A few months ago, my sister used emotional blackmail to get me onto Facebook. Something I had sworn I would never do. After all, I was a MySpace kind of girl. I love being able to show my mood through my profile page, my playlist, my photos …. you get the idea. As far as I could see, FB was for boring people who wanted nothing more then to be able to “twitter” at one another. Where was the fun in that?

I reluctantly signed up with FB to able to talk to my sister more often. Immediately realizing this could be used to communicate with the rest of my family, that I did not want on my myspace page. Why the double life? Well I’ll tell you.

When I was little, I felt like the black sheep of the family. All my cousins went to church every week. I never did. My cousin’s parents were all still married. Mine were divorced. They lived in small towns and were close to the rest of the family. I was born and raised in Los Angels and only saw them at Christmas.

It was never actually said in front of me, but I got the very strong impression that my aunts thought I was a bad influence on my younger cousins. Which at that time, couldn’t have been further from the truth.

However, fast forward 20 years and I can safely and proudly assert that I have become, what some may deem, a very bad influence. In college I was a go-go dancer and  a belly dancer. Which in itself is not a sin, but I’m sure it looks like one to church faring people. Cheated on every boyfriend I ever had with women. Cheated on a few women with other women. Since college, I have left two very lucrative careers in order to pursue writing. I’ve “become” a lesbian. Slept around. Been known to party all night long till last call in almost every night club in Hollywood. Drank myself to oblivion every now and then. Worked ever so briefly in lesbian porn. (Behind the scenes of course.) Considered becoming an agent for said porn. But now I’ve settled down and am living in sin with my girlfriend. Happily ensconced in what has become the most normal and stable relationship I’ve ever had.

My point of this is that I write under the pen name: Sasha Lotrian …. which would also have been my porn name. You know how that formula goes, the name of your first pet and your mother’s maiden name. Or the street you grew up on? Whatever. It’s also my favorite alias at clubs and at Starbucks. Because my real name takes too long to explain how to say it and why it’s spelled that way.

…… And thank God I do write under a pen name. Otherwise my little cousins, my sister, my aunts and oh, let’s not forget my brother who still doesn’t know I’m a lesbian could easily Google me and find out their worst fears have been realized. I’m everything they ever thought I might be and so much more. A liberal, sexually-free lesbian with gay porn on her resume. Wow. I wouldn’t want a kid of mine hanging out with the likes of me either!

Hence the double life. FB has my given name, so my family and super conservative high-school friends (from a Christian high-school) can find me and see if I’ve gained a thousand pounds or have any kids. There is no link to my blog on my FB, no mention of my alter-ego, Sasha Lotrian. No way they can track me down.

My Myspace however, is for the real me. The name I gave myself because it fits who I’ve become and who I want to be, better then the name my parents gave me before they knew me well enough.

I thought the two would never meet. But I was oh so wrong. Since FB is getting more and more popular (which I still disagree with) all my new friends from my gym and my old college friends are on here. Several of them have asked why they can’t find my blog when they google me? While flattered I’m being googled, I still have to explain to them the whole alias aspect of my writing. So I send them a link and hope they don’t mention it on my wall at some later, unsuspecting date. The last thing I need is my Mormon family perusing Card Carrying Lesbian and reading old blogs about car sex and dildos.

I’ve since fallen for her in almost every movie she’s ever done, except for The Fifth Element.

Her look ranges from ultra femme to downright dykey. Of course, given my penchant for lesbians, I prefer her with short hair.

What got me on my little Milla rant? I just watched Joan of Arc for the first time tonight and found her inexplicably hot after she chopped off all her hair, riding around on a horse in armor. You know me, always a sucker for a knight in shining armor.

Then as if her hotness wasn’t enough, I once saw her barking a song out on The Carson Daly Show. Be still my beating heart: a hot chick with a weird/dorky sense of humor. Hmmmm hmmmm ….. I’ll take that.

Life doesn’t stop for your problems. Life doesn’t even slow down. You’re on the highway of life, barreling down the road at 100 miles an hour and when a bipolar episode hits …. it’s like wham! Crashing into the guardrail at full speed, without a seat belt on.

But instead of shattering glass and the sound of crunching metal, the sounds you hear are your friendships falling apart, your career disintegrating and your life falling down around you. If you’re really really lucky, the one thing you don’t lose is your understanding girlfriend. Because she’s the one and only thing you were able to get the seatbelt around right before you crashed.

I keep getting emails from other lesbians who are in relationships with women who have depression or BPD, or they have it themselves. They keep asking me how I deal with it? How does Remi deal with it? What’s my advice?

