Parachutes

Hello lovelies,

Over two years ago, at the over ripe old age of 23, I finally bid farewell to my parents and started to make my own way in the world. The house I grew up in, the backyard I learnt to ride a bike in and the deck where so many deep and meaningful conversations took place were all sold off to the highest bidder. My parents having built their dream home 900 kilometres away in the quaint little sea side city of Warrnambool moved away, never to call Canberra home again.

There I was 23 years of age, having flown the cockatoo nest. I found a place 'living' with a couple of people but mostly it was just me and the dog. Months went by extremely quickly. Work, study, study, work. Social type things. The usual 23 year old nonsense. All of a sudden I was 24. I was getting old. Canberra without my parents living in it suddenly felt less like home and more like just a place with a bunch of pointless roundabouts.

In the two years I spent not living under my parent’s roof I came to realise the importance of having parachutes. When my parents migrated south I felt that I had lost the constant presence in my life of two very important ones. I figure now, of all times I should ruminate on such matters. The following is a reflection that I have used often. It has just taken on a whole new meaning for this wonderful idiot.

Who Packs Your Parachute

"Charles Plumb was a US Navy jet pilot in Vietnam. After 75 combat missions, his plane was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. Plumb ejected and parachuted into enemy hands. He was captured and spent 6 years in a communist Vietnamese prison. He survived the ordeal and now lectures on lessons learned from that experience.

One day, when Plumb and his wife were sitting in a restaurant, a man at another table came up and said, “You’re Plumb! You flew jet fighters in Vietnam from the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk. You were shot down!”

“How in the world did you know that?” asked Plumb.

“I packed your parachute,” the man replied. Plumb gasped in surprise and gratitude. The man pumped his hand and said, “I guess it worked!” Plumb assured him, “It sure did. If your chute hadn’t worked, I wouldn’t be here today.”

Plumb couldn’t sleep that night, thinking about that man. Plumb says, “I kept wondering what he might have looked like in a Navy uniform: a white hat, a bib in the back, and bell-bottom trousers. I wonder how many times I might have seen him and not even said Good morning, how are you?’ or anything because, you see, I was a fighter pilot and he was just a sailor.”

Plumb thought of the man hours the sailor had spent on a long wooden table in the bowels of the ship, carefully weaving the shrouds and folding the silks of each chute, holding in his hands each time the fate of someone he didn’t know.

Now, Plumb asks his audience, “Who’s packing your parachute?” Everyone has someone who provides what they need to make it through the day. Plumb also points out that he needed many kinds of parachutes when his plane was shot down over enemy territory-he needed his physical parachute, his mental parachute, his emotional parachute, and his spiritual parachute. He called
on all these supports before reaching safety.

Sometimes in the daily challenges that life gives us, we miss what is really important. We may fail to say hello, please, or thank you, congratulate someone on something wonderful that has happened to them, give a compliment, or just do something nice for no reason.

As you go through this week, this month, this year, recognize people who pack your parachute."

In August this year the dog and I moved in with a very dear friend of mine and his 12 month old Labrador pup. I moved in to help him pay his mortgage, little did I know at the time how much I would come to rely on my beloved old friend to provide me with stability. In recent times I have put a great deal of stress on our friendship, it has been a one way street rather than a four lane high way. I have said it before on this blog; I don’t know how I manage to get so many good friends that are so wonderfully brilliant at putting up with my nonsense. You are about to find out just how much nonsense I have been getting up to lately.

In hindsight, my latest mentally interesting episode started many months ago. I experienced my usual winter blues. I was underwhelmed with all things involving that breathing mechanism that many of us humans have. In late July I began drinking more and eating less. Self-medication. Life was too hard so I abandoned my real life every opportunity I had. Xbox controller in one hand and beer in the other, I lost myself in game world. I worked, I did my job, and I did it well like I always do. As soon as I got home though, the shoes came off, the beer started lubricating my throat and the noobs got gunned down. At some point in late July I started frequenting a local tavern, drinking too much and gambling away my hard earned. I was a sinking ship and all of the rum was already on the ocean floor.

By late August, my gambling habit, like the reels on a poker machine had spun out of control. I lost enough money to make me miss out on some pretty important social stuff, nights out with friends, camping trips and everything between. A few fortnights in a row my beloved Falcon had to learn to run on fumes and cigarettes. By the time September hit and my 25^th birthday had come and gone, I was well and truly miserable. Spring was in the air though and with it, my winter blues subsided. I was back to being my usual right of the center self, my brain was working harder and faster. Take away the drinking, gambling and my mini mid-life crisis and life was pretty darn swell.

