Sticky Fingers

      Okay, so I didn't blog yesterday BUT I have a really good excuse. I was busy moping around and feeling sorry for myself for no particular reason. Grad school applications were stressing me out, my apartment looked like an explosion had occurred, and no one was giving me enough textual attention (I need a lot.)
      In fact, I have a pretend text boyfriend. Yes, ladies, I have cracked the code to being single. Find a guy, preferably one who lives in another state, forge your friendship out of text messages and then you can mutually benefit from the attention you give to one another. Yes, I know I'm on crack. But it works for me. Let's call my pretend text bf Blondie. Blondie is a freak and I have no idea why he talks to me. Probably the same reason that I talk to him: companionship with no strings attached or fine print. I mean OBVIOUSLY I've slept with him, but only once. And yes, it was great. Anyway, I figured out a way to do this without looking insane- make a really good guy friend! And stay extremely close with your best girlfriends. That way, when your heart is breaking, it won't hurt so much. Pretend text boyfriends are really the best way, if you can find them. But I digress...
      What I wanted to talk to you about is a very, very common manic behavior that is near and dear to my heart- stealing shit. I. love. stealing. shit. I like to call it "sticky fingers."It makes me feel like Catwoman and also a genius mastermind. The rush of the steal is what my manic brain craves and boy does it deliver. Who doesn't love getting shit for free? Unfortunately, last night, I got busted for the first time ever. This was a severe blow to my ego. Now let's back track a little...
     I lost my black beanie hat at a boy's apartment. This hat was a gift from my beloved little cousin and it is also my signature. Without my hat I am nothing! I am just a girl...without a hat. I walk into a hat store well knowing that I have literally zero dollars in my bank account. What exactly was my plan? I look around at the hats and find some beanies. Obviously the best ones are the most expensive cashmere beanies. I am eyeing the black beanie in particular so I do what any normal person would do. I quickly stuff it into my black scarf. Now, I should have walked out then before the manager had time to notice that the black one was missing, but I didn't. He kept asking me where I put it, blah, blah, blah. The jig was up. I went to the back of the store pulled it out and said in my very best actress voice "Oooh, THERE it is!" He took it from me and thanked me. Instead of speed walking out, for some reason I tried on a children's beanie and laughed. "You think that funny?" He asked me so that I knew he wasn't talking about the children's hat. "Yes, I do," I replied. As I walked out of the store, he leaned in and whispered "I know what you try to do." I turned around and said in my best Catwoman voice, "Oh yeah? PROVE it." Now, legally I could have just walked out with it since he had no legal right to detain me and didn't actually see me snag it. However, being foreign, he may not have known the laws and could have definitely tried to beat my ass. We will never know.
      Now, to be very clear, stealing is TACKY and WRONG. Don't you want to live in a world where people trust each other? I do. I also want to live in a world where I get everything for free but that's clearly not feasible. This was the first time I've ever gotten caught which made the consequences of stealing very real to me. I don't want to go to jail over a fucking hat! Or anything, for that matter. I know the rush is intoxicating, but you should have seen the way that guy looked at me, like I was the scum of the Earth. There are other, legal ways to get a rush. (When I figure out what they are, I'll let you know.) Remember, I'm still Bipolar and I'm still a work in progress. I'm not telling you to go out and steal a hat. I'm telling you that before you do, because I bet you want to, reconsider. It's just a hat. There will be other hats but you only get one shot at a future.

Your Sticky Fingers Catwoman Friend,
QB

"Why Does Everyone Hate Me?"

This is a question I find myself asking all the time. Let's break it down. First of all, who is everyone? You are probably thinking of one girl in school who is just a dumb hobag. Secondly, everyone hates me? That is a huge assumption and is an opinion, not a fact. We Bipolar ladies need to practice something called nonjudgmental stance. When we catch ourselves thinking something like that about ourselves, its important to take a step back and say "Okay, that's an opinion, it's not necessarily true."

When you're bipolar, your symptoms include paranoia. Now I never thought I had paranoia because I imagined that paranoia meant thinking the people on Jeopardy are talking about you. While that notion IS a possibility in extreme cases, your paranoia probably manifests itself in a more subtle form. For me, it has to do largely with what other people think. "People are talking about me." "My friends are sick of me." "No one likes me." I'd come up with these thoughts out of nowhere, even after a fun night out with my friends. The most helpful weapon against these harmful thoughts is to recognize them for what they are, JUDGMENTS. Judgments that result from a paranoid bipolar mind. Yes, it sucks to think these things but the more you learn to identify them for what they are, the less of a hold they will have on you.

