Bipolar Life in the First World

I'm lucky; the 48-hour rapid cycling I was experiencing has responded beautifully to Tegretol, the only notable side [unwanted] effect being on memory. I'm not so lucky - I was caught on that vicious ferris wheel for two years, and what a mess my stuff is in now that I'm looking at it. The fact is, some of the mess dates way back. But then, I've been bipolar since my thirties.

I'm lucky to be a very creative writer. Not so lucky to be sensitive and empathetic, barely fit for the roughshod transactions of normal society. But those two things are the same ball of twine. And they're related to the brain break that got me into bipolar, and to the sadness and trauma of my childhood. Lucky, unlucky.

My brain is in display in my study, but it's not on display, actually. No one is invited in. Here's just one piece of it, the table that is supposed to serve as my desk when I want to quietly study something or write something by hand.

It's actually a bit bigger than this. And what, you wonder, is a bottle of conditioner doing there? It is waiting for me to figure out how to dispose of it.

Hmm. Okay. It is considered hazardous waste. Stuff I put on my hair. Well. And I see there is a place in Columbus where you can take it. There are also quarterly pickups, but I just missed one.  So I'm going to wrap it in plastic, label it, and put it in the garage, which is a staging area between our house and the landfill.

If you want a Buddhist take on this, and why else would you read this blog, things are a thief of time. Living in the first world at this moment in time has its own unique cluster of problems. We are embarrassed to have these problems of affluence, like what to do with the iPad box you see on that desk. Still, they do exist, and they're genuinely our problems. Don't knock them.