Friday, May 23, 2008


My Cats Tigger and Sugar, and my friend's cat Jasmine. She's Tigger's sister. She comes by to play with him.

Photo of apex of pyramid building on Cal Poly Tech's campus. The Sun is lining up with the point.

Photo of me at age 25. I was dancing in Vegas, and decided to try CA. Been stuck out here ever since!

hi forrest~

jasmine is tigger's sister. she lives downstairs and tigger takes elevator down to see her
apex of the building 
i am not that same person anymore. i've moved on...

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

How To Be Bipolar In LA

WELL FINALLY !!!!!!!!! whew u made it. it was a lot of work for me....if u read my blog backwards, i realized, u can see how i used creativity and hard work to make myself feel better and bring myself up out of depression.........i think i am part psychic or something....u can call it the way u want to....i have decided that judging others is not my job nor should it be others.....i tried to explain that to my ill friends u have to move on and leave all the shit that drove u crazy behind has been a hard road for me....and i know i am not the greatest writer in  the world or the greatest artist...i can't explain how i feel  still stunted i haven't reached higher yet to fully grasp what it is i am supposed to be... i will try to learn mathematics if i can find someone that is patient is like greek  to makes my head hurt and i always get the calculations wrong.....i want to be einstein isaac newton smart.....cuz why everyone?????????

if mj could turn prisoners around with his songs, he has done a lot....

that's right! i have a big braaaaaaaaaaaaainnnnnnnnn! ahhahahahhahahah but u have to keep a sense of humor about it.....peace out, world!
How To Be Bi-Polar In LA

LA is a hard town. A lot of people gravitate out here to make a fast buck, and have a “Get out of my way” attitude. It’s a hard place to make true friends and meet someone special in hopes of a long lasting relationship. That’s been my experience, anyway, and I’ve been living out here about 20 years. They say LaLa Land is the Land of Fruits and Nuts, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s the Land of Flakes as well. Don’t get me wrong, though. LA has a lot of things going for it, else I wouldn’t have lived here so many years.

I love all the different cultures here; I find it interesting. I’m originally from Alabama and grew up in the sixties outside of Birmingham, that and Selma being just two of the hot beds of racism at the time. I lived in the country and went to an all white school, and I remember a particular incident when I was in elementary school. I remember they tried to integrate black children into our school one day. We all watched out of our classroom windows to see deputies escorting these children inside our building. I’d never even seen a black kid before, expect on TV. I don’t know what happened to these children after that, but they never returned to our school. When I was a freshman at the adjoining high school, we had one black teacher. She taught typing. I used to look at her and wonder where she came from. My Mama lives in Mississippi with her sister. I tried a few years ago to live there when I lost my apt. and couldn’t afford LA anymore. They still wave rebel flags there. The black community there is called Nigger Town. I had to leave that place and come back here.

LA is a fast paced society, and with its “Get out of my way” attitudes, sensitive people like me are at a loss as to how to keep up. Me, I’m Bi-Polar. I don’t like to be bi-polar. It’s not an enjoyable state of being. In fact, I hate it very much. It’s ruined my life. See, I don’t get many of the manic highs that are associated with my disease. I get the other side of the seesaw. I get the crushing depression, low self-esteem and hopelessness that it entails. ‘The Black Dog’, as Sir Winston Churchill described his depressive episodes. I admire people like him so much. That he could rule a country in a time of a World War and be depressed is beyond me. He must have had a true strength of character.

You know what I do? I sit and stare at TV for countless hours, inert. I have to have something to occupy my mind or I give in to endless obsessive negative self-talk that drives me mad. Either that, or I lie in bed for days on end and vegetate. I’ve been on many different drugs to combat this, and little have helped me. I’d say I’ve been on at least 20 different drugs over the years. Mood stabilizers, anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, tranquilizers (I suffer from phobias and have anxiety attacks as well), you name it, I’ve been on it, it seems. I’ve been a full-on recluse for about 10 years now, venturing out sometimes when I can’t take it anymore, only to crawl back soon afterwards like a whipped puppy when LA’s cacophony of noise and relentless sunshine beats my brow. I have no patience and am irritable a lot of the time because I’m so sensitive to everything. The endless traffic snarls here puts me round the bend soon enough. I also suffer the physical aches and pains of depression, and I get weak and feel ill when I get out. Sometimes I have to pull over in my little car and just sit, waiting for the wave of exhaustion to pass over me. Sometimes I don’t know if I can make it home, but eventually, I get back here.
How To Be Bipolar In LA 2
Sandi Yeah, Me.

I live on Social Security Disability and I haven’t worked in 5 years. I live in a HUD Housing apt. complex that’s rented solely to residents with mental illnesses. It’s a nice, clean secure building, and we feel safe here. Sometimes, I feel like I’m an occupant of an insane asylum, because a tenant will move in that won’t take his meds, and the rants ensue. But on the whole, it’s a quiet place and we inmates are for the most part pleasant to one another and respectful of each other’s privacy. A lot of us stay to ourselves, but there’s a rec room in the lobby where we can go to socialize and commiserate. It has a TV, stereo, board games and a computer. We have monthly meetings with the management, which I always avoid, and we hold potluck dinners here on the holidays. We also have a laundry room that’s free to use.

We have a counselor that comes around once a week to help the tenants with services we need to get for ourselves, like Vocational Rehab or some such thing. That’s what I’m doing right now. I’m looking for a part time job to help pay my bills. I don’t know if I’m well enough to work, but I’m sending resumes anyway. I go to the local church to get expired Trader Joe’s food, because groceries are exorbitant. The food we get there is iffy, to say the least. Moldy and bruised fruit, and rotten vegetables. It’s a gamble I don’t enjoy taking. You have to eat it as soon as you get it before it goes off. We poor people who line up there to get it are happy for what we can get, though.

Social Security covers some of my expenses, but I’ve had to live on 3 credit cards I have as well, to supplement my income. I’m vainly trying to pay them off. My friends here in the building are in similar straits. LA is an expensive place, and we have to look for things that are free.
I’ve had the same sub compact car since 1997. My friends can’t afford a car, or are too ill to drive, so they get bus passes and get around town that way. Our rents are computed by how much we get from Social Security every month. We live in fear of the day Social Security goes bust.

I used to have a part time job at an upscale auto dealership to supplement my disability right before I moved here, and lost it because they wanted me to start working full time and I can’t take the stress of a 40-hour workweek. I was also scared to lose my benefits and my Medicare. Before that, I had another part time job at a real estate agency, but was let go one day when I had a bad reaction to all the meds I was taking at the time.

I was standing on a ladder, putting marketing material away on a shelf and I heard a buzzing in my ears, and then, boom, I passed out and fell. I came to, and had double vision. I had to be taken to the restroom by my co-worker because I couldn’t see. I immediately threw up and went into a sweat. I had to soak my face with water. My ears rang and I was very dizzy. I threw up again. They called the paramedics and those handsome guys took me to the emergency room at UCLA Medical Center. I sat there in the hallway for 6 hours and left without being seen. I forgot to get a release to return to work, so the next day, I asked the temporary Psychiatrist that had prescribed those meds to me to give me one. I was fine by then. She refused, and they replaced me. That hurt. I felt like suing, but I’m not the type.

