Access denied

too bad how sad
almost caught again
almost distraught again
from the web of lies
you use to try
to ply my affection
for your lazy errection
well from where I sit
there’s nothing in it
for me
money won’t make me your honey
so I ain’t interested
in your lonely predicament
I choose freedom not fear
just leave me unthethered
by your wandering weathered
ways of theiving displays


Sales pitch

you wanna date me?
you wanna make me yours?
right now?
you don’t even know me
even though we’ve
talked briefly over the years
texting playful but always perplexing
so from where does this proposal come
me thinks you’ve plucked it out your bum
while you’ve gotten older
your dating pool’s grown colder
you think I’m an easy option
desperate for adoption
but despite your age
you’re still a shark in a cage
nothing but a playa
using my heart to wager
a remedy to your loneliness
but from you its meaningless
I know your type
from my old past life
I’m not interested in your pitch
I’m giving your offer a miss

Trigger happy dating

My experience with bipolar is one giant, lifelong learning curve. Just when I think I’m beginning to understand it, it knocks at my door and shouts “come out, come out, wherever you are”! I’ve recently discovered a new trigger for hypomania – online dating……

date night

My usual symptoms of my hypomania:

  • A belief that I am FUCKING.FABULOUS.
  • I’m the FUNNIEST.FUCKING.PERSON. Alive. I laugh loudly and everybody laughs with me
  • I have the most FABULOUS.FUCKING. business ideas. They are faultless.
  • Insomnia gives me extra time to focus on my FUCKING.FABULOUS. ideas
  • I’m hyper-sexual. My mind just humps, oops, thumps ‘’

date night 2
This is what happens when I join a dating site and begin to trip the light fantastic:

I’m all depressed ‘n stuff. You know – don’t shower, anti-social, sleep for days, wanna die. As I begin to loop out of the depression, my energy returns, I shower, smell good, start living, even shave my legs, eat food that isn’t only ice cream. Hope is reborn. That somewhere in this industrial suburb a kindred spirit resides who will love me unconditionally. With great anticipation, I join a site. There is conversation, debate, outrageous flirting and flattery, empty promises and hope. Adrenaline and dopamine let loose in my veins suck me into the vortex of hypomania. The overstimulation of interaction, anxiety, late nights and lack of routine feeds a hungry hypomania like a protein shake:

  • I construct my profile and think it’s FUCKING.FABULOUS.
  • The profiles I chat with think I’m FUCKING.FABULOUS. because I’m funny and sexual, or should I say sextual and have no boundaries
  • I fall in love and make attachments immediately and I feel FUCKING.FABULOUS.
  • The frantic pace of online dating is exhausting and within weeks I start crashing.
  • We date for a while. Then they inevitably and quite rightly claim “We laughed so much in the beginning. You’re just not the same person I met”.
  • The dating stops, hope is lost and rejected, I fall into pieces. Depression settles in
  • And so I return to my anti-social habits, not showering, sleeping for days, wanting to die and eating too much ice cream

Call me crazy, but only in my world would dating be a trigger of hypomania instead of a normal social activity.

Bikers, bullshitters and death by drowning

So I’ve only cheated on my diet twice in my first week. I call that a success. Watch out dating site…. I’m nearly ready….. just no assholes this time round please. No prospect bikers with patches who fall off their motorbikes, no married men in a mid-life crisis, no bullshitters, sorry, I mean salesmen, no salesmen please, no greek gigolo’s, no young playa’s, no steroid-pumping weight trainers and please no sweet-natured Afrikaans speaking farmers. Ek praat nie die taal nie. (I don’t speak the language)

Aw, big, bad biker, you

Aw, big, bad biker, you










Now as per a request by a fellow blogger for more upbeat posts with less doom and gloom, here is my effort:
If I did decide to kill myself I would happily do it by drowning. I always have been a water baby, or should I say, babe, so it seems appropriate. A diver once told me that was the most peaceful and upbeat way to die. Not gloomy at all. Since I’ve been wanting to go diving without a scub tank, I did the responsible thing and rang my Dr S. My shrinky-dink. We cheerily chatted about my little predicament, agreed I had some optomistic options and then together we laughed and laughed and laughed about the medical aid coverage. The outcome is hopeful. Despite this being the second critical depression in a one year period, things look rosy because I have a positive attitude. And there’s always the chance I’ll snap out of it because my medication dosage is high. So I’m pumped. I’m amped. Next week I could get to have a sedated slumber party in the psych ward of the local hospital. I’m so excited, I am just tickled to death.

Babe is workin’ her issues

My intention with this post was to prove how unsuccessful I would be to date again, considering all my issues. It was to illustrate how inadequate and undesirable I am. An epic failure. The imaginary dialogue took me to a different ending. To a strange place of victory and the birth of a new self-image, possibly? And this is how the story went……

I’ve been on a dating site a couple of times. I’ve noticed a particular curiosity. The majority of men specify they want a woman with “no issues”.

