Fabuloud

When you have bully

2012-01-26T20:57:00.001-05:00

When you have a Bully

You only have to hit them once
my father said to my brothers and me
but make sure you do it right.
If you do it right,
you only have to hit them once
and you will never have to do it again.

He would then show us rib jabs
and sharp rises of knees
and the brutality of an elbow
and a place on the throat that could collapse
the windpipe
so don't hit just there.
Go for the belly
the soft flesh
so that the very breath will leave them
and they will understand.
They will know and you will know
and you should make sure other kids
see
because then they will know too.

I only hit my mother once.
My nose was was dripping red and
with a clench of her hair in my hand.
I felt the thick satisfaction
of her cheekbone meeting the white wood
of the door frame.

That day was a tipping along
the rim of our bowl.
What was spilled was
washed
away with ugly words
but never
with her fists upon me
again.

Walt Whitman

2012-01-01T19:22:00.000-05:00

“Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you
That you may be my poem
I whisper with my lips close to your ear
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.”

So, I am Bi-Polar

2011-12-14T14:21:00.000-05:00

I don't know why I doubted it.
Maybe I just place too much importance on diagnoses.

Steve lost it on me last night because I am being mean and irritable one moment, hypersexual the next, then weird, then needy. He pretty much told me he is sick of living this way.

Who wouldn't be?

But It isn't like turning on a light switch. I just started meds, and they never worked all that well for me anyway. I can't get my head together, and now I don't have support at home. Yikes. But how much support to I have the right to??

It became habit over the past few years, while my head was clear, to pretend that the bad times weren't so bad. Or that maybe, when things were really low, that I had somehow allowed myself to wallow in depression. I also tried desperately to blame it all on drugs, alcohol and company I was keeping. And while all of these factors are pieces of the puzzle, the game is much larger. And more simple than all of that.
I am bi-polar.
And I was doing really well for a long time.

But then I read a page about bi-polar disorder and stress: http://www.lifeloveandbipolar.com/stress.html
Chemical changes happened because of the crazy level of stress I was under. Now I have an aversion to going on the computer, no matter how irrational it is. I can't sleep in my bed, rather downstairs on the couch every night.

I feel gross and incompetent and I just can't fake my way through it.

Bad times, revisited

2011-12-08T09:49:00.000-05:00

Being crazy makes you selfish, if only out of necessity.

It takes all of my mental energy some afternoons to go to work, to do the laundry, to play with my son... to not curl up, rock and beat my thighs with my fists and keen.

Being a selfish mother?
Doesn't work so well and breeds a really unhealthy house. My whole goal in everything that I do is creating a safe and loving environment where my son will flourish. But, if we are being brutally honest? The only place I can grow and flourish and not log roll back into instability is a safe, brightly lit, loving home. One where I don't have to listen at walls to see if I will have to duck through door ways or run for the hills.
Safe.

S.
A.
F.
E.

I have started taking zoloft because I was no longer safe. Elliott and Steve were not safe from my variable moods, and assured anger at the slightest slight or infraction. Elliott would sob when he spilled his drink for fear that I would lose my shit and tirade while wielding a dishrag and a scowl, cleaning his mess with a dark mood. I have created not safety, but a situation where my son literally cries over spilled milk.

But damn. The side effects. I haven't slept in two days. My feet feel like they need to fly, my hands shake, and I need to go go go, while feeling so drained. I haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday, and the sick Carly likes that. But the racing, pacing anxiety IS going. The anger is ebbing.

And here I have sat down to write, self absorbed, selfish in my need to make sense of this. I should have been writing a paper, or doing laundry. I should have been hugging Elliott or mending bridges. I should have been writing thank you cards for the wedding I broke my mind, body and bank account on but am so sincerely grateful for I want to weep when I look at the pictures.

A friend wrote "sometimes when you are in the deep water, you need your swimmies." Even in the bad times, truth is shining. Safety is not a far off wish but real and here. So flying feet be damned. Let's do this.

2011-10-11T17:27:00.001-04:00

But then she would call my name
from behind the bathroom door
with a dark purple pleading
"he is hurting me."
And I would beat at the white paint
of the wood
with my two fists
but I am five
and there is no opening
nor ending
only
those screams
and the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

Later she would show me the bruising
the house fallen into pallor
and
quiet, she would
ask me to tell her
how will she explain this to the doctors
and
will I let them know that
it was my fault
this time
these welts and breaks of bone
...that I should never have told
nor gone to the carnival
without her

She slapped my mouth because
I offered her the spun candy and
well
there was a cow with big brown eyes
who had a window
right in his stomach
-you could see everything churning and
alive.
And now the taste of blood and
she is choking on sobs
and I can never save her
nor myself
and never stop the
screams.

Wedding

2011-06-12T09:02:00.000-04:00

Did I mention I'm getting married? No, I actually started this blog with a mermaid that had begun it's sculpy origins as a wedding cake topper for my someday wedding. And now that day is almost upon us. Well, this August. August 20th to be precise. I got Steve a little tipsy on some bubbly and told him that, for my 30th birthday, all I wanted was to get married. And an Ipod. But mostly to get married.

And now we are.

My dress is being retooled from a vintage wedding dress by Becky Dator. My first fitting was a dream. This whole thing feels kinda unreal. And so soon. Here are some photos from our wedding invite outtakes:

We are registered at Target:
013399700672383
(there is even an ipod on there!)

Pregnant in July

2011-05-22T23:29:00.000-04:00

Elliott is going to be 3 this July 23. I am going to be 30 on August 3rd. Where in the FUCK does the time go?

