Fred is my therapist. He says he reads my blog and can tell how I'm doing by what I'm writing about. And he might be a bit worried about my mental health since I'm all over the place lately. I wrote a bit of "erotica" (some would call it porn, some would say it wasn't nearly graphic enough). I have almost no inhibitions about writing. For Fred, this might be a sign that I'm acting out in a sexual way. This is one of the "problems" facing those with poorly managed bipolar disorder. We can be very impulsive when mildly manic. But no one as reclusive as I would be out acting out in the real world. I'm home alone acting out. My dogs are fed and napping and I can act out without hurting anyone. So what's the damn harm in writing a little erotica?
Yes there were a couple of gloomy poems, but hell, that's what I do when I'm gloomy; I write about it. Where's the harm in that?
I've been pissed off that it's taken so long to recover from my bout of diverticulitis. I blame the hospital stay. It was a real bitch. I may be pissed off about that for a long time; the bills are starting to roll in. I'm going to challenge every fucking charge. They did their best to flip me into a bipolar crisis. I'm coping. Maybe not perfectly, but coping none the less.
So don't worry Fred. I might be flirting with an unavailable and inappropriate man I'll never meet, but god it's fun. And where's the harm in that?
A Poem For Sunday
12 minutes ago