As the 86 degree sun slices into my skin, I feel that summer may turn ugly. Two years ago, I spent the season subjected to electro-convulsive therapy for a depression that refused to unhand me. I started to fear the late Spring and early Summer since it seemed to kick off something evil in me. A birthing of moods so fierce and controlling that I could barely contain myself. “Do you know where I live?” I feel like now you never really do live until you forget where you live and have to ask someone to guide you home.
A few days ago, I drove in the opposing lane and sat at the traffic light wondering if it was happening again. Another bipolar episode. The word disabled crawling up my gut into my throat to stick to my tongue. Again, I had to make arrangements to put my life on hold indefinitely. I called my husband home from work and cried on the back porch in self pity.
Not severe enough for a hospitalization, I wait for my status to change. Suddenly, I am feeling lots better and I suspect the mood shift has gone too far in the other direction. I want to go. I want to do. I want to tear open the universe and present myself in pajamas and dirty hair. I restrain myself and write a poem. This is it.
Moods shift through the night and I hear
whispers to go to the library and drown myself
in between the pages of any book or perhaps
magazine but it’s Saturday night and my local
community prop is vacant until Monday so
I scratch myself up with music, the tunes
cutting dense thoughts in half as echoes
explode sharply from punk, dance, rock.