The Bipolar Perspective: If My Words Could Speak   Leave a comment

Sleeping In the Rain

You asked me why this time is different. It’s a good question. Countless times we fought and I attacked ruthlessly with my words. Posting public blogs fraught with one-sided anger venting my frustration, knowing you did not have the podium to respond. Then I’d apologize, tell you I didn’t mean it and ramble on about how I’m a changed man. And once in your good graces the cycle would begin anew. How can you know this time is different?

One of the principles I’ve rediscovered at fifty-three may sound simple to most. But to me it’s like finally realizing your parents don’t have all the answers. It’s called “honesty.”  Admitting and accepting responsibility for things I’ve done, no matter what the circumstances.  Going forward in life with pure intentions. Even if it means humbling myself. Only then will I be showing the ones I love who I really am.  Unfortunately it took becoming an Alcoholic and embarking on the Twelve-Step program to learn this concept.  I guess you can say I’m a grateful drunk.

So by posting this blog publicly, I am doing something different this time.  I’m sleeping in the rain under your bedroom window to show how much I love you and what I’m willing to do if you won’t give up on me.

A Stabbing Pain

In the world of Bipolar suffering, nothing is for sure. You can have the very best intentions. However, entangled in the throes of depression, you’ll do anything to get back to the surface of sanity. You speak without sensor. Act without awareness. Exist without answers. Text without thinking. Blog without believing.  Do whatever it takes to end the blinding emotional despair with which you wrestle alone in your broken distorted mind.

When you come up for air you’re left with the wreckage you created.  You cringe when going back and reading your emails.  Recoil when recalling the incoherent late night phone messages you left.  And when confronted with your words, you can not deny them.  They had to have come from somewhere, even if it was from a place of fear and self-preservation.

The worst part is that your words and actions never even made the pain go away.  You pulled the knife out of your chest, but still had the wound.  Then you just transfer the pain to the other person by stabbing them with your vitriol.  Then they hurt too.

I make no excuse for my past behavior.  Nor is it a free pass to go forward with wanton abandon.  It’s just an explanation .  However the responsibility is on me to not just avoid stabbing you again, but never to carry the knife.

That Was Just The Booze Talking

Being an alcoholic came naturally to me.  I guess you can say in that way I was extremely talented.  I used alcohol to self-medicate.  To pick up the slack where the antidepressants fell short.  I even added marijuana and benzodiazepines into the mix.  It’s great for temporarily anesthetizing depression, quashing anxiety and removing inhibition.

A side effect is that alcohol renders psychotropics sixty-percent less effective.  So my Bipolar symptoms were even greater as was the amount of alcohol needed to extinguish the fire.  It would be easy to attribute every unpleasant thing I ever said as, “that was just the booze talking.”   It would conveniently wipe the slate clean. Absolve me from any responsibility.  Make me a mensch.

Unfortunately, I’m not doing anything different if I let the bottle take the blame.  I was the one who poured its contents into my soul, polluting its fiber.  However I am also the one who has taken them out.  Although it will always be an ongoing battle, it’s one choice I am consciously making.

Bad Actor

I was a bad actor.  Not that I couldn’t lie to get what I wanted, but even when I thought I was acting in earnest, I had ulterior motives.  Under the guise of what I thought was altruism, deep down I wanted to be seen as a saint.  Although I thought I was being helpful, buried underneath was a desire to control.  Even when giving an intended apology, in actuality I was trying to appear noble.  I was such a bad actor I had even fooled myself.

Thank you Alcoholics Anonymous for teaching me this.  Just another reason I’m glad to be a drunk.  Going forward I can strive to be pure in my intentions.  I realize sometimes the right thing to do is nothing at all.  As the Serenity Prayer says, “accept the things I can not change.”  Even if you don’t come back to me.

If My Words Could Speak

I have written a lot of words over the years.  Some of them I meant.  Some of them I thought I meant.  Some of them were just mean.  But if my words could speak they would have said I love you and am desperately trying not to lose you.  That I want to make you happy because you’re the most important person in the world to me.  I know now I was doing it the wrong way.  However if you were able to cut through the chaos in my head, it’s what I meant.

If my words could speak, they’d ask you to not give up on me.