These are grown men who have previous experience with women. Some already divorced from an unhappy marriage or separated from a tumultuous long term relationship. Many remain bachelors and dabble in some pretty serious serial dating. One would think they would have realised a long, long time ago that mostly, women (and men) do have “issues”. There is just no escaping it. It’s what makes us human.

A first date with one of these fella’s plays out in my head:

Hello, nice to meet you, I’m Pieces”

Hey sweetie. Right, let’s get down to business

Oh, well okay, you see I’m not all that bad really….once you get to know me”

I’ve heard that one before. Now get to it. I have another date lined up

Oh, okay. My issues. You insist on full disclosure. Well, I have bipolar”

WHAT?!! Are you one of those ‘schitzo’ types. Are you like, crazy? Unstable?

No, no (lies, lies) I’m not like that at all (more lies)”

Well, you better not be ‘cos I dated a psycho chick once before. She was nuts, a real bitch, threw all my shit out her place one night. Wouldn’t let me drive her car to work anymore (incredulous). Had to take the bus. What a wack-job she turned out to be

Um, okay, well, where was I? Issues, right there’s the bipolar and then I have IBS”

What’s that?

Um its a bit embarassing. I have tummy trouble. I’m sometimes in a lot of pain and there are lots of foods I can’t eat”

Oh shit (get it). So you’re one of those fussy types!

No, not fussy. I have a food allergy. I’m gluten intolerant”

Gluten? WTF? Isn’t is a muscle?”

No. Can I finish talking?”

You mean you have more issues?

Yes, I also have anorexia which I tried to fix, but just because I’ve put on weight doesn’t mean I’m recovered. I’m actually just a fat chick with anorexia. Its left me with severe body image issues”


Sssshhhhhhh (finger to his lips). I was also married to an alcoholic for 15 years. I’ve been abused. My divorce was a mind fuck and has left me scarred. Years ago I was raped. I’ve dealt with an awful lot of trauma which has moulded me into the courageous, colourful, spirited person I am today”

Whoa, okay babe-”

My name is not ‘babe’. I’m not a pig. My name is Pieces”

stares at me with big googly eyes

Now run along to your next date. I’m too good for you”

Now that didn’t go at all as I’d planned! When it first played out in my head I was all – like me, like me, phleeeease like me. I think this may be what’s referred to in professional circles as a breakthrough. I guess I’ve been doing a lot more work on my ‘issues’ than I realised.

To be or not to be

I can never tell when I’m hypomanic. I just feel good and so I think, great! I’m feeling good. I have energy. My brain is sparking. What a wonderful world.

And then I notice I’m chatty at work, I’m not going to bed because I just have to do one more thing, I’m up and at ’em after only 4 hours sleep. Ohmygod, its so good to have energy again. I am planning to start singles clubs and support groups. And then I get irritable. Well, I tell myself, that’s just ‘cos you haven’t been sleeping well lately. Hmmm, pause for thought….. And then I realise, I’m hypomanic.

No my life is not ringing with joy or fun or feeling fabulous. No, I’m presenting with a symptom of my mental illness. Oh yay.

Now if that doesn’t take the fun out of starting a singles club, then I just don’t know…

Actually I prefer, my buddy, blahpolar’s   label – neurobiological disorder. Yes, I would definitely feel more comfortable saying that on a first date when my hands are shaking so furiously I can’t pick up the coffee cup without it sloshing all over me and the table. Me smiling broadly in my new red lipstick going “oh it’s fine, really I’m fine, this happens all the time…. neurobiological problems and all that….” and I’d continue the date blissfully unaware of the dry cappuchino mustache left on my upper lip.

Anyhoooo, as I was saying about being chatty…….

Motivation, manscaping and other mysteries

I have no motivation. Perhaps I’ve forgotten where I put it.

…. I’m watching Sons of Anarchy. I’m a fan. There’s only one thing that bothers me though. Jax’s white tennis shoes. How the hell does he keep them so clean? Let’s face it, pristine white. Come on, the guy rides a motorbike, drives along dusty dirt roads and if he’s not involved in some shoot-out or bomb blast, he’s killing someone at close range. But his shoes? Never a speck of dirt or blood. Drives me insane. Wish I could keep my shoes that clean. And I’m just an office worker who’s never kill anyone. And I drive a car…….

…. lately I’ve been getting a sense of finally settling into my new life of singledom/aloneness. I can’t say I have any complaints. I get to eat what I want, sleep in ’til when I want, not shave my legs and everything’s always exactly where I left it……….

…..pretty selfish I know. And they say “it’s a man’s world”? ……..

…. Men. Hmmm. To be honest, I have thought about dating again. It would be nice to have some human interaction. But then I think to myself – ughhhh, if I get a boyfriend I’ll have to wax my whooo-haaaa because according to a documentary I watched today, 80% of males prefer ‘no hair down there’…….

… oh well, here’s my contribution to the statistics – the only percentage-of-men I prefer, are those who have a propensity for piercings and manscaping……….

.. come now motherfucker’s. No pain no gain. It is, afterall, a man’s world…..!

… gosh. I sound a bit man-angry. Maybe I shouldn’t date just yet…………………………………………..