Things I hope I don’t forget
Being bipolar can be terrifying all on its own. I have had nearly a year to swallow that horse pill of a truth. It stayed stuck in the back of my throat, and I keep thinking to myself, isn’t there a watered down version of this I could swallow instead? Sure the mood swings are not fun, and you know what, sometimes they are. Sometimes being bipolar feels like the swings at Lagoon. Sometimes it feels like I am the most beautiful fucking woman on planet earth haven’t you heard, I can do-be-dream- anything. Other times, it feels like my skin is an ugly dress at the bottom of a dumpster that rests by the homeless shelter downtown. Sometimes is feels like all the wrong things all at once in the shape of a steel toed boot on my throat. Sometimes it feels like nothing makes sense at all, letters don’t make words, and music has no sound.
Lucky for me, my medication keeps me mostly grounded on, well on the ground. However, there is a side effect of being bipolar that is becoming more and more evident. I am losing my memory. It’s something you take for granted until it is no longer yours. Now it feels like my favorite ring. It is my step mom’s and I put it on and stare at my hand every chance I get. Every time I put it on I hope that by some miracle I can keep it, only to return it with a sad face. The worst part is, I can still feel where it sat on my hand. Just like that ring, I can feel where my memories should be.
I have been reading about memory loss and bipolar disorder and how medication can amplify this. I used to have a photographic memory. If I saw it, I could remember it. I can drive, by memory alone, back to any place I have ever been. I can remember that on the 3rd stair on the left hand side, I have a bobby pin that is missing one of the balls on the end. I could remember where the old VCR is and where the remote in a box under a box in a pink cylinder is. I could remember how to spell all the words I have ever learned including, Albuquerque. No one knows how to spell Albuquerque, trust me.
Sure having to get a new debit card because I assume I threw away my wallet inside a Wendy’s on a road trip, is a big pain in the ass. Only to find that it was in my glove box the whole time. Sure my workflow could improve if, I could just remember what the hell I was doing. What scares me the most is losing the things that matter.
I want to remember all my favorite moles on all my favorite bodies. I want to remember the way he looks at me. I want to remember what we said in the shower when I realized we were both equally fake racist, chill out, it was a joke. I want to remember the way he sat in his living room, as I did ballet for him for the first time. I want to remember ballet. I want to remember all the lyrics to my favorite songs and the way the sky looked the day he told me he loved me. I want to remember all the promises I have made. I want to remember what day of the week it is and if my kids have taken a bath. I want to remember if I paid my bills or left my keys in the ignition of my car. I want to remember the way it felt in that dream I had where we got married. So forgive me for writing about all the holding breath and the long exhales. Forgive me for taking photos of everything including they way your feet hang from my bed. And when the light looks just right and you turn in bed. I feel like I need to take inventory.
I am not sure where I am going with this. Sometimes I just write to write, or just so I don’t forget.