Aside from the paranoia, there is some really shitty, unfair news. Bipolar Disorder is highly stigmatized. That means that uninformed people have inaccurate, negative ideas about what it means to be Bipolar that they probably got from their stupid parents or bad TV. You WILL come into contact with these people. I struggle everyday between being myself and hiding the truth for fear that boyfriends and friends will go running in the opposite direction if they knew that I was bipolar. And yes, I have lost friends over it. It broke my heart to hear one of my best guy friends whom I had lived with tell me that my former group of friends was hesitant to hang out with me because I was "too much of a liability." Are you fucking kidding dude? I decided that having such moronic and prejudiced friends was too much of a liability for me. I want to spend my valuable time on people that will be there for me no matter what- and those people do exist! You might just not know which ones they are yet. I promise you, you'd think I was like the Hulk- doomed to wander the Earth alone while wearing shorts that are way too short for me. I am a handful and I can be a real bitch. But I have a core group of friends and family that I know will be there for me no matter what. Trust me, it took some patience and I battled with excruciating loneliness for a long time. Just do me a favor and know that if somebody can't handle you at your worst, they definitely don't deserve you at your best. Marilyn Monroe said that, I'm pretty sure.

Hang in there! You can find other people just like you in group therapy, online forums, and understanding friends (They do exist). Remember, if you have any questions or topics you'd like me to write about, I am happy to take your suggestions.

Your Understanding Bipolar Friend,

QB

Drunken Fuckery

...And then I figured out how to title my posts. Ok. Last night I got way too drunk. Naturally, this only exacerbated my Leg Spreadage Disorder. Whoops. I, or should I say we, should not be drinking. Not only does it interact poorly with our medication, it also causes anxiety and makes us act like morons. And sometimes, sluts. Okay a lot of the time. My family members have a cow if they see me in a facebook picture, beer in hand, but my psychiatrists are more interested in finding the root of the issue and working to get me to drink less. I keep track of how many drinks I have in a week and right now my goal is no more than seven. This is a work in progress. In the past, I've been given a dual diagnosis of substance abuse and bipolar II disorder. This is total bullshit and it has probably happened to you too. We self medicate with drugs and alcohol because lets face it, it feels awesome...for a while. I know myself pretty well and I can assure you that while I do enjoy boozing, I don't have a drinking problem. I do, however, have a problem with people telling me that I have a drinking problem. They tried to make me go to rehab and I said no, no, no. That being said, I wanted to share some of the stupidest things I've done while drinking to make you feel a little better about whatever drunk ass ho shit you've pulled in your short life. To be clear, drinking too much is not funny and can have serious consequences: making everyone hate you, getting arrested, peeing all over people's furniture, hospitalization, getting fat off of drunk eating jalapeno poppers, and many more. Now let's take the time to review some of my most  idiotic stunts.

1. It was Halloween of my freshman year of college. I was wearing a spandex jumpsuit because I was a "race car driver." Yeah, okay. I tasted the sweet nectar of Goldschlager for the very first time and delighted in the shiny, shiny, flakes of gold stuff. Then I delighted in pulling down my spandex jumpsuit to urinate in a well lit alley just in time for the fuzz to show up. I ran, I ripped my underwear on a barbed wire fence, and a police officer probably saw my boob (YOU'RE WELCOME). Somehow my drunk ass managed to evade an underage drinking ticket and a UIP (urinating in public). Can you imagine that call to my parents? "But Mom, I reaaally needed to go pee."I got really lucky but that doesn't make my actions any less shameful.

2. I rolled over next to...a half eaten cheesy burrito that had barfed its contents all over my bed. My sheets have never recovered.

3. I threw up in a solo cup at a really fancy bowling alley, passed out, woke up and asked where my boyfriend was. "Oh he dumped your ass and left after reading some incriminating texts on your phone." Happy Halloween! Have not seen that guy since..

