“You seem to be happiest when you have a lot of balls in the air,” she said. My therapist during the dark period. I was reconnecting in a moment of expansion and happiness. Mania? I’ve been previously diagnosed as bipolar, so I’m watching out for that. I didn’t have the heart to tell her of the ten projects I had on pause.

Two conversations, this week and last week. I ranted for the first hour. “Time is up for today. Do you want to look at calendars and book a time for next week?”

Yesterday was the second talk. I tried to get her insight and comfort. A hedge against the blistering pace of my thoughts and pressured speech. (That’s when you can’t stop talking.) I noticed it most acutely the week before I called her, when suffering through my own monologue during a second date, from online dating. Shit. I’m ranting.

I got the appointment. A moment in time. A steadfast commitment to staying healthy. Mark this moment. Sixty second birthday. And like some bad B-movie protagonist, “I’m in the best shape of my life.” I can’t recall the name of the movie, but it was an early Christina Ricci movie with Alan Arkin as the dad. I guess that entire part of the country is on fire at the moment. I’m shoring up my support. Checking in with my care team. Finding comfort in my own creative rager I’m calling a “bloom.”

What I know is this: I’ve had emotional issues in the past. Moods can fuck my entire year. This is not one of those moments. I’m like ON ON. I’ll spare you the same run-on sentences I blasted at her. I don’t need anything from you. Your attention is appreciated.

<Nobody reads anymore. The book industry is dying.>

Something is happening. The combo of no meds, good coffee, and well-managed sleep appears (to me) to be working as expected. Write write write. Do some stuff I have to get done. Write. Play some music. Play some tennis. Make contact with my kids. Well, kid at the moment. My son is done talking to me for a bit. I didn’t give him the money he requested.

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