I’m no expert. I’m just like them. Stumbling through life with BPD trying to make the best of it on the days I can, and trying not to do anything irreversible on the days I can’t.

I’ve been congratulated for coming out publicly about my BPD. Which is nice and all, but it was either that or just let  the world keep thinking I’m a flake. Which I am, but there’s a reason for it. A lot of people with BPD also have a few other issues to deal with: some may be diagnosed as Borderline, or OCD, or ADD …. you get the idea. Myself? Well for whatever reason I tend to be a bit agoraphobic. I get into these funks where I can’t leave my house for weeks at a time. Which as you can imagine has a negative effect on my social life.

One of the hardest aspects of this whole thing, is maintaining friendships. Because seriously, who would want to be friends with a girl who can’t even go out and get the mail sometimes? It’s not that I don’t want to go out. It’s that when I get to the door, an overwhelming sense of panic and paranoia come up and I feel like I’m going to die. Most of the time, simply making plans about going out will have the same affect. I know, loads of fun. And just for added kicks and giggles, this anxiety extends to talking on the phone. I hate it. I don’t even like talking to Remi on the phone. I’ll text till my fingers fall off, but I absolutely abhor talking on the phone.

Thank God I’m not always like this. But when I’m not, I try to make up for all the lost time. I go out A LOT. Party A LOT. Work out A LOT. Shop A LOT. Socialize A LOT. Have sex A LOT. Life in a manic or hypo-manic stage can be awesome. (Not counting the aftermath.) But it never lasts, and it definitely doesn’t last long enough.

When that high fades, I do to. I fade out of sight and withdraw from the outside world. Completely.

It’s not hard to imagine that friendships have been tested over that. But that’s also why the friends that I do have, I would do anything for and have.

Because of a recent comment from someone that said, “I do know how hard this friend of yours has tried and how much effort she has put into your friendship. Which, though I don’t know you THAT well, I do know that is quite the task and takes a lot of effort with someone like yourself.”

Someone like yourself. I hate to admit it, but that sentence reverberated with me to the bone and kept replaying itself in my head for the next few days. Somehow, all my insecurities and self-loathing over BPD was confirmed in that one sentence. What I heard, was that all those times I’ve thought that I wasn’t worth the air I breathe, or that I was nothing more then a burden to my girlfriend or my family, or that I was a bad person because I couldn’t control this thing and it controlled me … that all those things were the truth.

But then, one of my best friends in the world left a comment and reminded me that I have some true blue friends, and that those relationships have been tested by time and hardships and survived. I had to really think about it for a minute: I have friendships that have lasted 20 years! Besides showing my age, that also shows that I can’t be that crappy of a person to be able to maintain a friendship that long. I’m the godmother of my friend, Nate’s baby because we’ve been through so much together in the 13 years we’ve been friends, he knows that he can trust me with his daughter’s life.

Yea sure. Maybe I don’t go out every single weekend and drink at some bar, shooting the breeze with a group of friends. Maybe I don’t just “hang out” a lot with my buddies. But that does not make me a bad person, or a bad friend.

I know this blog is a bit scattered, but it’s reflective of my inner workings right now. I keep vacillating between self-condemnation and private pep-talks between me, myself and I.

So I have this to say about friendships: I think that the people/person I am no longer friends with from that previous blog have a lot of requirements for their friends. They need or want them to fit into a certain box and when they don’t then they think there’s no room for them in their life. Which is fine, because everyone is entitled to live their life on their terms.

I however don’t expect anything from my friends, except to be able to trust them. I know we all have complicated lives and I don’t try to make my friend’s lives conform to some pre-fab ideas I have of how they should behave in order to be in my world. Because it’s not MY world. We’re all on this planet together and we’re all trying. In return, the friends I’ve had all my life know that I might not make it to all the parties, but they can trust me with all their secrets and know that I’d let them live with me if they needed to (and have) and that I’ve gone way WAY out of my way to get them out of some pretty sticky situations that would have landed me in jail had I been caught.

So I guess while I may not be the most social friend a girl could have. I am the one they call in the middle of the night when they need help that requires …. er … shall we say ….   thinking outside the box?

I’ve come to realize that there are different kinds of friends. What kind are you? Or what kind do you prefer?

The Original: Sophia Loren

Not Sophia, but pretty close.

I should have known I was a lesbian, when at 5 years of age I declared I was in love with Sophia Loren. I convinced myself (and my mother) that I simply idolized her and wanted to grow up to be like her, not be with her.

