Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Let's do a bit of RANTING, shall we?!


 I’m not a professional writer but I've been writing blogs long enough to know that you don’t start a post with, “Hello Everyone!” or “Ten Tips for a Better Garden”.  What happens here is that they get deleted into the virtual recycling can inmediatamente (Spanish for YESTERDAY!).  I don’t have the stomach or patience to even click good-bye.  Come on bloggers!  You’re killing a perfectly lovely art form.  I don’t want your tips! Who the ^%*# cares!  I can Google my question.

Uh oh, another RANT.  What the Hell happened to Google?  Just when I completely hated the format, someone turned around and said, “Let’s change it so that Bri Potts can sort of, maybe, just barely understand it.”  I don’t want to!  That’s what Facebook is for, dammit!

For those of you, my dear friends and loyal readers who might be thinking I’m more snarky than usual, you're absolutely right.  I've had a shitty week (ironic since it’s just Wednesday).  First of all, there is no discernible food in the house. I gave last night’s leftover chicken to the dogs after I paid a locksmith a $119 to slice off the jammed refrigerator lock (for those of you who don’t know, Eric and I carry deadbolt keys to every room/door in the house that the boys are not permitted in.  This saves us copious amounts of money on entire bricks of cheese, having my personal lingerie rifled through, and batteries taken to start house fires).

Then I fell asleep.  Nice except I woke up ½ hour before my eldest was due home. Hmm...who took the dogs pee?  I’ll find the wet spots later.  With nothing defrosted for dinner, I along with the house smelled like death, my day officially began at 3:35pm.

Now, now...there’s more to it.  I could get into the earlier week’s mishaps but I won’t.  They’re too trivial. What I want to address is bigger.  Why do we, mental health patients, sink to such depths that we want to end it?  Take the plunge?  Jump off the cliff?  Enough metaphors - okay already - commit suicide?

I’m sitting at my kitchen table; it’s an amazingly beautiful day here in northern Colorado.  Yes, it’s warm but the breeze is blowing through the house.  The trees have filled in, everything is a bright green.  A Robin is in my bird bath.  My little fur ball (Tulip) is basking in the sunlight whereas a few months ago she wouldn't be coaxed out into the snow for a cookie (if you knew my fat little girl, that’s really something).

My friend down the street asked me if it was okay to share what I had tried to do over the weekend.  I didn't hesitate.  People need to know what mental illness is and that I have bi-polar.  I decided to write a funny blog today but before I do, I’ll share my story with you.  There’s nothing to be ashamed of.  Watch your friends, and support them.  Never question, never doubt.  Just love them.


I was heading towards one of my “deep darks” (Bri speak for a bad slide).  My prescriptions of Valium and Ambien were filled before I took a trip back east with my mother and her family.   I had plenty on hand. When I returned to Colorado, everything seemed colorless, sad and empty.  The same shit was waiting for me just as I'd left it.  I was back to being an unappreciated mother and housewife.

I had no plan to attempt suicide that afternoon.  I just did it.  I poured myself a very tall glass of Rum with a splash of Coke.  I sat on the front porch drinking it with several pipes of pot and then barely made it upstairs. In fact, I even broke my pipe trying to put it away (probably for the best).  Then, I drained both my bottles of Ambien and Valium with whatever was sitting on the sink.  Here’s the painful part, I sat on the closet floor, with my back to the door so no one could easily push it open, and tied a plastic bag around my neck to suffocate myself.  Wow, just typing it makes me want to vomit.

During my last few breaths, I saw Eric’s eyes.  My life suddenly wasn't so colorless.  It was a beautiful blue.  He loves me. Somebody loves me beyond life.  How can I hurt the only person who has ever loved me so completely?  Then I heard myself say, “Eric, Eric”.  This is all I remember before tearing off the bag.

The next morning, from the hospital bed, I received more details.  I went nuts.  I broke a standing mirror in my room, tore apart my bed; the paramedics had to tape me down.  And I have some very ugly bruises to show for my craziness.  I start intensive outpatient therapy tomorrow.  5 days a week for 6 months.  Apparently I need it.  Now you know my sad story.  It’s time you know how much Eric and I adore each other and why at the last moment – I tore that bag off my head.  Time to smile.  I need to smile.


Eric and I both come from large raucous families.  As the years have passed, our personal sense of humor has developed into what I only describe as sick, twisted and socially unacceptable.  Now that we’re adopted parents, we do our best to keep it in check; but from time to time, something naughty with slip out.  Before the boys, there was no holds barred.  Anything and everything was open territory.  Bathroom humor was always our best gig.

For some silly reason, Eric always commented that he needed to, “choke the chicken” when he had to urinate.  I found this absolutely appalling.  The visual itself grossed me out.  At one of my corporate holiday parties, a “White Elephant” gift exchange was held.  This is when cheap, ugly, non-wanted items are exchanged for other cheap, ugly, non-wanted items.  One year I received the most God awful, gingham, patchwork chicken I've ever seen.  I knew exactly what do with it.  I took a rope and hung it from the light fixture in our master bathroom.  Now Eric could always remember to choke his chicken appropriately.  Confession:  I recycled that ugly bastard chicken at the next year’s White Elephant party.  Perhaps I should have disinfected it?

When Eric has to do “his business” he takes “his business” very seriously.  He gathers up his newspaper and sits down on the toilet for a nice uninterrupted “read”.  I've always found this “man thing” kind of intriguing. When I have to go, spit spat (sorry for the visual) I’m done. Why sit in there and smell that business any longer than necessary?  One day I sat down on the tub and abruptly opened his door (probably helping his situation along a bit if you know what I mean), and asked what he thought of the state of the economy.

Going forward, he started locking the door!  What gives?!

Bri Check.  I took all the keys to the bathroom doors.

Eric Check.  He would hold the door lock in place.

Bri Check.  I took a toothpick just when he thought he was safe and popped open the door.

Bri Check.  I took a dental mirror and held it underneath the bathroom door.

Eric then laughed hysterically and said, “You will never be allowed in my bathroom again”

Bri Check Mate:  I placed similar looking pictures of myself all over the bathroom walls before Eric came home:

One of my pictures laughing at Eric
taped to the bathroom wall
There are also times when Eric, for some unknown reason, decides not to go to the bathroom before making a long drive home.  Knowing this habit, I was sure to lock all the upstairs bathrooms and take the keys with me. As if on demand, during our forty minute sojourn to the townhouse, Eric – who was driving – started doing the potty wiggle.

“Eric, why don’t you stop at the gas station?”

“No, no – I’m fine.  We’re almost home.”

Because he had to park the car, I jumped out and ran to the downstairs restroom giggling the entire way.  I could hear Eric screaming all sorts of vicious names towards me.  Eric ran out of the car, dodged the dog poop on the back porch, took the stairs three at a time (all as I’m humming a happy tune and slowly washing my hands).

“Dammit, Bri.  The doors are all locked!  I HAVE TO GO!”

“Say please.”


“Tell me I’m glorious.

Then to my horror, I heard pee in the kitchen sink downstairs.  Eric, Checkmate.

Since Eric is such a great bathroom reader, I composed a tremendous ode de toilet for my spouse.  I wrote it  in fine penmanship on the roll of toilet paper he would eventually use.  I determined that he would appreciate the great effort that I put into my literary genius; however, I had to wait days for satisfaction.  I would use the upstairs guest bathroom in the middle of the night to avoid destroying my work of art.

Why is it that men have no qualms to use their work restroom?  Could it be that they’re terrified of the bizarre intrusional habits of their wives?  Eventually, he saw the writing on the wall, so to speak.

Laughter.  That’s all we live to hear.