Dear Fred

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?

Music Monday

Herbie Hancock Feat, Corinne Baily Rae ~ River