Each time I lose a job, my self-esteem gets a little lower. I sort of gave up after losing my last job, because when you work, there’s a limit you can make and still get disability. Social Security takes money out of your check, and you have to make it up with your pay. I’ve had to pay back hundreds of dollars they said I owed with my last job. They take it out of your monthly check until it’s paid off. The auto dealership wanted to give me $11 an hour, but that would have gone over the $800 a month limit I could make and still receive my benefits, so I had to ask for a pay cut.

My rent also goes up when I work. My friends and I complain that we’re being penalized for trying to work and do better for ourselves. That the government wants to keep us down and poor. I’ve heard it a lot from other people in my therapy groups at the clinic. I always think that if I won the lotto, I’d pay it all back one day, because I really am grateful for the help I get.

The thought of trying to work full time with this god-awful depression is terrifying to me. Not only does it trap you mentally, there are the physical ailments as well. Then there is the loss of concentration and poor decision-making. Sometimes people talk at me. I say at me, because I can’t absorb a thing they’re saying. Words fly over and around my head. That’s a humiliating thing when your employer is trying to explain something to you. I forget what I’m doing and have to write copious notes to myself so I can fake it. Even that doesn’t help sometimes, because I can’t understand what’s being said to me in the first place. I liken it to having molasses on the brain. And I’m intelligent, so it irks me to appear stupid. I watch Jeopardy almost every night, and am very good at it. I’d like to go there and apply to be a contestant, but I’d have to report my winnings to Social Security! Ha. Catch 22.
How To Be Bipolar In LA 3
Sandi Yeah, Me.

Here at our building, we can have pets, and that’s important to me because my 2 cats help me when I’m down in the pit and can’t climb out. I love my cats; they’re gentle and sweet. Their affection keeps me going when I don’t think I can survive one more day, one more minute in this town. These apts. are single occupancy only, and visitors are not encouraged to stay the night, so I get very lonely here on my own. I cuddle with my cats and feel a bit better. Animals really are therapeutic. I wouldn’t want to live if I couldn’t have a pet to soothe me.

When I lie in bed, I write in my journal to get some of this shit that’s bogging my brain down on paper, or else, it leaks. These negative unending thoughts torture me when I feel particularly ill, and I’m a frustrated human being on the whole, because I’m artistic and have bursts of creative ideas, but depression annihilates Beauty. I haven’t done my art in years, and can’t even lift a pencil to sketch. I become too apathetic to care.

I wish I could be like my favorite Bi-polar, Vincent Van Gogh. I make occasional trips to the Getty Museum in Brentwood when I can function, to see my favorite painting by him: Irises. I can just picture him in one of his tortured manic highs while in the gardens of the mental hospital he was confined to in Arles after he went loco and cut his ear off. I stare at his brush strokes and can feel the passion and artistic desperation that fueled him to paint almost non-stop. The frenetic energy of his paintings mirror my racing thoughts, and I wish I could reach out and touch the lovely colors and by that, somehow touch his hand through time and his canvas. I feel sad for him. I want to let him know he is loved and appreciated and we in this world hold him in awe. That he is not alone in his pain and that we all need his beauty very much. I love you, Vincent. ‘This World was Never Meant for One as Beautiful as You,’ as the song goes.

There was a movie back in the 80’s I liked very much, starring Timothy Hutton. After drowning himself to save another, he dies and goes to Heaven, and there meets the fellow residents. They are carrying on, doing creative things, like writing sonnets or painting, and from there it is passed down as inspiration to us mere mortals on Earth. I’d like to think that’s how it really is, and that Vincent is out there among the stars, painting galaxies for us to peer at through our telescopes. I hope I can go there one day and get to meet him.

Another favorite Bi-polar of mine is Kurt Cobain. He was a great songwriter, and it’s sad when talented people like him commit suicide, because the world mourns the ruined potential of it all. I’m listening to him right now. You can hear pain in his voice. “Hey Kurt, why didn’t you get help, Sweet heart? Why did you want to join The Dead Too Young Club? Couldn’t you take a hint from Janis, Jimmy and Jim? You rock, dude.”

Once, I read Patty Duke’s autobiography about being bi-polar, entitled, “ A Brilliant Madness.” That pretty much sums it up for me, as far as I’m concerned.

A lot of us suffering from this disease are intelligent, articulate, talented individuals, but we have to wade through the noisome knee-deep muck to survive, and it can be a loathsome business. Death taps on our rusted mental-hinged doors, and suicidal ideation becomes the norm if we don’t fight it and get some help. It ain’t easy being cheesy. I used to be a fun loving girl with a quick wit and a bubbly personality. I had two jobs and supported myself. Now I feel like a dullard and a wastrel.

I feel horribly ashamed of our society for letting mentally ill people fend for themselves in the streets of LA. I’ve been homeless, and it’s a miserable existence. I’ve never been straight up out in the streets, but I’ve slept in my car and on couches, and it’s the bottom of the barrel, that lifestyle, and there’s a lot of cold-hearted people out there who pass by the mentally ill on the streets and find them repulsive, like the ill chose that life because they’re lazy or something. I mean, where do they go if they need to go to the restroom? How do they get food to eat and water to drink?

By the way, sleeping in a Geo Metro is very uncomfortable. You have to scrunch down in your seat so you’re not spotted by someone and not get bothered by the police. You have to find somewhere safe to park, so you don’t get raped. I had to pee in a bowl and throw it out the window. I usually got urine all over my hands. I’d go to McDonalds to wash up and try to look presentable. I’d look in the mirror and see how haggard and starved I was. McDonald’s was the only place I could afford to eat at. Egg McMuffins for 99 cents. I’d go to the library to park and try to get more sleep. My legs would go to sleep from sitting in the same position, because I was too depressed to get out of my little car to stretch. I’ve contemplated many times over the years of jumping off the end of Santa Monica Pier and feeding the fishes.

There are a lot of selfish people out there with bulging wallets that could help these people out, but instead get a thousand-dollar pair of shoes, a three thousand dollar purse, or a five hundred dollar hair cut. Or maybe they spend a million dollars on a wedding and reception, only to get divorced a year later. I’m talking about these over-priced celebrities in this town. It makes me sick, thinking about how they get money poured over them and expensive freebies because they happen to be famous. I think a lot of them forget where they came from, and their big egos make them believe their own hype.

I used to like Russell Crowe until he picked up a phone in a fit of temper and hit a hotel employee in the head with it. Now, he’s just a thug to me. I won’t go to see his movies anymore. I used to be a front desk clerk at a hotel. I also used to be a bartender. “Hey Russell, What’s Up, Punk? Why’d you do that? I’ll kick your butt, and I’m 5’3” and 108 lbs! I’m little but I’m feisty. I’ve bounced bigger dudes than you out of my bar.” The Hells Angels and gang bangers used to come into the dump I worked in as a dancer in San Fernando Valley. I have no problem telling men off when they’re being jerks. I grew up without a father. My Daddy was electrocuted in our basement when I was 7, and I remember him abusing my Mama. Russell, I’m just joking, I don’t want to scare you or anything! Ha.