Brown things began to hit twirly things somewhere between the middle of September and the start of October. I was getting progressively busier and the mentally interesting people in my life began to seek my counsel and support more and more. At the end of September I embarked for the fourth time as an adult on a trip to a remote outback property to help facilitate a personal development camp for young people aged 15-18. Hindsight 20-20 I was not well enough to attend and thought about pulling out a few times. The closer it got to embarkation the harder the decision to withdraw became.

I had a lot on my plate emotionally going in to camp. I had been looking after others without any awareness of my own wellbeing for a long time. There were a lot of people I was concerned about not being in contact with for 10 days. There was and still is a great deal of uncertainty about where I will be working in 2016. All this combined with concern for a cousin of mine who was in hospital suffering from a drug induced psychosis. I had plenty to worry about and very little I could do about any of it.

After a long journey with a bunch of amazing young people and some even more amazing adults we arrived in outback New South Wales. I did my job as a facilitator and I did it well because as a wise old friend of mine would say whatever you do be a good one. Things began going goat shaped towards the end of camp. My concern for people back in the real world, my uncertain future and my new concerns for many of the people on camp rolled in to one giant wool bail of worry. I began eating less, sleeping less and carried my many burdens poorly. Try as I might to find myself some extra sleep the time boat sailed down the Darling River without me. I had let myself fly a jet plane in to the enemy territory of mania and I was going to need a lot of parachutes.

By the time we began the long journey back to Canberra, I was definitely starting to lose my marbles. On a Monday night stopover in Forbes, I left the group and made a bee line for the local pub. As strange as it sounds this is a pretty normal behaviour for me, pubs are where I go to think. As someone who makes unofficial studies of psychology the pub in a small town is the ideal place to people watch. I walked into the pub and sought out the guy in charge, Vinnie was his name. Every small town pub has its own politics and you have to spend some time learning the rules of the house. I confused myself trying to order a beer, a schooner or a midi or a pot? Carlton, VB or Tooheys? Which state am I in again? Unfortunately as I was starting to slip in to a mania, these were not questions that stayed in my head. I quickly outed myself as a visitor from a faraway land. I was also dressed as an outback hipster if there is such a thing. So that didn’t help. I eventually established myself a nest in the beer garden and tried to calm myself down. When one of the other adults from the camp came and found me I made some convoluted remark about the pub being my temple. He retrieved the money I had left behind the bar for my ‘friends’ and we returned to the rest of the group.

That night we stayed at a boarding school situated right next to the Lachlan River. As soon as we arrived at the hall where we would be sleeping I skulked away down to the river, sat on some hay bales and began chain smoking. No doubt the smell of burning hay bales and the distressed mooing of cows drew one of the adults straight to me. After much convincing I took an extra dose of medication and joined everyone in the hall for a good night’s sleep.

The next day we drove in convoy from Forbes to Canberra. The medication had worked in terms of me having a good night’s sleep and I was certainly starting to think a bit straighter. The closer we got to Canberra and the harsh realities of my real world life I became more and more anxious. The other adults I was on camp with tried to become my parachutes but the more they tried the harder I would push them away. I finally got back home and immediately sought out one of my more unhealthy parachutes. I went to my local temple for a beer and some gambling. The tavern had been my rock for the previous 6 months, why not now.

Another day slipped me by and I finally made the decision to see my doctor. He gave me a week off work, told me to take 25mg of Seroquel in addition to my regular medication and scheduled a follow up appointment to see him a week later. By this time my thoughts were racing and the legendary Pink Floyd album Dark Side of the Moon had become the soundtrack to my mania. I was now extremely unwell and perhaps should have insisted then and there with my doctor that he refer me to some sort of lunatic expert.

Two days had passed since camp and my manic self had begun calling in favours from all over Australia to help me get better again. My brother and his wife arrived from Melbourne and I decided to go and hit the Canberra night life with them. Loud noises and lots of people were by this stage highly distressing for me. It was at a basement bar in the city called Molly that I truly came to realise the extent of my insanity. The noise of the place made me so uncomfortable, I could not get out of there fast enough. The lunatic was no longer in my head. I had become one.