But I’m all grown up now, and while Sophia Loren is still a Goddess, even at her age. There is a new beauty on the scene that is more then a little reminiscent of my first love.

As beautiful as the Guess model is (sorry, I couldn’t find her name anywhere) … there’s still something about the original that can never be duplicated.

But tonight we’re headed out to the West Hollywood Halloween Costume Carnaval, to roam the streets of Hollyweird with all the other freaks of the night …. I can’t wait!

Before we start getting ready for the evening, Remi carved our pumpkins. After I saw her masterpiece, I made her do mine too. Take a look! Remi’s is the skull and mine is the cute face.

So it’s almost Halloween and I’ve been sewing all week! Next year, please remind me to start this whole process in August. I always underestimate how long these things take. I have a tendency to do that …. like with my house: Oh the floors will only take 3 days. I can knock that kitchen out in 24 hours! I can fix both costumes in an afternoon, no sweat! … Would someone please shake me next time I so loudly proclaim the impossible is possible.

So while we’re still working on the lining to Remi’s trench coat today, my costume is complete. But now I need some outside opinions here.

Here are two photos of the hair, makeup and contacts that makeup part of my Hallow’s eve look. But should I wear my hair up or down? I’m thinking up because it shows the neckline of the robe off and I think it looks more dramatic with that makeup. But I’ve had several guy friends of mine insist I should wear it down.

Ugh …. so please let me know what you think looks best. Up or down??

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your honesty. Like other commentators, I was searching for “lesbian” and “bipolar” and your site came up.
I’m not bipolar–I have struggled with depression in the past, so I have an inkling of part of what it might be like. But I am starting to date someone who is bipolar. I sense the potential for an amazing relationship here–she’s sweet, caring, sexy, creative, intelligent–ok, all that stuff we see in a new lover. I want to be able to offer her the support and caring she needs, when she needs it, without smothering or mothering. She’s an adult and has lived with this many years–she knows her signs and triggers, and doesn’t want or need a caretaker.
I know much of this has to come from her–and we have talked about it, in some depth. She’s shared her triggers and signs with me, and asked me to tell her when I think I see them.
I want this relationship to work, or if it fails, I want that to be as little about her illness (her term, not mine) as possible.
What I’m asking, I guess, is What do I need to know, what should I be aware of–what are the pitfalls and joys? I want to be with her and I want to support her around this in any way possible, without making it the focus of our relationship.
I hope this makes some kind of sense… And I am certainly not trying to make you the poster girl for bipolar lesbians, Sasha…but I didn’t see any other connections out there.
Thank you so much–I don’t know you, but I’ll send a hug your way anyway. I love your writing.

I thought it deserved it’s own blog.

I also thought that since you asked what are the pitfalls and joys of being in a relationship with a bipolar person, I was the wrong one to ask. Remi is actually the person we should turn to for her opinion on this.

So I decided to interview her.

Sasha: “Remi, what do you think has been some of the hardest things to deal with in dating a girl with bipolar disorder?”

Remi: “One of the hardest things is that when it’s really bad, you tend to lash out, verbally. It takes a lot of patience and understanding to remember that it’s not you. It’s another person. It’s the disease talking, not my girlfriend.”

Sasha: “Why put up with it at all?”

Remi: “Because always immediately following it, you’re so apologetic and feelings of worthlessness take over and it’s hard to see you like that. I know that you’re sorry. I know it wasn’t really you.”

Sasha: “What would you say would be another pitfall to dating a person with bipolar?”

Remi: “The constant worrying that you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Sasha: “How do you deal with that?”

Remi: “By trying to feel the day out before I go to work. But that’s not always enough because you can switch on a dime while I’m gone. So I try to stay in contact with you during the day. If I don’t hear from you for too long in between, I can start to worry.”

Sasha: “Anything else?”

Remi: “Yea, when you’re manic there’s no telling who you’ll flirt with. That definitely worries me. I would tell her not to take her girlfriend out to clubs when she’s manic.”

Sasha: “Why do you put up with all this?”

Remi: “On the flip side of things, it’s like the completely opposite person. Loving, caring, tries to do things just to make me happy. It’s a complete turn around. You’re fun and dorky and adventurous.”

Sasha: “So is it worth it, in the end?”

Remi: “Let me put it this way, I would take a week of the downs, a week of you going through one of your worse episodes, for one good day with you. So yes, it is worth it.”

Sasha: “What would you tell someone embarking on a relationship with a bipolar person?”

Remi: “Be patient. Because it’s worth it in the end.”

So Martha. I hope that helps in some way.

