I have grown impatient with myself. My obsession as of late is bipolar memoirs. I was able to take a break for two days, and my anxiety skyrocketed. I took to amazon, even though I said I would go to the library; I now have in my possession two more bipolar books, one that I finished in less than two days.

I spent my two day break reflecting on why this particular obsession now, and nothing came to mind until I was resting in bed and for a split second I “felt” my ribcage open as if on hinges; then a lightness in my chest arose as something was leaving my body. This something was not heavy or light, not sinister or angelic. It merely was. I worried that depression could fall in with my ribcage open. I willed my ribcage to shut, but it did not. It must have closed eventually, because nothing has fallen in. Not depression, not mania. Just nothingness.

As I was sitting in the bar listening to music, it came to me. What my ribcage was trying to tell me. The obsession with the memoirs is a reaction to the fear, the terror, even, that the upcoming changes in my life will bring on a bipolar episode. I am trying to outwit any symptoms, as if by reading about changes in behavior, I will catch it before it becomes a full blown episode. I am reading so I can also say, I am not as bad as all that, searching for reassurance that I am a high functioning person with bipolar.

It’s okay to read, just don’t fall in. You fell in yesterday. You were reading about delusions and then at the bar, with the music swirling around, you saw that tall slender man with black round glasses standing alone, looking just above your head. You grew suspicious that he was spying on you, trying to read your thoughts. But not really, you answered yourself right away. And you knew then that you weren’t crazy, you were just too absorbed in those damn books.

I made a promise: No more books from amazon the rest of this summer. I will get my library card on Monday. And don’t worry that I’m getting sick because of my ribcage story. It’s just a bit of creative writing thrown into the mix, after a mental image entered my brain. My imagination is still something I nurture. There is a difference between nurturing and indulging beyond a healthy dose, and that’s a fine line all creatives walk.