Tag Archives: marriage

desperately seeking malakoa

I haven’t been well lately.  I felt like I had an ax chop my heart in to four efficient slices.  If you do it right, that’s the way trees come on down.  I feel nausea right now and it’s because I took my multi-vitamin without enough food.  I had goat’s cheese and cherries for breakfast.  Enough for all the tiny pills I take, but not for those big ‘ole vitamins.  I got gummi vitamin-B complexes and those got rid of most of my vomiting.  I was throwing up most mornings. (Like, five mornings a week.)  The strange thing is that it never came to me to stop taking the pills.  They were making me sick, but I still saw them as my life boat.  I never thought that I could just drop them.  If I didn’t take them I most surely would die,  and would take my daughter with me.  There are folks out there who can be bipolar and not take meds, but I am utterly convinced I will never be one of them.

My husband has said for a while that I can be awfully cruel when I’m having an episode.  I say and do things that no one should do.  I fought off that thought because I wanted to have my own life and feelings apart from being manic depressive.  Why is it it’s my illness and not just me? Can’t I be a jerk now and again.

It turns out, no.  I cannot be that kind of jerk now and again.  

Oh, I can be selfish and eat all the ice cream left in the freezer.  I can turn the radio up really high without thinking about who can hear it and I can get in fights and make plans to get the heck out of here.  But that is not what he meant.

We had a very nice fight about two, maybe three, weeks ago.  I remember very little about it.  A few days afterwards we were arguing (rather than fighting) and he replayed some of the things I said to him.


I kind of remembered some of the topics we covered, but it was like being very drunk.  I am sort of present, but I couldn’t remember whose lap I sat on or even who I spent the evening with.  I don’t remember the beginning nor when I crossed over to the monster I become while full blown manic.  I was not an angry drunk, just a curious one.  I can’t say that I am not an angry manic depressive.  

I said things no one should ever say and at the time I meant every single word of it.  If my husband treated me the way I treated him he would be long gone, no question.

never want to do that to him or anyone else.  There are signs before I get to those places.  I start snapping at people and mad enough to plan on running away from home.  In these bizarre fantasies my daughter comes with me; I promised her I would never leave her behind and I wouldn’t.  Those plans are born of imbalanced chemicals.  My husband is not perfect by any stretch of the imagination but he is good to me and good to our daughter most of the time.  He doesn’t deserve to hear the things I said.  

Just a few days ago, he said to me, “I desperately want to stay married to you.”  For the life of me I can’t figure out why.  I am (or have been – if I’ve really changed I don’t know yet.) abusive and lazy.  I do nothing around the house for days (weeks) at a time.  The list of what I do and what I am that is cruel, and wrong goes on and on and about a third of this is caused by my mental illnesses.  

 2/3 = 66%

Am I worth it?


There Will Be Blood

It’s one of those seasons where there is so much to do and little to write.  My business is going well, so well that my husband had a little chat with me re: the amount of time I am putting in to it.  I can understand that, some what, but I don’t feel guilty.  If he wants to play with me then he can’t watch Ice Station Zebra and Dangerous Catch all evening long. 

I am having trouble with my etsy purchase, mostly because the guy running it takes 3-4 days to return emails, or he doesn’t return them at all.  Oh, and when my logo/return address label/web address stamps came (it took a month to get here) one of them was for Karibou Kindness, an etsy store – not the stamp we ordered at all.  (As if you didn’t figure that one out yourself).  I had to go mail some cards anyway, so I mailed the rubber stamp to the folks in Provo.  The vendor had the nerve to send me a letter along with the stamp saying if we had any opinion, different than a five star rating, to be in touch and they will fix it.  This is what I want to do:

Tell them I require the http://www.ccc-cards.com stamp as proofed before

In addition I want a stamp with my name, Molly Malakoa, and phone number so I can stamp it on cards and give it to people instead of scribbling out my phone number on a small lined piece of paper.

come to think of that, maybe it’s not necessary.  I can probably make the business cards with the stamps due me.  One with the web address, one with the address and a hand written phone number.  I can even    wait until we’re about to leave and then write my phone number on the card to make them feel special.  I can write the website as well, which I think is a safer way to be in business.  I don’t know why I am being so careful about that.  I’ve had panic attacks lately – I nip them at the bud with my Ativan, but the fear remains.  

I thought I was going to die if I didn’t buy a muti-box of glitter.  It was large and beautiful.  I left the store but I had to come back.  It’s safely in my drawer right now.  Don’t try to take it, and you can’t borrow any.  Go ahead and try.  There will be blood.


The Family Tree Project

There are a lot of problems with the Family Tree Project. It’s not Mr. B’s, Small’s teacher’s, fault, but I am just uncomfortable with the entire idea.

When they assigned it to my aide’s daughter, she called it nosy. I don’t have much of a problem with that – but can see there are times when revealing my past would not do me well. When I worked in the capitol, I would introduce myself using my first and last name – both are rare. Occasionally someone would scrunch up their nose and try to think where they had heard the names before. The Capitol’s major and I share the same name, and that was probably why, but once or twice I said, “you don’t know anyone I’m related to.”