There are babies starving out there in the world, but these select few of the rarified stratosphere they inhabit feel no social obligation whatsoever to help their fellow man. I’m sure all celebrities, sports figures, rock stars, corporations and other rich people are not all like that, of course, except maybe Leona Helmsley. The Queen of Mean left all her money to her cat. Selfish to the bitter end. People like Bill and Melinda Gates have it right. I think rich people have a moral obligation to the poor of the world to help them out and feed them. What about more food pantries, or donations to places like Goodwill or Salvation Army? I get all my clothes there. Goodwill also helps people find jobs. I go to the job center in back of the store to surf the Internet for job sites and to use the fax machines to send resumes. I’ve decorated my whole apt. with furniture and furnishings that I’ve gotten from the thrift shops I go to. You can even donate your old cars or boats if you want. And it’s tax deductible. Charity begins at home.

I wish I could help. I wish I could build more places like where I live for the mentally ill, but a lot of neighborhoods don’t want places like this anywhere near them. They think having mentally ill people amongst them bring down property values, and they’re a little bit afraid of us as well. Maybe a lot afraid. I’m more afraid of the criminal types hanging out in front of our local 7-11 than anything my fellow apt. dwellers can throw at them. We stay to ourselves and go to our therapy sessions and see our psychiatrist at the local mental health clinic to get our meds.

My friends and I were pretty offended when Tom Cruise announced to Matt Lauer that there was no such thing as post-partum depression, and that he had the inside scoop on the mental health system. We thought him a fool. And Britney Spears, get some help, honey! You can’t do it yourself! Anna Nicole Smith needed some help too. Too bad she turned to drugs and alcohol instead. Now she and her son are dead.
How To Be Bipolar In LA 4
Sandi Yeah, Me.

You have to be compliant with your meds and treatment to be on disability, and I have no complaints on that score. I want to get help for this horror. I feel my therapist understands me, and if I didn’t take my meds, I’d feel even worse, if that’s possible. I feel down right deranged sometimes. Yelling and cursing at myself, while pulling ugly faces at myself in the mirror. Pacing, hitting myself over the head in self-hatred, the whole shebang. One time I even hit myself in my head with an iron. I saw stars. I feel ill and sad just thinking about it.

I have mental illness on my mother’s side of the family. Mama said her daddy acted crazy, and she had one aunt named Emma who was a raving lunatic. Another of her aunts was confined for many years to Brice Mental Hospital in Alabama. I think she even ended her days there. How sad. I remember going with my Mama and my aunt to visit my great aunt there one day when I was small, and being frightened by the patients there. One of them said, “Come here, little girl.” I ran. I don’t know whom else in my extended family that is mental, because I haven’t seen any of them for years. I’m too phobic to fly. But they must have been bi-polar too. I feel sorry for my great aunts I never knew, because in their time, there were not the types of medications they have today to help them. They probably never went to get any help any way. They were simple country folk.

I read that this disease gets worse as you get older. It has for me. I’ve always been bi-polar I guess. I remember feeling lost and lonely at a wee age, and when I hit puberty, I’d lock myself in my bedroom, listening to my stereo and not come out for hours. I’d roll back and forth on my bed, tearing at my hair, feeling the battle for good and evil being fought in my head. I remember when Close Encounters of the Third Kind came out. My family lived in a trailer park at the time, and I would stare out my bedroom window up at the night sky and beg the aliens to come and take me with them. Crazy in Alabama.
Being bi-polar, I’ve made a lot of disastrous life decisions I wish I could take back. A lot of relationships that I impulsively jumped into, with selfish, drug-addled miscreant men with a propensity for violence. I’ve never been lucky at all in the love department. With my low self-esteem, I’d never dared hope that I’d find a nice, sensitive, intelligent mate who shared my interests in art, science, history, music, spirituality and many other subjects I like to read up on.

I used to smoke pot for years to try and escape the pain I felt. My psychiatrist would lecture me when I saw him with, “Now Sandra, you know that marijuana has detrimental effects on your brain. It can cause psychosis and is a depressant.” He’d show me brain scans to prove it. I’d smoke until I felt translucent anyway. I’d turn to a TV station that was all static and snow and would watch images pop out at me in 3D. Thank God that I never tried meth. I’d be dead by now.

One time, I was talking to my boyfriend, and old 40’s style newsreel images appeared on his face. I saw tanks rolling by and soldiers marching from one of his ears to another. It was like a movie projector had been turned on him. I heard the steps the soldiers took, and the roar of the tank engines as they made their way, and the voice of the Walter Winchell-like commentator. No doubt it was a reaction to the mixture of high potency weed and my meds, but it was very interesting to watch.

I had to seek help to get marijuana out of my life. It was a hard thing to accomplish, but smoking it had gotten old, and I was tired of the paranoia and lethargy that it instilled in me. I read that the weed today has 7 times more potency than in the 70’s. I used to drink a lot of wine to add to my deliberate obliteration, but quit that as well. I should have been a scientist, but ended up an ex-stripper/stoner chick instead. I’d make my own bongs and stayed stoned out of my gourd from the time I got up until the time I went to bed at night. I was a functioning addict. I started working as a bartender when I couldn’t take being a dancer anymore, and would work all night long alone, stoned off my ass, mixing drinks, rotating the stock, cleaning up at night and balancing the till, dropping the money and closing up. I’d make myself a huge drink when I’d get to work and sip it while working.

I have to pick up my meds direct from the nurse at the clinic so she can monitor my symptoms. I used to get my meds from the pharmacy, but they were afraid I’d use my pills to commit suicide, so they dole out only enough for two weeks at a time. They put my pills in a daily pill container so I can remember to take my meds every day. Sometimes I forget anyway. If I go a few days without my meds, I definitely feel it.

They weigh me when I’m there, because when I get depressed I don’t eat for days. I don’t bathe either or clean my place. I have no desire to help myself whatsoever. Self-preservation flies right out my bedroom window. I stare out that window from my bed, and see life go by. I look out and earnestly wish I could get out of my bed, go downstairs, cross the lobby, and rejoin the human race. Instead, I feel paralyzed. I feel great sadness and cry bitter tears and turn away to hide under my comforter instead. I become misanthropic and feel like an alien from another planet. My cats curl up next to me to comfort me. They purr, as if to say, “Take it easy, Sandi, we love you and are here to heal you.” One lays up against my neck, and the other yawns, reaches out her paw, and caresses my face and stares soulfully into my eyes with huge blue orbs of understanding. “ Peace be with you, Sandi.”

I have to take Trazadone at night to try and get some sleep because I’m an insomniac. I used to be able to sleep about 16 hours straight in a depressed state, but now, I suffer the opposite effect. And when I do sleep, I get chased nightly in vivid nightmares that leave me waking up upset and unrested. Alien, vampires, evil clones, ghosts, rapists, etc., haunt my dreams and I wake up covered in sweat. Or I get lost in a maze-like building that goes on for miles and I can’t find my way out. Up and down stairs, endless corridors, and doors leading nowhere. I don’t know why I have to suffer like I do. I mean, what did I ever do to deserve this torture?! I cry out to God to take this pain away. I crawl on all fours and croon to myself and howl in agony.