Pregnant in July

We sat
stroking our
bulbous, distended bellies
and compared
pains
with graceful turns of
swollen ankle
and grotesque
descriptions of
our bodies’ small betrayals.

As though
debutantes of some
absurd summer picnic,
we fanned ourselves with
sections of old newspaper
and sipped at
tall glasses of lemonade,
wishing for vodka or
gin.

Now in parodies of our former bodies,
we need to be propelled forward
to be pried out of
seats
and rolled
out of beds.
Sweat glistens behind
dimpled knees
and
beads along
upper lip.
We wait
petulantly
for the fruit
of our
labor’s end.

Vivienne

2011-05-22T23:14:00.000-04:00

I have been thinking a lot lately about a little girl I feel blessed to have known. Her life, and death, have changed me in ways I am only beginning to appreciate. It took quite a long time to think of the little Miss without breaking down into sobs. But looking at her photos doesn't only make me cry anymore. It feels almost as though she taught me how to let go of my expectations of the world and what I try to wring from it and just fall in love with the moment. I need to be present, in the present, and glory in the joy all around me.

That is often easier said than done. I have written two poems about Vivi, and started many, many more that I was unable to finish.This is a poem about "loss", and how trite that word actually is.

Losing Vivi

Vivienne is not lost
she is not misplaced among the laundry
or hiding in a shoe closet
When I open the bedroom door
I will not find her, laying on my bed
smiling a shy smile.

Because loss is for football games
and car keys
and left socks and
marbles.

We will not post fliers
or set rewards-
there will be no teary reunion
or heartfelt thank-you notes
or safe returns.

You lose ambition
and sanity and virginity
and pride and
memory.

Loss is not for babies.
And sometimes there
are no words
in times when
words might help.

But loss is for words
and hope and light and
not
for baby
girls.

Climbing Years

2011-05-10T21:27:00.000-04:00

I was able to climb only one tree
in all of my tree climbing years.
It was a Chinese maple
scarlet leaves and a low V of a crotch
perfect for wide
imperfect feet to gain purchase in.

Climb I did, side by side
with fat black ants in their shiny symmetry,
upward next to Cicada shells
clamped to smooth bark
so still and empty.

Nearing the cusp of my childhood,
I would still climb
a garish red bird
to perch as high as
the branches would allow
-high enough to tempt my daring.

Wearing a vintage silk kimono bright as wet cherries
and frayed jean shorts, I would dangle my naked legs,
point my toes to the earth
and with heavy lids,
stare down cars passing by my parent's house
each gliding lazily out of view.

I imagined one slowing
sleek mirror of a window
sliding down, a disembodied voice
inviting me to go off,
to fly away to another town,
making veiled promises and sweet lipped assurances
that every tree there would welcome me
up high into its bowing arms.

And then I would never be forced to
awkwardly scramble back down to earth
again.

New Carly?

2011-01-17T16:19:00.000-05:00

It seems like forever since my last post. In reality, it has been over two months. January finds me with 3 A's and a B+ from last semester and facing down a fairly daunting Spring.

New job
New home
New classes
New Day
New Carly? Let's hope.

Not that I need to be new, per say. It's the need for new habits that is pressing. I have shed bad behaviors like a second skin but wear my heart on the sleeve of a hair shirt. Wow. That was obnoxious in its metaphor, but true all the same. As much as I have accomplished, my fears and loathing and inconsistencies still have the power to fuck all this up.

SO. Here's to positive thinking. Here's to healthy living and healthy dealings. Here's to honesty and boundaries and here's to HOMEWORK. Here's to planning and loving and follow through and serenity. Here's to moving house. Here's to planning a wedding. Here's to planting flowers in my mind. Here's to building my new house constructed of promises kept and attentive consideration.

Here's to the wait and the wait's end.

Body Positive Images For the MY MY dressing room!

2010-11-04T11:40:00.000-04:00

Coming Clean (after 3 months)

2010-11-04T11:34:00.000-04:00

Three months is a long time. In that time I have:

Fallen in and out of love twice with the same person
Lost a friend and regained an old one
Worn red lipstick 3 times
Almost completed my first semester back to school
Cried in class
lost 15 lbs
dreamed of old lovers
cried in the doctor's office
read 13 books
wrote six poems

Here is one:

Coming clean

I once read about Russian bath houses.
Women of all ages
all stages of life
gather and wash.
Just women, together,
reclining on steamy tiles.

And mothers vigorously
scrub down daughters
and daughters
braid and smooth
grandmothers' steel and silk hair.
Aunts and sisters
wade and soak,
scour and soap,
and laugh until tears and sweat
roll down pink cheeks.

When I first saw my grandmother naked
I was a child and
I felt shame.
On a sticky July afternoon
she climbed out of a cool bath.
I opened the door
and carried guilt
like a blanket for weeks.
Our bodies are hidden
like secrets under sheets.

Many years later she had a stroke.
Her mind gone,
I tended to her, carefully washing
helping my aunt change her soiled linens.
Her skin was thin and soft and
I allowed myself to look
at this woman I have loved
for as long as I have lived.
I found we shared a birthmark
on the swell of our hips.
Task finished,
I covered her body reverently
with a worn, clean nightgown.
I held her to me
and she listened to all of my
confidences with an absent smile.

There is an honesty
a true sense
of homecoming
the act of coming clean
with other women
-gossiping and
and soothing-
bodies that resemble yours or
do not
but someday will
or did.

There is a beauty in knowing
that after youth there is still
beauty.
And after beauty there is still
the act of
coming clean.