In my manic state I had become almost childlike. Simple things that I know how to do like crossing a road or restringing a guitar were all of a sudden difficult tasks. The night after the Molly incident I again ventured in to the city, this time for a very good friend of mines bucks night. Post dinner, I deserted the bucks night and began strolling around the city. In my manic state the 25 years of my life had begun washing over me like a great wave. As I wandered around the city, my mind wandered from memory to memory re-establishing the context of so many past adventures. I returned to the group as they were about to head off to see some titties. Strip clubs and bucks nights are not a culture I like to be a part of manic or otherwise and thus I parted ways. I went and had another beer and then drove home, possibly slightly over 0.05 but I wasn’t pulled over so I will never know.

By now the days had well and truly melted together. I was deploying more parachutes than I ever had before and gradually I was getting better. My mother dearest arrived from Victoria and helped me get rid of any out of date medications. I was still doing some pretty crazy shit but my thought patterns were straightening out and my brain had begun its decent. I strolled in to a local music shop when I was at my most manic and put a new guitar on lay buy. I had given myself a carrot to get better for. I organised a re-entry meeting for myself at work. I scared the crap out of them. I had to take another week off.

A week had passed since I saw my doctor and so I fronted up to his office once again so he could decide how I was progressing. If I am totally honest, he was a bit of a cunt. He did not take the time to listen to me, instead asking me far too many questions all at once which my manic brain could not handle. Without actually making it clear to me what he was doing the dickhead referred me to my local mental health team. That afternoon a crisis team showed up at my home. I was around the corner visiting a friend when they showed up so they called me. “Hello” “Hi Jimbo here from douche bag mental health services” “What do you want?” “We’re at your house, where the fuck are you?” Needless to say I was not impressed. I strolled back and met them halfway between my friend’s house and my home. They talked to me in a carpark for 45 minutes and made me feel like I was in a fucking press conference. I sent them away and returned to my friends place. I was quite pissed off and agitated. That night I drank five rage filled beers. Bad idea.

The next morning due to the alcohol the night before making my medication ineffective, I was extremely elevated. I decided I would go to my friend’s bookshop café and get something to eat. As I was leaving home I got another call from fuck stick Jimbo from douche bag mental health. He asked where I was going. I told him. Bad idea.

After an excellent omelette and a lovely mug of chai latte, I exited the book shop in order to move my car as I had only managed to secure an hour of parking when I arrived. Douche bag mental health team were waiting for me to show up at my car. Jimbo fuck stick magee had in his hand a box of my most favouritest psychiatric medication of all time. Zyprexa (you can read about my love of that fucking shit here). Naturally, I refused to take it. I told Jimbo if he wanted me to come with him he should get me some Valium or some shit, otherwise no deal. Before I knew it I was backed in to a corner by the three idiot’s from the mental health team and Jimbo had called the cops.

There were no flashing lights, no sirens. I was in no state to count how many cops but it was at least 6.  6 cops and three of Jimbo’s merry idiots for little old 61kg me. Are these guys for fucking real? By this stage I was chain smoking, the cops let me finish my cigarette and then made me empty my pockets. They patted me down and put me in the back of a paddy wagon for a one way trip to hospital. This little lunatic had finally been caught with his pants down. I wish paddy wagons had fucking seat belts and the pigs took the fucking corners a little slower, otherwise; it is actually quite a fun way to get around.

I arrived at the emergency department at hospital in style and was quickly ushered in to what can only be described as a police lock up but instead of cops there are wardsmen, nurses and doctors. You’ll never guess what drug the on call psychiatrist tried to give me to calm me down. Fucking Zyprexa. Fortunately my Mum was in town from Victoria and was the only person seemingly in the whole universe that believed I was taking my meds. She politely told said fuckwit psychiatrist to get fucked. I was given an extra dose of Seroquel instead and my vitals were checked. I had to piss in a cup so they could make sure I wasn’t on ice or some other shit and then I was transferred to the Adult Mental Health Unit.

The quack shack at one of the hospitals in my pseudo hometown of Canberra is a beautiful, state of the art, nearly new facility. Unfortunately, its status as a funny farm is maintained by its clientele. I was one of the sanest lunatics in the joint and pretty soon became a therapist for many of the other patients. Having lost my private health insurance when I turned 25, this was my first experience of the asylum as a public patient. My initial few days in the quack shack were full of some of the most frustrating encounters with medical professionals I have had since being diagnosed with bipolar. I felt like a broken record that had been repaired with parts from ten other broken records, constantly repeating the story of my mania up to the point where I had been imprisoned in the nut house. I had come down off my mania and now felt like I was in a very large waiting room. Just killing time until the next visit from some idiot quack who wanted to hear me tell my story for the ten thousandth time.