I can tell you this, that interviewing my own girlfriend for this was probably a bad idea. It was hard to hold back the tears when she talked about how hard it is to be in a relationship with me. I really don’t know why she does it. But good luck to you and your girlfriend. I hope it all works out.

Photo by Jill Posener

I am in love with Rachel Brice. But Zoe Jakes ain’t half bad either. What do you think? Who do you think is a better dancer between the two? And by that, what I’m really asking is who would you rather do or be done by? Come on, tell.

Contestant #1 for your viewing pleasure: The lovely and talented Rachel Brice

(she’s the first and main dancer)

Or the very pretty, Zoe Jakes?

I was bound and determined to find some video footage to show Remi … to spark in her the same image I have of what’s possible if we were to take classes together. Then I remembered the movie Frida and I found this clip. I remember the first time I saw this, years ago …. way before the world ever heard of the L Word. At that time, it was one of the hottest scenes I had ever seen.

It’s a lot tamer now, by today’s standards. But still, very sexy.

Well I hadn’t until today. I used to teach ballroom, salsa and swing dancing but I haven’t so much as stepped foot in a dance studio for at least 5 years. Honestly, I thought I might never dance again for various reasons. Being burned out was at the top of that list.

But recently I’ve started missing the feeling I would get from gliding across that perfectly polished, wooden floor. The smell of resin and the tingle I used to get as soon as I walked into a studio. I don’t miss the eating disorders, the warped body image issues and the self-loathing of ballet classes.

I do however miss the elegance of the tango, the sensuality of the rumba, the sexiness of salsa and the fun of swing. I had heard some time ago, rumors that there were gay and lesbian ballroom classes somewhere in Long Beach. Hmmm ….. let the hunt begin!

So I began trying to talk Remi into taking classes with me if I could find the right place. In my Googling I stumbled across the World Outgames on YouTube and had to share this with you. These gay boys can sure dance!

While not exactly the motivation I had hoped to find for Remi, it was still a great way to start the day. Then while looking for lesbian couples, I found these boys instead. It was too jaw dropping not to share.

Oh and if anyone knows where they actually teach gay and lesbian ballroom or salsa would you PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know? Thank you

But I’m trying to get back to my old blogging self that would write about everything and anything without fear of consequences. I say, fuck the bullshit! It’s my blog and I’ll write what I want!

I will give you a quick and dirty little rundown of my side of the story:

Girl meets group of girls.
Group of girls is something like a self-made lesbian sorority. Complete with bitchy, uptight attitude.
Girl joins group.
Girl never really fits in to group.
Girl distances herself from group, as the group simultaneously does the same over hypocritical judgments and rumors about girl.
Fine.
Girl remains friends with one member of group who also parted ways with the group for too many tedious reasons to list.
Girl’s friendship with other ex-member is always a bit strained, but girl tries to make it work. Girl goes out of her way several times to see her friend and spend time with her.
Girl can’t make it to something for several reasons, which she explained to her friend, hoping she would understand.
Girl never hears from friend again, except to be told that a pumpkin carving party that she was invited to and RSVP’d to, was cancelled.
Girl just saw on myspace a comment on her friend’s page that the pumpkin party was loads of fun.
Oh.
Girl realizes she is no longer friends with this other person.
Girl deletes all these bad people from her myspace page and doesn’t give a flying crap what any of them think about her.
Girl blogs about it and thinks it’s funny if any of them read it. Not that they would admit it.

So, for any of you who may not have cracked my code: The character of “Girl” is being played by yours truly and the rest of the cast really doesn’t matter because they’re mean and I’m done with them.

In the end, I know I never did anything wrong to any of them. I tried to be friends with them, but I don’t let people run all over me either. Because friendship isn’t about seeing who can be cattier, or bitchier, or spend the most money or drink the most or use other people and then brag about it. At least not in my book.

So that chapter of my life is closed. Hell, it’s more then closed. I ripped it out of the book and burned it in the kitchen sink.
In the mean time, I’m focusing on building some new friendships with some people I actually have things in common with! Wow, imagine that. Where did I find such a thing? At my gym.

And guess what? As it turns out, people that spend all day long learning how to beat people up are actually really nice and really chill. I guess you get all the aggression out on the mat and all that’s left is the good stuff.

Life’s too long to waste it on mean people.

Well there’s a little more to it then that too …. last night I’m pretty sure I got a little concussion in fight class. I re-injured an old neck injury, grappling Saturday in class. Then Monday night, during a very simple take down I can do in my sleep something went horribly wrong. I blacked out for a second, then I could only see black and silver stars for a good 30 seconds. Followed by intense and pounding pain in my head that I’m still feeling.