An entry a day keeps the crazy away

2010-08-17T13:01:00.000-04:00

...Or maybe it will invoke the crazy a little bit. I am finding that if I address issues that dog me and scare me head on instead of avoiding them until they become unmanageable, my life is simply easier. Not easy, mind you, but not nearly so hard either.

My friend Anna is a writer. She is a writer and a mother and a friend. Through her I found this list of writing topics, one for each day of the month. The topics are largely simple and straight forward (maybe a little too much so.) If completed, I will end up with (if nothing else) 30 pieces of writing.

Let's see where this takes us, shall we?

An entry a day...

Dance class with the homeless youth on a Friday evening

2010-08-06T12:54:00.000-04:00

Lean, smooth legs
scissor kicking
and bowing.

The awkward, innate rhythm of it

toothful smiles
quick hands cutting space
nimble fingers flashing
lips pursed in frustration
the bleak wash of stumbling
the delight of wriggling arms
and fluid two stepping

Brown ocean eyes wide
full of
moon dances
and waves.

Creative Comforts

2010-07-26T20:41:00.000-04:00

Creative comforts. I turn to them more and more these days. I felt a mania coming on and I rode that wave of energy and fast-thinking-fast-talking-fast-laughing-fast-loving until it broke all to bits on the other side.

Elliott's birthday is over. And it was a success. My bathroom, after a three hour intensive scrub, has never been cleaner. I baked scores of painfully cute cupcakes, painted three intricate birthday banners, and hosted until my face was numb from smiling. Elliott fell into a blissful sleep with a scrape on his knee and a wistful grin on his lips.

But Ms. Carly's wild ride didn't end there. Oh no. I painted Steve's birthday invitation in a large format. I mean LARGE. It will be scaled down and turned into fabulous postcards in the next month. Because, did I mention? His birthday is in NOVEMBER. heheh. And what normally would have taken 3 or 4 days to paint was completed in a flurry of paint and marker and inspiration in only one afternoon. I am not complaining. I am so darned proud.

I have lost over 10 lbs during this three week long high. I wish the energy would never leave. I could do without the difficulty sleeping and the angry anxiety that rears its ugly head here and there. But the energy and creativity are welcome to stay forever.

But then came the crash. The crash ALWAYS follows, like night follows day. Cliche. But true.

I ended this evening with an enormous bowl of pasta and the hopes for a neck rub from the guy I love. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow is always better. And I remind myself that though I am a bit out of sorts, though I feel small and sad, today wasn't so bad. Not so bad at all.

hair cuts and fireworks

2010-07-04T23:56:00.000-04:00

There is nothing like a new hair cut to shift your entire world back to rights. I was feeling dumpy and out of sorts with stringy long layers and lifeless length. VOILA!

On a totally separate note, today is the 4th of July. Growing up in my family, we weren't big on tradition. Scratch that. We wanted to be, TRIED to be, but simply didn't have many holidays that weren't over-run by my mother's inability to function under stressful situations. This lead to many Christmas meltdowns and Thanksgivings where she wouldn't leave her bedroom.

But 4th of July was always spared such outbursts and the hours of locked bathroom crying jags. We would, every year, tote vegetarian baked beans in a heavy cast iron pot, black and still so hot you had to handle it with a dish rag and salmon noodle salad to an expansive property in Buckingham, PA. Three things were constant: Old folks cooing over and trying to glean the secret ingredient of my father's famous beans, Louie and Ella's sweet melodic banter playing over ancient speakers hidden in the bushes, and the magic of night fall, where the scent of cooling earth mingled with the anticipation of fiery blossoms in the sky.

Steve is underwhelmed by fireworks. That to me is sacrilegious. In the Carly list of "all-things-holy" Summer Nights rank at the tippety top. It didn't matter if I had needed a quick and odious thorn removal from my right foot after the hasty choice to play softball sans shoes. Or if I had three stains on my new dress. Or even that "Uncle Tommy" had too much rum punch and was singing showtunes and making the conservative edges of his family curl up and fray (maybe a little because of that!) Any holiday that encourages folks on mass to have night picnics and intimately sigh in unison all under the careful watch of a watercolor moon, to say nothing of the joy that mini-explosions rocking the sky evokes... I don't know what could possibly be better.

I really don't.

A painting for Anna

2010-07-01T21:56:00.000-04:00

Wedding Gift

2010-06-18T17:42:00.000-04:00

I painted this for one of my longest standing friends, and one of the best people I know. She married a man I like ALMOST as much as her, and that is HUGE to me. I sat, covered in acrylic paint smatters, watching the last episode of lost, sobbing, while finishing this portrait.

I hope the clouds don't seem dorky, but that couple is a match made in heaven. (super cheesy, but whatever! I love my Laurel!!)

(PS. Check out the butt on that Sailor! WoooWEE!)

The year of the firefly

2010-06-16T22:50:00.001-04:00

It is a good year for fireflies
and that means
a good year to dream
heady dreams and wake up
next to big ideas.

It means it is a year
for children
sticky with chocolate
and the day’s adventures
to climb over
and under the boundaries
of their own imagination.

On this
July by way of June evening,
the day lilies in repose
nod their orange
heads in silent sway.
Lush night is doused with the rich
scent of
earth cooling
and soundly sleeping bumble bees
awash in honeysuckle.

It is a good year for fireflies
and the kingdom of light
out in the high grass,
with its staccato bursts
and ebbs,
flows over
like a song
you knew a long time ago
but now can remember
only half
the words.
It makes you remember
sitting
in your father’s lap
grass tickling bare legs,
eating strawberry preserves
with a broad spoon
watching the twilight
bloom and spread.