Finally, I was seen by a shrink who talked some sense. He decided to keep me for four days at which point he would review me personally and set me free. Four days imprisoned under the mental health act. Cake walk really. So I played guitar a lot and arranged for lots of visitors around meal times to avoid eating the shitty cardboard meals they serve in hospitals. The battered fish would send the sanest person over the edge. After four days of getting up, having meds, having breakfast, playing guitar, having lunch, playing guitar, having dinner, having meds and going to bed again true to his word the shrink came to review me. After four days of forced imprisonment I was pronounced legally sane and released back in to the wild.

On release from hospital, I was no longer manic but I was still quite elevated. My mother god bless her had decided my house needed cleaning while I was gone and cleaned everything. The fact she had moved a bunch of my stuff around and I couldn’t find it made me pretty fucking angry. A few small items may have gotten a bit broken by my rage. As the days went by, my mood gradually got back on an even keel. The quack shack had removed my mania and time had made me normalise. I began to gradually get off some of the extra medications I went on during the crisis and made plans to return to work. All things considered, I could have done a lot worse.

I used many parachutes when coming down from this latest mania. There was of course extra medication and sleep. Mostly though, it was people who packed my parachute. This post is for all of the people ever in my entire life who I have used as a parachute. People like my my mother who was by my side when I needed her like she always has been. Friends of mine, who heard the call to arms from far and wide and came to slow me down. My dear friend whose mortgage I am supposedly helping to pay and our dogs who entertained me day in day out as I recovered. Thank you to all those who pack parachutes for me, even those of you who don’t realise you are doing it.

Stay Awesome

Pink Urine

'Drowsiness, dizziness, lightheadedness, stomach upset, dry mouth, constipation, increased appetite, weight gain, difficulty swallowing, shaking, infection, slow heartbeat, fainting, confusion, restlessness, tingling of arms/legs, yellowing eyes/skin, tardive dyskinesia, unusual/uncontrolled movements, unwanted breast milk, missed/stopped periods, decreased sexual ability, inability to produce sperm, enlarged breasts, seizures, neuroleptic malignant syndrome, fever, muscle pain, severe tiredness, severe confusion, sweating, fast/irregular heartbeat and pink urine.'

Greetings! Just a short list of some of the common and not so common stuff that could go wrong if you take drugs. No, I don't mean crank, shrooms, blow, coke, leapers or wacky tobaccy. The little guy whose side effects are referenced above goes by the street name Zyprexa. It is a medication, an anti psychotic and one of the first psychiatric medications I ever shoveled into my front hole.

I was in a private mental institution when Zyprexa and I got together. Increased appetite? Check. Three hot meals a day? Check. Weight gain? Yeah sure you betcha. How about 10kg's in two weeks. Dry mouth, well, that was horrible. Constipation, that happened too. Thank god for laxatives. Yep drugs to combat the side effects of drugs. Wonderful. I only ever drank half a cup of tea at a time. The other half well, it fell victim to my shaky hands and moistened the dining room floor.

That was not the only thing I did to that floor. I was a relatively new patient of the mad house. Dinner had just been served and the dining room was filling up with other patients. For the first time since arriving in this strange new place, my parents had decided to join me for dinner. I got my food and strode across the dining room, the cutlery on my tray clinking from the shake of my hands. As I went to sit down, without even a 'heads up bro', my bladder decided to empty itself all over that lovely clean floor. Cool, spontaneous urination. That's new. I guess that's okay. As long as it's not pink.

In fairness neither I, nor the floor can blame my buddy Zyprexa for the burst bladder, there were other factors at play. Mania for one, anxiety maybe and too much valium combined with a fair few half cups of tea. What I can blame the Zyprexa for, is what happened after I left the mad house.

Drowsiness. Drowsiness was my companion for the entire 6 months I was on Zyprexa. A friend of mine has a saying, 'You got time to stand, you've got time to sit. You got time to sit, you've got time to sleep'. Sleep I did. Being in high school at the time, the humble school desk was my pillow. The school bell would ring, I would get up, walk to the next classroom and then go back to sleep on a different desk. You would think my teachers would try and do something about it. I think they were just happy I showed up at all.

