A Sarcastic Ass and a Poet

Well I am on a spree of sleepless nights (I wasn’t on my adhd med for a week and then took it late the other night–I’m all fucked up) so I thought I’d write to you about a few things: ADHD, a little on the moods in bipolar, a little Ptsd, destructive behavior, and sex.  Sound alright?

Well first, ADHD.  I’m in this group–it’s a totally limitless free-for-all for people with ADHD, and that is where I met the writer/blogger Tom Nardone (here’s his site, here’s his blog).  He has a hilarious view on ADHD (and it just so happens my ADHD is my only disorder I find quite funny).  If you get a chance, go read his stuff, and listen to his podcasts–total entertainment and eye-opening thoughts–he really gets you to look at yourself and think for yourself.


But he got me thinking about how ADHD effects my life past and present.  When I was younger it wasn’t so prevalent–except I couldn’t read books/textbooks–had no clue what was going on in English and History).  It has to/had to be very stimulating to capture my attention (and what I find stimulating are things on emotional/sexual levels).  It wasn’t until my twenties that I began to chase after things I could never catch (comorbid with the PTSD), I was abusing drugs and very sexually active (way too active–even though the PtSD blocked all orgasming).  Later in my mid to late twenties I couldn’t focus or sit  still.  I was (always have been) EXTREMELY impulsive–with words, with reactions, with money, with drug, with people.  The PTSD came into effect full force in 2009 and my brain was a scramble.  I had Read More

My dear friend and amazing, award-winning writer has started a blog and I’m telling you, you should all read it. It’s AMAZING stuff. Here I have reblogged one of her posts. Follow her, trust me.

Writing and Living with Mental Illness



Even as a child, I knew something about myself was uneasy. There is no other word for that feeling. It was not just the bad stuff happening around me and to me. It was not just my father creeping into my bed at night. It was not just the abuse drowning me from my mother. Or even that I was such a quiet child, without emotion, that I was something like a large stone.

No, this uneasiness was inside of me. It was in the way that my brain was never quiet, spinning day and night with thoughts I was unable to grab onto. It was in the way I couldn’t sleep at night, reading late, until I had to snap off the light or earn my father’s wrath. He was a dangerous man and I feared his large, rough hands.

And so I was a bookish child…

View original post 1,390 more words


Another open-link night over at dVerse Poets Pub, with a beautiful share on the late Adrienne Rich.  Come join in the sharing at Open Link Night 38.   Thanks dVerse!


There are endless days and nights

when the fever is at its peak, when the sheets

are still dry, tangled in the legs, awaiting its break.


There are endless days and nights

of infection seeping out your pores, as cells

proliferate and the mind expels the waste

through sweat and tears, as light comes

swirling out of the dark.


These are the stuff my poems are made on.


But what of now?  What of the time unspent,

endless days of watching clocks or racing

up the afternoons in a frenzy

to chase away a possible new fever pitch,

wishing for the wet moments when it breaks,

taking me away from myself and into an illness.


What am I without difficult degrees?


My heart waiting and waiting,

looking in the mirror at a face

I can’t recognize, too disenchanted

by what’s left, what awaits, by all else

moving moving forward together


I remember thinking to myself my first

night in the hospital

well at least I’ve got new material to write about

To be an illness or scar

is at least something.  A form of someone with

a clear goal, a clear ache, a clear infection.

Not this woman who, once passing clarity

or the long division of a stretched body,

waits unsettled in still time

waiting and waiting for sunlight

through her kitchen curtains to

show her something.