Posted January 15, 2019 by Buzzkill - Official Booksite in Uncategorized

The Bipolar Perspective: Depression with Dignity   Leave a comment


One of the worst things about being Bipolar is trying to hang on to a bad relationship because you don’t want to trigger a major depression with the trauma of a break-up.  However,  you’re afraid of what being alone will do to your psychological state.  Even if the person you’re with isn’t exactly the Martha Stewart of mental housekeeping either.

Things go through your head like; if I break-up with her, will anyone else ever want to have sex with me again ?  Will I ever find another girl I find this attractive?  Is being miserable with her, better than being alone and miserable?  And, is the pubic hair really greener on the other side?

A major frustration with Bipolar Disorder is that it always poses questions that can never truly be answered.  It’s like playing poker.  It’s bad enough you have to worry when dealt a rotten hand.  But you also always have to second guess what cards are coming down the line.  And sometimes folding seems like the only way to save yourself.


In this last relationship, which was on and off for so long it made me motion-sick, I mistakenly thought if I were on the right medications, things would be better.  I’d be able to tolerate everything always being my fault.  That she was always right, even when she was wrong.  The free flowing sewage drifting through her apartment like a small polluted river in Pakistan was due to my neglect.  And, that I ruined her life with bad advice she never once took.  But there is no medication that takes the edge off dating someone who blames the car salesman when she runs out of gas.

With Bipolar Disorder comes a plethora of insecurities.  Mania followed by severe depression does not knock on your forehead and ask to come in to your brain.  It doesn’t call ahead, say it will be stopping by and asks if it can bring some mood-stabilizers. It just barges in unannounced, grounds out its cigarette butts out on your brain, drinks all your dopamine, parties all night and leaves you a suicidal lump of shit lying in your bed under a blanket so depressed you’re too despondent to even commit suicide.   And when you’ve been Bipolar your entire life, you realize there are no “make it go away meds.” So you try and avoid triggers as if someone was going to drag you to an all day Grateful Dead cover band festival.  Moreover, breaking up with your lover, even when you’re not in love with her anymore, is a big one.


In my situation, I performed a masterful job at breaking up with the one woman who I could not live without.  I stared depression in the face and said “bring it on.”  I was done with her dirt, denial and disrespect. I was so surefooted and eloquent with my break-up, I repeated it at least twenty-five times.

But as always, after a week or two in the “swipe right” world of online dating, I decided to disregard her misplaced blame and be thankful I found sound someone who wanted me.  I was afraid of being alone and felt depression was about to put me in a wrestling hold, forcing me to smell it’s sweaty arm-pits until the referee pulled the white sheet over my head.

Consequently, I’d apologize for all her shortcomings.  I’d walk on egg shells for the privilege of being on probation.  And, at least once a week I realized yet another way I had treated her unfairly and began to repent.  I could handle being depressed.  I could handle being alone.  But the thought of being depressed and alone shook me to the core.  I needed to put my weary head to rest, even if it were in the arms of the enemy.  So back again I would go.  Each time chipping away at my own soul.


After a break-up I’d usually come up with some reason to call or text my former lover.  I left something at her apartment.  Or she left something at mine.  Sometimes she’d call me.  Maybe she was about to burn everything I left behind, and wanted to know if she should save my college diploma?  Or, I found a pair of her panties at my place, and wanted to know if she’d like them back before I gave them to a needy family?

But it was an excuse to start communicating, and eventually I’d apologize for her misdeeds and the cycle would begin anew.   It was always the ease of contacting one another that made it so simple to reconnect.  But, when you quit smoking cigarettes, the last thing you do is carry them around with you.  So I asked myself, why was I making it so easy for us to contact one another now that we were broken up?

That’s when I decided to have a “block party.”  I blocked her phone number and email. But I went the extra step by also removing her from my cellular address book. This way she should could not contact me, and I could not accidentally “pocket-dial” her.  My fragile willpower to refrain was not strong enough to resist calling or texting on it’s own.  I needed to take the drink out of my hand.  And, to get comfortable with my own depression, realizing it’s just as bad alone as it was with her.

I’d be a liar if I didn’t say the final break-up wasn’t depressing.  Bipolar Depression is bad enough, without something traumatic giving it a helping hand.  Many a time I found myself questioning whether everything was actually my fault.  So this time I made a list of every single grievance I had.  And whenever I felt like driving an hour to my ex-lover’s apartment so I could randomly run into her, I reviewed my list.  Quickly it jogged my memory and made me want to run over her instead.