But then, this
is a year for
half remembered songs
and dreams that bear
fruit.
This is the year of the firefly
and the time
that makes you ache
for a chance
to begin again.

Life, death, and college assignments

2010-05-25T00:42:00.000-04:00

I have an assignment to write 25 pages of poetry, short stories, whatever. Until I started this blog, my writing had fallen completely away. This made me unhappy. Now, if I write these 25 pages, my old professor will magically poof an old F into an A. He is a pretty spectacular guy, and 25 pages is nothing to sneeze at.

So I am writing. A LOT. I have posted a few on here. I wrote 3 pages tonight. Some are too terrible to contemplate. Others too raw.

I really had to think before I shared the poem about my brother. But right now it is really coming up for me. I never fully understood the "hell" my parents suffered through when they "lost" my brother. Words like hell and lost are so very tame, you know? What is that line from Six Feet under? (Of course it is a Brenda quote.)

"You know what I find interesting? If you lose a spouse, you're called a widow or a widower. If you're a child and you lose your parents, then you're an orphan. But what's the word to describe a parent who loses a child? I guess that's just too fucking awful to even have a name."

(Of course it is a Brenda quote.) Honestly? I don't want to know how they felt. Michael died 1 month before his second birthday of an airborne disease that now has a vaccine. My Elliott is almost that age and if anything happened to him.... Well I will end the thought there. It is just too fucking awful.

My mother was not a good parent by anyone's definition. She tried. I know that. But she is mentally ill and was also abused as a child. But I think a big part of her was broken that night and really couldn't mend. I was an infant when he died, and the cloud of guilt and anger and grief hung over us like an atomic cloud. How could that not have shaped us all? How did we even survive?

I mean, you survive. That is what you do. That is what the people I love have done and are doing. Some better than others.

I am going to keep writing. I can only hope this 25 pages will turn into 50. Then 500.

I hope it never stops.

Michael

2010-05-24T16:45:00.000-04:00

Michael

My brother was 23 months old
when he died.
My uncle still
shakes his head
says
your mother
scrubbed the floor for
three days
after he passed.
She had no skin
left on her fingers
or knees
tears coursing rivers
mixing in
her soapy supplication
her prayer.

My father cries out
all these years later
“my boy!”
in his sleep
in a voice that is still broken
from wailing
28 years ago.
He wonders
why his deaf pillow
is damp
sometimes
when he wakes.

Growing up
we spent holidays
at Michael’s grave
a pathetically small
cross
with the words
“time for this one
to come home”
carved at the center.
I stopped taking part
in “family photos”
taken
at the base of
a mountain of
heartache.

In her darkest moments
when cruelty was her only
recourse
Mother would compare
her younger sons to him
her silent golden boy.
They would always come
up short in her
brutal
estimation.

Once,
curled fetal,
voice small on her lips,
she whispered to me,
“I think of what he looks like
now. Do you think
there is anything left
but bones?”

I was 10
and told her not to
think that way
ill ideas
like snapshots
now floating in my head
specters
teasing me while
I tried to sleep.

My son is 23
months old
now
and my father,
eyes glazed with
work weary blur,
will say “my Michael,”
and hold him close
smelling his hair reverently.
I do not correct him,
nor do I stop
my mother
from dressing my boy
in tattered clothes
belonging
to a different time.
I sit quiet
and watch them
lovingly holding hostages
in their grief.

Meeting

2010-05-18T14:05:00.001-04:00

I met you in February
when all things alive
were asleep.
Miniature slush mountains
slowed my steps
and seeped icy cold
into my shoes.
Snow is unsympathetic
and winter can be dark.

I met you on
a Sunday.
I knew nothing of you
but what I had been told
second hand:
Tall and bright
handsome and wholesome
with tattoos and a talent
for making a girl
feel at home.

You didn’t answer when I
knocked,
not the first or second time.
-You were not expecting visitors.
Especially not one
who would batter at your
safe walls
and
windows with dense
wet snow balls
until
at last
you
(bottled and wary)
invited
me
(bottle rocket in a winter-coat)
in.

The sky was high
and heavy
with impending snow.
You could taste a subtle
shifting in the air.

February
is a dark time
and the amber lit
warmth of your
kitschy mid-century
sanctuary
wrapped me up
-me and you-
and carried us all the way
to Spring.

Four hours on fondant flowers

2010-05-17T18:53:00.000-04:00

Here are a few flowers representing the FOUR HOURS I spend modeling little bit of fondant into gorgeous (or at least cute) sugar flowers. I am creating a desert buffet for my good friend's bachelorette party (do not want to give too many details, as it is a secretive themed shindig...) More photos will follow, cause this party has really tapped into my creative flow!

Lessons for a small boy

2010-05-13T22:27:00.000-04:00

Things I want to teach a small boy as he grows:

1.
Just because earthworms can regenerate
is no reason to wrench them into fleshy uneven segments.
Name them,
kiss them, wage terrific wars in which they
are rained upon and weaved through
unsuspecting Barbie limbs
cocked askew in horror.
Whisper to them your
secrets and then
return them
to the damp dark earth
intact.

2.
Sing.
Sing your song loud and long.
Sing without fear of rebuke,
-sing in the face of rebuke.
Sing without teeth,
and sing when there is no song.
Sing and you will never be alone as you walk.
Sing.

3.
Listen when others speak
though they may do so
in ugly tones
or with graceless abundance,
lyrically, ironically, beautiful
with gravel or grit.
Listen.