4. I was drunk and smoked some weed in wax form with a blow torch. I noticed that my pants were kind of wet and inferred that I may or may not have pissed this guy's couch. My solution? I pretended to dump beer in my own lap, stand up and proclaim "MY VAGINA IS DRUNK!"At least no one suspected anything...

5. I got way too drunk at a date party and passed out, by myself, face first in a bus seat. We arrived at our destination and I could not be roused. My good friend hoisted me over his shoulder and carried me to a friend's house where I passed out with all of my lady treasures on display because I had intelligently decided not to wear underwear. Fortunately for me, no pictures exist and a kind soul dressed me in some sweatpants to hide my shame.

6. Standing on the back of a couch that was on a high platform while wearing a bunny costume, I chased cheap vodka with cheap wine until I face planted onto the floor and everyone saw my butt. Yes, my face hurt a lot the next morning.

Okay ladies, does this sound like someone you would want to date? Bring home to your parents? Admit that you know? No? Okay, then don't drink so damn much. Try this, make a list of the ten top dumbest things you've ever done and count how many of them were under the influence. We are not like everyone else! We get extra stupid when we drink. If you must indulge, try and pick a limit and stick with it. Maybe eliminate hard alcohol. We could all do with a little less drunken fuckery in our lives. I don't know about you, but I have enough shit to be embarrassed about as it is.

Your drunken pal,
QB

Ok guys,

Here is the part where I tell you a story about myself so that you can learn from what happened, feel better, think I'm an idiot, or however you choose to interpret this anecdote from my sordid life. There is something you should know about me. I had a bad ex boyfriend. Like, move to a different state bad. Let's call him BB.

BB was unlike anyone I had ever met and we fell for each other quickly and hard. He was your quintessential bad boy; sexy, charming, funny, zero ambition. It was like a fairytale- girl meets boy, boy gives girl a drinking problem, boy emotionally abuses girl, girl ends up in the psychiatric ward. This was my nightmare for two. fucking. years. What did I see in someone who verbally abused me, isolated me from my family and friends, and made me feel like no one else would love me, ever again? This is the question that therapists, my parents, and the people who care about me wracked their brains to answer. Things got so bad that I had to take incompletes in all of my classes until I could finish my school work over the summer. I took a deep breath and got the hell out of Dodge (what does that even mean? where is Dodge?) the first chance I got. But BB wouldn't quit. He always found a way to get to me and there was some ridiculous part of me that just couldn't let him go despite all of the logic in the world. He was my addiction. If you've ever struggled with an addiction, you know that it controls you and you'll do anything to keep it. I can't even tell you how many times I was "done" with him and blatantly lied to loved ones about it. I can't really put into words what that addiction cost me but I am here today to tell you that I am free of BB and for the first time, I can look at myself in the mirror and respect the person looking back at me. 

Things would usually go a little something like this: I'd go back to my home state to visit family, tell everyone I wouldn't see him, lie my ass off and go see him. Every single time. And every single time it was exactly the same, crushingly disastrous experience. This is how guys like BB work. They give you a little something, promise you the world, then take it all away once you come crawling back. "Maybe this time will be different!" you think, even though you know it never is. One of the members of my super hero mental health team once explained to me the difference between rational brain and emotional brain. EX: Emotional brain says I love him and I want to see him and some day we'll be together. Rational brain says he is a raging douchebag piece of garbage who will never change and I will feel like shit. See the difference? Yeah, I know, the second one doesn't sound totally deranged. I spent two years in emotional brain la la land. Until last week, that is. It may sound unremarkable but here it is: I went home and I did not see him. Not even once. This is a big fucking deal, you guys! Nothing compares to the accomplishment of kicking an addiction in the ass. Did he beg me? Did he say mean things to try to manipulate me? Oh hell yes. But it didn't work this time and now I get to go to my team of super heroes and tell them that I quit smoking the BB crack. And that feels waaay better than hate sex, which is saying something. 

This is really important, you guys. If any of that stuff sounds familiar, you are most likely in an unhealthy, abusive relationship. He doesn't have to hit you for a relationship to be abusive! You need to run away as fast as you can and ask for help. I know its embarrassing but trust me, you don't want to spend YEARS asking yourself why he doesn't treat you right. Not to mention being made to feel ashamed of a mental illness that does not define you by any means. Think about it, what's really crazy? Someone who struggles with emotion regulation? Or someone who gets off on making someone else feel like dog shit? (Hint: its the second one)  I thought I'd never say no to BB but I did. And you can tell your BB to fuck off too! Trust me, you'll be glad you did.