Yes, I was depressed.  But depressed with dignity.  Whenever I read the list of transgressions,  I knew I did the right thing.  Breaking-up was worth freeing myself from the mental anguish brought on by slurping down the swill from a poisoned well.  I was depressed, but proud of myself at the same time.  I could have stayed for more of the same.  But I chose to go.  And go for good.

You can not let your Bipolar Disorder determine how you manage your life.  You can not make your life a constant quest to avoid depression.  You have to dictate where you want to go.  And sometimes you have to walk right into that bad place you have avoided at all costs.  But when you finally come out the other end, you have eliminated one more cavern where depression creeps.  Although you’ll always be subject to the irrational thinking bestowed on you by Bipolar Disorder, you can still stand up to it.  It’s going to make it’s way into your head.  But you don’t have to let it ransack your entire house.


Posted August 18, 2017 by Buzzkill - Official Booksite in Uncategorized



The other day I finally went to the urologist.  I wanted to find out why at fifty years of age I started wetting the bed three nights a week.  As I walked into my sparse HMO Plan’s Doctor’s Office, I was prepared for news of a cancerous growth in my manhood, a renegade testicle or an untreated progressive tropical sexual disease I picked up eating Cuban Food in San Francisco’s Mission District.  But I got even worse news… There was nothing physically wrong with me.  The emotionless managed care physician even managed to look at my prostate, which apparently gave him the “OK” sign as well.  I wonder if it was a “thumbs up” or it just “winked”at him like a Cheshire cat?


 If my member is not sick, that means my night-time urinary incontinence must be in my head.  Or at least that was my first conclusion.  After all these years in therapy trying to keep my Bipolar mind afloat, now I had sprung a leak down below.  And, the treatment was as vague as the apparent cause.  So the vanilla urologist gave the tasteless advice not to drink fluids three hours before bedtime and see what happens.  He also emphasized no alcohol.  I knew this was implausible. My Bipolar medications make my mouth extremely dry.  I have to keep drinking liquids or suffer from such bad cotton mouth my lips stick together when I speak, causing annoying suction sounds.  Plus, the thought of restricting the flow of alcohol prematurely during an evening on the town is out of the question.  I prefer to drink with wanton abandon.  Why should I once again have to add another limitation to my already restricted existence?


And then it hit me… This was just one more annoying annotation to my treatment schedule I will have to endure due to my Bipolar Disorder.  Just like the cadre of pills I have to take twice a day, now I must regulate my liquid intake.  Another hurdle to clear, inconvenience to negotiate and regiment to be saddled with in order to remain ready for prime time.  I feel like I am in an 1800’s horse-drawn wagon, piled high with pills and their side-effects, barely inching across the baron plains of the old west.  Hi-Ho Effexor, Lamictal and Topamax! Git!


However the thing the Managed Healthcare Professional said that bothered me most is he felt the assortment of Bipolar medications I take are probably the cause of my night-time incontinence.  I’m well aware they cause dry mouth, nausea, severe constipation and weight gain, among other things.   But because my nightly dose of the anti-depressant Seroquel makes me sleep quite deeply, I may not be waking up when I have the urge to urinate.  Consequently, I go in my sleep.  And, the doctor made it clear he did not think I should discontinue any of my medications.  So in essence, he was saying it was best to continue wetting my bed.  That way “at least I have my sanity.”  I call this Managed Medical Incontinence.


One time a friend who I met in a Bipolar Chat Room came to visit me in San Francisco. When I helped her get settled in her hotel room, she pulled out an identical Zip Lock Baggie to mine filled with pill bottles containing her personal mixture of Bipolar elixirs and poultices.  I suddenly felt a strong commonality with her. I realized all Bipolar sufferers carry their own “baggie” full of unique prescriptions and medication induced limitations like mine, everywhere they go in life. I take a handful of assorted pills twice a day. Some people take theirs three times daily. Some have to take meds with food. Mine make me too nauseous to eat right away.  A number of people can drink alcohol with them, but others get violently sick or depressed and can not combine the two.  Each baggie contains a mixed bag of burdens specially formulated for that individual.  But we all bear the same baggie of burden.


