Special Edition of Bipolar Me

Because of a negative response to my naked upper body on the cover of Bipolar me, I’m developing a special Edition of the book with a new cover that should be less intimidating, a new title, and interior changes that includes my bouts with dyslexia, and stuttering. This new edition will be available only in digital format. If I get a favorable response I’ll make a paperback version available.


Sometime in the first grade I began talking out of my anus. Well, not exactly. But to me everything coming out of my mouth sounded awfully garbled. I knew what I was saying but the words weren’t just slurring they were repeating themselves real fast in a horribly long version of the Gettysburg Address. When I said, ‘What do you want Mom?’, it came out “Wa-wa-what di-di-do you wo-wo-want Mom?” By the I time I finished talking I was sorry I asked the question. It’s no fun talking when every one’s eyes go droopy and they look like they’re going to fall asleep. So, I became a fulltime mute. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, dear reader, it didn’t stop me from getting into trouble.

That’s when Mom put me into Speech Class after school, that I was supposed to stay in for a month. I stayed for a week, at which time I was expelled, that is, if you can be expelled from Speech Class, a new first for me without even a chance for a second chance. The class called me names like Si-Si-Sid, the Ro-Ro-Royal Pa-Pa-Pain in the A-A-***, a slight I couldn’t tolerate. So I kicked and shoved my way out of there in less than seven days. My expulsion happened so fast Mom didn’t even have time to faint. It didn’t matter anyway. In no time at all the stuttering stopped of its own accord. That’s when I got my first hint that my life was beschart (preordained by God).

Fighting My Way Out Of Bipolar And Depression

I wrote Bipolar Me, about fighting my way out of a nightmare at a time when doctors didn’t know sh**from Shinola about this disorder. I thought it had all the trappings of a best seller. IE. lots of sex, 5 wives, jail time, a stay in a Nut-House, 2 dead daughters and my best four-legged friend dying on me. What else could a reader ask for?  I guess there wasn’t enough stuff about vampires, teenage love or Facebook likes. So far, in spite of Amazon 5 star reviews, I’ve only sold 8 books. To say I’m disappointed would be an understatement. I could have bought 2 really nice guns to shoot myself in both sides of my head, instead of wasting my money on publicity. Oh! Well.  Since even in the worse stages of depression I couldn’t kill myself (as discussed in the book), I guess I’ll have to start from scratch all over again. Maybe the cover of me naked is scaring people away. Maybe I should put up a new cover of me as a baby with boxing gloves? What do you readers out there think I should do?  Any good ideas would be very much appreciated. Comment at sidnachmam.com

Romantic Love is a Bunch of Sh**

Romantic love is a bunch of sh**. I fell madly in love with a seventeen-year-old girl named Sandy the first time I met her when I was a naive twenty years old, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that #bipolar love is not only blind, it plays with itself. Sondra’s, succulent lips enticed me the first time I saw her, making me completely disregard the shape of her tits at least for the time being and the puppy-dog look in her eyes. I feasted on all three late into the evening and was firmly hooked thereafter. Three months later in my middle bedroom in my house on Delancey Street in bed, a push and a miss into Sandy followed by a full court press and a loud pop blew me into the air up to the ceiling exclaiming, “I did it! I finally did it! Hallelujah!” My pink kneecaps smiled back at me sighing in relief at the terrible demands I no longer put on them. Sandy, on the other hand, just laid there quietly spread-eagled with a smile on her face. We were married in December a few months later conclusively proving two irrefutable facts that I wish I had paid more attention to then. Number 1: A schmuck by any other name is still a schmuck! Number 2: A broken hymen is a poor excuse for getting married!

