Greetings From Planet Paula: KITCHENS ARE NOT WALK-THROUGHS!

Greetings From Planet Paula: KITCHENS ARE NOT WALK-THROUGHS!: So much so, that I am seriously considering moving back to my old 'Little Italy in the Bronx' neighborhood where most, if not all, of the ...

KITCHENS ARE NOT WALK-THROUGHS!

So much so, that I am seriously considering moving back to my old 'Little Italy in the Bronx' neighborhood where most, if not all, of the apartment buildings went up over 100 years ago...when the heart and soul of a family was the kitchen.

That is where we had our meals, shared countless cups of coffee, did our homework, played on snowy days...where we all gravitated to gather 'round and talk. Not that the living rooms were roped off (although many were covered in plastic) but they were always secondary to the kitchen.

Since leaving that beautiful, century-old neighborhood, I have lived in apartments with what are called "kitchens" (see diagram) that are nothing more than a miniature walk-through, sort of like the back of a Subway store, your side of the counter. Try to cook in one of these kitchens, much less prepare a sumptuous dinner for 12. Instant claustrophobia, complicated by severe bruises and contusions from slamming head and/or body into closet doors, stove/refrigerator door handles, cabinet corners...

Maybe it's an Italian thing, this love for a big kitchen, I dunno (it took me 5 years to figure out that "EIK" meant eat-in kitchen in the classifieds...wtf?) All I know is that I am willing to trade half a living room and "dining alcove" (ugh) for one big sprawling kitchen, table smack dab in the middle, warmly welcoming all who visit or live there.

"Hey! Come in, we'll have a nice cup of coffee and shoot the breeze!"

There, now doesn't that sound cozy??

Greetings From Planet Paula: Life? Nothing more than a vale of tears...

Greetings From Planet Paula: Life? Nothing more than a vale of tears...: ...cried, often silently and alone, to release the anguish and pain that comes with a peculiar 'mental illness' known as manic-depression. P...

Life? Nothing more than a vale of tears...

...cried, often silently and alone, to release the anguish and pain that comes with a peculiar 'mental illness' known as manic-depression. Peculiar because it's a chemical imbalance in the brain that one is born with and can't really do much about, except pray for this life to end so the roller coaster of emotions will finally stop.

There is pharmaceutical 'help' available, if you want to deal with a horrific multitude of side effects and completely wipe out the side of your brain that harbors whatever creativity you may possess. And it seems to affect creative people the most...Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemingway, Leonard Bernstein, even Frank Sinatra who once proclaimed "I'm an 18-carat manic-depressive."

Jimi Hendrix wrote a song about it, so he probably had it too...

"Manic depression is touching my soul, I know what I want but I just don't know ..."

And it's one of the most difficult "now-you-see-me-now-you-don't" conditions for others to deal with because they just don't know how to cope with it. You can drift along for months, happy and peaceful, then suddenly turn into a moody, distant, snapping turtle-person who cries for what seems like no reason, except the invisible pain in one's heart that cannot be described; everything hurts...

Someone once asked if I could describe it, and I said "You know when you're sitting, eyes closed, on a warm sunny day, just feeling, loving the warmth? Then suddenly it turns cold, you open your eyes and see that a massive black cloud has covered the sun and you just have to wait for it to pass...that's the best way I can describe it." Sudden, unexpected, and after a lifetime of gut-wrenching mood swings, something to be dreaded even more than death.

Oh, the highs are great, you never want them to end. Which is one reason why psychiatrists find bi-polar disorder one of the most difficult to diagnose. You see, people only seek help when they're depressed so most initial diagnoses are "major clinical depression." Until the jig is up and your doctor figures it out. And then you're faced with either becoming an emotionless zombie, or gritting your teeth each time The Monster hits, hoping you'll get through it yet again without doing something to just end the nightmare.

The Monster was waiting for me when I awoke this morning and I'm getting really really tired of his unwelcome company.....

Greetings From Planet Paula: Indifference? Check!

Greetings From Planet Paula: Indifference? Check!: At least when it comes to negative people who want nothing more than to suck the life energy out of your body and have you join them in thei...

Indifference? Check!

At least when it comes to negative people who want nothing more than to suck the life energy out of your body and have you join them in their misery. Thanks, but no thanks, I've had quite enough of that mindset.

When I was 17 years old and working at my first (boring secretarial) job, I remember sitting in this vast 'pool' of typists and wondering how the HELL I had landed there (loooong story.) Always a creative person, I grabbed every opportunity to write ~ essays, long letters to friends and relatives, short stories ~ just to break the dreadful monotony of the work.

One summer day, I wrote a questioning essay about 'Indifference' ~ how to achieve it, and why I seemed to be so vulnerable to being hurt and unable to just shake off the sting of cruel words and actions when other people seemed to do it so easily?

I left the ending open because I could not figure it out. And now, so many years older than 'just 17' (and thanks to my Facebook friend Julia Amiya Messersmith) the answer has, at long last, arrived.

"Now that I'm older I thought it was great that I seemed to have more patience. Turns out I just don't give a shit."

Froggy, Honey Badger, Julia and me!