The Fields

  I did not have a wonderful childhoood. I just didn’t, but I do have a wonderful life now, and that’s a declaration I’m proud of.  Back when I was young, family problems were kept hidden behind closed doors all tied up neatly in a bow so everything looked nice on the outside, unlike today where bad behavior is out in the open, rewarded, and then given your own reality TV show.  There wasn’t anything good about it then, or now.  Bad behavior is nothing to be proud of.

     I used to take off and run for the fields when there was a ruckus at home, which meant Dad getting drunk and tearing things up…the dining room, the jars in the refrigerator thrown all over the place, lots broken, even some dining room chairs were in the back yard, but what he tore up mostly was his children.  This was all simultaneously happening while my two older brothers were competing to see who got into prison first.  Michael did, and Collin followed about ten years later.  Man, my family was fucked up.  That’s all I got to say.

     I remember one day when Dad called me a piece of shit.  I was barely six and trying to protect my Mom who was trying to protect us.  I threw a noodle from my chicken noodle soup at him.  That was not a good day.  He turned his need, his desire to beat something, on me.  This was not new, he did, and said a lot worse than that.  That particular day was special in the fields though.  When I first stopped running, I cried until my little body couldn’t cry anymore, and the stings all over my body eventually stopped hurting, just leaving red, purple, black and blue.

     I always wished someone would come to find me, comfort me and tell me everything is going to be ok, or tell me a joke, but that never happened.  No one ever came.  This kind of stuff messes kids up. We’re left to try and make sense of what happened, and who loves us?  Who?

     The fields were especially beautiful that summer day.  Everything was in bloom.  There were so many colors when you sat down you were completely hidden in that jungle splash of color.  The fields were called Bower’s Fields, because the Bower family owned them. I think I owned a little part of those fields too, just like it owned me.  It was special.  I felt safer there.  Not safe, I never felt safe, but I knew I could write and get lost in all of it.  I didn’t have to go home.

     I am a writer.  You’ve never heard of me because I’m not famous, but you can’t take it away from me, besides everyone was unknown at one point.  When I was young I think I just liked to make things up.  I could enter a place that was mine and make it anything I wanted it to be especially when real life wasn’t what it should be. Like Mick Jagger was a very good friend of mine.  Well, actually, I was a young homeless distant niece of his he knew nothing about until I made it all up and showed up on his doorstep.  He was nice and I was welcome to visit whenever I wanted so I went there so often in my mind I knew that imaginary home by heart.  Every color of the walls, the furniture, the yard, the driveway, just everything.  

     Eventually I lived there, yep, with Mick Jagger, the Rock Star.  Of course, I don’t know the real Mick Jagger but this one was nice.  He was just an older relative that was good to me.  

     Now that I’m older it makes me laugh, and honestly, sometimes, it makes me cry too, when reading this child like story.  I had to live in a pretend world as a child because my real world was so bad.  A child shouldn’t have to make up a whole new world.  Don’t ask me why I chose Mick Jagger because I don’t know.  I get that I was trying to create a father figure, but Mick Jagger?!  Wtf?

     Thus began my writing career.  I saw and heard things no child should have ever seen and heard and now the memory of those things haunt me, literally haunt me. I will never get those images out of my mind.  Great, now add a haunting to the list. There was this bipolar child (Me. Yeah, it just gets better] that was overlooked because other family members were doing absolutely outrageous things themselves, paying no attention to the fact that I never, well for example, slept.  For days!  I remember this one well.  It was awful.  They, the grown ass adults, got the attention, not me.  It’s even hard for me to write down and describe some of those memories.  I would shock you.  I know this to be true becaus this is my life and I have shared before.  You should have seen the look on their faces, or the things they said, like, “no sir, that didn’t happen… wait, did it?”  Or, I’ve been told to stop because they couldn’t “take it.”  I can’t even share my life.  I have to fill in the spaces.  I don’t like to make stuff up any longer because I’m all grown up so, I use diversion tactics.  Hey, if nothing else, that environment taught me how to act like I’m going for the Oscar.  How to lie. I often use that phrase, “OK Sutton, go for the Oscar.”  Idk.  Maybe I’ll share.  Maybe later.  Maybe not.  I want this story out there and no more secrets but, I also want this story to be one of inspiration, laughter and some fun in all this mess.  I did have that in my life too.  If I would have just had that and skipped all the other stuff I know my life would have taken a different, a better, trajectory, and that makes me feel that I missed out.  I have moved past the hurt and shock and choose to live in peace.  I don’t care what my feelings are telling me anymore because I realize they are fickle and not always right, so I have to choose on purpose to be happy.  Once I experienced true peace I was not willing to let it go.
     I kept this world and everything else I wrote in a big red purse.  The Red Purse.  That purse held all my pretend stories.  It was a good purse.  It had a place for my pen and pencils, stuffed with tablets to write on, some full, others with just the beginnings.  It had a bottle of White Out and a thesaurus, which some of you have no idea what that is.  White Out was a liquid to white out typing mistakes from a typewriter, do you know what that is?  And a thesaurus is a book of synonyms.  You know, all the stuff a computer does.