After 6 months poorly spent with my anti-psychotic friend Zyprexa and my anti-depressant chum Avanza, I had another manic episode. Apparently anti-depressants don't work so well with Bipolar. They keep pushing you further and further right of the center. All of a sudden your mum's the queen of England, your dog's her butler and you are their body guard. I dubbed that episode the '55555' mania, if you missed it, you can find it referred to here.

So, back to hospital it is then. Once there, they introduced me to some new constant companions. One was Lithium. It supposedly keeps you stable but no one knows why. The shakes persisted. I am still on Lithium to this day and I still shake. It gets worse when I'm stressed, tired and run down but it is manageable. Lithium also messes with your liver, kidneys and thyroid. It is a toxic salt after all. It requires blood tests every now and then just to make sure I'm not going to kick that old breathing habit of mine.

As to my new anti-psychotic. Drowsiness. Lots and lots and lots and lots of drowsiness. It was no where near as severe as the Zyprexa but it was still not good. As far as I was concerned, the impact on my quality of life was not worth the benefits of the drug. I wanted out. I told my doctor as much and he let me bid farewell to Seroquel. It was a good decision. The next few years however, did not quite go according to plan.

For the next two years I was plagued with depressive episodes. Without a friend like Seroquel propping me up, I kept falling down. Down and down I fell, over and over again. Some pretty tragic shit happened in my life at that time too. I will always wonder how much of it was the curve balls I got thrown and how much of it was not having a comprehensive drug safety net. I will never know.

My GP sent me to see a psychiatrist. I didn't like the idea. I don't like shrinks. The shrink explained to me that Lithium is a mood stabilizer, a very good one, which is most useful at controlling the highs. I had nothing in place for the lows. He wanted me to take something else. I didn't like the idea. I don't like side effects. He made me think it was my choice, gave me some information and told me I had two weeks to decide.

The list of side effects for Lamictal were just as scary as the ones for Zyprexa. Most notably a deadly rash dubbed Steve and Johnson's Syndrome. Since I never really had a choice, after two weeks I was popping the first dose. It tasted horrible and was coupled with a bad habit of getting stuck on the roof of your mouth. I didn't like that bit. I can't definitively say there were no side effects, certainly no really noticeable ones. I still take Lamictal. It still has an icky taste and I am now fairly certain that it keeps me awake for a while after I take it. Otherwise, it is pretty good to me.

My depressive episodes significantly reduced with my new safety net in place. Again, things in my life started changing at that time too. I got a job. A job that I love doing. Still kind of do. I was all of a sudden on a new drug and gainfully employed. I had a regular sleeping pattern. I was getting up and doing something I enjoyed every day. I will never know how much the Lamictal is responsible for the decrease in depressive episodes and how much of it is lifestyle. Again, I will never know. I am fairly certain it is both.

I still go up, down, right and left. It is just the way it is. That is my lot. With medication and good management, it is far less severe now than it ever was. Medication to me is a necessary evil. I don't like having to take it but swallowing a few pills, shaking a bit and not being able to get to sleep that well I feel is a pretty good trade off. I fear without my two chums Lithium and Lamictal chaos would ensue. They aren't bad little fellas really. I can even drink a full cup of tea these days and my urine is yet to turn pink.

If you don't believe me about the side effects for these things, or you are just curious go here. The TGA have a lot of quality information on all sorts of drugs, for all sorts of things.

Until the next time,
Stay Awesome!

Several Years On

Hello lovelies,

It just occurred to me that one, I have a blog that hasn't been written on in an age and two it was around this time six years ago that I first received the all powerful diagnosis. I was 16 at the time. I sat in this little room in a nice comfy swivelly chair. My psychiatrist gave me the news. She didn't stop there though...

So, we're going to give you some of this drug and a little of that one. We're not entirely sure how they work. You'll be fine though, there is only a minute possibility they can result in your sudden and irreversible death. Oh, by the way, don't worry if they make you really drowsy and hate your life even more, that is a common side effect. We have our best and brightest garden gnomes working on it. There's your cards, go and play with them. Take this crate of medication to ensure your stability and have fun. Also, for telling you this and signing a bit of paper which affirms your insanity, that will be $1376. Cheque, savings or credit?

Fair to say, I didn't like shrinks much back then. Six years on, despite finding one that contains more human and less drug dispensing monkey; my opinion hasn't changed much.

