist.

It was basically me blurting out 10,000 things all at once. For an hour. Mom fell on the ice. Now I’m her caregiver 24/7. I almost killed myself TWICE last week. I’m sleep-deprived. I’m losing relationships. My car “Service Engine Soon” light came on during my drive here.

I. CAN’T. TAKE. ANY. MORE.

And I told her I’m pretty sure I’m having a manic episode. She agreed. She’s gonna talk to the shrink and see about adding more meds. Now that we’ve seen me at baseline, and we know the Geodon isn’t enough. I’ve been taking (most) all my meds as directed since January 1.

I need more. And fast.

So she’s working on it. And that’s a good thing.

As for my diabetes, my sugars are running a lot better. Still high at times, because I’m not taking EVERYTHING until we get the meds adjusted. I am, however, checking my sugar 4 times a day (except for yesterday, when it was a very full day), using the regular insulin when I’m way high, etc.

This morning, I tested a 171 straight out of bed. Not bad, considering I don’t take nighttime insulin at the moment. Too scared. Last night, after two slices of pizza for dinner, my sugar was 294. That’s not good, but for the time being, I’d rather be high than low. Sure you can understand why.

My doctor went home violently ill yesterday, so my appointment with her is rescheduled for Monday. That’s when we’ll go over my blood test and make med adjustments. This isn’t a bad thing, since it’ll give her 3 more days of numbers to look over before we change things around. (And thanks to Glucose Buddy I have graphs and numbers galore.)

Mom’s surgery went perfectly. They went in, removed all the little kneecap fragments, reattached the tendon to the remaining kneecap, and it went without a hitch. She’s in a LOT more pain now, though we are staying on top of it with the pain meds.

She goes back to the doctor Wednesday for a follow-up appointment. We’ll know more then. For now, what I know is this. Six weeks in the knee immobilizer. Then 6-8 weeks of physical therapy. That puts us well into April.

Which brings me to my next point. TequilaCon is out for me this year.

It kills me, but quite frankly, I’m seriously considering everything being out for me this year, including BlogHer. I wasn’t kidding about not feeling the social media thing lately.

That may change, of course. As I progress through the Year of Resolutions, my attitude may change. But I have yet to buy my BlogHer ticket for this year. And at the moment, the only must-do as far as travel goes this year is visiting Bubblewench for her birthday.

In fact, I may adopt that for any traveling this year. Just visit friends in intimate gatherings, instead of attending the big blogger gatherings. That does not, of course, include Avitaween, which I can’t see skipping.

We’ll see. I’m not making any rash judgments. I think I’ve made enough of those in the last couple of weeks. And now that I know I’m manic, I know I need to keep the impulsivity in check and try more heavily to rely on my logic, as opposed to my emotions.

Emotions come and go, people. Acting on them impulsively, without any thought whatsoever, is foolhardy at best. And that’s something I’m trying to avoid.

I HAVE decided upon my February Resolution. Will be announcing that February 1. But the other 10 Resolutions for 2010 are still completely up in the air. So keep those suggestions coming.

I’m a natural Glass-is-Half-Empty person. Jaded. Cynical. Even petty. I’m trying, with the YOR, to do a 180 and move to being a Glass-is-Half-Full kinda guy.

It’s a bitch, believe me. My first instincts are always to point out the bad shit. Making a conscious effort to make NOTE of that Negative Nancy tendency – as it HAPPENS – is quite a workout. Those negative self-tapes and all that shit.

But I’m trying. And my friends are helping a lot with that effort, pointing out to me (in the moment) how things could always be worse. And I am trying to be gracious about it, even if in my head I’m hearing, “Fuck, I can’t say a single thing without it being criticized.”

Perhaps, though, the first step is controlling what comes out of my MOUTH, regardless of what’s going on in my head. Fix that part, then we can backtrack a little and start trying to fix the words that AREN’T coming out of my mouth.

Change what I say, then change what I think? I dunno. I could just be totally full of shit. I’m winging it here, people. This shit is all new to me.

Change typically terrifies me.

I hope to change that, too.

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I wrote this late last Sunday for CheekySweetie’s blog. I know it was overdue, but I did get it done. -K

So there was this bet that Angel and I made. She claimed that the carpet in her bedroom was the ugliest carpet on Earth. I told her that I have 10 years on her, grew up in the 70’s, and have seen a TON of ugly carpet. Hello? Lime green and burnt orange, people? Shag carpeting?