     Then Word came along.  Before Word I would just go to my red purse and pull out something and take it somewhere to dream on paper.  A purse full of paper dreams.  I never, ever thought of submitting anything for publication.  I don’t think children think that way, and who knows back then how life is going to turn out anyway.  I don’t know the end to my story yet, but I still have that red purse and now I have a chance at happily ever after.   Not The End, The Beginning.

 

The Beginning

I am Sutton, I am an adult now and many years have passed since the fields.  I was finally diagnosed bipolar in my forties when I finally made an appointment with my now psychiatrist. I knew it was bad, I had lost control of my mind and body.  I developed a stutter and couldn’t get my words out. In my face it felt like some inner string pulling, twisting, then, my brain was like fog…I couldn’t remember shit let alone engage in a conversation.  I couldn’t sleep, and I have to say, that was still just awful.  I lost my ability to write.  I had beautiful penmanship but now I couldn’t get the letters out, and there was so much more, but even still, I made it.  I got the help I needed, unfortunately, not before setting fire to my life.  I blew mine up.  Bipolar will take you down.  It’s too big to try and manage on your own and the thing is, you can’t figure out that it’s an actual disease, a brain disease, a neurological disorder, and that you are bipolar.  You can’t figure that out on your own.  It would have been nice if I could have, or if an adult had looked out for me, but that didn’t happen either.

I have a collection of writings that started when I was about six or seven and continued throughout my life.  Some of my writings are like a rambling run on sentence that rants, that raves, that boggles the mind…what the hell?  Sometimes it gets so bad I can’t even read my own writing, which continues to get worse as the story progresses. I am going to post some of those, eventually.  I won’t  post them now because you might think I’m crazy.

My first story is called, “You’re not Crazy, It’s a Gift.”  I will be posting that next week, and thereafter I will try to post weekly.  I hope this not only helps someone struggling, or someone caught in the middle,  because that happens all the time too, but, that my sharing, my bearing my soul, also entertains.  Sometimes you just gotta laugh. Yes!  There’s life after bipolar. The End.

It’s taken a lot longer to post this.  I apologize.  Life happened.  I was in paradise, West Palm Beach, and didn’t want to leave.  I return home to Northeast Ohio, and it’s 55 and rainy.  See?

 

You’re not Crazy, It’s a Gift

This is how it all begins, innocently enough.  I take something like cleaning, because I do like clean things very much, but no one really likes to do it, cleaning, right?  Except me, but then I go too far and turn it into a whole thing, and there are many “things” but let’s just talk about cleaning, for now.  I know it sounds weird but just listen.  Cleaning isn’t a bad thing, right?  I mean there are much worse things like bank robbery, saying the F word in front of a priest, getting arrested if you enter that store again, right?  In comparison, cleaning isn’t that bad.  Wrong.  That would surprisingly be the wrong answer.  At least the way I did it.  Cleaning actually was not my problem, just a symptom.  I did what my brain, what anybody’s brain, would tell them to do.  My brain told me to clean and to clean too much.  I did.  I had two speeds.

Oh boy, I was a force.  People sure noticed how clean my place, my car, my yard, my make up bag was…how my everything was just so very clean and in place.  I still didn’t get it.  I just thought I was high energy and liked clean things.   People loved it too and wanted their places to look like that, but that takes membership into an exclusive club, by invitation only.  Welcome!  It beckons.  Come on in, it says.  You are a member now!  Great!  So, I’m in now I guess, but, now what?  I mean no one asked me or told me what to do, so now what do I do?