I saw a documentary about Edvard Munch, the artist who painted “The Scream.” It showed how much he suffered from mental illness. He’d cry and moan, and say that he couldn’t take it anymore. I think he ended up killing himself, just like Vincent and Cobain. Can you imagine the horrors that the mentally ill suffered through the centuries? Being chained to walls and treated like animals, being lobotomized and spit on in the streets. Being sexually abused. Being experimented on by the fiendish Nazi ‘doctors’. Or just gassed by them outright, along with other people that had disabilities. I shudder to think about it! I cry to think about it.

Last summer, I got down to 95 lbs and my immune system went down with my weight. I kept getting bladder infections that lasted for weeks and made me totally miserable. I suffer chronic dry eyes from my medication. I have to use Restasis eye drops every day for it, and I also take flaxseed oil supplements. My skin is terribly dry, and I’m constantly thirsty as hell.

When I was on Lithium, my hair fell out. On Neurontin, I had bouts of chronic diarrhea. Zoloft kills my libido. Prozac and Paxil made me gain 15 lbs. They gave me big cravings for sweets. Abilify made me pace and wring my hands and mutter to myself, as I made the circuit around my chair in my small living room. Around and around that chair I would go. Resperdal brought up my Prolactin hormone levels, and I began to lactate. I was sent to have 2 MRIs done, to check my thyroid and pituitary glands, and I have to go to the clinic periodically to have blood drawn as well.

A lot of trail and error with the meds over the years. Sometimes I feel like a human guinea pig, because my depression tends to be drug resistant. One of my friends here had electro-shock therapy for her chronic depression. She said it helped her feel good for a while, but the depression came back. “ Hey, plug me in Doc”! I consider it sometimes, because I feel desperate, but I’m afraid of the memory loss that’s a by-product of the procedure. I feel like I have the onset of early Alzheimer’s anyway, with my forgetfulness. Sometimes, when I’m writing, a particular word is impossible to spell, and I try to phonetically sound it out, and write different variations of the word, to no avail. I know it’s wrong. I used to be good at spelling. I won the spelling bee when I was a kid. Another frustration.

I’m grateful for the money I get from disability, and the nice apt. I live in. I had to be on a waiting list for years to get in this place. I know there’s an alternative to my life out there, and I’ve been there. It’s not pretty. Your self worth becomes zilch. I thank God all the time for my low rent and a roof over my head. So many people out there in the streets don’t have the opportunity I had. They sleep on the concrete and freeze at night.
They live on another plane of existence altogether, full of pain and heartache and empty stomachs. Hearing unpleasant voices in their heads and thinking the CIA is out to get them. They’re left to their babbling and delusions. Creatures to be shunned. Objects of ridicule and abuse. Being set afire by punks. Beaten to death. Raped. Their belongings stolen. Laughed at.
How To Be Bipolar In LA 5
Sandi Yeah, Me.

I’ve been there before, last summer. I had a manic attack that lasted for weeks. I thought I was getting messages from Jack FM, a local radio station. They have no dj format, only recorded ironic sayings, then music. I thought I had this huge Epiphany one day, listening to that station, like a thunderbolt out of the blue, and I became very agitated and felt otherworldly. I felt I had a direct link to the other side, and I was channeling dead celebrities. All the words in the songs meant something important, and I had to get out there and tell everybody that God is Real, because before this happened to me, I kept having strange synchronistic events that kept occurring to me. When my Epiphany hit, creative thoughts exploded in my mind, one after another, Pop, Pop, Pop, Pop, Pop, and I danced non-stop for hours, writing furiously on a notepad all the meaningful lyrics that were directed at me. I did this until I dropped from exhaustion, only to get up and do it again.

I couldn’t sleep or eat for days, this was so important to me to get out The Word. Songs like “Message in a Bottle” by the Police meant something. Like God was trying to tell everyone through the songs, and me, that to reach our next Evolution, we have to tap into our creative side and be totally open, and then we’ll move into a Higher Cosmic Consciousness and touch The Other Side. And I swear on a bible, I was told to get into my car and just drive. I took a Magic 8 Ball with me, and would listen to the songs on Jack FM, and then ask the Magic 8 Ball if I should go this way or that. I drove on freeways I’d never been on before, going I knew not where, being guided by some inner GPS, and feeling paranoid that I was being followed by the FBI. I don’t even remember how I got anywhere, the miles just blurred past me. I had an intense urge to get wherever it was that I was being directed to.

I ended up at Cal Poly Tech in Pomona. They have a building there on campus that you can see from the freeway. It’s in the shape of a pyramid. I immediately turned off at that exit and drove directly there. I drove around looking for a parking place, afraid I’d get towed. When I saw a mother duck and her ducklings waddling across a parking space I was passing, I knew that that was a Message to me. I turned in. I’m an animal lover, and Magic 8 Ball said it was ok to park there. I was connected to the Universe, remember.

My boyfriend at the time came along for the ride to look after me so I wouldn’t hurt myself. He didn’t even question me about it. That’s love. I had only just met him only days before that, too. Later, he said he thought I was on crack. I brought along my two Polaroid cameras someone had given me for no reason the day before. We got out and went looking for the library. I’d never been to this place before, or any of the other places I ended up at that day. I took pictures with my cameras with no film in them, but with my magical thinking, I thought they would imprint images on the ether anyway. I had no doubt in my mind that I was being sent there to the library.

I walked up to a grounds keeper that was bending over, working on a lawnmower. I asked in which direction was the library, and he pointed the way. “Just over that hill.” Wow. I’d chosen a parking lot from that whole campus that was very close to the library. Sweet.

I stopped, and turned around, and asked him his name. “Peter”, he said. I felt he was there for a special purpose and I was meant to meet him. A Heavenly Messenger. I said, “Thanks, St. Peter!” and he smiled. My boyfriend and I sat down for a minute to rest and to take pictures of the pyramid building with another camera that actually did have film in it. I was looking at the point of the apex of the building against the sky. The sun lined up perfectly with the point. I was really on to something! I had no doubt in my mind. Right then, I heard Peter call out, “Hi Mr. President!” Here comes the president of the college with two females, walking past. I make a point to say hello to him, so he would remember me. The girl in the cowboy hat. I was on a Mission from God.

It was very hot that day. It was in June. I felt ill from not eating, dehydration, the heat, a bladder infection, and I kept suffering bouts of diarrhea, but I carried on with My Mission, no matter how bad I felt. We got up and made our way across this hill to the library. On the way, I saw a cardboard arrow that had blown over, and it was, I had no doubt, pointing the way. I took a picture of it with my empty Polaroid. I had my boyfriend take my picture with the Polaroid in front of the entrance.

We went in, and I chose the 4th floor of the library, because the day of my birth adds up to 4 in numerology. I checked with the Magic 8 Ball to confirm all my decisions. Besides my Magic 8 Ball, I carried a small figure of an angel. Earlier, I had stopped at a convenience store to get refreshments, which I felt too sick to eat or drink. I saw a package of Eclipse gum, and took it for My Mission. I wondered if a celestial event was about to take place, or maybe an attempt would be made to contact the astronauts on the Space Shuttle that was then in orbit.

As soon as I entered the 4th floor of the library, and in my fevered state, I went directly to the bookshelves and started pulling books at random. Mark Twain, French Philosophy, a copy of a book called The Onion, several others. The Onion had fake joke headlines that said, “The CIA killed Kennedy!” Synchronicity.