So, like a good girlfriend, Remi researched concussions last night and on the top of the list of things NOT to do was strain my brain by working on the computer all day. So what do I do as soon as she leaves? Start going through 700 emails and deleting spam. But I realized too late, that some actual comments got the boot as well.

I’m sorry about that. But I can’t even think clearly enough right now to figure out how to get them back.

So after I post this, I’m going to lay down.

But please do leave comments and I promise to NOT delete them again

Since I don’t think she wants me ruining the surprise for our friends about her costume, all I can say is that it’s sexy as hell and unbelievable femme. Well, femme fatale to be excruciatingly exact. Which is fine. I’m secure enough to let my girlfriend prance all over West Hollywood wearing something she won’t even wear for me in the bedroom, but still … my mind tends to wonder about things.

I know this is all basically bullshit, but I’ll share my thought process with you anyways.

First of all, I feel like I have to try to keep up on the sexy-evil-lesbian-Halloween-costume theme. Which is fine, except that I don’t feel like I can really compete with what’s she wearing. Basically, she has one of those perfect bodies that you usually only see in movies. So she can pull off things I wouldn’t have worn when I was 19.

Besides that, sexy usually equals heels (for me) and there is no way in hell I’m walking all over WeHo in stilettos. I want to have fun, not blisters. So no matter what Remi’s wearing, I am going a bit more casual.

Then there’s the whole “my girlfriend is going to look more femme then me” thing. Which is fine but it’s not normal for us. At all. It’s actually almost weird for me. Now I feel like I have to be the butch for the night and make sure no one grabs her ass all night long. I guess a little role reversal never hurt anyone, but it does feel a little awkward.

Oh and speaking of awkward, if we were to run into one of my ex’s who’s VERY butch and she were to see Remi all femme’d out? Well … that would just be funny. So I guess that’s worth it.

So I guess for this Halloween, I’ll be a butch.

So if you’ve left a comment or are about to, I probably won’t be able to publish them until I get my baby back.

So wish me luck that my computer comes back all better, with a little lolly pop to show she was a good girl and not with a big repair bill instead!

Then tonight I’m wasting time on myspace, waiting for Remi to get home when I see this cute, sporty girl on my friend’s list I don’t recognize. I do however recognize the name ….. no …. it can’t be. That girl is a girly-girl with long hair, mini skirts and cleavage for days. No, it can’t be the same girl.

So I click.

OMG, it’s the hot Iranian girl! She went and cut all her hair off and is now sporting a cute little faux hawk and rockin’ the wife beater. What’s even more astonishing is that she looks even hotter now!

After leaving an approving comment under her new picture, I took a look at her page and see that it now proudly displays “Lesbian” under orientation and she had this video on her blog that I totally had to share with you.

It’s about being gay in Iran.

Honestly ladies, we forget how good we really have it here.

As I’ve mentioned a thousand times before, our 1 year anniversary was on the 15th.

There’s not that much to blog about, since uncharacteristically, I was happy, easy going and I didn’t fight, cry or pout once during our three-day, middle of the week holiday.

I really did feel like this anniversary was a bigger deal to me then any other holiday. Because this is the most serious relationship I’ve ever been in, it’s the first time living with someone, it’s the longest and healthiest lesbian relationship I’ve ever had and I’m happy! Wow, talk about a reason to celebrate.

I was also a little giddy at the anticipation of the presents ;).

I had been *hinting* rather blatantly for the last month or so that I desperately needed an iPod touch. I told her how much it would change my life, how happy it would make me and how much more I would get done with this little, magic gadget in my palm. Why all the hyperbole?

Oh no my friend, for once I was not being hyperbolic. One of my little quirks is that I have  OCD when it comes to making lists, agendas, itineraries and lists about lists that I have yet to make. My mind is always whirling around a million different tiny details about superfluous things and if I don’t get them out of my head and down on paper or a PDA, I feel like I’m going crazy!

I have spent thousands of dollars on notebooks, journals, PDA’s, old fashioned planners and never found the right fit. I literally could go on about this topic for way longer then you would ever want to hear about it. So I’ll stop here and just say that since Remi lives with me, she knows this part of me all too well. So when the idea of the iPod touch came up, we both realized this could be the answer to my over-active brain. At least somewhat.

So as the days ticked on, I hinted and Remi pretended to ignore, not get it or not care about my not-so-subtle urgings. Until one evening we had Taco Tuesday with my bff Maggie and her one-and-only Drea. We were a week away from the big day and of course had to tell them what we had gotten the other.