But I have to clean up… again with the cleaning, but it is my stuff, and no one else will do it because they have their own yards to clean up. Now whether they chose to make it a masterpiece depends on that person’s character.  There’s a lovely saying that goes on about make your own backyard a garden you love, in reference to your life.

Just focus on your backyard.  There’s plenty to be done, I can assure you, especially if described as beautiful.  That doesn’t just happen.

I wish I could say my invitation into that exclusive club was to join Palm Springs and Palm Beach Country Clubs, where I also own two homes, two very clean homes, but, nope, the club I got invited into is Bipolar.  I thought, well, that’s just great.  Wtf?  Am I going to change into someone else?  My daughter worried about that too, and much more I’m sure. Stuff she shared with me, but other stuff she maybe just worried about in silence.  I mean, if it were her, initially I’d be devestated.  We talked, we cried, we laughed and we read about bipolar a lot.  We were both happy that there was medication to treat this but we were also scared to death of the medication.

You don’t know that you are bipolar right away either, that takes time, usually years, in the mean time you’re busy cleaning and setting fire to your world.  To your life.  That’ll keep ya busy.  It sure did me.

I didn’t notice the voracity and relentlessnesss I approached things with because I was too busy.  You name it, I was busy with it.  Thank God, alcohol was not my thing.  Thank God, drugs or cigarettes were not either or I’d probably be in some real deep shit right now, or dead.  Not a pack a day smoker, drug addict or alcoholic.  Not yet.  Let’s pray it never becomes “a thing” because I did have my own struggle with cigarettes once.  Stubborn li’l bastards.  And they are so bad for you.  Why?  We could have been so good together.  I did love you once.  Self medicating a mental health issue doesn’t work either. Makes it worse.

But my cleaning was legendary.  I was a full blown crazy cleaning woman.  I’m there!  I hit a ceiling but no insight yet as to why.  Everyone’s house I visited on vacation got thoroughly cleaned from top to bottom.  It sounds all funny now, and there were many wishing me to come visit probably, like my sister, but one small problem, I had no off button.  I would have to with super human strength from within steer my go, then go some more, into something good.  Something white light because this was an ominous power I was dealing with, from within, from within my brain.  I had no idea why I felt wound up so tight.  As tight as you ever thought possible, and had ever experienced thus far in life, then ramp that up by ten, then another ten, infinity.

I had no idea what was happening.  I knew something was wrong, but figured it was just life, and life could go either way.  I was a Critical Care float RN so I also figured it was job stress too because I had done it for thirty three years.  Maybe menopause?  It was confusing becuase I was so good at being a Nurse, but the intensity of the job, and the environment wreaked havoc on me.

I didn’t know all this stuff until later but, I will say this, I was so fucking high.  So wound the fuck up I had no control over this body of mine.  Sleep? Lol.  I just know I needed to come down.  See, once you’re in that club you’re never getting out.  I’m in.  I had no say, no choice.  The invitation came in the mail.  May as well accept it and try like hell to make the best of it.  It’s almost awesome in its unleashed state but bad things happpen.  Notice I didn’t say could happen.  Trust me on that one.  Ok then, to start with, it’s time to reign in Crazy Cleaning Lady.  Maybe that should have been the title.

I think sometimes I could have fun all day long just lying on the couch watching TV, flipping.  Just laying there flipping.  Why do things need to get done?  Why?  Ah, to hell with it, this is so nice here on the couch.  I think a few hours of the murder channel, then some YouTube holes to go down, documentaries, music, and oh, those clips on YouTube about the ten worst anything.  I could make doing nothing into a thing, a fun thing you know, but things have to get done.  Dammit. It’s just that simple.  Fuck.  I have to do it, but I have to strike a balance.  What a statement…strike a balance.  That means everything to a bipolar, so simple a statement, but ridiculously hard for a bipolar when first diagnosed/invite received, and before that, impossible. I suspect it may be something I will have to wrestle with all my life.  Big duh.

