Leukoplakia

I listened through the earpiece of a fractured ego as a litany of faults and their concomitant depredations were laid out for me, all the truths laden with skewed perceptions, both mine and hers, driving deadly nails throuigh my wrists and ankles.  Oh, my character up on a cross, and so very few mourners there to lament its demise.  So what?  A spearhead in my side, and a hand I love white and steady on the shaft.

I sleep soundly to the sweet lull in my self-conscious and self-conscience, letting the swells of knowledge emboldened by occassional belief buffer out the bellicose.  To mean well and to be mean!  Whatever matchmaker abandoned domesticity for self-improvement is a wizened old madman indeed!  I accept the condemnations by labeling them misunderstandings; after all, I am fairly self-aware, and all of these niggling details that derail hale friendships I have baptized myself with innumerable times.  Is that wrong?

Remember, then, to poke, prod, wheedle, and cajole your friends and lovers to the actualization of the boundlessness of their potential; but please, please, some hundreds of thousands of millions times please–remember to love them for who they already are.

The doctor rapped a quick code before briskly opening the heavy door, his pristine white jacket like the sheathing of a healthy dental root.  Open your mouth, he commanded me, before shining a pen-light into the crooks of my mouth, his eyes fastening to its mucous walls.  Do you use tobacco?  No.  Bite leukoplakia, he said, with reasonable cause of biopsy.  Do you bite your cheeks?  Only to chew on frayed and fraying nerves, Doctor.  Can you find some other way to dispel this bothersome anxiety?

I’d rather just do away with the anxiety, really.

Are you still on Depakote and citalopram?  Thankfully, no.  Oh, the endless aspects to love of mania, for all the foreboding promise of the crash off the crest to the depressed trench below.  Perhaps I shall refuse to believe it; after all, I lived handfuls and mindfuls of years without diagnosis; there is no parade, no banner to hide behind.  You just have to live, to relish the happiness when it washes away the dog’s day, and harness the horses that pull to so many opposing poles.

I am bipolar, but I refuse to be bipolar.  Let the devils in the pharmacological details see me dance recklessly in abnormalcy.