4.
Words are important.
Language is a tool.
Do not use the gift of expression
to wound, to decapitate others
with hasty consonants and
bitter vowels.

5.
Little boy,
with eyes the shape of
small moons,
pass-by those limit-lovers
who mortify ambition and
sever the fragile line between here and
now and infinite possibility.
No, have none of their
havenot-cannot-willnot
be done.
Instead
stay close to us
we who will love you
no matter how many windows
or hearts
are broken,
trophies won,
or
tears shed
on your journey
over this
mountain.

Craft Talk

2010-04-22T19:13:00.001-04:00

....or why life would be better if i were more like leslie hall!

2010-04-22T18:53:00.001-04:00

2010-04-22T18:40:00.000-04:00

I am breathing easier. Literally... I would find that I was holding my breath subconsciously and think I was having a panic attack. Suddenly I would gasp, suck in a deep breath, and realize that it had been an unacceptably long time since I had last inhaled. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Spring is here and I am smiling. (And breathing!)

First Draft "Sleep Song"

2010-04-18T00:05:00.000-04:00

Blue eyed baby boy
who once breathed through my body:
do not wander far tonight.
Though you dream
-and I know that you dream big-
stay near.
I match your breath
as you sleep
as though
to give you my breath again.
Blue eyed baby boy,
with whispered song
I measure out the rhythm
that keeps you close to me
as we slumber.
I want to linger here;
I tenderly attempt
to delay
the dawn.

PS

2010-04-07T17:41:00.000-04:00

Carly Jane is...

2010-04-07T10:24:00.000-04:00

...planning an afternoon that involves a pool shaped like a crab.
...is fighting off a cold.
...is not immune to emotionally charged SPCA commercials.
...wonders why there HAVE to be so many calories in whoopie pies!
...needs a haircut.
...is in love, completely.
...will NOT eat Lima Beans.
...has little patience for ignorant behavior, most of all from herself.
...needs a shower pretty badly.
...feels the need to over share.
...ruined a piece of art; I left it in the car and spilled ice tea on it.
...needs to make more art and less ice tea.
...watches too much television.
...cannot cope with mortality.

...cannot cope with morality.

...does tend to ramble on, if you let her...

The End

Worry. Frustration. Fear.

2010-03-23T22:02:00.000-04:00

That same old feeling has been building for awhile now... like I am a passenger in my own head, and not entirely in control.

I am not sleeping well.

I am having obsessive thoughts.

I am not being kind to myself, my Steve, or my son.

Irritability + weepiness + the inability to fall asleep = time to think about my options. My medication options.

I have felt better in the past two years than in my entire adult life... and they have been largely un-medicated years. It was while on medication that I had some of my most desperate times and was hospitalized. I have not had ONE suicidal thought or heartbreaking depression off of medication. That is very telling to me.

But I know that the way I feel right now is not ok either. I am coping. I am getting by. But this is my one life and I need... well I DESERVE more than that. My family deserves a consistency I am unable to give them right now. And so I think that I might try better living through pharmaceuticals. Again. And hope something is different this time.

But there is the crux of the matter. My insurance is laughable. I do not have prescription coverage. If I have a doctor fill out a form saying that I am unable to thrive without psych meds or am put on an "indigent" list (we will talk another time about the myriad of humiliations visited on the poor, and especially the sick poor) I can potentially receive affordable medication.

The doctors within my coverage are not acceptable. I could ramble off a litany of sins committed by the welfare docs I have tried to work with... But that too is for another time because, at this moment, I think I would pop like a shaken soda if I even try.

I have three clinics in my area that are willing to see me next month. It took two of them over 24 hours to get back to me. The third has yet to, but I am assuming they are booked up as well. No private doctor will see me. I have had as many as five different diagnosis-es by as many doctors and no results. The one doctor with whom I created a short lived connection with LEFT the "health center" (as all of the good ones do.)

I feel really frustrated with my options right now. Because I am low income, I do not have the right to see doctors with any credibility or with a firm grasp on the English language. I am not making a comment on the intelligence of these folks who have ESL, but cannot work with someone if I don't feel understood and cannot understand them fully in return. ESPECIALLY in the arena of my mental health. How am I going to explain that Lithium is not an option to a doctor that has pads written out with that as a letterhead. GAH!

So that is where I stand tonight. On the verge of tears, with no viable options and worry creasing my brow, sapping my strength, stealing my joy. Always worry.

I am so tired of the fucking fear.

Couple's Therapy

2010-03-15T23:36:00.000-04:00

Steve and I celebrated our three year Anniversary last month. We decided that if we wanted to make it to four (and beyond) it was important that we learn how to talk to one another.

Here is a small window into a conversation about a sensitive subject:

Carly: "But how does that make you FEEL Steve?"
Steve: "I don't know."
Carly: "No really, I want to know! What are you thinking?"
Steve: "What do you want me to say?"
Carly: "I don't want to have to tell you!"
Steve: "Whatever."
Carly: breaks out the tissues and big fat tears fall

You can never see someone for who they are, only for who you are right? So that plays perfectly into this situation for me.
Example:
Steve SAYS: "I don't know how I am feeling."
Carly hears: "I don't want to share it with you"
on a bad Carly-day "I am thinking terrible awful things about you!"

Turns out, after a few sessions, I have learned that when Steve tells me he doesn't know what he is feeling about something, he really might not know.