Wetting the bed is a pretty heavy burden for a baggie to bear.  You can learn to keep your shaky hands in your pockets, and take your midday dose of medication out of sight from your co-workers.  But if you are ever going to have an intimate relationship, you can’t hide the fact that you are irrigating the bed.  Or, you can wear a diaper to sleep at night and call it an “undergarment,” so it sounds more like Mormon underwear. However I’ve come to the realization that everyone’s baggie seems equally big in their own eyes.  Different people with Bipolar Illness have different medication regiments.  It’s not as simple as just popping a Prozac.  And consequently, we all have our own set of annoying side-effects. Moreover, if they are your annoying side-effects, they are bigger than anyone else’s.  When I first started taking a once daily dose of the anti-depressant Elavil in the mid-1980’s to treat my Bipolar, I didn’t even need a baggie. Conversely,  I thought taking that single pill at night would be a massive intrusion on the rest of my life.  Now I carry a heavy duty Zip Lock Baggie, and yearn for the days of simplicity that came with only needing one pill bottle.  These were the days when my side-effects could be counted on one hand, not amplified to a roar and punctuated by constantly having to change my bed sheets.


Now that the cat is out of the baggie, do I accept my predicament or search for a solution? If you suffer from Bipolar Disorder, you are forever trying to do one thing to compensate for another.   Am I willing to discontinue the Seroquel, become sleepless, depressed and dehydrated, so I can awaken dry just in time for another miserable day of suicidal ideations? Personally I am not ready to accept the Meaningless Managed Medical Memorandum on my nocturnal incontinence. So I will go forth seeking solutions that may or may not materialize.  Will I end up adding to my baggie or shrinking it?  I don’t know. But I do know I am not alone. Because Bipolar babies all have baggies.  No matter how big or small, they are enormous to the bearer.  And all of us in the Bipolar Community anticipate with bated breath a cure for their individual intolerable side-effects just around the corner.  Side-effects are the price we pay for being alive and sane.  However they can also drive you insane.


I thought the only way I could write about this was if I were “half in the baggie.”  It’s an embarrassing thing to do sober.  And nobody except the person “sleeping on my bottom bunk” really has to know.  But so rarely can you showcase a Bipolar medication related side-effect that makes the non-afflicted truly realize how gruesome this business can be.  There is no free ride.  Moreover, in most cases Bipolar medication only works to a point.  It does not completely wipe out deep depression, anxiety or mania.  Just enough to get by.  But the side-effects are full strength and show no mercy.




Watch any kind of television program where they interview random people. When asked about their children there is an eight out of ten chance they will say, “Oh, my child is my heart.” What does that actually mean? That your child is beating inside your chest creating blood flow to your body and you are taking your red slimy beating heart to the playground and named it Raymond? Or is saying “my child is my heart” the most loving thing you can possibly say about your child? It even trumps “My child means the world to me.” So, are all the times I have said “I love my daughter” insufficient and I have not properly annunciated my love for her? If you are Bipolar with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, this is enough to double your weekly therapy visits.


I had a really bad upbringing. My Mother was a severely depressed Bipolar sufferer with Beating Disorder. And my Father never saw a set of doorbell chimes he couldn’t ring by raising his voice at me. Plus, nothing I said was without criticism. But I promised myself I would be a better more supportive Father in every way my parents were not to me. And being Bipolar, I was very attuned to everything that came out of my mouth to build up my daughter, instead of knocking her down. Moreover, if I ever felt I did fail, I’d ruminate on it for days trying to make it right. My concern was whether I scarred her for life. Any parenting mistake would practically send me over the edge.


Many parents decide they want to be their child’s best friend, instead of their best parent. I constantly took my daughter shopping and allowed her to eat anything she liked. I hoped the “let’s keep it a secret from Mom” would further endear her to me. Once When she got suspended from school we spent the rest of the day at the mall. I bought countless cars and old convertibles because I thought she’d get a kick out of them. I don’t even look like a father, with long hair and hip glasses. I was trying to give her everything I would have wanted as a child. In theory it makes sense. Now I just feel foolish.


In a Bipolar world, your child would love and appreciate you. They’d see how hard you are trying to make them happy and not be a nagging constantly punishing parent. And when you talk to them you try and turn it into a rap session, instead speaking to them as a parent. But in my case, my daughter did not seem to even notice or have much interest in anything I did or do. At almost sixteen she has no idea what I do for a living and nothing matters about what is going on in my life. For me the parent rap is just a parent trap, because everything I did to make her love me just gave me a bad rap. With the negative influence from my ex-wife, she has disappeared completely from my life.