Knowing that Maggie knew what I was getting made the waiting that much harder and try as I might to persuade her, she hung in there and wouldn’t tell me a thing.:(  In fact, in response to my emotional blackmail attempt at getting her to spill the beans, she said, “Oh you’re good. But I’m not some broad you’re dating and that shit won’t work on me!”

Fast forward to our big day … and Remi walks into the room with two glasses of wine and an ice cream sandwich (my weakness). After an appropriately mushy toast she told me my present was still at the Apple store and we would have to go get it together. Yay!!!! My iPod touch was just waiting for me to come and get her!

My present to her wasn’t nearly as extravagant, but it did illicit an emotional response that had us both in tears by the time she was done looking at it. I had a photo book made up of our entire first year together. I don’t mean a regular photo album, but an actual book, like a coffee table book. Complete with mushy texts she had saved on her phone all this time and promises of things to come and my favorite essay from Kahlil Gibran.  It turned out better then I had expected!

So with me covering the sentimental side of things and her, covering the expensive side of things, we had an amazingly perfect anniversary.

Until I asked her if she thought we would ever get married ….

Let me back up and give you some details. The night before the elbow to the face debacle, an old friend of mine called and said she was heading to a bonfire at the beach, would I like to go with?

I was feeling pretty crappy so I thought to myself, “Self, this is a perfect opportunity to force yourself out of the house and actually do something without Remi as your security blanket.”

So I told my friend, “Sure, but I’m not driving.”

She assured me she would be happy to swing by and pick me up on her way. She lives in Santa Monica, the bonfire was in Huntington Beach. I am in the middle. Hence the easy pick up.

I sent Remi a text asking if it was OK with her that I go out and she assured me … no wait, encouraged me to go.

Remi has never met Alex.

So I proceeded to get ready. But as I did, I started to get nervous and anxious. Never a good sign when I’m trying to get out of the house. I usually just give in to that and stay home. Staying true to old habits, I called Alex and backed out of our plans.

However, Alex was already pretty close to my house, with a white chocolate mocha that had my name written all over it. Literally.

She told me I had to at least come outside and drink some coffee with her so we could catch up. I eventually obliged, throwing an old pashmina  over my favorite plaid pajamas, I made my way out to her car now parked in front of my house.

I noticed right away that our nosy neighbor lady (who’s the block gossip) was coincidentally “gardening” at 9 o’clock at night. If she craned her neck any more to see in the car I’m sure she would have thrown something out of whack.

Half an hour later, buzzing on a Starbucks high and I sent Alex on her merry way to have fun without me.

I thought I had made the decision that would lead to a “no drama” night once Remi got home. But later that night when we were rehashing our days for one another as we do every night, I threw in the fact that Alex had stopped by. No biggie right?

Wrong. After we figured out that Remi was under the mistaken impression that Alex was a femme friend of mine she had once seen on myspace things took a turn for the worse.

As it turns out, Alex is butch. She’s a successful, slightly older (sorry Alex) butch lesbian that I happened to have slept with on three different occasions over the course of four years.

But that was a long time ago!!!

OK, granted, Remi didn’t know any of this when she encouraged me to go out and I did. Which is why I thought better of it and didn’t go. End of story, or so I thought.

When all of this hit Remi, she started thinking the neighbors probably think I’m cheating on her …. which God only knows what this block thinks of me and I really couldn’t care less. Plus the fact that I had slept with her in the past made things even better.

Anyways … that’s it. That’s the whole stupid story that led to Remi’s subconscious, probably giving me a slight concussion in the middle of the night.

Oh, yea …. Remi and I have been fighting all day over something I said about marriage. So who do I call in the heat of all it? You got it, Alex. Who of course offers to take me out to Girl Bar tonight and buy me a drink to get my mind of my troubles …. boy of boy, I’m sure that would have been a great idea.

Luckily, I didn’t go. Why? Because I love Remi and we had an amazing anniversary, which deserves it’s own little blog tomorrow.

Gina Carano on the left ... Yummmmm

There have been plenty a night when Remi and I  gave each other a sweet little kiss goodnight and then rolled over to our respective sides of the bed for slumber. I had always been an insomniac until she moved in, something about knowing she was a foot away immediately cured all my sleep issues. Most nights, I fall instantly asleep, with a happy, content feeling that only comes with a bed full of puppies and girlfriend.

Most of these gag-me-with-a-romantic-spoon nights lead to equally gaggably sweet mornings, where you realize you’re that couple that actually kisses before brushing their teeth and neither of you mind, even if your eyes are watering.

