Lipgloss and Lamictal: A Bipolar Blog

The ninth floor is famous.
Of course, the doors are locked
And the patients wander in hospital-issue pj’s.
Each pair of eyes is
Glazed over with some
Recipe of illness –
Lithium and
Some pure misery thrown in for good measure:
(A cupful with a dash of madness.)Depressed people can be so damn bold
And raucously funny.
I mean, what else did we have to lose?
We sat in a room together oblivious and playful,
With color books and oil paints scattered
Around, simultaneously laughing and crying.
And that day I did my best picture yet,
A rabbit in a hat,
Pure magic!
Magic that I could have used that Thursday,
When I yanked up my skirt and crawled under my desk
In nylons and DKNY heels
To call my dad and put on lip gloss,
Forgetting my boss was right down the
hall,
and I hadn’t locked my office door.
But, I had pink orange lips, glowing like a sunset,
My hands were shaking
Searching in my bag for a Xanax
Listening to my dad say,
“It’s all right. We’ll get you some help -
just hang in there.”
On all fours I began to crawl out from
My hiding place and I looked up slowly,
One notch of a totem at time, right
Into the face of my boss -
Smug in brown polyester trousers, a Snoopy tie,
A bewildered smile.

I ran out, threw my briefcase into my black Chevy,
Chewed down some highway miles and McDonald’s fries,
And checked myself in to the 9th floor.
Devastating, right?
“But, Dad,” I said later that day,
“There are some really cool people here.”

My favorite was a rocket scientist driven mad
With brilliance and Integers,
Together we colored pictures
of Barney, ate Saltines  and choked down laughter –
Both basking in the combination of our madness:
Both enjoying a few long afternoons off of work.