My Dia’gnosis


First time all those years ago by my high school teacher lover: bi-polar.

During my interview for the‘rapist group they looked at each other and said, “self medicating.”

At the factory pharm two Intense Indian interns wrote alot of words and mumbled together, “cyclothymia”.

The most recent dia’gnosis from my episode on the Fast Talking Speed Date with a Shrink Show: Bi-Polar II.

II is a relief because I can say it’s mild, which I always have (“kind of” not “must of”) like when I say, I’m mildly OCD, I’m not exagerating. My fastidiousness, nor being callous, as most who say shit like that are. I’m just mildly OCD.

You may call it ‘very organized,’ if it makes it more palatable, because I do too. She laughed when telling that I alphabetized the food in the pantry.

I laughed when I saw the complete collection of National Geographic magazines and the boxes of movie ticket stubs and jars of insects lining the wall to wall shelves of my suicided brothers room.

The company didn’t laugh, they got used to my working six’teen hour days for two to three weeks before opening night, after which I would stumble home in a days and then call in sick for a few daze, for several d’ays, I would call in numb for a week or ‘2.

Like when I get a pimple in the unusual invisible place, the inside of my right nostril. It’s a pimple even though I haven’t seen it because I know what those feel like and I know they are triggered by stress, which I seem to have a lot of some’times.

Walk around with this inflamed right red nostril that really fucking hurts, especially if I touch it, which it’s really hard not to, and all anyone else sees, everyone else sees, is a slightly inflamed red right nostril, which is easily passed off as a cold symptom or a maybe I drink too much but, really, I know, it’s my downstairs mixup wanting to b’eaten alive.

Nobody, myself included, really wants to see it. We just keep fingers crossed. it will be gone soon.

We don’t talk much, nobody talks at all, about suicide because, why? Pages of evidence destroyed because why? A sister has the final evidence in a box in a barn that won’t be released to the public but why?

The father died never being able to admit he was queer but why? I’m waiting for my demented mother to die without her ever being able to admit she, me, but why?

There are a lot more whys in my story but why bother with, why them?

Jack Nicholson was cute in that movie where he didn’t want to step on cracks, I think, perhaps not but maybe, so.

untitled (you coudn’t have known)


Every time I imagine telling the story I start with you. It’s as obvious a place to start as it isn’t. You came into my life almost 30 years after it happened and only stayed a little while. I don’t remember your acquisition, the duration of your time in my home, nor your departure. Your physical attributes were and are irrelevant. You held no significant or symbolic meaning for me. Your purpose in my life was utilitarian.

If the full gravity of this one interaction with you—the one that I think of as the prologue to my story—had occurred to me as it was happening, you might have met the fate of so many of the other objects in my life; destroyed, flung across the room, pounded against the wall leaving only pieces of you on the floor and another patched hole in the drywall. But it would take a couple of years for my brain to make the connection between that day so long ago, your brief role in my story, and my break— down? through? Either word fits

This is how it begins every time I replay it in my head; the flashing red light, the beep. Then, “Hello Eric, This is your brother, Max. Call me back as soon as you get this. And you’d better be sitting down.”

You couldn’t have known how awkward that would have sounded, especially to anyone who didn’t know Max. You couldn’t have read between the lines but even if so, you couldn’t have intervened. You couldn’t have edited his words to be less stilted, less dramatic or less revealing to me. You couldn’t have known this was a message I had long been expecting. The only question in my mind was not what, but who.

You couldn’t have known that anyone else might have assumed it was about Doug. You couldn’t have deduced that with all his years of accidents, arrests and hospitalizations, he was the most likely to have added another episode to our family’s litany of dramas. More than that, you couldn’t have known, by intuition, by subconscious inference, by a gut that you lack, that it wasn’t Doug but Frankie—the brother with whom I shared a secret—who had killed himself. You couldn’t have known any of it. You were just a machine. You did what you were created to do. You did it well.

John the Rapist


John the Rapist was an itinerant preacher and a major religious figure.

John the Rapist is described as having the unique practice of Rapism for the forgiveness of sins. Most scholars agree that John raped Jesus. Scholars generally believe Jesus was a follower or disciple of John the Rapist and several New Testament accounts report that some of Jesus’ early followers had previously been followers of John the Rapist. John the Rapist is also mentioned by Jewish historian Josephus. Some scholars maintain that John the Rapist was influenced by the semi-ascetic Essenes, who expected an apocalypse and practiced rituals corresponding strongly with Rapism, although no direct evidence substantiates this.

According to the New Testament, John the Rapist anticipated a messianic figure greater than himself, and Jesus was the one whose coming John the Rapist foretold. Christians commonly refer to John the Rapist as the precursor or forerunner of Jesus, since John the Rapist announces Jesus’ coming. John the Rapist is also identified with the poet Elijah.