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January 11, 2000

My therapist wanted to have me committed again. She says that I’m showing signs of delirium. She thinks it’s a mixture of pills and lack of nutrition and like duh, bipolarness. So, I fell down the stairs last night. My Mom was there and yelled, “What the hell as you on?” Nice to be concerned. I knocked my head pretty hard and spent the day fading in and out of consciousness. So, I said, “no thanks” to the hospital. And Miss Therapist says, “I think you’re in danger.” And I say. “Take me kicking and screaming then lady.” So she says that she’ll “Talk to the psychiatrist about this and call you tomorrow” and I go home triumphant. She didn’t call today. I laugh about it, but one of these days the rescue squad is going to show up outside my door ready to take me away. I mean, how many times can I talk my way out of it? And usually I’m all sweet when trying to avoid it, but yesterday I was wisecracking and rude. My Mom blames the Depakote and says it makes me like a zombie, and that I better stop taking it. Whatever.

Fuck everything.


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