If, in fact, she did possess the ugliest carpet on Earth, I would have to write her a guest post for her blog. This, during a time when I barely touched my own blog. Good choice. She wanted to make me work.

If, in fact, she did NOT own the nastiest carpet on the planet, well…shit, I forget what I would have won. It doesn’t matter, clearly, because I’m here, aren’t I?

I lose. Story of my life.

She really does have the ugliest carpet on the planet. It has dark orange and blood red and puce and cream, all swirled together in this melange that you’d think would look like a creamsicle but, in fact, looks like someone vomited all over her floor. I wish I’d gotten photos of it.

Thought about it a lot over the holidays. Wasn’t sure what I’d write, but came up with a Top 10 list because I’m lazy.

I don’t ever talk about my love life on my own blog, but then, I’m not exactly AT my blog, now am I? See? This is what you get for getting me to write a guest post for you, Angel. Next time you’ll think twice.

Why CheekySweetie Rocks

1. Angel blogs. I’ve always said that my future girlfriend was going to have to be a blogger. Blogger girls are the only ones who’d understand all the time I spend on a computer. Facebook, Twitter, blogging…she does it all and more often than I do. She doesn’t even blink when my thumbs are blazing across my iPhone’s virtual keyboard, mostly because she’s on her Droid Eris playing Bonsai Blast and doesn’t give a fuck. Me likey.
2. Angel is smart and shit. Like, really really smart. Case in point, she beats me at least 50% of the time on Words With Friends (a Scrabble clone). This is why I like her intelligence only 50% of the time (at least). Seriously, smart chicks are very sexy, and she has the sexy in spades. She’s not *too* smart, though. She still gets that impish grin when I say something juvenile like, “Heh, you just said ‘hard.’”
3. Angel is geeky. One time (not in band camp), I was on my iPhone and I gasped with excitement. “You know what I love?” I said to her. Without even looking up from her iPod Touch, she said, “When you go to the App Store and there are updates for your apps waiting?” Oh. My. God. I showed her my phone…4 app updates ready. “YES!” She totally gets me.
4. Angel is low-maintenance. I need to make this the criteria for all my relationships, friendship or otherwise. I like low-mai. She doesn’t care that my main wardrobe consists of silly t-shirts and cargo shorts. She doesn’t demand a lot of phone time. In fact, half the time, our dialogue is via text messaging. Don’t get me wrong. We talk on the phone frequently, and I always enjoy it, but she’s not big into the phone talk, and either am I. Usually.
5. Angel is generous. Spent a few days with her and the kids in Daytona Beach right after New Year’s. I was outside on the balcony smoking (what can I say? I’m smoking hot) and she told me what there was for lunch. I said I’d make a sandwich when I got back inside. When I did get back inside (brr! It was FREEZING out!) there was a sandwich already waiting. “You didn’t have to do that, babe,” I said. She just smiled and said, “I know.” That’s just one example out of dozens, if not hundreds. Oh, and she rubs my shoulders a lot, which kinda makes me purr.
6. Angel is kind. Time and time again, I’ve watched her with others. She’s always encouraging, always has nice things to say…kind of the opposite of me, really.
7. Angel makes me laugh. A lot. This fits well into my new life philosophy: Laugh more, laugh more. On top of that, she has a great laugh herself, though she might not agree with me on that. Always makes me smile to hear it, and really, aren’t I what matters most?
8. Angel says what she’s feeling. Like, without head games and crap. Do you know how rare this is? She tells it like it is, and doesn’t mince words about it, either. I dig that. Heavily. Her honesty is refreshing and never laced with malice, and I dig that, too.
9. Angel is a phenomenal mother. I’ve watched her with those children of hers, and I’ve spent time with those kids. They’re super-smart, polite kids, all three of whom are a delight to be around. Well, save for the teen boy, who is excelling at his misanthrope duties. Angel is amazing at showing her kids that they have choices, and that there are consequences for our choices. She’s also very good at follow-through, which many of us parents sadly lack a lot of the time.
10. Angel doesn’t think I suck. Really, this should be at the top of the list…y’know, if I were prioritizing the list. It should go without saying that a girlfriend would not think her boyfriend sucks, but I continue to find this amazing. My insecurities run rampant (depending on the day) and I often wonder what any woman in her right mind would see in me. Angel doesn’t hesitate to tell me. And I almost believe her.

