Being Bipolar isn't EASY

and the Art of Slowing it Down

I don’t need drugs I need talk thERapy

When I got to the ER I wasn’t kicking but I was screaming “Protect us, Protect my family, Call my sister in Paris, find out where my Parents are!” And after all that the doctor’s seemed patient with me, they seemed to understand that I was in REAL danger. They allowed me to empty my pockets: to find the pennies, the Spanish Newspaper and the pills from the Pharmacy all the while with my little sister safe in the waiting room. I trusted that the cops that brought me in were within ear shot and would know what to do with the information that they were eavesdropping on.

What I didn’t know was how hard it would be to escape their watch.

When they took me upstairs the intern mentioned something about ‘this’ being illegal and the man in the next bedroom was mumbling names of people whom I worked with; sometimes I wonder if it was not to help me understand their affiliation with my dilemma and to help me piecemeal it all together. Was he planted there? I have some comfort knowing I wasn’t the only one hearing the voices… and my boyfriend then heard him too.

Shortly thereafter, my mother came from Las Vegas to visit me, she brought me an everything bagel with cream cheese and a ‘Les Miserables’ t-shirt and at that time I knew that I was seeing everything and like Jean Valjean I was going to be a source of good in this wretched city. I know today that my family could not comprehend the severity of what I was going through but I thought they saw things as clearly as I did. I thought that their gestures were as brilliant and eloquent as my interpretations and that they knew that we couldn’t discuss the violent misgivings that I noted around town for they too feared for our lives…

The first doctor I visited with after leaving the hospital wanted to drug me. Within minutes of meeting me he diagnosed me??? …and I wanted holistic therapy. Albeit unannounced to me at the time, which is just what I got!

The volunteer took a liking to me that holiday weekend that I was in George Washington’s Psych Ward. He took great interest in the craft I made. It was a circle with a flag in the middle with the words “United We Stand” scrolling across the top. I had painted the background calico to represent all the people in the United States and the flag all red with silver lining. The stars were gold and I sang “Make new friends but keep the old one is silver and the others GOLD”. The stars for me came to have a great deal of meaning, weeks/ months after I left the hospital. They became a signal – a signal for: WE are on the same team, like the pendant that the staff wore in the hospital. He couldn’t tell me what it stood for he could only tell me that he believed in it with all of his Soul.

It took me a while but I realized that my manic episode couldn’t be about my little sister, she was too innocent. Her improv troupe was suspect but she was Innocent. Weeks later I came to understand why, remind you in the absence of drugs, my 400sf apartment had been occupied by a half a dozen Middle Eastern men and why they disappeared on 09/11/2001. I came to understand that all of the misgivings that seemed to be projected my direction, the incidents with the Spanish mafia, were just to distract me from the truth and get me to leave the secrets within the walls of my apartment. Driven by a new mission – a mission to protect the Nation’s capitol, my family, my innocent neighbors and the rest of the world; it became clearer that the neighborhood was a hodgepodge of mixed signals because it was so dangerous we could only afford to speak to one another in code.

And this is where the challenge began: I decided to join the team and fight for freedom from terrorists.

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