I recently wrote a letter to my sister telling her that, me being saddled with PTSD, Autism and Bipolar Disorder, is like waking up one morning to find I’ve been locked alone in a house with a 600 pound gorilla. Decisions, decisions, decisions. Does that 600 pound brute want to play or take me apart? Can he be placated or put on ice some kind of way? What can I feed him? Should I keep running from him, hoping he never catches up to me? I could always burn the house down, but that’s like throwing out the baby with the bath water. Anyway, it is what it is. That’s about the best metaphor I can think about mental illness. My troubles, I would say, is not the trifecta of mental illnesses – that would be schizophrenia, Bipolar Disorder and Autism – still, it’s coming pretty close to it. I recently started Lamictal. We’ll see how that does.
I’d spent the weekend, BTW, getting myself together at a Crisis Clinic because I’d locked my car keys in my car, went on a trespassing frenzy, including into a police precinct’s yard, and other things I’m not proud of. I guess I need to get back in control, or else.