bipolar

The Days Are Numbered

It was a gloriously gorgeous day. Blue sky, fluffy white clouds. The sun, bright and warm, tempered by a cool breeze ruffling the hair. A day that heralded the coming of Autumn.

Dammit.

I am sooo not ready for this. I am not ready to face another winter. I’m not ready for the cold. The threats of snow. I’m not ready for the short days, the darkness outside and the darkness in my brain.

“Oh, but there’s plenty of time before winter comes! There will be more days like today, many more!”

That’s true. But it doesn’t seem like that to me. As a year passes, the days, weeks, and months rush by seamlessly, with the anonymity and speed of water in a fast-moving stream. Very few discrete periods stand out. When I can recall a particular day, its pictures slip and slide like a half-remembered dream. One little saying of mine is “I can’t remember what happened twenty minutes ago, so you know I can’t remember what happened [last week].” Rarely fails to get a laugh out of people. What they don’t know is that it’s true.

So for me, winter might as well come tomorrow.

My brain has been wack since 2016. I wasn’t exactly fine before then but it seems that was the year it spazzed. Every seven years, give or take a couple of months, whatever medications I’m on stop working. I don’t know why. They just do. Then the search begins for a new cocktail.… Continue reading

Another Year Gone

If you could live your life over again, what would you change?

Yeah, I know. The epitome of tired old questions. But I ask for a reason. My birthday is in a couple of weeks, and I’m not happy about it. I haven’t been happy about my birthday for almost a decade. It’s not so much that I’m growing older, though I’m not happy about that either. It’s that when I look back on my life all I see is gray. To be sure, there are bright spots but the gray consumes all. When I look the other way, toward my future, I see the same. Bleak.

Me, I would make several huge changes.

When I was 12 (or even earlier), I’d have figured out some way to convince my parents that there was something wrong with me, that I was emotionally unstable. I would have badgered them to take me to a psychiatrist, instead of retreating because I figured they didn’t care about me. Then again, when I was growing up, black folk didn’t go to mental health providers unless they were going to the loony bin. Psychiatry and such was for white people. Black people worked out their problems in private. Don’t air dirty laundry.

I’d have stayed with my music studies. Become a professional musician. Years ago, I caught up with some of my friends from high school. One is a bluesman in South Carolina who performs with his wife. They travel the globe doing their thing.… Continue reading