Anyway, back to the past. I was 16. I was told that I have this thing, this mental thing, that makes your head go up and down. You can be pretending to be Jesus one minute and treating each supper like your last the next. The four or so manic episodes I had experienced, two of which had required hospitalisation were suddenly explained in but one word. Bipolar.

Names have power. Knowing what I was up against made it easier to deal. Knowing that there were other people with the same thing as me walking (sometimes floating) around the earth somehow provided comfort.

When I was in hospital after receiving the diagnosis, a lovely mental health nurse paid me a visit one afternoon. She handed over an armful of books. I have Bipolar too! These really helped me get my head around it. So I read. For six months, I read whatever I could get my claws on about all things two poled. From autobiographies to haiku poems. I read everything. Twice. Suddenly, this giant thing that sounded mean and scary was just another thing. I was going to beat it.

Sadly, it is not that easy. Knowing what something is and knowing how to 'beat' it are two different kettles of clown fish. It has been a long six years. I have learnt a lot. There is still more to learn. Late last year I had my first fairly serious mania in an age. I managed to get out of it without a trip to hospital, only just. Each severe mood state, be it high or low, left or right is a lesson in resilience. I have quite a bit of it by now. I was 16 then, I am 22 now. I like to think I am much better at managing myself now than I was then. You can't put a young head on old shoulders and perhaps I am foolish trying to think that far back.

I don't see nor have I ever really seen bipolar as a negative. I enjoy the fact that for 50% of the year my brain outputs at 200%. I like the way I am able to relate to and empathise with all manner of people. If only I could just destroy winter and that little bit at the start of spring. Maybe a few other patches in between, life wouldn't be so bad.

I went and saw my GP the other day. I sat in the waiting room for 34 minutes. I went into the consultation room with him. He asked me how I was doing, gave me two scripts and a blood test form. I went to reply to his question and found myself already at the receptionists counter paying $70. If I were to charge him for my 34 minutes at the rate I was charged, he would owe me $1190. I have learnt a lot in six years. My advice, if you like money don't get diagnosed with a mental illness.

Stay Awesome!

Winter is coming....

Well actually, it is here. My most hated season. Apologies for June, it just slipped me by. I have been a very busy little vegemite since that last soppy post about not Mother's Day. There have been some up's and downs. Wise old wizards and young dogs with old tricks. Not to mention, the constant urge to bang my head against the sign on the back of the door at work which says 'bang head here' (the youth worker is a genius).

Through the months of May and June, I came to realise why my head shrinker was so keen on me getting a job last year. Between work, camping trips and all round activity, I barely got a chance to scratch my arse let alone think about the whole bipolar thing. Turns out sometimes what shrinks say is not complete and utter bullshit.

Problem being, when life gets busy you tend to loose your mindfulness. By the time I had beavered my way through my hectic May/June schedule, it turned out I was a little down and hadn't even noticed. Apparently being busy is great for your mental health. That is of course, until the busy dries up and you are left sleeping for 14 hours a day, eating far too much junk food and being generally miserable.

I learn the most from falling. The other day I had two such falls and learnt two important lessons. Number one, do not attempt to drive to work before fully removing that cursed winter frost from your windscreen. Number two, there are 10mm in a cm not 100 and if you try to tell one of your students otherwise, it may take a while to recover. Kids can be so cruel. Still, I will never make either mistake again. The first being outright dangerous and the second just plain stupid.

In the same way, I learnt from having such a plate full for those few months. The lesson is that no matter how busy I get, I still need to find the time to be mindful of my mood. It may not sound like much to those of you that aren't 'mentally interesting' but when you are prone to extreme mood states, knowing where ones head is at becomes pretty important.

Winter is my most hated season. Especially in this miserable little backwater. I am too uncoordinated for all those cool winter type things like snowboarding, ice skating and making snow angels. I am also kind of grossed out by the steam that comes off the ground when you go out for a whiz in sub zero. Fortunately, the days have started getting longer and the apparently dangerous morning frost on my windscreen is getting thinner. Bring on the Spring I say and may it be a very long Summer.

Sadly I cannot bore you any more for I must go and study some maths. I did however find this video of amusing animals for your enjoyment. Let's face it, if you took away all the porn, animals doing amusing things for our entertainment would be all that was left.

Stay awesome!

Mother's Day

I love my Mum, but I don't do Mother's Day. We have come to an arrangement.