Anyone who says “Oh, it’s just that age” should be shot on site. We all remember what it’s like in high school to want to hang out with out friends constantly and not tell our parents anything. Everyone needs to give their teenager some room. But when your child does not return phone calls, emails and texts, it has nothing to do with “Oh, it’s just that age.” Instead it’s, “Oh, I’m your Dad and get back to me in a reasonable amount of time.” Could you imagine your parent’s calling you at sixteen and not getting back to them…ever? If you suffer from Bipolar Illness, the constant analysis of this situation in your mind can overcome you with severe grief, which later turns to anger. You forever feel the need to straighten things out, and at the same time want to de-friend your own kid on Facebook, plus move away without telling them. If you are lucky you’ll remember you’re the adult in the situation and get ahold of yourself.


Let’s not spend too much time on this. Those of us who are divorced did it because our spouses are louses. And when they’ve got primary custody you have no idea what kind of venom they are filling your child’s head with. If you are Bipolar, you can ponder infinitely until your face turns blue trying to make sense out of the situation. It’s our nature. I’m sure my ex is not doing me any favors. The words “call your father” have been lost behind “I leased you a horse, bought you all the best riding gear and am paying for your lessons and competitions!” I guess I can’t compete unless I were a talking horse like good ole Mr. Ed.


So, where do you go from here? You feel disrespected, unloved, unwanted and unsure of what you did wrong. You have done everything you can to try and find out what the issue is and repair the relationship. You hope your child has a conscious and misses you. You hope for that phone call or text from your child telling you they love you and what’s going on. But the bottom line you have no control over it. And unless you subscribe to the concept of “Magical Thinking,” the tendency is to mope. Somehow this is your fault. Could your ex be this divisive? I knew my ex was a control freak when I married her. Almost six years after our divorce I realized Miss Peaches and Cream had issues with telling the truth as well. Like I have discovered, without honesty in return, talking to your ex is like swallowing thumb tacks.


I’m not an expert on child psychology and bitter ex-spouses. And being Bipolar my brain has this need to have everything concerning me right in the world. Disorder and anger directed at me is extremely hard with which to live. But if you are like me, you have to sit on your hands an avoid emails, phone calls and texts hoping to get even a “Hi Dad, miss you,” from your child. They know you feel terrible. This is their only way of exerting power over you. Get back in the driver seat by doing your parental duty by doing absolutely nothing. If they come around celebrate. If not, try and accept it. This may include therapy and medication. Losing a child who is not dead is a horrible thing to go through. How do you explain it to people without giving details you don’t even quite comprehend?


These are some of the last words I emailed my daughter. They are paraphrased from a rock group named “Cracker.” The song is called “I Can’t Forget You.” First they made me cry. Now they bring me comfort. I put away all her pictures and have stopped talking about her. I now have graduated to believing “it is what it is.” Probably the most profound phrase in the English language. It doesn’t bring closure. But for an estranged Bipolar Dad, it allows me to let things rest without completely shutting the door.


Cracking the Window

Everybody has a different way of asking for help.  I have Bipolar II, with an extra serving of depression.  So when I am down so low I cannot take life anymore, I try to give it back with an overdose of my medications and as much Vodka as my body can absorb before I lose consciousness.  But no matter how many pills and how much Vodka I’ve ingested, I have still not been able to permanently put myself out of my misery.  There is no doubt at that moment in time I sincerely want to kill myself.  However, by not swallowing the entire contents of my medicine cabinet straight off, which for sure would bring about my demise, I leave the window open a crack with a parting call to my psychologist triggering an onslaught of help.  Could it be that I’d rather wake up feeling sick to my stomach six hours later than remaining unconscious feeling nothing six feet under?

Calling All Cars

The other day I was on Facebook and noticed a message from an old acquaintance.  He actually sent it out as a general notice to all his friends.  He explained he was feeling intense anxiety, depression and having trouble functioning.  He had an appointment with a doctor, but was extremely afraid of having to take medication.  I thought it was somewhat strange he was “calling all cars” about his mental condition. Most people are very private about it.  I was so intensely secretive I wrote a book about my experiences (BUZZKILL) using my real name.  My friend was obviously a mental illness novice.  He had not yet learned how to make the dramatic cry for help by at least threatening to jump from something.

