Possibilities

A doctor, a writer, a teacher, a chef, a journalist, a Navy career…all possibilities that slipped from my grasp when the following words (during a mania I would later learn) were said, “It’s Bipolar.” Then in hushed tones I could hear the doctor asking

if I had a family history of mental illness, did I have a psychiatrist, was I am harm to others or myself, I believe she needs to be admitted into the psych-ward for a more proper diagnosis…

By this point I was throwing things around the curtain room and screaming for the pain to be gone, for the needles to stop poking my neck, for the fire to leave my legs and inflict its pain upon someone else. I remember my first voice, that I could actually distinguish, screaming for me to jam something, anything down my wrists to run through my blood and down into my heart where it would all coagulate. This was suppose to happen, to release me from this prison on Earth, but no, not yet, there were other plans, other cards to be drawn. Here I am, until tomorrow, Giovanni Merced, shaken, not stirred.

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