I had just heard a program a few nights before on Coast-to-Coast AM, a late night talk show that explores UFOs, Spiritualism, Psychic Phenomena, Conspiracy Theories, and other unusual subjects. That night, the person being interviewed was the son of a big shot in the CIA back in the sixties. I forget his name. He had told his son on his deathbed that he was in on the conspiracy to kill Kennedy, and wanted to confess his part in it!

I can’t remember all the books I took down so many months ago, and never got around to writing all my experiences down, because depression took over after my manic phase, and I felt too gloomy to try. Anyway, I took the books I had selected, and chose a meeting room in the middle of a row of rooms with windows looking out on the lawn outside. We walked in, and I walked up to the window. I saw that someone had written an equation on the window. I took pictures with my empty Polaroid cameras. I had them slung across my shoulders when not in use.

I set up my multi-media display on the table. Mark Twain with the package of Eclipse gum, ala 'Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court', when Sir Boss amazed everyone with the prediction of the impending eclipse. I circled the joke headlines on the copy of the Onion, and wrote, “ George Nouri, Coast-to-Coast”. I placed the angel figurine down next to it and wrote, “I Am With You Always”, or something to that effect. I don’t recall all of what I arranged, but I left it there for someone to find. Off we go, back to the car and the heat. I felt quite dizzy and strung out. Onward!

We ended up in Temecula, at the Pechanga Casino. Another place I’d never been to before, on highways I’d never been on before. My magical thinking directed me around the casino, and I felt connected to all the numbers and Native American Spirit Animal Totems throughout the casino. I went up to a painting of an Indian Chief, and saw numbers painted there. I walked around thinking of Pat Benatar for some reason. We came to a showroom, and I swear, there was a picture of Pat Benatar; she was going to be performing there. Love is a Battlefield, Pat. I tried a few slot machines just to see if I’d win in my magical state, but was disappointed. That would have been very cool if I had won something, though!

We left and went out to the covered parking lot where I’d hidden the car so the FBI wouldn’t find us. We slept a little. We left and stopped at a fast food restaurant to get something to eat. I had to choke a few morsels down. I looked over and saw a rabbit peering at me through my window. I felt the Spirit Animals were communicating with me. I was on the right track.

We got home to my boyfriend’s house. I tried to sleep and couldn’t. I left the radio on in case more Messages to me came through on Jack FM. One song would be “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin. And I’d think, “Cool.” And feel protected. But in the really late hours, I heard “Sympathy for the Devil,” by the Rolling Stones, and I lay there and quaked with fear. I hid under the covers and put my fingers in my ears. Like there was the Dark Side that wanted to stop me from My Mission and Message.

At one point, the recorded voice said, “Jack FM”, and then something like,
” Homeland Security knows where you’re at”. That set me off again. I had to get out of there. They were after me. I dragged my boyfriend out of bed and said I was going. Off we go again. More freeways; I had to get out of LA fast. I kept thinking,” Bono, Bono, Bono-he knows. He’s tuned in-I have to meet him. We have to get the Word out.” “ Bono, Bono, Bono- Come in Bono!” We end up at, I kid you not-The Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena at 5am in the morning. NASA! I’ve never been there before. I asked the guard the way to Descanso Gardens because I’d seen it in passing. I didn’t want to blow my cover so the CIA/Homeland Security would find me. I’d turn off the radio and my cell phone sometimes so they couldn’t track me. I was really afraid they’d take me away and make me disappear because I had all this information.

I decided to really get out of LA in case there was an impending disaster, so from there, I decided to get to Mount Wilson Observatory. We would get lost because I didn’t know the way. Back to my Magic 8 Ball. Should I take this street? Yes. This way? No. I got lost once more, and I then began channeling dead celebrities again. “River, River, River Phoenix! Come in, River! Come in, Baby! You’re a Phoenix! Be that bird and help me, Honey!” I look to the right, and I see a big sign that said ‘Lake’. “Thank you baby! This way!” We end up at the observatory at dawn, too early for the gates to be opened. We curl up in the back of my Geo Metro and try to sleep a little.

When the gates open, we go to the observation deck. This woman in a pick up truck drives by; we flag her down. She works there; she’s an astronomer. I ask her if any celestial events were scheduled. No, she said. I feel frustrated. She leaves. My boyfriend and I go to the picnic tables; he sits, and I lay on the table, exhausted.

Eventually, two hikers come up the path and sit at another table to rest. There was no one else around, and it was very quiet. Birds singing, insects humming. I felt in tune with Nature. I know these men are scientists. I just knew it. I asked them if they were scientists, and they confirmed it. I asked them, “Do you believe that all things are connected in this world?” One said, “Well, we scientists are a skeptical lot. We have to have it proven to us.” I get up off the table and twirl around a few times. I say, “I am a dancer, I can feel it-everything in the Universe is connected.” I proceeded to show them all these odd numbers and symbols I had programmed into my cell phone. Entitled variously as ‘Him (God), God loves Oprah, Earth Below Us, The Politics of Dancing, Bono Phone Home, etc’. I kept all these strange numbers in my phone until recently, when I went through a bad depression and thought God didn’t love me after all, and I erased them. (Except Him, just in case!) I wish I’d kept them now. I’d text these numbers, and I asked one of them, “Where are these calls going to? They’re connecting, and going out-where are they going to?” He had no answers for me.
how To Be Bipolar In LA 6
Sandi Yeah, Me.

We left eventually, when I was sure LA wasn’t imploding, and somehow ended up at Riverside Library. I went to the bookshelves again and chose randomly. Books about the Berlin Wall, The American Revolution, The Russian Revolution. Sunday, Bloody, Sunday, Bono. The French Revolution. I’d turn to pages without looking and would read the passages. “Robes Pierre patterned the French government after the United States, etc.” I can’t remember it all. Chinese government-Tienteman Square. I had walked upstairs to a library I’d never been to before, and walked straight to these history books. Strange. Books about the Middle East Conflict. I had an Important Message to get out.

God wants us to live in Harmony, be Creative, and reach our Greatest Potentials. Love One Another, Save the Environment and Stop the Extinction of the Wildlife. Stop the Holocaust in the animal shelters. Spay and neuter your pets. Stop the Wars and Hatred. Help the sick and the needy. All Religions Lead to God. We’re about to hit Critical Mass, with our technology and our abuse of our environment. We’re someday capable of implanting computer chips directly into our brains. Instant Encyclopedic Knowledge, just a thought away. What do we do with all that Knowledge? Believe we to be gods? Or do we go the way of the Egyptians, the Mayans, and the Aztecs? The Roman Empire and the Greeks? Do we become another lost Atlantis? Or do we evolve into what God wants us to be? Compassionate, Altruistic, Loving Beings that migrate to other planets and spread Peace wherever we tread? Think about it. Do you want your babies to die en mass from global droughts? Or do we send Love down The Ages to future generations to come?