This is an absurdly foreign concept to me. I won't go into his personal reasons here, but the result is the same. I am baffled at this new development. I over analyse everything I do, say think, and feel. I can psychoanalyze myself forward, back, and up the wall to the point that I know why I am doing whatever it is I am doing whether is be positive or negative. The idea to not know is inconceivable to me! And listen; it gets more confusing!
If Steve IS aware of what he is thinking or needing from me, he is uncomfortable sharing because, if he thinks I don't really want to hear it, he clams up. I have inadvertently created an unsafe environment for our relationship on an emotional level.

Example:

Steve: "We need more money coming in."
What Carly hears : "You are worthless and I was better off before I met you!"

He fears me breaking down in tears and quiet rage, so he stuffs anything he is feeling or needing in order to avoid confrontation. I have made his trouble connecting all about me. Because it is all about me, right? right...?

Holy shit. When I dragged him, forcibly, into therapy, I KNEW with a certainty that I would be awarded "Partner of the YEAR" trophies and patted on the back for all of my good work. I would smile and nod bravely. I would kiss Steve gently and let him know that I forgave him everything wrong in our relationship and that we would get through this together. No fault could lay at this sweet, understanding, loving woman's feet! Right? right....?

Consider that fantasy bubble officially Popped!

Back to School

2010-03-01T09:26:00.000-05:00

I DID it! My FAFSA is filled out and shot out into the universe where some busy bee will decide how much I deserve and there really is no turning back. I mean, I dropped out once before and have spent a large portion of my adult life defending or explaining away that time in my life. So I suppose I wrote the book on walking away. And that's what has me scared.

After high school, I attended 2 years of Community College. I LOVED it! But then, I have always loved school. Not to mention the rituals of back to school shopping... organizing a binder with looseleaf and pens and erasers just so... sigh.

In my early 20's I started getting what I describe as "picture shows." No matter where I was or what was going on (but especially in the quiet times) images and sounds would flood in, completely devastating and overwhelming. They would depict embarrassing moments where I had revealed too much to the wrong person, memories of abuse, silly things I had said out of turn, harsh words spoken to me... basically all of the things that merely kept me up at night were assailing my senses in broad daylight, or in cover of night no matter the circumstance. And this is when my drinking really started to escalate.

I don't want to tell this story again, other than to say that I am glad that time of pain and mortification is over. All I really want now is to shake the feeling that those four years of acting out and pathological neurosis are what defines ME. That is what now keeps me up at night...

Is this how people will remember me? Black outs and broken promises?

But back to school! I dropped out of college because of adult onset craziness and addiction and what if I am not beyond it really? What if this time is no different and I fail... Again. This time there is more at stake and the "picture shows" never really went away, but are simply better controlled. These are my fears and they are not unfounded.

Art Streak

2010-01-11T14:10:00.000-05:00

Recently, I was worried because I kept banging out drawings- three in one night! That is more than all last month put together. None are over the top great but I had a wonderful time doing it. Then I was so wired that I couldn't get to sleep until 5 AM! With a toddler waking me up the next morning at 8:30, that was not a great thing. I was anxious that it was a mania and that I am going to slip the other way now into depression. But that hasn't happened and I got a few fun drawings out of the mania deal.

Lesson learned? Breathe. Sometimes a night of art and "True Blood" reruns signals nothing but a fun evening and a sleepy morning after.

Orchid Hypothesis

2010-01-10T20:30:00.000-05:00

"Contemporary thinking has it that certain genes doom children to higher risk of depression, ADHD, and other difficulties. But in the right environment, these same genes may actually help kids thrive."

There are so many gifts that Steve and I have bestowed upon our little Elliott. He has my eye and hair color and Steve's smile dimples and freckles in his eyes. He loves dancing and singing and listening to records. He colors and chats with strangers and will hug you without a prompt.

It is the negative gifts that may be heaped on his narrow shoulders that literally steal my sleep and sometimes even my breath.

For a long time, I believed that I was broken. My talents felt swallowed in an ocean of depression, poor decisions, and a multitude of misunderstandings. Even though I feel strong, there is an underlying... fragility? I don't know. I have always been of the opinion that maybe my brothers and I, in a different environment, one with stability and consistent praise and discipline, would have come out of our childhoods into adulthood differently. We might have been more ok than the ok that we are. Does that make sense?

There is a new term for an old idea... A new approach for parents and teachers of children with ADHD, depression, and a myriad of other emotional and learning issues. "Orchid Children (the science of success)

Steve bought me an orchid for our anniversary and I killed it within the month. It was so frustrating to watch, no matter what I did, this exotic beauty whither day by day. I didn't know how to properly tend to a being that was so different from my other house plants.

I don't want to get into a discussion about the failings of this theory. Ok, I do, but not right here or right now. How about this: it gives me a sense of peace to have a game plan. Just in case I gave him any of these negative "gifts," I don't need to feel like I have ruined his forever. And possibly, under the right conditions, the same genes that cause many of my problems could lift him to new horizons. "Environment and experience can steer a person up instead of down."

I just like the idea that, had I taken it upon myself to learn more about Orchids, I could have had a stunning plant. And if I had tried to become the best Orchid owner I could be, instead of applying the same methods and practices I would with say, an Aloe plant, it would have been worth it.

Maybe it will be enough to be the best Mom-of-an-Elliott that I can be. Not a perfect parent for any child, but the right one for mine. Whether he is an "Orchid" or a "Dandelion" or even a Morning Glory, he will be mine and he will be loved.

perception and musing

2009-12-23T14:46:00.000-05:00

I made this piece of art when I first met Steve. That was a conversely exciting and strange time in my life. I was still on anti-depressant medication but was not in any way healthy. I was eating no more than 400-1,000 calories a day. I was a size ten when I did this self portrait- down from a sz 22 6 months prior. This was the leanest I have ever been in my life. I copied from a photo Steve had snapped. I still remember obsessing over how much I still had to lose and how fat a picture I still presented.

