Coming Back to Life (Part 1)

This post gets deep into my heart and for once, I have no qualms about saying that it made my eyes leak. Please reblog it, if you wouldn’t mind, and comment too. Thank you very much. And to mothers everywhere, much love and respect, you are beautiful people. Strongs!

Our Lived Experience

Today’s post is a particularly heart-rending one. The subject is absolutely not specific to parenthood where there’s mental illness involved, and it’s very much about motherhood universally. It’s brutally honest yet beautifully written. It’s also incredibly brave – by being so open with us, the author has made herself vulnerable, it’s a big risk to take emotionally. Usually we’d welcome debate in our comments; this time, if there’s any trolling, I will delete the comment/s as swiftly as possible. That said, I’m hoping for lots of comments. (blahpolar) 

The road from Saldanha Bay to the Northern suburbs of Cape Town was a long one. For someone going through their fourth onset of depression this year, it was even longer. My husband and I were en route to a clinic I hadn’t  been to before, but was promised the support I needed. We stood outside the entrance of the clinic for…

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regretting the earth

“Do you know a cure for me?” Why yes,” he said, “I know a cure for everything. Salt water.” “Salt water?” I asked him. “Yes,” he said, “in one way or the other. Sweat, or tears, or the salt sea.” ― Karen Blixen, Seven Gothic Tales

It pisses me right off when I’ve been for my sunrise beach walk and the day goes to hell anyway. I mean, honestly, it’s bs. I wake early, I exercise, I photograph and identify stuff, I get fresh air…. I go home and potter about (because I’ve reached the age where doing that and using that word to describe it fits) and then something happens or doesn’t happen and I’m slammed

keeping quiet (pablo neruda)

After yesterday’s beautiful and hopeful and hopeless and tragic posts about suicide, I’d like to introduce you to what I think is the most exquisite possible argument against it.

psychosis and the kitchen sink

(scheduled post)

The kitchen sink-o-meter reached red alert hazardous scary danger level, indicating that if I had a mind, it’d be floundering. I sacrificed some goats to the gods of war manic depression and did a pain dance to summon hypomania. Eventually it worked and then I Washed The Dishes. All hail Lamictalia, patron saint of acid reflux, dizziness and slight tremors. Naturally it wasn’t really the goat cadavers and chanting that did the trick; it was the fucked up sleep patterns, a few early morning walks by an exhilarating and wild sea, the anxiety and so on ad fucking nauseam, ad infinitum. I just had time to reset the sink-o-meter before I fell crash landed to sleep.

link and you’ll miss it

I imagine you spend long nights awake, feeling resentful of us queers for stealing the rainbow, wishing you could have it back and wondering whether we left any colours for anyone else. Well, an Adobe member has worked out the colours of a bipolar episode, one size fits all. Actually it’s just a name for a colour scheme, but my explanation is way more fun and I was in the mood for a little light snark.

So… What do you think?