How strange to say I hardly
remember that month at all.
The diagnosis is
muddled.
It's funny to think I've been out of the hospital for two weeks,
and in it for two months, and that I've got a
bright-squeeky-new-and-shiny
diagnosis to take home with me, or two
or three.
And the psychiatrist says these things run in fours-run in packs-run together forever (maybe)
and ticks them off his fingers
1. Panic disorder
2. Eating disorder
3. Bipolar disorder
4. ADHD
and so, four numbers in, I wonder how many it takes to rack up a final total of
(how the hell are you still alive?)
and the answer being,
(I've tried both)
(I try to live in the middle now, it barely works, I am watching my mouth following my eyes not talking not breathing breathing too slow, meds on time, eat on time eat on time, ******* eat on time)
And I am okay.
I am okay, and that is ******* beautiful.
Every day taken hour by hour, nothing left to chance
(except housing, job, food, rent, contact with the outside world)
but ya know,
baby steps.