Don’t Buy Generics

The last time I checked my friend had forty-one responses from some very well-meaning people.  But when you boiled it down they all had the same advice; “Hang in there.  Things will get better over time.  I’ll pray for you.”  Irrespective of the stupid simplicity of their remarks, it was amazing they all basically offered the same generic response.  And, not one person mentioned psychiatric help and medication, which my friend stated he was especially nervous about.  It reminded me of someone telling a little kid they are going to the circus, when they are really going to get a rabies shot.  And the “I’ll pray for you?”  Why not just say, “I’ll waste some time talking to myself about you instead of talking to you.”  Here was a true cry for help and in return came the off the shelf generic “You’ll be O.K.”  What these people don’t realize is that depression is life threatening, not to be thwarted with a pep talk like before the big homecoming football game.

Go With a Name Brand

Being depressed and despondent is about as real as it gets.  So I decided to “keep it real” and reach out with some useful “Name Brand Advice” via email.  After all, I suffered from depression and anxiety most of my life. Who better to advise him than an individual who will actually address his concerns.  So, I told my friend I have Bipolar Illness, which he may or may not have.  But I know well the anxiety and severe depression that goes with it.  I urged him to find a doctor who listens to him and what he could expect from medication, if in fact recommended.  Also, I suggested he read my book because it specifically addresses his concerns. Moreover, I asked him to purchase five copies and bill it through his insurance.  Lastly, I offered to meet with him anytime he needed to talk.   He thanked me.  Why not?  I’m a name brand lunatic.

Diarrhea of the Email

Then I let loose a torrent of emails also to help my friend.  I talked about medication side effects, finding the right doctor and coming with me to my support group for those who suffer from depression, anxiety and or Bipolar Illness.  Each time he thanked me, but never took me up on an offer.  Was I getting too involved?  Did he not know me well enough to open up?  Was I scaring him?  Was he afraid of turning out like me?  Did he want me to shut the fuck up with my “diarrhea of the email” advice?  My mother used to beat a subject to death so badly that if it was health related, it would cure itself by the intermission.  Was I becoming my mother?  I checked my head for electrodes.

Walk Away Renee

I finally decided enough was enough with the emails and to leave my friend alone.  Walk away Renee.  He knows what I have to offer and if he needs me I’m sure he’ll get in contact.  Sometimes when we are Bipolar and find someone who is in similar pain, although undiagnosed, we will do anything to bring assistance.  We identify with their struggle.  But at a certain point that individual has to reciprocate by reaching out.  You cannot force help down a person’s throat.  All you can do is throw them a life-preserver and see if they take it.  If not, let them find their own way.  I hear a good chiropractor can cure just about anything. Maybe my friend isn’t ready to come to terms with the possibility of needing psychiatric help?  I know when I took my first handful of psychotropic medication (in the prescribed amount), I felt the stigma of being a mental patient as if I was punched in the gut.  I was actually disappointed in myself for being so feeble!

Billboards and Bus-Backs

I was beginning to feel like a social marketer for the American Psychiatric Association.   Or, a Bipolar Recruiting Agent scouting out depressed people for a Bipolar diagnosis. Nonetheless, I have to be satisfied with having done my very best to help, and leave it at that.  Offering too much help can be just as bad as doing none at all.  Maybe I should cancel the billboards and bus-backs with my friend’s name on them, urging him to go to the emergency room if his depression gets worse.

You Can Lead a Depressed Person to Water…

Just like I have always subconsciously cracked the window during a suicide attempt, I realized my friend is doing the same with his mass email.  He made his cry for help.  Although not suicidal, he left an opening for someone to rescue him.  However, I can’t fit through it.  Maybe I represent too much reality?  Whatever the issue, I hope someone can breach the barrier.  And I have to be satisfied that I tried to offer assistance.  It’s really up to him to accept it.  As they say, you can lead a depressed person water, but you can’t make them see a shrink.


The Human Lost and Found

Ten years ago if you wanted to find an old friend, you could do a search on the internet, or sign up for one of those “free” web services that can locate people at nocharge.  But if you actually want to find out anything useful about them, besides their name and age, then you get “paid-membershipped” to death.  Or, you could have gone to a then fledgling Social Media site, like “My Life,” hoping the friend was active in this human lost and found.  However at that time most people were not putting their profiles online for privacy reasons.