Now, fifteen years older, I see that was a snotty thing to say. While my parents were state employees, stirring around in law enforcement and tax evasion, my paternal grandfather was a tom cat, sprinkling the rest of us around the country. He was guilty of a lot of poop and I have never met him, nor will I ever. The man is dead, and lays in a pauper’s grave in the town my father grew up in.

My maternal grandfather was a carpenter. My grandmother was an artist. I have no shame that comes in that, but I do not bear their name. I can’t brag that I am one of them as soon as I am introduced to someone new. Those grandparents will take up a large amount of my daughter’s family tree. Their children might be another story, one being a leech and another a meth user. In my own recovery, though, I have met many an addict that is a genuinely good person who happens to have some serious problems that they solve (or don’t) using drugs. I am naive enough to believe the drugs I take are different than the drugs they do.

Enough for now. Monday my husband and I start marriage counseling. We’re dropping the baby at 3:30 and the sitter will have her until 7. Will keep you up to date.

Just Married! (For ten years)

I’m up and down.  Therapy is going well and my husband and I are going to go to marital counseling and he is cool with it.  Last time we had any sort of family therapy the social worker said she’d never met such resistance.  There wasn’t resistance, it’s just that my husband is shy and very private I  keep some things to myself. I’ll participate in therapeutic groups, but I am guarded.   My new psychologist pointed out that every time she tried to steer things about my marriage I guided that boat away.  I went to a counselor and I didn’t bring my husband up for over a year and she respected that.  Not exactly relevant and we will see how therapy goes.  We have been on three dates in the last two and a half.  It’s kind of ridiculous.  If I’m not on top of things we don’t spend any time alone at all.  Ah, I’m complaining.  

I wonder if you read the Break (the blog entry above this one).  I may do the yoga tonight as prescribed and I really hope I do.  It’s the only time I feel in control.  I don’t know how spending 30 minutes  doing one thing effects your whole day.  I have a good idea how a pill or a drink do, though.  It might be the same with the exercise.  I’m sure there are people I could ask (hello, Hubo?) but I don’t want to know.  Not now anyway.  I feel like I need to get my lifer in order.  I just realized that I say that all the time, and that I do not know what it means.  It meant getting my weight under control and reading my Bible.  It’s time to re-evaluate.  I don’t know exactly where to start.  My work book given to me by my therapist is about automatic thoughts and emotions and how to look at things reasonably.  I’m not so great about that, but everyone has a place to start, right?  The psychologist said I was better off than a lot of her other clients.  I did creative things, had good organizational skills and worked towards getting well.  A lot of hers just lay on the couch and watch t.v. all the time.  I remind myself of this.  It is possible for me to be better, but my life is worth living.  I just want more from it

Bells Might Ring

A lot of my friends are getting divorced, or want a divorce. It seems kinda funny to me, but I’ve heard this story before. Most of us marry in our twenties. A lot of us divorce in our thirties/early forties. Some of us want to remarry, and divorce with the hope they will find someone better, others swear they will never marry again.

My therapist is about six feet tall and has a Ph.D. She has been married five times and told me that her husband of many years is almost perfect. She says that moving out to California was a challenge before because of her liabilities, namely the height and education. I don’t know if Californians are less intimidating here in California or what, but she met her husband that day she moved here. Good for her. She is a smart cookie and I like her much more than I thought I would.

She rarely works with bipolar patients, but that is okay. She said that I do quite well. Many of her patients lie on the couch and watch t.v. all the day. I do creative, productive things and have relationships. I liked that she said that. I wonder if it is a disguise or what. My illness doesn’t spread over everything I do. There are days I am totally in control, and there are others where I run up a $350 bill on art supplies. Last week I had really bad cycling. I had minutes where I said, “What is bipolar, anyway? I don’t have it, I feel great.” By the time I parked my car I was ready to die. That went on about three days. It was thrilling and disappointing. I wasn’t sure if it what would happen. There was no living in the present. I like that idea, living in the present can be wonderful so some people, but when one is suicidal, there is nothing to comfort yourself in that moment. To live with a mood disorder means living in the next moment, and knowing that the moment will change.

More about that later.


I made a delicious, sweet, crispy bowl of popcorn today, popped in pure virgin coconut oil It was fantastic and I ate a ton of it. Weight Watchers be darned! I knew what I was doing for the first time. I was not just crunching on some of the best popcorn I ever had, I was making sure I didn’t lose any more weight.

I’m nine pounds away from my goal weight. I’m tall, so it’s 169 pounds. I now weight 178. I weighed 207 and I was, as precious T says, “Hiding under a mound of fat.” We go to Weight Watchers together and she lost four pounds last week. I lost .8, which B considerately pointed out to me, “is a glass of water.”

