My Dia’gnosis

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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.

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