First time all those years ago by my school teacher lover: bi-polar.
During my interview for the‘rapist group the two looked at each other and said, “self medicating.”
At the factory pharm my two Intense indian Interns wrote words alot and mumbled together, “cyclothymia”.
My most recent ’85 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 ’92s ’93 mild, ’94 which I always have, kinda (“kind of” not “must of”) like when I say, I ’92m mildly OCD, I’92m not exagerating. My fastidiousness, nor being callous, as most who say shit like that are. I’92m just mildly OCD.
You may call it ’93very organized,’94 if it makes it more palatable, because I do that, too. She just 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 preserved insects lining the wall to wall shelves of my suicided brothers room.
The theatre company didn’92t 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.
To fall on a metaphor, it’92s like when I get a pimple in the unusual/invisible place the inside of my right nostril. It’92s a pimple even though I haven’92t 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.
I walk around with this inflamed red right nostril that really fucking hurts, especially if I touch it, which it’92s 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’92s my downstairs mixup wanting to b’eaten alive.
But nobody, myself included, really wants to see it. We just keep fingers crossed. it will be gone soon.
We don’92t talk much, nobody talks at all, about ’92s suicide because, why? Pages of my evidence destroyed because why? The sister has the final evidence in a box in a barn that she won’92t release to the public but why?
The father died never being able to admit he was queer but why? I’92m 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 really cute in that movie where he didn’92t want to step on cracks, though, wasn’92t he?}