The bread, the shrink and the cat that ate my roses.

Yesterday, I popped into Great Harvest Bread Co. on Woodruff Road in Greenville after visiting my shrink. The smell of yeast, and wheat flower and butter and cheese and oil overwhelmed my senses as I walked in the door.  Bread had just come out of the oven, and in my normal style I walked up to the counter and said, "I'm a new customer!  What's good? Tell me about this place."

The lady's eyes lit up and I was led to a wood block full of freshly baked samples of bread.  "We grind our own wheat here," she said and handed me big chunks of Nine Grain bread and Asiago Pesto loaf.

The Nine Grain is heavy and meaty and rich, with a slight sweet earthiness.  The Asiago is... I have no words. Wow. The inside is swirled with pesto.  Lots of amazing pesto and topped with asiago cheese.

I walked out with heavy loaves of each and before I had finished my errands the car was filled with this amazing smell. (I molested the bread sufficiently when I got home.) Like Great Harvest Bread Company- Greenville, SC on Facebook for fresh baked updates.

Next topic.  (Don't get whiplash.)

So when I started this blog my friend and mentor Gil told me I should talk about the fact that I'm bipolar.  It's a weird mental disease, but I embrace it and get on with life.  Don't get me wrong, it is a pain in the ass, but it's only one piece of who I am... a piece you might be able to relate to, but if you aren't close to me, you might not know, so I'm sharing.

I was working at an ad agency when the first big depressive episode hit me.  In my craziest manic phases, I had the strength of superwoman.  I'd rearrange the entire house before my husband could come home from work.  I ran up our credit cards. I obsessed over things (more than usual). I talked incredibly fast, moved fast and couldn't sit still. I wore my friends completely out.  In the lowest of lows, I couldn't get out of bed.  Sound and light bothered me. There was no happiness left in the world.  It was bad.  I cried a lot.

During one of these really down times, my husband had had enough. He felt so helpless. He picked me up, threw me in the car and took me to the doctor.  They prescribed something for depression... basically slapping an Rx bandage on me, so I could snap out of it.

In my late twenties the ups and downs were getting worse. Back to the doctors, but this time, we did it right: psychiatrist, general practitioner and a counselor.  It was no shock that I was bipolar.  I think the psychiatrist said something like, "I'm as sure you are bipolar as I am that it is raining outside." (It was raining.)

I take my meds religiously.  They are not optional. Ever. I have found good doctors that monitor my mental and physical health closely.  I pay really close attention to myself.  I know my triggers and I've learned some self-coping mechanisms.

Point being.  Yep, I'm nuts.  It's fine.  I embrace it. It comes with a lot of other things, too, like this amazing creative side that allows me to make things and write and get excited about the tiniest thing that other people wouldn't notice. Sometimes it knocks me out of commission for a day or so, but it's temporary and people have much worse problems.   Got a story you want to share?  Shoot me an email.

Enough of that.

Here's my cat. One of them.  I have two.  She is cussing me out with her eyes because I made her quit eating my roses.  She thinks I bought them for her. I didn't.  I got them for myself for my birthday. Why do cats love roses so much?

I'm off to read another chapter in The Amateur Gourmet... and do something with this house of mine.
Have a good day! Thanks for letting me share.