But, with time, it gets easier to deal with life, and to be honest, I would rather live in clean world than in dirty world anytime, but not crazy clean world.  Unfortunately, clean world doesn’t just happen.  It’s true, cleaning fairies do not come out at night, damn lazy fairies, so I have to.  See, something others’ wouldn’t even think twice about, can totally trip up a bipolar. I need to clean but I can’t go overboard, I have to remind myself.  More than once.

With the right help, medication, hope, support, and lots of forgiveness, and maybe some magic, once treated, wait…throw in some therapy too, then you’re a totally different person.  There’s my answer.  I will change completely and become that person I was always meant to be.  It was so exciting, and terrifying too, meeting myself for the first time…Sutton, meet Sutton…then, and therafter, I still amaze myself.

You have got to harness some of your gifted craziness into creative and productive stuff or bad things happen like ears get cut off.  Harness it, control it, reign it in and don’t let it control you.  Do something you don’t want to do, or can’t, but you have to.  In fact, try that one thing once more you’ve been trying to do and failed at.  Now you’re left with the choice of accepting either you’re a big fat loser or, trying again.

Ok, we covered cleaning and how it can become a monster out of control, but another point I would like to make, because it too can become a monster, a common one, is that a man can be the very thing that steals your dreams from you if you let them.  I’ve actually seen this one a lot.  Me, meh…I didn’t really care about having a man during my untreated bipolar years.  Now that was probably a good choice, but I watched my girlfriends go through this.  Or, done right, a man can be the very thing that makes your dreams come true.  It’s a tricky one.  Don’t let it be that trigger for a whole bunch of worse shit.  Read those red flags… immediately, and think about them.  They’re there.  Oh yeah, they’re always there.

Take your time and don’t be afraid to be alone or take it slow.  Don’t be afraid to take a chance and believe.  Just remember, you’re on a date so act like a lady.  Don’t cuss like a truck driver or get your drink on, and please, don’t let your crazy flag fly too soon. Date with decorum.  You, my dear, hold all the cards.  So, don’t feel pressure, or worry what someone else is doing, even if the bitch stole your man.  Those two definitely deserve each other and not you.  Step away from that one.

I’m not perfect.  Believe me I am so not perfect but age has its benefits if you grow up instead of down.

In conclusion, I tried to quite cigarettes about a thousand times and couldn’t but I never gave up trying and then, finally, I quite.  Something I never thought I could do.  Some deep insight I’ve gained in life that I would like to share also, is that the wrong man, and cigarettes, are bad for your health.  And oh!  If you’re having brain issues, get help!  Yes, there are brain diseases.

It may take you what seems like forever to get it right, but that doesn’t matter, just keep trying and don’t ever, ever give up on your dreams.  No matter what anyone else says or thinks of you, don’t even let what you think of yourself, dissuade you.  Forget about influencers, what the hell is that anyways? Trust me, from what I’ve seen, you don’t want that kind of influence.  Don’t you have a friend?  A trusted older person that’s cool too?  A priest?  A well liked teacher, or just start with someone you’ve known awhile and admire.  Mom and Dad are good choices too, barring your childhood did have good influence parents.  Sometimes that doesn’t work out but, I know there is a role model suitable for a person like you out there.  Do not look to Hollywood for answers.  They are great for entertainment and for us that should be enough.

I don’t care what others think of me as long as I know I am doing the right thing and taking the high road, that I’m growing, improving.  It never will matter. In fact, they can all kiss my ass because I’m not crazy, it’s a gift.

I will be posting some light and airy, more fun stuff next.  I know how dark my writing can get, and you have not seen the worst of it yet, but I do have a sense of humor.  I’ve been writing a story along with my Onlyfans postings because I needed more than just, “suck my toes.” I felt stupid. It was not me. I needed more narrative so, I wrote “The Internet Story.” It begins with my first posting, or picture of me, and in the caption is written, “”I was walking around one day and wandered into this bar called The Internet. I went in, wandered around thinking, what is a nice girl doing in a place like this?” I really did think that. The story will develop as I post and make my way around this new world.

I have a blog called, The Red Purse at “suttonsecretandstories.com” and yes, I am a writer.

My next, …well, I don’t know what it is…a poem, maybe lyrics, an essay, or just thoughts, but it is one of my favorites.

