I don’t know if you are bipolar of any degree (I’m NOS—just above cyclothymia—which my former psychiatrist of 17 years, who retired from private practice—called “bipolar lite”), or even neurodivergent, but you wrote the first bipolar character I ever read AND set it in the city I lived in the most before college, so I always knew were the action was set.
For that, I can’t thank you enough.
Then The Paper Doll Museum and An Unremembered Grave grabbed me by the ganglia and made me want more.
Yes, I still read blogs—mostly from authors I enjoy, over several genres.
You don’t come across as toxic in your books or blog, but breakups after that long, sudden or not, are just as bad as the beloved dying in an accident or disaster, when you had an argument as your last interaction. Your partner dying of an ailment in their sleep, or even in hospital, never mentioned to you is up there, along with being shut out of the life of decades-long dear friend, because of a serious illness, because they don't want your pity or so that you’d remember them in health. I’ve experienced the last, twice, in the late 90’s, and it still hurts.
If we met, I’d give you a long hug, and attempt to spoil you a bit with good food. I can provide references from several authors who will attest to my harmlessness!
It shakes your world—just as much as a war you can’t stop, or a quake 7.0 or above, with or without a tsunami that might do even more damage than the quake. Your pain is your pain, and not proportional to anyone else’s.
Best wishes on finding an affordable apartment. We had to move last summer. Ouch.
Due to my belle-mère’s broken hip, her inability to get strong enough to stand even with a walker, and her dementia, I won’t have to look for her hearing aids, glasses, water or juice bottle, or do three loads of laundry in a day (incontinence), because we can’t care for her here any longer. After rehab releases her, it’s a memory care nursing home for her. Not cheap, either, here in San Jose CA.
I did manage, in an apartment with no gardening space, to force the issue. Sunlovers are at the backdoor in the all-sun all-day, and the shade lovers (need more heuchera fir more color) in the NE-facing balcony with its impermeable stuccoed railing. Then I managed to get hired to prune sixty-bleeding-four diseased roses, and am now de-straggling the yard of a friend with lots of CA natives. It’s peaceful if strenuous work.
Marina, you’re a writer! You totally nailed everything, all of it, exquisitely. Humor is a nice buffer but of little use in the crushing tsunamis. And no, I don’t live with a bipolar disorder; that was my son before things got worse. My heart is with you and your mom on this sad journey, Marina. Wishing some smiles and much gentle peace for both of you.
I’m not as driven a writer as professionals, but I can express myself—and tell various people that those around you are the toxic folks, or to be gentle with yourself, and that I care deeply about them. I can write essays about my passions, detailed recipes, and utter silliness. At Chez Bejeeber we are a punning clan.
I love words, language, and languages. I had a blast watching Arrival: linguistics was my major, but the non-linearity of time confused me a bit.
I’m sorry things got worse for your son—and thus his mother. Mine had juvenile onset BPD, but he seems to be in remission. We were dx’d on the same day, him at 7, me at 47. Because of a primary presenting symptom of deep and long depressions, getting worse & worse, I am motivated to stay on & manage my meds.
For my son, I *had* to model good management, but a couple of years out he recognized that I was facing similar frustrations and thought patterns, and that no one else in the household had that same experience.
I finally obtained a new pdoc earlier this year, and she’s a different kind of wonderful than my last one. Even better, she understands Witches & their communication with their deities: there is no assumption that when I say Goddess told me a stranger over there needs help, there is no likelihood of schizophrenia barring any other symptoms. We’re a good match, but she checks meds only once a year unless there’s a concern on the experienced patient’s part.
I “speak medical”, keep up with medical news, do my own research. The reasonable physician likes or admires this: those who don’t are dying out.
Bravely forwarding on through this tragedy as you have through so many, with a wry sense of humor like cotton batting around the blow. Yes, do revive "An Unremembered Grave."
May the fleas from 10,000 camels carrying plague, rickets, typhus, and tapeworms infest your home and garden, the mosquitoes of their oasis give you malaria, and wasps go after you from the date palms there, after which a flock of the Great Bird of the Galaxy fly up your nose, and departing deposit the remains of their last hearty meals all over you.
Then, may rabid weasels tear at the infinite wang-meat with rusty braces, and infected beavers infest your sphincter with babesiosis*, Chagas*, schistosomiasis*, and several hemorrhagic fevers.
All this, slowly, while those who you’ve harmed, corporeal or not, watch from safety.
That’s cursing with invective, possibly taken too far, except for war criminals, child molesters and rapists, where it’s not enough.
*Any of these get you banned forever from donating blood products, and may make you unable to donate any other parts of your body.