But all nights can not be as mush-filled at that. Some nights are plain crappy. This is where sleep styles come in. I am a curl-up on my side, while hugging an extra pillow kind of girl, who then sleeps pretty much in the same position all night. I might roll over now and then, but usually within my predefined area of the bed, a.k.a MY SIDE! An area that Remi has yet to discover exists.

Remi on the other hand talks in her sleep more then she does awake. On several occasions I’ve been woken up by her shaking my shoulder saying, “Babe! Babe! Get up! We gotta go!” When I ask her what’s going on, she lays back down and promptly falls back to sleep. Or should I say, stays asleep, since she was never awake. We’ve also long since stopped sharing a blanket since she doesn’t know how to share in her sleep. I realized that if I was ever going to have more then two square inches of my body covered at night, I needed my own blanket.

Aside from her occasional yelling in her sleep, which by the way scares the living daylights out of me when she does it. She also has the lovely quirk of occasionally hitting me with an elbow in the head or face. Not once, but twice. Three times if I weren’t fully awake, pissed and ready to dodge the next one. And I am not talking about a little roll over, accompanied by a flailing elbow. I mean a full on MMA elbow to the temple, above the eye or cheekbone. Talk about a nice way to wake up.

Last night was one of those nights. Oh wait, did I mention that she basically called me a whore before we went to bed … err … wait, no, she implied that our neighbors must think I’m whore … so much better. (A short blog about that is on it’s way.)

She hasn’t “accidently” pummeled me in her sleep in a while. However a funny little coincidence is that every time it has happened, it was following a fight. I don’t think for one second she did it on purpose, I do however wholeheartedly believe her subconscious mind is fully aware and is taking it out on me.

Call me paranoid. But you weren’t the one that got an elbow to the temple, and two minutes later another right above the eye.

To say I woke up pissed would be an understatement.

Which totally sucks because tomorrow is our one year anniversary and we’ve been all lovey dovey all week in anticipation.

Ughhh …. I’m done ranting for now. I need an ice pack and some more coffee.

Remi and I are coming up on our one year anniversary next week. We’ve been living together for nine months out of the twelve. To say that she’s seen me cycle up and down a few times is an understatement.

But just when she thought she was getting a pretty good read on things, you know … figuring out the triggers, the warning sings of an episode and what not I go and show her a whole new side to bipolar she had never seen before.

For lack of a better term I’ll call it sudden bursts of rage that come out of seeming nowhere, triggered by some tiny little misunderstanding or tiff that on a “normal” day wouldn’t even register on the Richter scale. But during a mixed episode ( when a bipolar person is having a manic and a depressed episode at the same time, usually with an excess of agitated energy for good measure ) it will break the freakin’ Richter scale, rocking both your world and those around you, usually leaving everyone involved scratching their heads after the dust settles asking, “WTF was that?!”

Luckily, this type of uncontrolled angry outbursts isn’t normal for me and doesn’t happen very often. Obviously if this is the first time Remi’s seeing it in a year. But that doesn’t make it any easier to handle when it’s happening.

You might be wanting an example? Well here you go. The other day we went to IKEA, as lesbians are want to do, to look for a lamp and a shelf. The day was a happy-go-lucky day up until that point. We were laughing, having fun, etc. We hadn’t been there two minutes when I saw that a man was trying to get by Remi. So out of habit and out of being too comfy with her perhaps, I pulled her out of the way by her arm. To which she yanked away from me and told me how much she hates it when I do that.

At that moment, in the split second it took for her words to reach my ears my mind whirled around an issue we’d been having the last two weeks about her not seeming to hold my hand as much as usual in public, to how I was only moving her to help, how it wouldn’t bother me if the situation were reversed, to how she must not want me touching her, to how she must not love me, to how we MUST break up right then and there in the  middle of IKEA!

I am not kidding. Before the last word was out of her mouth I was nearly shaking from an uncontrollable anger that had taken hold of me. I stormed off through the fake rooms of living room furniture where I tried to break up with her. I then stomped off poutily in the direction of dining room tables. She followed of course but was pretty pissed off at my behavior and wasn’t about to try to smooth things over with me acting like such a brat. Which only confirmed, in my mind that she indeed did not love me and that we were really broken up at this point.

My thoughts were racing: How was I going to get home? I could call Maggie. She was going to have to move out. The puppies would be so sad. I would be so sad. Where would she go? How did it get to this point? Did this mean no lamp?