Coming to theaters soon, Cat Daddy in his White Cadillac, written and produced by Sutton.

 

Cat Daddy in his White Cadillac

Cat Daddy in his white Cadillac

Hits 90 as he leaves LaFayette

White tail fins looking like wings in flight while

Red tail lights get harder to sight

Two hours ago Cat told his friends,

See ya back here around ten and,

Until then,

Don’t be smokin’ all the good stuff my friend

Cause I’ll be ready to party by then

And then, cool Cat turns and struts out of the Bone Yard Den and into that Caddy

Cruisin down the highway

Windows rolled down

Wind blowin all around

Radio on loud singing Funky Town

Having the time of his life taking in the sights

Cat’s enjoying the hell out of life with no destination in site

Then, eventually that big white moon following that big white Caddy

Make their way back to the Den with the Cat Daddy

Cutting the engine, the radio blare

Cat opens the door and rolls out all smooth with not a care

Listen and you can hear him say,

God I love this country

I’m as free as that clear starry night above.

Other’s see what’s wrong, but I see what’s right.

There’s so much more goodness and white light if you know how to see right.

And one more thing I like is a care free life

Because I know peace through Jesus Christ

Yeah, He’s a good friend of mine

I like my pot and He likes His wine

We both have a good time

See the thing is,

Cat’s a good soul with a good buzz

Living his life not hurting anyone

Instead, minding his own business just having fun

Ol’ Cat he’s hip

He’s cool with an even cooler car

There’s only one and

He’s the one

The real Cat Daddy

So don’t judge before you take a look in the rearview mirror

Because you might just see an ass staring back

You might want to take another look at Cat and see that.

Thank you so much for your interest in my blog. The next posting will be Build a Man and will be posted soon.

 

Build a Man

I could build one you know, I know what I want,

I know what I like, I know what’s good and what’s right, and what’s not.

I know what I want them to care about.

I know the difference between loyalty and a wandering eye.

I know how to laugh and want them to know how to too,

I know God and if they don’t, I understand and am willing to share when they’re ready.

I know I want a gentle and kind man, and if they are, I believe they already know God…They just don’t know it yet.

I know how to work hard so I know what a lazy ass is.

It’s beautiful in its simplicity,

I just don’t have the science or the means.

Smarter people than me could develop the kit…

The Build a Man kit,

And it would be a best seller.

We could add things like stuff that blocks man from snatching our children from the streets or shooting them up, breaking Moma’s hearts all over the place.

Block the funerals, the protests trying to get everyone to do what’s right…Don’t worrry, it will all be built in.

Build the man that doesn’t go out and get trashed and return home to hurt his family for Christ’s sake.

Build a man that puts things like integrity before money, silence before a big mouth, and loyalty before

his ying-yang.

I know it’s not anything big like finding a cure for cancer.

I mean, it is only a man, but a better one would make a better world.

So build a man that loves peace.

One that shows up to his job every day then goes home to cut the grass, laugh with his neighbor and pet the dog before he eats.

Nothing fancy, nothing weak.

Man, we’ve really lost you along the way so please, build me just a regular one and send today.

Sincerely,

Sutton

CC: God

 

My Pearl Necklace

That’s how I see you

Beautiful even with the teeniest, tineist imperfections

Setting off any occasion

That’s how lovely you are

You are so much more than your hair or that outfit, your

Thighs or your things

And, AND you are more than “clicks”

Don’t check and don’t count

Do you have any idea how stupid that is?

God, you are so beautiful and blessed don’t forget

And all that other stuff isn’t what a good friend would see

anyway

They see you

You need to see you for who you really are

My pearl, my star

Before me another created you without flaws

And loves you more than anyone is capable of by far

You are His pearl, you are His star

I wrote Pearl Necklace when my daughter was going through the normal teenage angst and was a horrible person. My angel had turned into quite the bitch. Now, she apologizes and calls it her shit years. It was a difficult task being a Mother that tried to set rules and enforce them because she was determined to break them all. She didn’t like me much is probably a true statement. To say the least, she did not want to hear a stupid poem and after I read it to her she thought it was pretty lame. I kept it anyway and now it’s in my book forever. Boy, is she going to be surprised.