On the farm in Lexington Kentucky (family visit) w/3 sizes of clothes

horse

Even tho I packed really carefully, when I landed I had slacks that fell off my butt and dresses I could not zip up. We are going to a fancy equestrian party tonight and luckily I had a stretchy maxi dress. I have gotten sloppy w/food, not lifted weights as much as I should and right now, sugar and carbs have ahold of me.  My AIC, which I worked on lowering for four months, has risen w/the 12 lb I gained (all in one place). It’s hard not to feel like my life is out of control right now. Alot of our activities while visiting Dad center around food and drink. And on the subject of ‘out of control,’ I forgot to plan for the weather. I brought too many coats and not enough shorts.

But look at this horse. Do you think he likes me any less for any of that? Of course not. He is a horse, of course, of course.

Suicidal Bipolar Projects ‘Plan,’ and I’m in Hospital?

How else can I say it, title it?

allicat

You are my people. My resource.

You hear it first.

My life is messy.

It’s not the worst.

My BFF turned my life upside down.

You guys know I have chronic pain and was looking for a way out. I went Cold turkey for over a week. The worst pain I’ve ever had except for the 60 day flare in reaction to an ‘interventional pain management’ pain doc. Yeah, ‘interventional’ all right. Between me and my life. Between me and my pocketbook. Once back on, thought I could not get off. But I’ve been sick ever since. Hey, you play you pay.

Weak and sick I wanted to go to the ER and check for an obstruction. On the way gonna stop by my BFF’s. I’d packed my low sugar high fiber foods and protein Shakes with Pomegranate in them and Off I was gonna go. Except for one hitch. She’d called the cops and said I was suicidal. Cuffed and dragged off to the psych ward. Then she called my father and told him private stuff. She’s always hated my husband. Partly because he doesn’t have money and she thinks I could do so much better.

I’ll really miss her. Foreign films, world affairs, someone intellectual, worldly and brainy to be around and another former disc jockey.

I think it’s a marketable story. What can I call it in seven words or less so that betrayal and paradox jump right off the page; promising a publisher clicks? Can I Sell it to Buzzfeed? Vice? Gawker? Who?  It’s got to be a rebellious type of publication. One that questions the system a tad.

The two publications I write for probably wouldn’t appreciate my caustic tone when I describe yanking the warden’s chains; claiming I’m a nationally published writer who is also in their daily newspaper, a mantle of credibility which happens to be true. People get starstruck.

The puzzlement on their faces was precious. Priceless.   Maybe it’s true. Maybe she’s here by mistake. Our mistake.

Where does this story of one friendship (probably a sick, codependant attachment) end and a new life of healthier pursuits and a more balanced set of associates begin?

Because it’s not really about what she did to me, it’s about why I attract people to my life sicker than I am. That’s what’s nuts.  Then I share my intimacies. Totally Bonkers.

All along I assumed she understood and she’d just been laying in wait to get me locked up somewhere.  She’s disapproved of my level of care and self care all along, right down to the cooler full of raw foods, low sugar fruit, protein and water I carry around.

Suicidal Bipolar Projects ‘Plan,’ and I’m in Hospital?

How else can I say it, title it?

allicat

You are my people. My resource.

You hear it first.

My life is messy.

It’s not the worst.

My BFF turned my life upside down.

You guys know I have chronic pain and was looking for a way out. I went Cold turkey for over a week. The worst pain I’ve ever had except for the 60 day flare in reaction to an ‘interventional pain management’ pain doc. Yeah, ‘interventional’ all right. Between me and my life. Between me and my pocketbook. Once back on, thought I could not get off. But I’ve been sick ever since. Hey, you play you pay.

Weak and sick I wanted to go to the ER and check for an obstruction. On the way gonna stop by my BFF’s. I’d packed my low sugar high fiber foods and protein Shakes with Pomegranate in them and Off I was gonna go. Except for one hitch. She’d called the cops and said I was suicidal. Cuffed and dragged off to the psych ward. Then she called my father and told him private stuff. She’s always hated my husband. Partly because he doesn’t have money and she thinks I could do so much better.

I’ll really miss her. Foreign films, world affairs, someone intellectual, worldly and brainy to be around and another former disc jockey.

I think it’s a marketable story. What can I call it in seven words or less so that betrayal and paradox jump right off the page; promising a publisher clicks? Can I Sell it to Buzzfeed? Vice? Gawker? Who?  It’s got to be a rebellious type of publication. One that questions the system a tad.

The two publications I write for probably wouldn’t appreciate my caustic tone when I describe yanking the warden’s chains; claiming I’m a nationally published writer who is also in their daily newspaper, a mantle of credibility which happens to be true. People get starstruck.

The puzzlement on their faces was precious. Priceless.   Maybe it’s true. Maybe she’s here by mistake. Our mistake.

Where does this story of one friendship (probably a sick, codependant attachment) end and a new life of healthier pursuits and a more balanced set of associates begin?

Because it’s not really about what she did to me, it’s about why I attract people to my life sicker than I am. That’s what’s nuts.  Then I share my intimacies. Totally Bonkers.

All along I assumed she understood and she’d just been laying in wait to get me locked up somewhere.  She’s disapproved of my level of care and self care all along, right down to the cooler full of raw foods, low sugar fruit, protein and water I carry around.