I believe our youth become alienated from their spirituality and lose empathy for others by losing themselves in technology. They are exposed to all kinds of trash with the click of a mouse. Not only that, but the culture of violence that permeates our society is looked upon as being ‘cool.’ From gangsta rap, that exhorts misogyny and the murder of peace officers, to U Tube and it’s worldwide influence, kids today have become short-circuited from their true identities and inner selves. There seems to be no moral compass out there to guide them, even if they wanted it. And you cannot tell me that those violent video games don’t affect their psyches. Just look at Columbine. The ease of obtaining firearms in this country is scary, to say the least. Waco was proof of that. Innocent children were killed in that fiasco. Wacko Waco. I think parents should monitor their children’s computers, and stop letting the Internet baby-sit their children. I guess I shouldn’t input this, because I have no children. Let’s just say that I’m an observer of Human Nature. I just want to say that being ignored by your parents and feeling unloved causes psychological damage. I’m living proof of that. I’ve been ill for a long, long time, and I know.

Anyway, back to My Misson…..

So, we drove to Manhattan Beach a day or two later, looking for the Apple Store, because my computer was down, and I desperately wanted to tell everyone about My Message. I was still dancing to all the tunes those days. I had to get on the Internet. I had to reach Oprah. She knew. She was tuned in. Maybe she loved herself a little too much, but she knew. While standing in line, I kept thinking, “Robin Williams, Robin Williams, Robin Williams.” I was wondering why I kept thinking about that name. We stood in line a long time, and I got bored and wandered over to look at some of the products they had there.

I look up, and see a sign, saying Robin Williams, the inventor of the I Phone, was about to launch it soon. It sent me into a tizzy. I had no idea who that Robin Williams was! I thought it was maybe about Robin Williams, the comedian. That Robin Williams is very cool. He makes the world laugh-we need people like that to thrive.

From there, I was desperate to get a cell phone with Internet access, and we traveled around from one store to another, but I couldn’t afford one. My Plan was thwarted. I had to find another way to get The Word out. I went home to my apt., and I begin to channel dead celebrities again. I began sending out a hundred text messages from my cell phone to the Oprah Show, dancing all the while and writing important lyrics down.

“Do You Hear Me, Do You Care?” “Give a Little Bit, Give a Little Bit of Your Love to Me. I’ll Give a Little Bit of My Love to You.” “ I’m Calling on Angels.” “ Our Love’s in Jeopardy, Baby.” Tom Petty: “And I’ll Stand My Ground, and I Won’t Back Down.” Coldplay: “Look at the Stars, Look at How They Shine for You, and Everything You Do. They Were All Yellow.” “ Bono: “ In the Name of Love, What More in the Name of Love?” R.E.M: “ It’s the End of the World as We Know It, and I feel Fine.” Police: “I’m Sending Out an SOS to the World.” Ozzy: “I’ll See You on The Other Side.” Simon and Garfunkel: “Like a Bridge Over Troubled Water.” The Hollies: “ He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother” “ Amazing Grace, How Sweet the Sound, That Saved a Wretch Like Me.” The man who wrote Amazing Grace was once a slave trader, and God saved him.

One the songs I kept hearing when I was manic was ‘Free Falling’ by Tom Petty. I kept thinking he was singing about me. “ She’s a good girl, she’s crazy about Elvis, loves Jesus and her Mama too….”

Bono groks it. A Stranger in a Strange Land: Robert Heinlein. Sending out an SOS, sending out an SOS, sending out an SOS……

The dead celebrities were sending messages to their loves ones. Bob Hope, George Burns and Gracie Allen: “Say goodnight, Gracie. Goodnight, Gracie.” Marion/John Wayne, Marilyn Monroe/Norma Jean, Cary Archibald Leach Grant to Jennifer: “I love you.” Hello from James Dean. Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley, and Carl Perkins to Jerry Lee Lewis: “You’re the ‘Last Man Standing,’ from the Million-Dollar Quartet.” Sam Phillips says hello, Killer. Keep pounding those ivories!

To Eric Clapton: “There are No Tears in Heaven.” To the person who left the window open: “Forgive yourself. ” On and on, I texted. John Lennon was a Prophet. “Imagine Strawberry Fields Forever, Yoko, Sean Beautiful Boy, Jude.”

From Princess Diana to Wills and Harry:
“ Mummy loves and misses you and I’m looking after you. It’s Your Responsibility to carry on In My Footsteps and Show the World what you are made of.” From the Other Side: “There is no death. We are all alive and with you.”

I don’t know how many famous people I communicated with. All night long, totally manic and exhausted. Finally, when the sun rose, I called the Oprah Show to see if they got all my messages. The woman who answered said no-they didn’t have the capability. Dammit! On to Dr. Phil Show. Called Paramount Studios. No go. Called KFI news radio, so I could find the address for George Nouri, the host of Coast-to-Coast talk show: he’ll believe me! The lady I finally got in touch with said his address was something like, 777 7th St., I forget the city.

Number 7s kept coming up for me in all these travels I had made. Weird. I sent him a letter and told him that God loved him. Don’t know if he got it or not. He probably thought I was crazy if he did. Oh well, I tried. I really did. I went to my church and stood up in front of the congregation, and with the microphone, told them God is Real, and that all these synchronistic things kept happening to me. I’m a shy person, so to get up in front of a lot of people and talk was really something for me.

These things really happened to me. I would think, “I’d like to get a book on Dried Flower Arrangement.” And it would appear at the local thrift store I frequented. Or a book on Feng Shui. There it was, as soon as I walked into the thrift shop on another day. I wanted to get some copies of National Geographic, so I could draw some of the wildlife. I go to a yard sale, and this woman just gives me boxes of National Geographics. She also gave me loads of home decorating books, which I’m always on the lookout for because I like to decorate.

I have had many instances that have happened to me like that. One day, I found a book entitled ‘Jesus Lived in India.’ It told of Jesus’ ‘Lost Years’, between childhood and His Ministry, where He studied mysticism with the yogis. I’m reading this old, worn book I had found, and a program comes on the History Channel about the exact same thing. Synchronicity. And I can tell you the medication that sent me on this Spiritual Journey. Cymbalta. That, added to Wellbutrin, woke me up and sent me on my way. I went off it after awhile, because I’d have terrible night sweats and my small appetite became non-existent.

I also went into this Bath and Body store one day to buy some products for this idea I had of getting beautiful baskets and filling them with their products and then selling them. There was a 50 percent off sale going at the time, and I wanted to take advantage of it. I’m like a poor person’s Martha Stewart. I walked into the store with my credit card, got a big sack, and just started grabbing products like a mad woman. I’d say it took me about 15 minutes. The sales girls would bring me more big sacks to make my purchases. When I was done, I’d spent over $900!

They had to get some kind of dolly with shelves on it, and two girls had to wheel it out to my car. I had filled my whole car up with it. Insanity. I brought it all home, and it was all over my living room and bedroom. I had to stumble over it like I was walking in a minefield. It took me 2 days to inventory it. I had bought hundreds of products. I finally came to my senses about a week later, and tried to take it all back. I felt too embarrassed to take it back to the store where I’d purchased it, so I took it to another store to try and get a refund.

Needless to say, these people were very unhappy with me. They had to circle each and every one of the items, and then strike it off. It took ages. I was humiliated. I had taken a friend with me to help me, and she was embarrassed too. Finally, the manager that was helping me gave up out of frustration, and told us about another Bath and Body in the area to take the rest of the stuff to get a refund.