So, to sum up, Angel is like a comedic slightly-raunchy version of Mother Teresa. Just with better boobs.

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So the Year of Resolutions thing is going so-so, I have to admit. I haven’t been 100% on my meds and blood sugar testing. Closer to 70%’ish. Just being honest.

I shall get back on the horse, though.

My trouble, aside from my own idiocy/laziness, is that I haven’t been eating properly lately. And when I say “lately,” I mean in the last 18 months or so.

I often don’t eat anything until dinner, and by then I’m starving. This does, however, answer one of the more popular questions I received in 2009: “How did you lose so much weight, Karl?” Now you know.

When I was a teenager, I had barely taken my morning piss before pouring myself a bowl of Fruity Pebbles. I’d munch away on that fruity goodness while still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

Nowadays I can’t put anything solid in my stomach for a couple of hours after waking, and then only after copious amounts of coffee. Coffee, though, is a diuretic…so it suppresses the appetite. After 3 cups of coffee (especially with the jumbo mugs I tend to use) I’m not so hungry.

Eat anyway.

Yeah, I know. Again, working on it. This resolution shit is harder than I thought.

So I’m spending another day in Daytona Beach before heading back home tomorrow. Weird being right on the beach when it’s around freezing (considering I live in FLORIDA), but whatever.

Having a marvy time, enjoying the refreshing and blunt perspectives of people 35-37 years younger than myself. True, there is a lot of drama and some whining, too, but that’s really no different than the bulk of the blogosphere, so I am pretty much inoculated.

Kids have always found me irresistible, even when I hated them. I remember walking through the mall at 19. I’d be casually strolling along to the Corn Dog 7 when I found my leg suddenly heavier than usual. Look down, and there’s a 3-year-old Snot Factory clinging to my leg, giving me a hug.

“I’m so sorry!” the mom would say, “she NEVER goes up to strangers. HATES them, in fact.”

I’d just smile and nod understandingly while trying not to look too disgusted, all the while thinking, “Get this fucking thing off of me!”

Odd that, about a year later, I’d find myself with my own children. Once the twins were born and I held them in my arms the first time, all that changed. Now I love kids, and they still adore me…usually.

I’m sure it has a lot to do with my lack of maturity. Don’t laugh, I’m VERY mature. Just the other night, while dining with 8 or 9 women, I showed a great deal of maturity.

A steak was brought out for one of the ladies, and my Mom said, “Now there’s a nice piece of meat.” I nearly choked, but kept the urge to scream “YOU SAID MEAT!” at bay.

Then, another gal followed up with, “That IS a nice piece of meat.”

To be followed by yet another, “Wonderful piece of meat.”

I said nothing. Aren’t you proud of me? And when one of the ladies saw my Extreme Self-Restraint Look on my face (which looks almost identical to my Extreme Constipation Look), and asked me if I was OK, I just said, “I’m fine.”

But 33% of you women said something about a nice piece of meat. And it’s KILLING ME to stay quiet!

See? Mature.

So when an 8-year-old girl tells me that I’m silly, I have to shake my head in wonder. Me? Silly?

It’s true, though - I do have a unique ability to empathize with children. I understand the strong desire to eat cereal for every meal. I totally get not wanting your string beans to touch your mac & cheese. When a kid is so close to the TV that they’re almost in the fucking show itself, I don’t say what my parents said to me when *I* did that shit: “GET AWAY FROM THE TV OR YOU’LL GO BLIND!” Instead, I say, “I know you really like this show, but you’ll be able to see it a lot better if you back up a bit, babe.” Then, if they still don’t listen, I scream, “GET AWAY FROM THE TV OR YOU’LL GO BLIND!” and I lock them in a sensory-deprivation chamber for a few hours till they smell what The Rock is cooking.

OK, maybe not so much that last part.

To be honest, I’m not used to having to play The Heavy these days. The beauty part is that when kids don’t know you very well, they have no earthly idea what you’ll do (or not do) should they misbehave. There’s a lot of posturing, but a stern look and deepening my voice a little seems to fake them out.