An Unknown Disorder


Doctors in the early 60’s didn’t know their a** from their elbows about bipolar so they called what I had, “June Fever”. One day in June in my 5th year of marriage to my second wife the world came crashing down on me for no apparent reason at all. It was six o’clock in the morning, the usual time I wake up. But this time I couldn’t jump out of bed or push the covers away. I had a three-thousand-pound anchor holding me back, pulling me down into a deep, dark sea. I thought, “What the hell is going on?” So I said to myself as nice as can be, “This is just a bad dream and I’m still not awake.” I pinched myself hard on both cheeks to make sure I was awake. My fingers dug in but I couldn’t feel any semblance of pain. It was if my cheeks weren’t attached and belonged to someone else. I got really pissed off telling myself, “This is sh** for the birds!” So with all the strength I could muster I sat up, pushed the covers off and sat on the edge of the bed for what seemed like a very long time until I had no choice. I had to get off. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I was wetting my pants. That was always a very good sign that I’d better get to the bathroom right now, no “ifs, ands or buts” allowed. So I got off the bed and slowly made my way to the john like a Neanderthal man carrying a boulder in one hand and his pee-pee in the other.


Back Cover of #Bipolar Me

 Do not read this book if you are: 1) An immature nitwit, 2) A bible thumper, 3) A lily-pure-person, 4) You cringe at cursing, 5) You’re not old enough to drink 6) You think your sh**doesn’t stink, To all of the aforementioned, I humbly beg your pardon. I grew up in a neighborhood where curse words, vulgarity and self-deprecating humor were imprinted in my soul and as hard as I tried never left me.


Living a #Bipolar Dream

Dream the impossible #bipolar dream. Congressman serving 2 year terms in Congress. Sharing the same benefits we have in health care, social security and 401K pensions. Our government would have rampant diarrhea actually representing us urchins.


*Bipolar Misrepresented

Dear bipolar friend. In the last few years the media and doctors, who don’t know their front from their back, have started using bipolarism as a catchphrase for every homicidal act known to man. To say that they’re full of sh** would be a gross understatement. There is no statistical or medical evidence proving bipolar anger can evolve into a homicidal act. To the contrary even in the worst stages of a chemical imbalance in the brain our conscience tells us what’s right and what’s wrong, preventing us from committing an atrocity. Schizophrenia is the only disease known to science that distorts ones thinking enough to commit an unspeakable act. I guess bipolar is easier to spell. So, rest in peace dear friend in the knowledge that bipolar maybe tough to live with but you’ll never wake up accused of murder .

Two Books, Both Bipolar


Strictly for Seniors is about city kids growing up in the 30’s and 40’s. I changed the name of the  main character in each story because I thought readers would never believe all those things could happen to this young #bipolar boy. Readers, to my surprise, recognized me. #Bipolar Me is an 82 year life story of how humor, determination and a firm belief in God can beat back this disorder.


A #Bipolar boy in Strictly for Seniors


 Marc felt the shame slowly welling up inside. He looked into Patty’s eyes. His mouth was contorted in a sneer spitting out words Marc didn’t like to hear. ”Come on Kike! Fight! You’re nothing but a dumb, fat Jew!” The anger stuck in Marc’s throat. A bitter taste was in his mouth.  Marc tried to spit it out. The anger in him was still asleep. Then it was slapping him hard on the back. Like a drunken sailor, Marc formed a wedge of leather in front of his face.  He waited, curiously detached, not feeling anything but his rage.  Patty’s gloves continued to cut into him. This kid is too stupid to drop his gloves. With his last ounce of his strength Patty caught Marc with a left hook to the groin.  Marc moaned and fell to his knees.  Then he rolled onto his back.  Patty smiled thinking Only assholes play by the rules! Tears ran down Marc’s cheeks as big as Patty’s grin.  Then Patty felt a morbid sense of guilt. I feel like a jerk.  Patty reached down to help Marc up.  Marc’s eyes are full of hate.  Patty knew then that it was too late. He could never win.  He could never beat this little fat kid into the ground.  He never saw Marc’s glove crash into his chin, changing the mood he was in to unconsciousness. Patty slowly slid to the ground with a sh*t-a** grin and a look of surprise on his face.  He laid on his back in quiet repose, eyes open to the sour-mash world of black.