Looking at it hanging on my wall now, I want to smack the hands that smeared the ink on those thighs. How can my perceptions of reality be so skewed.

I wonder what I really look like to others.

to medicate, or not to medicate...

2009-12-07T17:42:00.000-05:00

This is a huge, ever present issue for me. I would like to start by saying that I, in writing this, am NOT dispensing medical advice on any level. This is a space for me to binge and purge and throw ideas out and snatch them right back and most of all heal. It should, in no way, dissuade anyone from seeking the amazing option that prescription medication provides.

It has recently occured to me that I am hard pressed to remember a time that anxiety was not a constant companion. A long time ago October found me terrified of May, the month I knew all 3rd graders would have to run a quarter mile. I was horrified that I would come in last and that everyone would laugh at me for being barrel shaped and slow. I cried myself to sleep for weeks. By 5th grade, I had to eat lunch with my teacher, too afraid to go out to recess, nervous about taunting and an unknown worry. My childhood found me in and out of the hospital for stomach pain, which was due to intense anxiety.
When my brothers would play outside, I would sit in the house and draw. Suddenly, with a fierceness, an image of one of them being stolen, or murdered viciously, or taken down by killer bees would wash fear over me and make me yelp out loud. Night terrors stole my dreams and guilt plagued my days; I was in constant fear that once folks got to know me, they would know that I was no good. I tried to make everyone around me happy, tried to force them into loving me. It was nerve wracking.

This was all before my first period.

Looking back on all of this, it is no wonder that my 21st birthday found me trying out the first in a long list of antidepressant medications after being hospitalized. The list, to date, resembles a pharmaceutical ordering sheet and reads like this (in no real order):

Welbutrin- Induced severe mania
Xanax- this medication was easily abused and caused hyper sexual behavior
Celexa (allergic reaction resulting in ER hospitalization**)
Abilify - An-orgasmic
Seraquil -Slept through Christmas
Lamictal (allergic reaction resulting in ER hospitalization**)
Kolonopin
Ativan
Risperdal
Topamax- complete loss of appetite (loss of 80 lbs) and word loss
Lexapro- (suicide attempt requiring inpatient psychiatric hospitalization**)
Effexor (Induced severe facial twitching and uncontrollable rages*)
Valium

WHEW! When the last doctor I saw suggested that I had run out of options, and the only medication left to me was Lithium, I decided that enough was enough. With the help of an amazing support system (one that never let me fall too far) I stopped taking any and all medications and let the proverbial sh** hit the fan. I will not pretend that it was easy. But here I am, three years later, and I have not had the severe depression or life ruining mania that I came to know and expect. When things do drag me down, I have a ritual that helps, but it has taken me years to find a way to cope with emotions out of my control.

As a young woman, from preschool up, I never really learned how to cope with stressors in a healthy way. As an adult, I was still at a loss for coping with my illness outside of taking prescribed medications, or drinking copious amounts of alcohol, or self medicating with various drugs. I still lived with a mother who was convinced that I could be happy if only I could be thin, and pointed out how disgusting she found me as a person at every turn. The only out I had was escape, from the circling, angry thoughts in my head that often took on her words in her voice. Drugs and alcohol are a quick fix, faster than waiting 3 weeks for a new medication that may or may not help (and has its own slew of side effects.)

------------>And here might be the moral of my story. I took all of these medications to try and even-out a head that would not be quieted; it would not allow me to function for all of it's fireworks. Meanwhile, I was drinking and using recreational drugs everyday. Might one of those pharmaceuticals helped had I allowed it to work the way it was supposed to?

Get this: I am not even sure that the title "bi-polar" fits. Neither does "Borderline Personality" or "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder" or any of the other crowns that I have worn at different times, given by different doctors. Maybe, in the future, I might try medication again, and find the right one. Maybe I will learn to sway and give and stay strong against the tides of mental illness. Maybe there isn't a real title for the things that happen in my head.

But I have a name.

I am Carly Jane, who loves with her whole heart, makes up songs on the spot, is always game for an adventure, and sometimes has to cry a little harder and longer than other folks. And maybe that is ok.

Educate yourself!
http://crazymeds.us/

An open letter to Alcohol...

2009-12-07T11:03:00.000-05:00

Dear Alcohol,

i have pictures of the night we fell in love.
my cheeks were flushed and eyes were bright and frantic and blue.
(as blue as they are now but more so i think.)
i was 16.
i danced and laughed and lost myself and you loved me.
around you i was funny; you laughed at all my jokes, especially the ones that fell flat.

i drank you from a jar this chick filled in small hasty pours from various bottles stashed under her parent's bar. it was a noxious concoction and i think i gagged more than four times.... but i got it down.
vodka. gin. rum. bourbon. something sweet. together in a mason jar in my barn. we slept on blankets, passed out. something bit laurel's face -a spider maybe. i don't know.

when we were just getting to know each other, i hated beer. but 40's were a punk rock rite of passage. i drank two in quick succession once in a back alley off of south street that i bribed a homeless man to buy for me. i was 17 and had two guys flanking me, staring, good natured, rooting me on; i was crouching on bent knees. i made a dark noise in the back of my throat that i had never heard before. (i don't think i have heard it since.) but, surprisingly, i didn't puke. a coup.