So, what’s the deal with this popcorn? It’s obviously self-sabotage. But why? I think this is one of the whys: What if I lose all this weight and my life doesn’t change? What if it all stays the same? I’m 35, cute enough but not as cute as the “older” girls who take gymnastics at Small’s old studio. When I’m overweight, and alone, no one opens doors for me. I don’t get at lot of smiles from strangers. I would like that back. But what if nothing changes? It’s not just the pounds on a scale that I hope to change.

B wants me to do kettlebells most everyday. According to one of his gurus, Kettlebells and push-ups or weighted squats and push-ups are the easiest way to take off fat. I could do this. It would speed things up considerably: Weights are like that. I would look sleeker, muscle burns more calories than fat. Would it solve anything? Would he and I still fight? Would he be satisfied with just that short routine? He says he wants me to do it for himself, not for me. Do I even know what that looks like? Am I brave enough to find out?

Yoga is a very good thing for me. It stretches me out, gets out the kinks in my lower back and heals my left shoulder (injury sustained by sleeping awkwardly in a van back in 2001.) when I do it consistently. Do I do it every day? No. According to something I read someone at my level should be practicing three times a week. I believe them, I’m honestly just not truly ready to commit.

It’s all like having triplets. I have three things I want to do most everyday and it feels like too much. In reality, it’s not. Weight Watchers does take about an half an hour a day. Kettlebelling? Probably twenty minutes. Yoga? Between 15-50 minutes. I have that much time. I’m a writer and I work at home. But still, I don’t really want to do it because I do not want to be strong, sleek and powerful. I want to be kinda tubby, a good-enough mama and a good-enough person. If I wanted to do more, I honestly would. The evidence says that I do not.

I am reminded of a writing contact T gave me. I could have written for her friend’s magazine. I was too shy and I didn’t do it. Or at least that was my excuse. Reflecting back, years later, I believe I just didn’t want to do so. If I did I would have pursued it and would have done a fantastic job. I thought I wanted it, but I didn’t want it badly enough. Blew it.

I used to believe that the person who is unhappy single will be an unhappy spouse. B completely changed my mind. After we got married, I was still a slave to my moods (not diagnosed with bipolar yet) but he was mostly happy and said to a friend, “it’s like all those years of loneliness have been washed away.” I can be the moody one or the thankful one as far as this great big change happens to me. I do not know which one I will be.

P.S. I get to babysit today! LS is watching Small during my parent teacher’s conference and I am watching her son during his. It’s a thrill, really, to have someone trust me enough to watch her kid. LS is an easy person to do things for, and she is generous. Can I praise God for this? I’ll even share my popcorn.

P.P.S. The title of this post doesn’t mean anything of substance. Or at all.

She didn’t want me anymore

I’m noticing a theme in my entries. A good portion of them talk about losing friends, how I felt about it, and why I think I felt that way. I can tell you that my feelings are as real as the experiences, but they’re not the whole story.

Most relationships are fluid. I don’t know why it happens that way. I have a few sturdy relationships, those that last and get stronger sometimes, then weaker, but are always close. My brother is one, Mauditmo is one, and I hope my husband is one.

What makes them different than the other people I’ve written about? I don’t know. My brother and I are almost four years apart. He is so physically gorgeous I had a therapist once ask me if there was any animosity on my part. (He looks like one of the guys from those teen vampire flicks) There has never been any animosity, for one I had been raised by my parents to believe I was one of the most beautiful girls the world had ever known. I realize now that is not true. I am not unattractive, but I have acne scars and Hermione hair (most of the time). I am also thirty-five and rarely wear make-up. If I cared, I would. I think if he had been the sister I so desperately wanted, of we were closer in age I might have felt that way, but I didn’t, and never have. I doubt I ever will.

I think what makes Mauditmo and me friends after all these years is devotion. We are hardly alike at all. Her family background and mine are polar opposites. She likes four seasons, she gets to study and write all over the United States. I forwarded her a funny youtube video and she not only didn’t laugh, she told me her life was not a whole lot different than it was at twenty-one. She doesn’t do anyone’s laundry but her own. I do a lot of laundry, tiny dresses and panties, sweaty t-shirts and a lot of lounge pants. We’ve traveled together, loving the coast while we headed to Canada. We’ve taken long round trip friends to the city where both of our extended families still live.

She is also considerably smarter than most people, including me. I am considerably more spiritual and am devoted to Jesus. Religion is not on the radar for her. She’s studying at an extremely prestigious writing school and I am writing a blog in my two story track home. My seven year old is waiting down stairs for me to help her learn to ride a bike. She doesn’t really want to. My husband says she just doesn’t want to do something hard.

I best go.

My husband is the one I worry about, to be honest. He loves me; I love him. We are supposed to sustain this love forever. It’s a source of fretting. I think we will be together, and I have reasons why: our vows. We both promised in sickness and in health and there has been a lot more sickness around here lately. Good thing it’s so specific.

The odds for us are not good. 90% of marriages, where one partner is bipolar, end in divorce. B wants to approach heaven with the confidence that will come with making a marriage to a bipolar woman work. It’s not only my issues, though. He knows that, and certainly God knows that.