Disgrace Book

Then Facebook matured and now almost everyone has a page and timeline complete with their current location, photos, employment, likes and dislikes plus whatever else about themselves they want people to know.  Now old high school friends can look you up without your permission to see what you have or have not been up to the last thirty years.  I was a loser in high school.  For me, Facebook has given me a whole new reason to feel like a failure in 2015.  All my insecurities have come rushing back.  Will people think my girlfriend isn’t good-looking enough?  Have I aged poorly?   Am I the only one in my class who can’t do open heart surgery, or argue a case before the Supreme Court?  Will someone from my past find out I’m Bipolar and think it makes perfect sense?  I call Facebook “Disgrace Book,” because anyone can look me up and have a hearty chortle about how poorly I’ve done in life.

More Torture Please

Facebook is like “enhanced interrogation,” a word Dick “I shot my friend in the face” Cheney uses to make torture sound more soft and cuddly.  But now if you don’t have a Facebook page, you are out of touch.  People need to be able to see you just lost your job, got a divorce or have a kid with an underbite like a 1957 Buick Roadmaster.  Sure, you can make your site only viewable by confirmed friends, but then you look like you really have something to hide.  And since Facebook is now frequently used as a search engine, you are almost required to have access in today’s information age.  So you maintain your page, and just like the droplets in water torture that eventually drive people mad, Facebook allows your friends and foes to slowly trickle into your life judging and eventually driving you mad as well.  And if you’re Bipolar, which commonly comes with increased anxiety, social issues and disdain for one’s past, you never know who will pop into your life digging up your most detested memories, embarrassing moments and perceived lack of achievement.

The Sniff Test

Once in a while some old work cronie posts on my timeline who I thought I was done having nightmares about in the 1990’s, Then I’ll check out their Facebook page just to make myself a little more miserable with their magnificent accomplishments.  Its like when you accidentally get a little shit on your hand picking up after the dog.  You completely wash it off, but you can’t stop sitting there discreetly sniffing your hand over and over all day long just to make sure it doesn’t smell.  Being Bipolar often makes it so you just can’t help sniffing out ancient classmates or work associates who contacted you on Facebook.  You want to make sure the reminder of their success has not stuck to your brian.

The Pull Out Method

I wish there was a big pre-lubricated condom I could put over my entire head so whenever someone from my past or present tries to friend me or comment on my Facebook Timeline, nothing they can say or think about me will reach my Bipolar brain with all its insecurities.  But since I do not see this social contraceptive on the horizon, mainly because the wearer may smother to death, I have thought about using the “Pull Out Method.”  Basically, I’d just shut down my Facebook page and go off the grid.  Solve the whole problem wham, bam, no thank you Facebook man.  Would I really be missing out on things?  I could always keep up with politics on FOX News.  But then I’d really have something to be humiliated about.

Social Media Intercourse

But if you are a business marketing to highly targeted masses, Social Media really is the new frontier.  And when a consumer is reached through Facebook, Twitter or the likes, if marketers can’t get you to click to their link immediately, some will tag you with an ad.  They are essentially invading your personal space on the internet.  I call this “Social Media Intercourse.”  Give a marketer a sliver of information and they’ll follow your future internet viewing sessions with the same banner ad for what seems an eternity.  In essence your personal space has been permeated.  Or in other words, you’ve been fucked by Facebook.  I think they even sell your information to marketers, also making Facebook a pimping service.

Taking Facebook at Face Value

Individuals dealing with Bipolar Illness need to view Facebook and other Social Distortion sites in a whole new manner.  Instead of thinking we are the only “under-achievers” in the room, which is only a perception and not a fact, realize that everyone is trying to make themselves look great on Facebook.  Who is going to put down “lost my last job due to alcohol addiction, suffer from schizophrenia, my wife is ugly and I just filed for bankruptcy?”  And you know the picture they post is going to be their very best shot with someone secretly standing behind them pulling back the loose skin on their face and neck.  So please, do not take Facebook pages at face value.  What you really want to know is lurking on the “back pages.”

Give Till It Hurts

The other thing someone with Bipolar Illness might want to consider when using Disgrace Book is to “give until it hurts.”  Only write or post about things with which you are comfortable.  Not everybody has to know every single aspect of your life.  It’s not lying, it’s called keeping certain subjects not for public knowledge.  Do you think your boss is going to post he has only one testicle?  Of course not.  It has no bearing on anything.  Neither does your Bipolar Illness.  Unless of course you want people to know.  So when updating your Facebook page, only give information until it hurts.  Then stop writing and move on to other things.  Like why you are 53 and still living with your mother.

