These days I see people in a sacred space who are tragically depressed, like they can hardly get themselves out of the house and make it to session. I see people who are in abusive relationships and sometimes with themselves. I see myself seeing people and I don’t know how to help. All the stuff they taught me not always on the ready. What ends up happening is I help create the sacred space in which I see them, and we meet there, and I invite them there again, and I’m not always making any money cuz I volunteer, too, so I may be tired and permanently jetlagged by my nightshift, and I’m sure they see me tired and tryin to pay close attention cuz I care, and hopefully, just hopefully, they will realize they are worth caring for and start to care for themselves a little more, too, but even if they don’t, well that’s okay, too.
I tracked the thought to the very center of my brain, where I detonated it at the precipice of a heartbroken synapse. Only then could I tussle with my hair, drink my coffee chocolate and head out the door, down the stairs and out the gate. I ran to the river, over the train tracks and into open space where the sun denounced the darkness. You will be mine, forever, how I remember you. So I chose not to create any more memories. There is no other way. I am like the sun now.
When you get diagnosed, you get to try on your diagnosis. Although you might have been manic-depressive, now you are bipolar so you go out in the world and feel the two poles, pulling at your mid-section. You can thank your therapist. Your therapist can thank the DSM-4, and other diagnostic materials that helped them reach that conclusion. Or you can get really really mad and tell everybody you’re shrink is trying to label you. Call it libel. Then someone might tell you you have an anger problem, especially if you set their house on fire or went to their school with a gun and started flashing it on people for kicks. You wouldn’t be there talking to them, if you had actually used it. You would be behind bars. Someone else behind bars, or even on the other side of the bars would not be telling you you had an anger problem, then, because it’s a given. They would be telling you stand up, sit down, and running their baton up and down the rails just to piss you off some more. You should feel lucky not to be locked up. I suppose you can thank yourself for not going off the deep end. Or thank your therapist. They are the one who put you on the bipolar meds to control your manic-depression. And they didn’t even know you had an anger problem. Geniuses.