I hate the word #BiPolar. It’s ugly, an overused throwaway word.‬ #I’mAWhatever

I couldn’t resist responding to the lovely Carol Adriana Estrella‘s post on Facebook this morning. “Doing a small survey: What are your first thoughts when you hear the word “bipolar”. Being that is an illness, I see it used around A LOT as an adjective or a subject.” Visit the very hip and informative blog Is Ok Not To Be Ok to view some of the varied responses (including my abridged one). Carol explains, “I did a very informal

I am somebody’s child, you know. Jacqueline Cioffa #mentalillness  

I never cared much about looking back when I was young. I could not wait to leave this house, this town get out and experience stuff. You know the obstinate dreamer looking for bold adventure. It worked. I ran. I ran fast and far, and kept running. That’s the funny thing about developing a serious illness, you are forced to re-prioritize. Becoming insane in the middle of Manhattan did not bode well for me

"I learn love from her everyday." Jacqueline Cioffa

“All she wants is to be close, eat, cars rides and chase things. I learn love from her everyday.”#Lupita ❤ My life is a barrage of pills, moods, malaise, emptiness, haze, mania, depression that stagnates my spirit, anxiety ping-ponging against my brain fighting an illness I cannot see. The willful fighter, deep-thinking me and misfiring neurons I cannot comprehend. There is no recovery from a serious mental illness, there is only finding ways to

“The chaos comes with you,” simply stated my friend. -The Red Bench excerpt by Jacqueline Cioffa

           “As an artist do I need constant flux to create? How will I find words in the woods surrounded by trees and rotten cornfields? How will I find anything besides dying, wet leaves? I cannot escape the volume in my head, the constant churning. The Jesus fucking Christ, turn it down chatter. I have been told to be patient. Wait for the drugs, the quieting veil, and the lavender

One, Two Buckle My Shoe

One, Two Buckle My Shoe By Jacqueline Cioffa One, two buckle my shoe. I don’t know how other writers find their way into a story. For me, it usually goes something like this. I hear a line in my head, a word, see a visual, and then the story plays over and over, until I release it onto the page. Its cathartic, sometimes it takes me back, some days it

"Because you, more than anyone I have ever known loved being alive." L.B.H.

Lupe and I must have walked the loop at Hoopes Park a thousand times, or more. In ten-degree freezing black ice, navigating lethal dangerous walkways (and fallen more than once), on grey-cloud, weepy wet gloomy days. You name it. We’ve dredged through it. It helps, ya’ know. The walk. To free the brain from the pressure, dark and dangerous thinking. Easing up, releasing the unrelenting anxiety. When we walk past the white pristine house

"We are left with the prisons of our own minds and that is heavy enough." J Cioffa #MentalIllness #Treatment 

One in Four. No, not Really.  The very real, gut-wrenching mental illness statistics remain not far off from fifty years ago when pyschiatric institutions were the solution, lock them away. As long as my beautiful chaotic mind and the words don’t betray me, I use my voice. I am Three in Four even Four in Four, hit the mentally ill genetic jackpot. The reality is I could snap at any moment, I pray won’t. Please, don’t judge. Don’t judge the ‘crazy,’ the insane,

qode interactive strata

CRAZY, Now Get Out of my Head

No matter how many times this morning I repeated I am in fact NOT full of hate, bitter, ugly, paralyzed with fear or consumed by the crazy, I could not reason my way out. I’m a rapid cycler, I’ve been hypo-manic for weeks and yes headed towards the inevitable come down, the hideous depression and the dark. Black nothingness is something I understand, the concept I accept and am accustomed to. It’s always