I don’t know if you are bipolar of any degree (I’m NOS—just above cyclothymia—which my former psychiatrist of 17 years, who retired from private practice—called “bipolar lite”), or even neurodivergent, but you wrote the first bipolar character I ever read AND set it in the city I lived in the most before college, so I always knew were the action was set.
For that, I can’t thank you enough.
Then The Paper Doll Museum and An Unremembered Grave grabbed me by the ganglia and made me want more.
Yes, I still read blogs—mostly from authors I enjoy, over several genres.
You don’t come across as toxic in your books or blog, but breakups after that long, sudden or not, are just as bad as the beloved dying in an accident or disaster, when you had an argument as your last interaction. Your partner dying of an ailment in their sleep, or even in hospital, never mentioned to you is up there, along with being shut out of the life of decades-long dear friend, because of a serious illness, because they don't want your pity or so that you’d remember them in health. I’ve experienced the last, twice, in the late 90’s, and it still hurts.
If we met, I’d give you a long hug, and attempt to spoil you a bit with good food. I can provide references from several authors who will attest to my harmlessness!
It shakes your world—just as much as a war you can’t stop, or a quake 7.0 or above, with or without a tsunami that might do even more damage than the quake. Your pain is your pain, and not proportional to anyone else’s.
Best wishes on finding an affordable apartment. We had to move last summer. Ouch.
Due to my belle-mère’s broken hip, her inability to get strong enough to stand even with a walker, and her dementia, I won’t have to look for her hearing aids, glasses, water or juice bottle, or do three loads of laundry in a day (incontinence), because we can’t care for her here any longer. After rehab releases her, it’s a memory care nursing home for her. Not cheap, either, here in San Jose CA.
I did manage, in an apartment with no gardening space, to force the issue. Sunlovers are at the backdoor in the all-sun all-day, and the shade lovers (need more heuchera fir more color) in the NE-facing balcony with its impermeable stuccoed railing. Then I managed to get hired to prune sixty-bleeding-four diseased roses, and am now de-straggling the yard of a friend with lots of CA natives. It’s peaceful if strenuous work.
Marina, you’re a writer! You totally nailed everything, all of it, exquisitely. Humor is a nice buffer but of little use in the crushing tsunamis. And no, I don’t live with a bipolar disorder; that was my son before things got worse. My heart is with you and your mom on this sad journey, Marina. Wishing some smiles and much gentle peace for both of you.
I’m not as driven a writer as professionals, but I can express myself—and tell various people that those around you are the toxic folks, or to be gentle with yourself, and that I care deeply about them. I can write essays about my passions, detailed recipes, and utter silliness. At Chez Bejeeber we are a punning clan.
I love words, language, and languages. I had a blast watching Arrival: linguistics was my major, but the non-linearity of time confused me a bit.
I’m sorry things got worse for your son—and thus his mother. Mine had juvenile onset BPD, but he seems to be in remission. We were dx’d on the same day, him at 7, me at 47. Because of a primary presenting symptom of deep and long depressions, getting worse & worse, I am motivated to stay on & manage my meds.
For my son, I *had* to model good management, but a couple of years out he recognized that I was facing similar frustrations and thought patterns, and that no one else in the household had that same experience.
I finally obtained a new pdoc earlier this year, and she’s a different kind of wonderful than my last one. Even better, she understands Witches & their communication with their deities: there is no assumption that when I say Goddess told me a stranger over there needs help, there is no likelihood of schizophrenia barring any other symptoms. We’re a good match, but she checks meds only once a year unless there’s a concern on the experienced patient’s part.
I “speak medical”, keep up with medical news, do my own research. The reasonable physician likes or admires this: those who don’t are dying out.
But I’d rather have the vibrant woman I met at our wedding, decades ago.
Bravely forwarding on through this tragedy as you have through so many, with a wry sense of humor like cotton batting around the blow. Yes, do revive "An Unremembered Grave."
The photo at the end is really great! YOU are strong! Always have been! Take Courage!!
For that punk in Moscow:
May the fleas from 10,000 camels carrying plague, rickets, typhus, and tapeworms infest your home and garden, the mosquitoes of their oasis give you malaria, and wasps go after you from the date palms there, after which a flock of the Great Bird of the Galaxy fly up your nose, and departing deposit the remains of their last hearty meals all over you.
Then, may rabid weasels tear at the infinite wang-meat with rusty braces, and infected beavers infest your sphincter with babesiosis*, Chagas*, schistosomiasis*, and several hemorrhagic fevers.
All this, slowly, while those who you’ve harmed, corporeal or not, watch from safety.
That’s cursing with invective, possibly taken too far, except for war criminals, child molesters and rapists, where it’s not enough.
*Any of these get you banned forever from donating blood products, and may make you unable to donate any other parts of your body.