Now, let me explain. For some reason, be it the alignment of the stars, the change in seasons or insert clever anecdote here, this time of year hates on crazy people like me. This is the first Mother's Day in six years that I have not been either too depressed to drag myself out of bed or too manic to tell the difference between my mother and a large pineapple.

The worst Mother's Day we've had together was in 2008. It involved a nine hour car trip from Victoria and me at my most manic. I was hospitalised the very next day. The old man was driving (he is very old school in that respect, driving is the job of a man). I was on the back seat obsessed with my iPod, playing certain songs over and over again at a volume which Im surprised hasn't done permanent damage to my hearing. Over the course of this nine hour Mother's Day journey, my darling mummy would have looked over her seat to check on me over a hundred times. Completely powerless to do anything but concerned about me so much that on her special day I was probably the only thing she thought about.

I tend to burn people out. I have a few good friends that somehow put up with me and I hope they stick around. Even if they try though, they will never view my bipolar as intimately or with as much compassion as my mother does.

She deals with the fallout of my manias. She has seen me lie in bed for weeks on end. She knows me at my worst and at my best. While she hasn't been the most helpful to my mental wellbeing at times, she has given more than her best to understand and do whatever she possibly can to ensure I stay in the world of the living. My mother is very stubborn as far as I am concerned. She brought me in to the world all those years ago and has spent the rest of my 21 years making sure I stay in it.

At this point, I wish I could climb the moral mountain and tell you all that every day should be Mother's Day. That we should love and respect our mothers every day of the year. I only wish it were that simple. When you have a mental illness like bipolar, you never know from one day to the next how capable you will be of loving and supporting those around you.

Mental illness is in it's very nature selfish. You try pretending you are Yaweh for a day and then tell me it is anything but self-centred. Those around you feel it most and I know this because I have experienced the other side of the asylum. I attribute the fact that I am still around to rant at you mostly to my family but particularly my mummy.

My mother is caring and understanding when no one else is. I can have a screaming match with her one minute, shortly after discover I need help with something and know I can still turn to her. She is the most selfless person I know and will ever know. All she asks of me in return is that I follow my dreams, stay true to myself and have a conversation with her once in a while. She cares. Not just for me but for every person that is lucky enough to know her. My role models aren't famous people. They are people like my mum that do what they do day in, day out without recognition because it is just the person that they are. She is a gold standard. Someone whoose blood I am very proud to have flowing through my veins.

I urge you all to love, respect and appreciate your mother's. Be it on Mother's Day or another random point in the year of your choosing. When the appocalypse is upon me, be it zombie or other wise, when things are just FUBAR, there is only one on this earth that gives me a 100% guarantee that they will be in my corner of the proverbial ring. I am just hoping when mania strikes again, I am sound of mind enough to know the difference between my mother and a large pineapple.

Happy Mother's Day to all you amazing mummies out there but particularly mine. When the day comes that I have to put you in a home, I will make sure it is a nice one.

With all my love and never enough gratitude,

Your mentally unstable Son.

Stay awesome.

Max Power

Shocker! I was in one of my favourite establishments for the purveyance of my beloved amber fluid the other night. It was here that I had a rather interesting yet somewhat puzzling conversation with a friend of mine.

You see he, like me he finds it somewhat problematic containing his mood within any sort of completely functional range. It was in between the gulps of fermented beverage and the usual shit talking he shared with me a fun fact. A fun fact which at first, I could not quite comprehend.

The title of this blog refers to where I like my brain to be, right of the center. A little bit on the high side and going fast enough so that if you ever get me to be quiet, you might just hear the whizzing sound it's fans make. My friend, lets call him 'Max Power' as my hair is super dry at the moment feels completely the opposite. To Max, being a little left of center, that slight blue twang is what sees him at his most functional.

At first I was baffled by this statement. To me it seemed a conflict of interest that Max could derive enjoyment from being slightly depressed. As the conversation evolved, I gained understanding and it gained the thought-provoke attack.With bipolar, while it is never black and white we really do get the best of everything. There are both positive and negative elements to all the mood states; high, low and mixed.

The highs give us a taste of invulnerability, confidence, creativity and the incredibly fun ability to embrace ones inner 5 year old. I would continue but I do not want to make you mentally sound types jealous. In short, imagine the best you've ever felt be it drug induced or else ways and imagine doing it for months on end, without the drug or whatever else it is that floats your boat. For me, the highs come with an incredible productivity. I sleep less, do more, think harder, better, faster and stronger.

