In the years Ms M and Roscoe lived with me I was a generous supportive friend. I've always cared for Roscoe when she worked. I encouraged her to go back to school. I helped her in every way I could. Taking care of Roscoe was part of my helping her. Now it feels as if she's punishing me for my generosity. I wonder how Roscoe feels?
I'm coping. Marly and Cyrus are coping. I talked to my therapist, Fred, on Friday. He's kind enough to do a mini-session on the phone as an assessment. Do I need to see Dr Isabella or not? Do I need a change of anti-depressant or not? "Or not" is the conclusion we both came to as I talked to him. I have a bad day or two and think I'm coming undone. Bipolar disorder can get tricky when you're transitioning. The way down and the way up are dangerous times. It's then when you have the energy to do real damage or chose the final solution. I'm not worried about that for myself. I know that if I stay on top of this illness I can keep myself fairly stable. It's when I ignore changes that I get into trouble. It doesn't take much to knock me off this narrow balance beam. So I'm vigilant and I don't put off checking in with Fred.
Saturday morning I woke up and decided to cut my hair. Change can be good. Change is inevitable. Embrace change! I didn't hesitate. I got my coffee, had a smoke, and hacked off my hair. I went from chin length bob to short short in less than a half an hour. I'm good. I can cut the back of my hair using only touch to feel the length and thickness of it. I think of the first big haircut change as a rough draft. But when writing poetry and cutting my hair, the rough draft is often what works. I'm happy with the result. I almost have a Rachel Maddow cut. And the few people who've seen it have been complimentary.
Now I have to take Marly for a walk so she'll stop waiting for Roscoe.