For now.

Course, once the kids realize I’m totally full of shit, I’m screwed.

The other part I totally forgot about with little girls - keep in mind that my own girls are 22 years old at this point - is how much energy they sap out of you. You think I’ve been a NapMaster General up to now? Hell, one day with little kids makes me wish for 2 or 3 naps before I fall into bed and pass out for the night. Little kids do not mesh well with being a night-owl.

But you can’t tell two little princesses that you’re too tired to go light sparklers on the beach. Not when you’ve already promised that you’d do just that. They’re not going to understand my plight.

You can’t back out on a promised game of Trouble just because you’re sleepy. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.

It’s a damn good thing that children are (usually) so freaking cute.

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First off, there will be NO SECONDHAND RADIO SHOW tomorrow (Thursday). My guest, Danielle, had a last-minute thing come up. This works out well, since I just found out I’ll be in Daytona Beach for a few days, and the Internet situation looks dire. We’ll reschedule Danielle for later this month.

Second, I’m looking for a new web host for my blog. Now that the holidays are over, I can make this happen. But I want a good host, someone that is very Wordpress friendly. I want to be able to automatically update Wordpress and all plugins from WITHIN Wordpress, something I cannot do with Laughing Squid. Suggestions?

I just found out that my 2-year Twittiversary was a couple of days ago. I saw the stats (31,118 tweets, 1,200+ followers, blah blah) and was rather nonplused about it.

I wonder if I’m supposed to celebrate this moment somehow, say something profound? Or is it one of those who-gives-a-fuck things, just as when someone says “It’s my 25,000th tweet!” or “I adopted a lonely black sheep in IdiotFarmerVille on Facebook!”?

Then I thought, even if it were one of those occasions that calls for commemoration with profundity, what on Earth would I have to say that’s even the slightest bit profound?

Then I thought, why, I have a lot to say that’s profound, thank you very much. In fact, I have so much that - were I so inclined - I could break it into a list of categorized profane (what, that’s totally right, right?) bits.

For Children

The toaster is never meant for helping melt butter. Trust me on this.

A towel cape (with clothespin) doesn’t help you fly anywhere above the first floor. Trust me on this, too.

Every time you refuse to eat your vegetables, a kitty dies. Except for lima beans. Nobody really expects you to eat that nasty shit.

For Teenagers

You’re unique. You’re intelligent. You’re going to think you know better than your parents. You’re going to be wrong. A lot.

For Teenage Girls

A boy who doesn’t open your door for you isn’t worth dating.

For Teenage Boys (and Grown-Ass Men)

There’s a lot more to life than ejaculation.

For Parents

Aside from toilet training, manners are the most important thing you can teach your child. Actually, many people will forgive you shitting your pants if you’re polite about it.

For Men

Not everything needs fixing. Sometimes you just need to shut your piehole and listen to her.

For Women

Not every thought needs broadcasting. Sometimes men really ARE thinking about Nothing. We’re not all deep and shit like the women folk.

Household

When someone else loads the dishwasher, don’t bitch. (Out loud.)

Empty toilet paper rolls are great for putting folded power cords in.

Toilet paper always goes OVER.

One-ply toilet paper is what they use in Hell. Just sayin’.

Random

A lot of profound things are apparently about toilet paper.

If the universe is truly infinite, then there’s no end to the stupidity.

Douchebaggery

When a friend is mean and spiteful and mocking someone, it’s just a matter of time before they aim that pruntiness your way.

Everyone has a bad day…even a bad month. That doesn’t mean you need to take it out on other people.

Politics

The only time you should be shocked about what happens in Washington D.C. is when a politician tells the truth and/or truly gives a fuck about you and me.

Marriage

Always treat your spouse like they’re your favorite person on Earth. Because they’re supposed to be.

Gay Marriage

Gay marriage is about as much a threat to the institution of marriage as a platypus. You might say, “What the hell does a platypus have to do with anything?” And I might say, “Exactly.”

Drugs

There are 100,000 alcohol-related vehicular deaths every year in the United States. According to Drug War Facts, there are ZERO marijuana-related vehicular deaths every year. You do the math.

Religion

If I had to sum up the Bible in two words, they would be these: BE NICE.

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