Postsecret, easily one of the best “blogs” online anywhere.

It’s not fun to have serious depressive episodes.

Those of you that know me personally know that I have the ridiculously unpredictable and unpredictably ridiculous ability to have what medical professionals refer to cryptically, in their snooty voices that speak down to all of us without medical degrees, as “the blues”. The joys of biploar disorder. My highs are a little higher, my lows are a little lower, and the cycle is a little more frequent than what most people experience. Kinda like my Strapping Young Lad to your Guns ‘N’ Roses.

Pussies.

That’s not the worst part of being bipolar, though, and I had managed to forget that. I’ve learned to deal with my mood swings, wild as they can sometimes be; I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, I try not to complain too much unless its valid, and I try to keep the negativity under control. It’s not exactly easy, but it works; most people aren’t aware that I’m bipolar unless I say something, and over the years I’ve managed to prevent my black cloud from spreading too far past my own borders. And it’s been so long since I’ve dealt with the other parts that I had forgetten about the really bad part, and let myself fall under the impression that I had beaten this disorder.

Silly rabbit. Tricks are for hungry Bengal tigers.

I won’t go so far as to call last night a nervous breakdown, at least not in the traditional sense — I don’t know that I’ve ever had one of those. I’ve never been hospitalized, nor feared for my own well-being. But whatever you want to call it, it’s characterized by uncontrolled crying, periods of really intense rage, and holes in the walls of my apartments and car interiors. Oh, and loud music. Lots of that.

But what makes those episodes worth their occasional while — keep in mind that it’s been almost exactly three years since I dealt with one, and thus the thoughts of being ‘cured’ — is the cleansing effect. In the days after the breakdowns (which are usually meaningless, triggered by something that is, on any other day, utterly unmentionable), the entire world feels brighter. Not in a manic way — no, that would make perfect sense. This is more like the world after a summer rain storm; everything seems bright and clear, exactly the way that you imagine that things are supposed to be.

Supposed to be. That’s a loaded phrase, yeah?

So after today, once the headache has faded and I’ve patched the walls, things return to normal. I hope for my sake — and that of others, to whom I feel like I can’t apologize enough — it’ll be at least another three years before I have to deal with that again.

But I’m also reminded how bad things can get when my disorder really decides to come out from hiding. And I guess it’s good to get that reminder every now and then, if only so the delusions don’t set into concrete.

Heroes, they take my breath away
Zero the dials
See how a breakdown breaks ground
And zeros the miles
-Devin Townsend, Nobody Here

Yes: Tales of Plush Cthulu.

We can spend all day giving advice to our friends. And most of the time, we’re right. But how often do we step back and realize that what we’re telling them is what we need to be hearing as well?

We teach best what we most need to learn.

It happens to me a lot.

Of course, my advice comes largely not from what works for me in life, but from what I have learned over the years, and from the standards I hope that I can one day hold myself to. When I say that sentences shouldn’t end in prepositions, I know that I’m doing it, too, but I hope one day to get there — and reminding you not to do it hopefully helps it sink into my own head as well.

Some of my advice, I think, is well learned. And at high prices — which is why it sticks with me so well. I don’t think that everything you teach is something that you haven’t learned, yourself. The only way to find out, though, is to learn to look at yourself objectively enough that you have an easier time recognizing when your advice could apply to yourself as well as others.

One thing I think is also important to remember — a caveat to giving advice, or to taking it. Almost all advice worth mentioning here is life-specific. What works for me won’t necessarily work for Wade or Kasey or Richard or Neely, and vice versa. That shouldn’t stop you from giving me advice, but if I don’t take it — well, it’s nothing personal.

Probably.

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

It must be that time of the month for me. Everything everyone is saying today is smacking me square in the emotional nuts.

Makes me want to emotionally vomit, that throbbing.

Peace out, bitch. Or so my brother would say.

“Red is very pretty. I look forward to actually meeting her. I am glad you are moving slowly. Your heart needs a gentle landing somewhere, whether it is with or without her. I am glad you are being kind to yourself.” So says Mom. And I find it ridiculously touching. So I’m putting it up here for all the world to see.

And now, in honor of my officially having turned into a woman, I’ll go smoke a Virginia Slim and make catty comments about other ladies walking past my office downtown.

From MSNBC:

One-eyed college pitcher remains determined

Two years after horrific injury, community college player eyes scholarship

Just got this in the mail from Chance:

This just in — the first-ever TELEVISION BROADCAST of HIDE AND CREEP is only a month away:

http://www.scifi.com/schedulebot/index.php3?date=11-MAY-2006&feed_req=US:Eastern:E

Thursday May 11. 7 p.m. Eastern time. On the Sci Fi Channel.

More info later.

Viva basic cable!

Yup. Not only did Chance take his first-ever feature to DVD, but we’re getting what every director dreams of from day one:

Commercial interruption.

But yeah, we’re going nationwide, soon to be recognized by nerds everywhere. Whee!

I wonder if sci-fi will let the full frontal male nudity slide. Or the lesbian zombie strippers.

If you think I’m joking, go to Blockbuster or get on Netflix and rent it. No shit. Lesbian. Zombie. Strippers.

That also happens to be the scene that I’m in. And I’m not a lesbian, a stripper, or a zombie. But I do get eaten by one.

Ahem. Hi, Kiomi! Miss you!

Charmed life here, yo. What can I say?

Laying on his roof over the front patio, the sounds of the city night are distant whispers. He stares up into the night sky, thinking, wondering, dreaming.

All about her.

The way her skin feels beneath his fingers echoes through his mind, bouncing madly off of the walls of his skull, tracing narrow arcs of blue flame where they travel. Her scent, the way the smell of her clings to his clothes and his cheek where she pressed against him. The look in her eyes, piercing his soul to let the sound of her laughter in.

He dreams of things he has no business dreaming: of walks so calm that the rest of the world is washed away in the deafening silence, and of the sound of the ocean crashing around them as they laugh together. Of summer nights in front of a flickering screen, hours on end, of music shared loudly, of winter nights curled together, sharing warmth and comfort. He dreams of pulling the stars and sky from above, and boxing them into a pendant that she can carry around her neck forever.

But he is only human, and dreams and desires come as they will to him, outside of his control. And he smiles to himself, suddenly feeling the urge to stand, to climb to the highest point on his roof, to shout to the world and the stars and the gods that he has known her all his life, that she has waited for him all of hers, and that no matter what else, they have found each other.

He does not stand, or climb, or shout, but only lays there, dreaming his dreams, smiling, imagining her there next to him, working out the logistics of capturing the stars and the sky for her.

It can be no more improbable, he thinks, than his hope of grasping the feelings inside of him and showing the world that dreams exist outside of the sleeping world.