A couple of days later, I took my boyfriend with me to the other Bath and Body. My friend that had gone with me before didn’t want to go, understandably. Humiliation again. Sales girls glaring at me and hating me. They asked me why I was doing this to them. I blushed and told them a story about how I had agreed to go into a home decorating business with a so-called friend, and that she had asked me to put the money up front to cover the purchases and had then backed out. They told me that they would lose their commissions for the day because of me.

Again, it took forever, circling each item and striking it off. The manager had to get help to do it. I felt horrible and tried to get them to stop a few times, but my boyfriend would only glower at me. Finally, when he wasn’t looking. I told them to say that they couldn’t find the rest of the items, so I would have to take them home. The manager said, “Next time, get a business contract written up.” I slunk home, tail between my legs with about a hundred dollars worth of products that day. Since I receive $800 a month from Social Security, you can say I had gone overboard a bit, to say the least! I still feel a twinge of embarrassment about that one.

Mania does that to you. You go nuts and spend all your money. I read about this one merchant here in LA that went mad one day, and took out all of his life’s savings and drove up and down the streets, throwing it out the window. I would go into a bar and buy a round of drinks for everyone and give out big tips. I would go into a Ross to buy a dress, and would go into this fugue state, and would just pull dozens of items off the rack, until my arms were aching under the weight of it all. I would somehow drag it to the dressing room and start to try them on, and then not be able to make any kind of decision whatsoever. I felt helpless and powerless and confused. I would try on clothes for an hour, and be completely exhausted mentally and physically afterwards, and still wouldn’t be able to make a decision. I didn’t know I was bi-polar when that happened to me. I would think, “Oh My God! What is wrong with me? Why am I doing this?”

I can’t tell you how many ‘collections’ I’ve had over the years. Shell collection, book collections, CD collections, audio tape collections, VHS video tape collections (I bet I taped a million programs and movies.), clothes and jewelry collections, scarves, shoes, lingerie, socks, belts and hats collections. Perfume collections. Angel figurine collections, doll collections, colored bottle collections, wooden box collections, candle collections, all sorts of knick-knacks, pictures, home decorations, etc. On and on and on. I would buy a piece of furniture, live with it for a while, and then sell it and buy another. Couches, dining room sets, bedroom furniture. I’d go to Target and buy matching drapes and rugs and furnishings, only to take it all down a week later, get a refund, and do it all over again. I would save the receipts and the packaging it came in, because I knew I had no power over myself.

I had to rent out big storage spaces for all my stuff, and would feel despair when I’d open the door to the space, because I had no idea how to sort through it all, and too ill to try. It would go all the way up to the roof. A mountain of just stuff. I’d try to have yard sales to get rid of some of it, only to start it all over again. I would pack it up and donate some it to thrift shops, enraged at myself for my lack of character and self-control. The money I’ve spent on all of this crap is unreal. I definitely suffer from a form of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. George Carlin does a funny bit about all the stuff we have, and how much we carry around with us.

One of the tenants here suffers from OCD. She has storage spaces all over. We have inspections here quite a lot, to make sure everyone is taking care of their places, and a HUD Housing Inspection a couple times a year. Our places have to be immaculate, and we slave for days to get it all done in time for the inspections. The tenant with the OCD has to rent big moving trucks to take some of her stuff out of her apt. She has to get help, getting it all organized.

Some of the people here have helpers come in to clean for them, because they can’t do it themselves. I’m one of them. My apt. gets to looking like a pigsty, and I can’t do anything about it. My friend comes in sometimes to help out. I’ve got pictures on every wall, and books, knick-knacks, plants, decorative pillows and furnishings everywhere. I get sick of it crowding me sometimes, and I start loading up as much as possible to give to Goodwill. I’m still inundated with stuff. I’ve given away whole libraries of books. It took me years to sort through all the stuff I had in storage. I finally don’t have to pay that bill anymore, Thank God. And storage space in LA is expensive.

Sometimes, I zone out when I’m driving, and completely forget where I’m going and for what. I’m also a germ phobic, and have a hard time of it getting older with the fading looks and all. I mean, that’s how I made my living, was by the way I looked.

So, I went off Cymbalta to stop the tremendous night sweats. But then I became severely depressed again. I was sick for months. I was miserable again. I asked the doctor to put me back on it on a lower dose after I couldn’t come out of the depression and felt suicidal. I was taken to a psych ward at a hospital that day to be monitored. That made me cry and carry on. I asked to be back on Cymbalta because I prefer mania to being depressed. So, now, I’m back on it. Wellbutrin was taken away and Zoloft was added instead to help control my obsessive negative thoughts. I also take the mood stabilizer Lamactil and Trazadone to sleep.

Zoloft messes with my libido, but I’m a little more awake now, and no insane mania like before. I’m feeling a little better. I have a little more energy and am a bit more social. I’ve started making friends again and have even started swing dance lessons. I laugh again. I’m bubbly sometimes. I still get depressed and very tired, but I’m able to sit here in a marathon typing session, telling you how to be bi-polar in LA. I can read again, which is my passion and I can listen to music again. I lose all interest in anything when I feel suicidal. I actually do die, but at a slower rate. One inch at a time.

I just want to tell you people in the world out there that we with mental illnesses are not losers, and to try and financially support the mental health system. We’re Humans too. Our brains are wired differently, that’s all. We’ve all got families and had lives before this Curse took us down. So, if you see a miserable character babbling to him or herself in the street, feel some compassion and maybe toss them a sandwich if you don’t want to get too close. They need to eat everyday just like you do.

Bono, I still think I’m going to meet you one day. Keep up the good work. Oprah, I wish I could have kept all those text messages, but they all eventually disappeared when other text messages replaced them. ‘My Story’, as told to Dr. Phil. Hey, it could happen! Meg Ryan would play me. Ha ha. But then again, I don’t want to use my whole name, because a potential employer might read this and not want to hire me. I have to pretend I’m normal when I go on job interviews. Sandi out.

How To Be Bipolar In LA 7

How To Be Bipolar In LA 7
Sandi Yeah, Me.

April 4, 2008
Post script: I went to this drug counseling meeting at this new church I’m trying last night. I was talking about how I’ve been waffling back and forth about the really old scriptures; Adam and Eve, the Flood, Lot’s wife being turned into a pillar of salt, the walls of Jericho tumbling down, etc., and how I’m wondering if the old stuff was based on mythology instead of the Real Word of God. My new friends told me to ask God about these stories, and to look out for how God works in my life. I told them about all the synchronistic things that have happened to me in the past, and how I knew it was God that was working for me.

When I left, I got in my car and turned on my radio. I love rock music. Always have. I’ll be a rocker until the day I die. Robert Plant is my icon. I want Stairway to Heaven played at my funeral. I have my stations already tuned in to what I like to listen to. For some reason, it wasn’t working when I turned it on, and I got static only. I hit scan, and it went to one of my favorite rock stations: 106.7 KROQ.

I have that station’s bumper sticker on my car. On it, I heard this Jamaican guy singing reggae about God. The lyrics went like this: “I Give Myself to God With the Essence of My Being.” Here we go again. I felt it was speaking directly to me. I’d never heard that song, and I’ve definitely never heard reggae songs about God on a hard rock station before. I turned it up. The next song, the lyrics said, “ I Call Your Name When I Feel So Helpless”. Wow. Cool. By then I had reached home. I really felt communication with Something Out There. It made me smile. Thanks for the Message, God. I love You!

