FINDING MY SANITY IN THE JERRY SPRINGER SHOW

 

Being bipolar sometimes amuses me and sometimes frustrates me. At times my thoughts even dazzle me. Some days I feel I am just a discordant jumble of symptoms and side effects. On days when I feel that all I am is bipolar primordial ooze, nothing makes me feel better than watching The Jerry Springer Show.

There is something oddly comforting about watching some shulb named Barney having no idea that his 6’4” girlfriend named Thomaseena (complete with Adam’s apple and forearm DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR tattoo) is a man. I sit and scream at the TV, “C’mon, how could you NOT know?” Of course, Barney doesn’t hear me. I am drowned out by Jerry’s audience who is whooping out the same thing.

Watching the show makes me feel better in a bipolar sense. I know it’s not normal to see lace hankies walking up the stairs. I know that, even as I hear their little stiletto heels clacking on the way up. But Barney. Dear sweet Barney. Barney, your girlfriend has a penis. How can you miss a penis? Which on a 6’ 4” man, even a 6’4’ man dressed in a tutu, must be of some substance.

I can’t rationalize why society thinks its scary that I see things that aren’t there while it’s entertainment that Barney doesn’t see genitalia that is there. I don’t know. Perhaps if I saw penises wearing stiletto heels clacking up the stairs humor would trump fear?

The truth is there are plenty of folks running around undiagnosed; not all of them on Jerry Springer. I’ve been around a long time. There is pathology on both sides of that locked door, and at times the undiagnosed scare the crap out of me. Shivers go up my spine when I hear, “Ain’t nothing wrong up here“, as their fists knock on their noggins.

No one is free of idiosyncrasies. No one is free of things they would never share with another living soul. Everyone has a dark side. Not just the diagnosed. I think people forget that.

I’m tired of fretting about how people will see me if I come out of the bipolar closet . I am not going to worry about it anymore. How can I teach other people that there is nothing wrong with it if I only let the socially acceptable bipolar stuff come out? You know the type of things I mean. The ability to find the exact right 43 words that rhyme… the ability to clean a sty of a house in 37 minutes flat during a mania… problem solving abilities that would bring tears to a diplomat’s eye… Stuff like that.

Do I have a bumper sticker that says, ASK ME ABOUT MY HALLUCINATIONS? No, I do not. Because the fact is, when all is said and done, I really am not crazy.

 

 

 

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