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?
One Lump of Stupid or Two, Westboro Baptist Church?
23 minutes ago