The Bipolar Perspective: The Fast Lane   Leave a comment


The internet has something in common with Burger King, and it’s not the pickles and onions. It’s the ability to “have it your way.” Do you think President Obama secretly wears a turban around the White House? That the moon landing was just a ruse to piss off the Russians? Or, do you think Bipolar disease was dreamed up by the pharmaceutical companies to produce a new class of drugs? Whatever your delight, there are a plethora of web sites that not only agree, but instigate these demented battle cries.


On the internet, just like in the Republican Party, facts are immaterial. If there aren’t any, make up your own. If you don’t like them, rewrite the truth. Forget what you learned in High School about annotating your work. People can check your work all they want, but they can’t stop the putrid flow of bull shit incessantly emanating from the continuous clicking of keyboards around the world.


When you hear the word Troll, you think of a child molester or rapist using the cover of anonymity provided by the internet to pursue his prey. He can pretend to be anyone to shoe horn his way into a random conversation, and then explode into a diatribe about his pre-teen foot fixation. But in actuality, an internet Troll is really just a name given to someone who goes into various internet forums and expresses unpopular opinions. Sometimes they even make personal attacks. However they come in all sizes and intellects.


However, are all internet Trolls really that small-minded and deviant? Many authors writing about a plethora of subjects are abhorred by anybody who isn’t writing in to cyber-kiss their ass or request an expert opinion. Anybody who challenges them or asks the tough questions causes a knee jerk reaction to delete the post and complain how the “Trolls” are ruining their site, blog, or whatever they think they are accomplishing online.


Bipolar Disease still has many mysteries behind it. We know it exists, but there is still more research to do on the brain and developing medications that are more effective and do less collateral damage. Yet you have self-proclaimed non-medical experts regurgitating all over your computer screen their advice. Some of them have even written books and wormed their way into the public speaking circuit, because we all know, if your wrote a book, you must be an expert. And then of course there is their daily blog to receive accolades for their work and extol extemporaneous advice to their minions. But try to have a challenging conversation with them about their expertise, and all of a sudden you’re a Troll.


Julie Fast (Bipolar Happens) is building her own empire based on being Bipolar. It’s not for me to evaluate the content of her books or knowledge. Nor shall I criticize the fact she is constantly making sure readers know she is the hostess with the mostess when it comes to suffering from Bipolar symptoms. But whenever someone challenges her on her blog, they are instantly a Troll. Then, deleting them and subjecting her readers to ranting and raving about how they are ruining her blog becomes the topic de jour. It’s such a major issue with her it often supersedes all the ass-kissing she usually laps up. Like a snake, dislocating her lower jaw so she can get every single morsel into that jacked-up self-image in her brain perched on her frontal lobe like a hood ornament.


So why do I even care about Julie Fast’s Troll issues? Is it because she is always talking about her career, managers and pillow fluffers, which upsets me, because I have none of that? Is it because according to Julie, she has a flourishing public speaking career, and the closest I get to that is singing in the car with the windows down? Or, could it be because I seek the fame and fortune she has that is rightfully mine? No, it’s because I asked one of her bloggers “what he did for a living when he wasn’t doing motivational speaking?” And for some reason Julie deemed that inappropriate and deleted my question. Or maybe it was her manager or water-boy who did that. But that is what triggered me to write this post. Hey, nonsense happens.


I am Bipolar. That does not make me an expert. I only talk and write about my experiences and opinions related to the disease. I don’t give medical advice nor delete posts unless they are racist. Otherwise, I enjoy on topic verbal sparring. It’s what makes things interesting. I did write a book about my experiences being Bipolar, but I try not to make this a nauseating promotional forum. And I don’t want anyone kissing my Bipolar ass, unless it’s the check-out girl at the Bodega down the street, and that is completely sexual.


All Trolls are welcome on my blog. Although, I prefer to call them contributors to the discussion. If I said it, I’m open to debate. I have no staff screening comments or telling me what to do or say. My proverbial door is open. Just stay on topic.


My Grandfather used to say “variety is the spice of life.” If we all agreed, didn’t ask the tough questions and challenge one another, what is the point of having a blog? I am not asking for discourse. But hey, “Shit Happens.”

Posted October 9, 2014 by Buzzkill - Official Booksite in Uncategorized

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