Eight Days

Last week I got a little manic for baking. I used up about 5 pounds of flour making various banana-nut, pumpkin-nut, and sugarfree breads. I also mastered a good lemon sugar cookie recipe. Surprisingly to me, when I mention "Lemon Sugar cookies", everyone goes "Mmmmm". I thought they'd be something only a few people would like. Most of the loaves I made were the "small" size, or 3-to-1 regular loaf size. At any rate, I could split the batter between 3 small loaf pans and get three nice loaves.

Ron had fun tasting and licking various beaters. I can't eat any nuts at all, or I'd risk a terrible migraine. Nothing, and I mean no food on this planet, is worth 12 hours minimum of agonizing pain, with a minimum of 12 hours horrible, wrenching, vomiting into a bucket episodes (down to the heaves style). No food is worth that. Not even chocolate, which I can't eat either.

So Ron ate the nut breads, pronounced them delicious, and ate them cold out of the fridge, too. I was happy, he's a good taster and very honest in his opinions. He's no Gordon Ramsey, but he will tell me "I don't like that, it's too dry and it needs more sugar". No complaints, just happy gobbling.

I ate a fair amount of the lemon sugar cookies, especially after I started adding the lemon zest to the batter. TASTY! My size 22 jeans are still falling off? Huh? After the cookies?

I have a little trouble with my hands shaking, so pouring the extracts was pretty awkward. I ended up spilling a fair amount all over my hands and into the sink, but I believe Wal-mart has a lemon extract powder I can measure dry. I don't have problems with that. I do notice a little trouble with the very fine motor coordination on my hands, like picking up a pill between my thumb and forefinger, or measuring liquids into a teaspoon. I accept it; being sick is not an option. I'd be dead by now if it weren't for my side effects.

This depression crept up on me, in part because I was still interested in the baking. It wasn't until I realized I hadn't been online for days, and didn't really want to get online, that I was depressed. I get so frustrated that I just can't have the same day-to-day, but I remind myself I like that I live a passionate life. I like that I get really INTO my interests, that's the definition of a mania "Intense interest". It's my definition. I have many, intense, interests. I enjoy that. Overall, I enjoy who I am and I accept myself.

I get frustrated at my illness and the fact that it's bigger than me. The only way I can function is my 5 pills a day. Those 5 pills carry a boatload of side effects, but I need them. If I stop them, I'd die. One or two more nasty depressions and I would have made a very serious suicide attempt. The plan I had was a sure-fire dead.

I love spoiling people and making up bags of driver candy. I love watching Ron or a friend when they take a bite of one of my baked treats. I love my life.

I hate my illness at times, and the side effects can be frustrating. I always tell Ron, it's the later-onset disabilities that bother people the most. Ron hates the fact that he has a basically useless right arm. I hate the fact that my hands shake, foggy thinking, and fatigue. We both remember happier times when things weren't this way.

Most everyone on my Christmas list has already gotten delicious baked treats. The milkman was so touched, he gave me a hug. By the way, we (Ron and the milkman) negotiated a better delivery time for all of us. Yay!

I'm going to lick this thing. I've got God fighting my battles, and an army of little lithium friends to take the load. Thank God. Literally.