You have to be open to Signs like that in your life. God works through all of us, and you have to listen to your intuition. That’s how you receive Messages in a passive way. By being Creative, you are being active and open to a Higher Consciousness. I believe this very much. You have to put out good vibes to the Universe, and you’ll receive it back. When I’m depressed, I’m blocked to the Messages. Now that I’ve written this and plan to put it out for people to read, I receive Messages. Just be open. Believe it or not, that’s your choice. Just try it. See what happens! God loves you all.

April 8, 2008
Hey another shout out to you people out there! I just got back from the mental health clinic I go to. They read my essay about being bi-polar, and they’re going to try and help me get it published! Is that cool or what? They said that I’m a good writer and they think I’d be a good voice for the mentally ill! And when I got in my little car, I turn on my radio. It’s on Jack FM. What’s playing? ‘Message in a Bottle’ by the Police! The next song? ‘Free Falling’ by Tom Petty! Synchronicity! Check with Jack FM if you don’t believe me! 93.1 Jack FM! Woo Hoo! Sending Out An SOS……!!

I just called my job counselor at the clinic I go to. I told her about hearing the songs. She said, “Wow. That’s really odd!” I told her that she’s got to listen to that Police song. She thanked me for calling her, and said she would download it tonight. Listen to the song, people! Yeah, baby! Phone Home, Bono!

8pm, Same Day.
Hey, again! Y’all are not going to believe this! Do you know how I said Bono grokked? Well, just now, a person named Crock just called me for an interview. This person did not put his name in the ad for a part time position he’s seeking to fill. How did he pronounce that name? Grok! Ha Ha! I told him,” You have got to be kidding me! I only just today was writing about Grokking something!” He said that I sounded like a nice person and would get back to me.

I want to tell you people about the Epiphany I had last June. I had just met my new boyfriend, and I was manic. Like I said, he thought I was on crack. My drug addict friends thought I was on meth. I have never touched either of these drugs. Just pot.

One day, I looked in the local paper, and saw a lot of ads for yard sales. I decided to take my boyfriend with me to check them out. We went about 10 yard sales that day, and I of course, being manic, spent every dime I had. I kept going to the bank to the ATM to get more money to spend. We brought home tons of stuff. People were just giving stuff away to me as well. I’d tell these people to remember me, because they were going to hear about me one day.

This one sale, the people were having an estate sale, because their father was being put into a home. Their mother had died a few years earlier, and her name was Betty. They were just giving loads of stuff away, because they wanted the house cleared out so they could show it that day to a real estate agent. This was in Culver City. Betty had been very creative when she was alive, and they gave me a lot of her stuff that she had been working on. There was a red jacket with her name on it. I put it on. I like Betty Boop a lot, so I kept going around the house, saying “Betty Boop, Betty Boop, Betty-Betty Boop!”

Betty had left all these party hats behind. I would put one on, and then change it for another while I was gathering together all my free stuff. A pirate’s hat. A derby. A flapper’s hat with the really big feather. It amused these people to see me wearing these hats. The day before, I had gone to that yard sale where the lady gave me boxes of National Geographics and decorating books. I was very happy. I’d hit the jackpot! It took a lot of trips in my Geo Metro to get all this stuff back to my boyfriend’s house.

When we got to my boyfriend’s house, I took some of it to the bedroom to sort it out. These people had given us tons of stuff. I wanted to inventory it all, just to see who gave me what. As I was doing this, I was listening to Jack FM. An announcement came on: Roger Waters was having a ‘Wall’ concert at I think, the Hollywood Bowl. That was when my Epiphany hit. BAM! I started thinking, “The Wall, The Wall, The Wall, Tear down the Wall. The Berlin Wall, The Wall, The Wall...” That’s when I began dancing non-stop and writing all the lyrics down. That’s when I went on my journeys around LA.

See, I met Roger Waters in 1986, I think. I was dancing in a club in Ft. Lauderdale at the time, and the dj at the club was looking for girls to dance at a private party held for the crew that worked for Roger Waters. He was going to be playing in Miami the next night. I took my friend Lia with me so she could make some money, too. Her stage name was Terra, and mine was Sugar. I liked the name Sugar ever since I saw Marilyn Monroe in ‘Some Like It Hot.’

We finished dancing and got dressed, and we went to hang out with the crew and talk. This tall, thin English guy with a moustache named Peter invited us to the concert the next night. He said he was a Lord. I didn’t know if I believed that, but he was attracted to my friend Lia. She’s a very tall Pilipino girl from Lansing, Michigan. I couldn’t wait to go, because I loved Pink Floyd since I was a kid. I’d listen to ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ for hours.

So, off we go to the concert the next night. We got to sit up front and watch Roger do ‘The Wall.’ Someone from the crew invites us backstage to meet Roger after the concert. Cool! We go in, and shake hands with him, and he invites me over to sit with him. He took a shining to me, and I was thrilled to be talking to him because I love creative people. We sat and talked, and when I would get up to go to the bathroom, whoever was sitting with him would have to move so I could sit back down and resume our chat. His manager walks up to me and says, “He never sits and talks to people like this-he’s a musical genius!” Everyone gets ready to go back to the hotel he’s staying at to have a little party after the show, and I was invited. My friend Lia wanted to leave, and the tall guy named Peter said that he would get me home safely. Off we all go.

When we all get there, we all sat in the bar downstairs at a big round table and talked and had a drink. Roger and I resumed our conversation. I don’t know how long it lasted, but everyone was leaving to go to I think Peter’s place to party afterwards. I wanted to go. Roger wanted to stay, and he said that he was a married man. I wasn’t looking to sleep with him, I swear! I just wanted to keep talking to him about his songs. I guess he misinterpreted it, because when I asked him to please go with me, he very rudely said “NO!” That broke my heart, and I left with Peter and his friends.

I ended up meeting this artist that night and that had done all of Pink Floyd’s album covers. He had a small portfolio and showed them to me. I witnessed some guy from Bad Company slap the girl he was with. I wanted to go over and slap him back.

After all these years, my heart is still broken. Sometimes I turn off Pink Floyd when they’re on the radio, because I’m still wounded. I just couldn’t understand what I had done to get such a response from my hero. Roger, get over yourself. I didn’t want to screw you, I just love musicians and artists and dancers. All you creative lot. I identify with the song, ‘Comfortably Numb’ because of my illness. Just call me a crushed butterfly.

So if anyone that knows Roger sees this, ask him if he remembers back in 1986 meeting a small blonde girl at his concert in Miami who he sat and chatted with. I’m sure he won’t of course. Lia dated Peter a few times, but it didn’t go anywhere. She went to New York City with him and came back soon afterwards. I lost touch with Lia a few years after that. I miss her. She was a sweet girl.
Oh, and Bono, “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”

April 12, 2008
I decided to send Him (God) a text message a couple of days. I said, “ should I give your phone number so the world can SOS You? Something told me to turn the radio on. Jack FM. Blondie is in the middle of a song. “Call Me, call Me, call Me any, anytime, call Me.” Cool. I find it very entertaining to receive these Messages. God definitely has a good sense of humor. Hey, he made us, didn’t He?