To the lows, as Max put it, they give us poise. You get the chance to sit back and reflect with an incredible thoughtfulness that comes with thinking more inwardly. While the productivity takes a knife to the eyeball, chances are what you write and or do is more profound. You feel things and take in things that the high you usually has fly right past him.The brain fans slow their pace, more of a calming breeze than a gusty head wind (terrible pun, deal with it!).

I've been contemplating why I like to be on the right side of the spectrum. I discovered that there are negatives to both sides of the tiny little fence in the middle I never quite manage to sit on.

Depression is not all that fun for me. It is something I try and avoid just like that strange red headed  midget I went to school with.... and of course chihuahuas. Being on the right means that if you stumble a little, you still maintain a tight grasp on life. I find it much harder to claw my way back to the world of the living when I am depressed than employing a sleep parachute to drop back down into reality.

On the other hand at the unrelenting ends of the bipolar rainbow, I would rather be severely depressed than ludicrously manic. With depression, I am still in control of my actions. I don't believe taking my own life is an option for me. I have been to the edge of the cliff and decided it is just a bit too far to jump. Plus, I am a big wuss.

With a mania, I am completely out of control. I could spend thousands of dollars on rubber chickens, think that they can make me fly and proceed to jump off the Empire State Building. Perhaps my delusions involve me becoming a martyr. I decide I need to save the sharks from the dolphins, go swimming in the ocean cleverly disguised as a whale to kill those pesky buggers in cold blood and then provoke some Japanese whalers into shooting me with a harpoon gun.

I would love to  wrap this post up with a suitably profound conclusion containing shiny and elaborate word play. If however you have made it to the end of this rather intense bit of word filled bile, I apologise that this monologue does not have a neater ending. Obviously my thoughts on Max Power's fun fact require more time down the pub to develop. I will wait till I have my next low and perhaps let you know how it pans out.

I sincerely hope you all got the reference. In case you didn't or you just love yellow people with eight fingers, another gem from the you of tubes. Just strap yourself in and feel the G's!

Stay right of the center or, if you prefer, to the left. I personally, kind of sort of maybe think that possibly I know where I want to be.

Stay Awesome.

Boring Desk, Amusing Animals

Hello lovelies. My sincerest apologies for taking so long between posts. It has just occurred to me that my life has become progressively more boring since the last time I spewed my thoughts in to blog form. I can't promise you that this post will be nearly as entertaining as my previous attempts however, I will do my best to find a video of some animals doing mildly amusing things and tack it on to the end to make up for it.


Until this weekend I had given up my nicotine addiction for a far more healthier habit of oxygen and exercise. Unfortunately the stresses of my first job in over twelve months coupled with my love of all things alcoholic have recently sent me in to remission. It is an excuse, but I am good at making them and as always I have a quote to back it up.

"Success is not final, failure is not fatal, what matters is the courage to continue." - Winston Churchill

Yes, it is true. After over twelve months of  blissful unemployment I once again find myself contributing to society. I am now working four days a week in a couple of different schools helping kids with varying disabilities learn shit. Before you think it yes, I can see the irony of a head case like me doing this sort of work.

The most exciting part is that I have a desk. I have never had a desk before. It is not a big one, nor is it terribly fancy and I have to share it. None the less, it is a desk.

While I appreciate the school affording me such a provision, I don't plan on using it too much. Number one, given the nature of my role I highly doubt I will find much time to actually sit at it. Number two the desk comes with one of those cool swivelly chairs which would be an endless source of amusing procrastination for me. Finally, if I wanted to sit at a desk I would of got a far better paying desk job as a public servant with the Department of Acronym.

They say all good things come to an end. Unfortunately I think my run of being right of the center finally has. It was fun while it lasted. I got a little too high at one stage and spilt a beer at the pub, not because I was drunk but because my brain had put the beer down long before my arm had finished completing the task. The early stages of mania are interesting indeed. I thought it was hilarious but I don't think the people I was with appreciated my mood quite so much. Still, it is the price you pay for associating with a crazy. I don't know how I've managed to procure friends with such incredible tolerance.

Anyhow, here I am, back to my boring old self, contemplating forcing myself to sleep because I want to be up at 6am to get in a run before work. Still being at a normal mood state isn't so bad, I hear there are some poor souls that spend most of their life in such a way.

At least when I am like this I can still enjoy videos of animals doing mildly amusing things.

Stay awesome.