I’m not sure how long this went on, because pretty soon I felt the all to familiar feeling of floating away starting to take over. It’s like being in a big room full of people and noise and you’re a balloon floating around, observing everything. But suddenly a door opens and you get sucked out into the hallway and start floating further and further away from the people and the sounds and reality in general. Before you know it another door opens and you float into that one. The door slams shut behind you and now you can barely hear the people you left behind. It’s quite and slow in this room. Time stands still. There’s nothing to distract you, nothing to think about, there’s just silence. But there’s a little glass window on the door and sometimes you can float over to it and look through it to see the people in the other room, down the long hallway. But you can’t get to them. You can barely hear them from in here.

It’s like that for me after a big emotional upset. I start to float away down a long hallway and life seems further and further away. But I could hear Remi’s voice in a distance calling to me, trying to make me answer her, to respond in some way. I finally willed myself out of my self-imposed, yet accidental coma-like state long enough for me to realize she wasn’t mad at me anymore and that things had gotten way out of control for no reason.

She kissed me right there in the middle of IKEA and aside from making some little Asian man run into a desk, it made it me feel a lot better. She took my hand and said, “Let’s go find a lamp.”

These “little” outbursts are damaging to a relationship as I’m sure you could see why. After two more of these little trips to the Twilight zone this weekend, we decided to do some research and see if we could find anything out.

While we’ve both read a lot on bipolar disorder, I think I’ve read almost everything. I still ran across something that made me say, “Ah hah! Why didn’t we think of that?”

While we both already knew that changes in time-zones or drastic schedule changes and disruption to sleep patterns could trigger an episode, we didn’t connect the dots. A few weeks ago, Remi got a pretty big promotion. But with that promotion came a schedule change. Her schedule becomes my schedule. It wasn’t that much of a difference so we didn’t think anything of it. She went from working from 1:00 p.m. to 9:30 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. to 1:30 a.m. So it’s pretty normal now if we don’t fall asleep till almost 5:00 in the morning.

When we looked back on the last few weeks we realized that there were signs a big episode was on it’s way but we didn’t realize what was the trigger point. Something as simple as a schedule change can throw a bipolar person like me, into such a major episode that my girlfriend was worried about my safety for a few days. That’s so depressing.

Hopefully realizing what’s really going on means I’m on my way up and out of it. But who knows? Honestly, one minute I’m as coherent and self-aware as Oprah and the next minute I’m bald Britney with an umbrella.

All I can do is try to stay out of trouble, out of jail and out of psych ward till my brain chemistry catches up with our new schedule.

Yep. There. I said it. I’m obsessed with pretty wedding cakes. Not weddings. Not wedding dresses. Just the cake part. I seriously think of it like whimsical art that’s yummy in the tummy. How much better can it get?

I never told Remi about my secret desire, she sort of found me out. Late one night some time last week, she came home from work and found me all cried out in bed. It had been one of those days. She sat down at the desk, opened the laptop and to my utter embarrassment there was a page still open full of wedding cake pictures! She turned to me, a huge grin played across her lips as she said, “Weddddddddinnnnnnnng cakes, huh babe?”

I could have died from embarrassment. The last thing I want is her thinking I’m trying to hint around about marriage! Oh my gawd, I am not THAT girl! I’m so NOT THAT girl, I’m usually the one scoffing the loudest at any talk about brides to be. Yet here I was, caught red handed with dozens of pictures of wedding cakes all over my desktop. Ugh.

Luckily our relationship is secure enough and serious enough that the discovery didn’t send my girlfriend running from the room. It actually started an equally embarrassing and rather mushy ten minute conversation where Remi was sweet enough to day dream with me for a while about a few “what ifs” and “maybe somedays.”

Which got me thinking …. of course. That it’s really quite ironic that now that I might actually believe in marriage (prop 8 be damned!) I probably won’t ever get an engagement ring. Because besides the cake, the ring is my next favorite part.

Why wouldn’t I get a big fancy engagement ring? Because we’re both women and who gives it to who? Both of us? I can’t see Remi sporting a three carat diamond and it wouldn’t exactly be fair of me to want something more then she gets. I don’t know!?

In the end, it doesn’t matter. If and that’s a big if, it ever came down to actually setting a date, bling is the least important thing in this relationship. I’m proud to say I’ve actually let a lot of that materialism go.

Then today a friend of mine sent me a text message that said, “We’re engaged!!!!” and attached was a picture of her finger with a three carat, emerald cut diamond ring on it. She’s a lesbian and she got an engagement ring. WTF???

Don’t get me wrong, I’m stoked for her happiness. Really. But it totally threw a wrench in my mental dialogue about lesbians and engagement rings.

What do you think about the topic? W