Love,

BB Free QB

Let's talk about S-E-X

Like it or not, the urge to have lots of sex is a big part of being bipolar. In books, they like to list the symptom as "sexual promiscuity" but if you ask me, that is just ROOD. You and I like to pretend that we live in a world where we can have casual, meaningless sex with whoever we want, never lose the respect of others and never feel bad about ourselves because we are sexually liberated women!!! Sometimes, when I'm manic, I really believe that to be true. Bad news girls: this is a lie we tell ourselves so that we can justify our urge to indulge in the rush or "high" of sex.

 Enter Manic Me: I'm home alone on a Friday night. My thoughts are racing and I feel like going out and finding some trouble to get into. I put on my make up, squeeze into something sexy, stumble into my heels and head out the door. Fast forward to 1 am. I've either lost or ditched my friends, my head is spinning from just a little too much sauce and my heart is pounding from adrenaline, my manic brain, and possibly some No No Powder. I see a guy I think is hot, snap my fingers and POOF we're talking, we're making out, we're leaving, were entering an apartment and I have no idea where I am. One thing leads to another and suddenly I'm wide awake with alcohol-induced anxiety hours later. It's dark with the shades pulled down, he's sleeping, I think "Run Run Run." Now I'm lighting up a cigarette and speed walking to the subway, blinking in the daylight. I barely remember. I didn't give him my number because I don't care if he calls me. Don't care if he liked me. Don't care if I ever see him again. "I won," i think to myself, as if sex is a casual game played between two strangers. I tell myself that I am powerful, that men are just saps that I can manipulate. But guess who's finally home, mascara strewn face throwing up into the toilet? Miss "Ladies is Pimps Too."

Promise me you won't be this girl. Real power is feeling good about yourself for the RIGHT reasons, not because you can get some dirty skeeze to take you home. Let's face it, guys are pretty gross and they aren't out at the bar looking for their future wife. Whether you're in high school, college, whatever. People will talk about you. Boys won't respect you. Girls won't want to be friends with you. "But I have an overactive sex drive! I'm like a guy!" Shut up, I don't want to hear it. Go buy yourself a vibrator. Trust me, you'll never be staring at your phone wondering if your vibrator is ever going to text you after the great time you had. Unless you got one of those really expensive ones...

Your horny pal,

QB

Hello Bipolar Kingdom,


Allow me to introduce myself, your Bipolar Melodrama Queen. I call myself a Teen Queen because this blog is mainly intended for bipolar teens. Why do I call myself a Queen? Because I'm older than you, that's why. I don't claim to be some sort of expert but I can assure you that if you made a list of top ten craziest things you've ever done, I could match it and then some. I'm no angel, but then again, my blog isn't called Bipolar Angel, is it? I am a 23 year old blonde bombshell living somewhat successfully  in None of Your Business, New York with two cats and a puppy. (This is as close to a farm as you can get within the five boroughs). Full disclosure here- I will get real, I will get in your face, I will say bad words, and I will NEVER lie to you.

This blog is intended for Queen Bees, Upper East Siders, Bad Ass Punk Rock Bitches, Hipster Chicks, Nerdettes, Wannabes and everybody who is too cool for the aforementioned labels. Maybe you're really awesome at hiding your little secret but as I'm sure you know, you can't hide from yourself. If you, like me, suffer from the not-so-fairy-tale known as Bipolar Disorder, this blog is for you. Here's the good news- you can stop making fuck ups of royal proportions because I have made them all for you! I am not your parents (fortunately for you) so I am gonna break down the Bipolar beast for you by behaviors, symptoms, and the stupid things that I sometimes do in words you can actually understand. You may not want to hear it at times but guess what? I don't care and this is my blog. I want to help you because nobody knew enough about my illness to reach me when I was your age. I'm still kind of young and cool in my own mind so maybe you'll listen to me, maybe feel a little bit better, and MAYBE laugh a little bit along the way. Ask me anything you want, tell me I suck, or whatever does it for you. Ready or not, here I come.

Fondly yours,
QB