holding your hand, i have certainly made up for that;
i have puked many times since.
in back seats of cars, front seats of cars, dashboards of cars.
in my hair.
in toilets, in sinks, in bathtubs, in trashcans.
on kitchen floors.
on walls.
on loved ones, on strangers, on myself.
behind dumpsters.
behind my hand.
behind horsestalls, behind rocks, behind trees.

i made lots of friends, drunks, to hold my hair back. to kick, accidentally, my feet out from under me so that i could appreciate the view from the ground with them. it was a nice view. starry skies and stormy nights and all sorts of ceilings, some cracked, but some not. if it was too ugly, i could close my eyes until it was tolerable again. but i am not feeling sorry for myself. not placing blame. (not totally.) all i am saying is when i fell, i stayed down for little awhile. (read: years) you gotta understand that it just hurt to stand up. and you simply made it easy to stay down.

i told my father, a recovering alcoholic, again and again, i am not a drunk.
i am not a drunk.
"that is just what a drunk would say" is what he said.
and i guess it wasn't just an alcohol thing. it was an escape thing. it was a get-the-fuck-out thing. but booze, you helped me out. that was what i thought, anyway.

but truly? i can't think of one time in my life where you have actually made things better. i mean, sure we have had fun. but could i have had fun without a drink in hand... let's go out on a limb here and say YES! i am just as funny without you. just as much me, even better. in fact, in all of the bad times- and we are talking really stark dark moments- that is when you broke every promise, and were in true form.

alcohol, let us be honest with one another. we've earned that.

i am an alcoholic. i only have to say it once and it is tattooed on my face, on my forearm, and on my ass. i could say it a million times and it doesn't mean i can ever have a glass of wine with dinner without the fear of losing myself. before i know it i've had 12 drinks and i've wrecked my body and ended up somewhere and i don't know quite where i've left my panties and i am not sure what story i will hear detailed in gory glory the next morning by loved ones, eyes cast down, still loving me, but hurt and embarrassed. and i will want them not to love me. because it would be easier.

so no wine. no bourbon. no beer. no sweet glow and loss of control and soft blurring of edges.(and that blows.)

it blows, but it doesn't mean i am an intrinsically bad person.
it means i have to apologise to a few people.
it means i have a lot to apologise to myself for.
it means my dad and i have one more thing in common beside the fact that the left side of our hair curls out when it gets long and that we will both talk over you if given the chance and we both like pasta more than a little too much and we will love you. if you let us.

i have pictures of the night we fell in love.
i don't have pictures of the night i gave you up. the night i broke up with you. but who documents that sort of thing anyway?
i don't love you anymore.
i don't miss you.
i don't miss puke. i don't miss headaches. i don't miss throwing money down your throat-less mouth. i don't miss pissing the bed. i don't miss fucking indiscriminately. i don't miss falling apart in front of strangers. i don't miss sharing too much. i don't miss relationships built around justifying you. i don't miss death and want and hurt and shame and guilt and nausea and...

i don't love you anymore.
i don't even miss you.

carly

ps. Thanks for all the diarrhea.

Manic Mermaid

2009-12-04T19:31:00.000-05:00

So Steve and I are getting married. Someday. But that is not what this post is about. I am just referencing the fact that I think about, obsess about, fantasize about my pending nuptials (very pending) quite frequently. Steve, Elliott and I are going to be represented in Sculpy glory on top of an opulent cake (or at least a vulgarly large cup cake.) I am determined to craft our little naked bodies and dress them with little clothes I will sew... Crazy. But there it is and here we are.

I spent $12 on sculpy and waited for inspiration. I had no idea that it would come on with such intensity a few days later. In one evening I cleaned the entire house (including the insides of the windows... ew,) and made a darling blonde mermaid. I was terrified. If you know anything about me, you know that I am not terribly industrious (read: a tad lazy.) I have not taken prescribed medication since about 6 months before I conceived Mr. Elliott, and have found, while difficult at times, I could manage to live a close to normal, beautiful life with out it. This was the first time in years I felt out of control of myself. But then, this might be the first time in my life that I live in a home that is truly safe. The low times just aren't so low here. And the high times, though very far between, are not so anxiety ridden, or self destructive.

Whenever I look at this little lady, I am reminded that my imbalance can lead to beautiful things. I had sparkly clean windows and slept better that night than I had in months. I am learning to use the energy that comes.

A rose by any other name... is still crazy.

2009-12-03T13:46:00.000-05:00

This is the first poem I wrote that really addressed the mental illness itself, not just the side effects of growing up with my mom and her "seasons":

She is a woman who comes in seasons;
bitter cold blasts
blowing through glass hearts
like slick brown beer bottles
through a chilly December kitchen window.

The spring of her course
nurses small rabbits freshly born,
pink eyes still closed to the reality
that though they are new
my father and I will bury
them in damp fragrant earth
three days later.
For all her effort, she could not keep
them alive.

My mother, in summer, is unparalleled.
Her diet consists of robin eggs
and six pomegranate seeds.
Painfully petite
she discharges and explodes.
She illuminates the sky with fireworks
and the ones that melt into twinkling cinders
have always been my favorite;
they leave you with something
long after the shimmer dissipates.

In fall, the decent is marked
with playful kisses,
pleas of forgiveness,
and a spinning
which keeps us all
off balance
for years.

My father explained to us all so many times that our mother has an "ebb and flow." Those were the words he used to describe both the abuse and the affection, the creativity and the bleak depressions. As an adult, it is easier to identify the mental illness weaved intricately through my family and myself. It isn't quite so simple to deal with when in full force however, no matter what words you use. "ebb and flow" "seasons" "the blues" "monster" "manic depressive" or my favorite, "mom."