Are we recording? We are an open, collaborative production company. Come work with us!

It took me until age 27 to finally seek treatment for depression. Turned out I'm bipolar type 2, which means I'm mostly depressive, with just a bit of "hypomania" with "mixed states" - basically, depression on speed. Before that, I struggled with feeling suicidal a lot. I won't go into that too much... it's just the background of this story. Ten years ago, I was coming home pretty late on a Monday night in March, and, after parallel parking, I turned off the car engine, pulled the key out of the ignition, and someone opened my door (the lock wasn't working at the time). "Give me some money," a voice snarled. A gun (a revolver, warm grey, maybe 65 on the grey scale) flashed somewhere near my thigh. "I don't have any" came out of my mouth as instinctively as a scream probably should have. I hadn't had any money all weekend... but... oh yeah, a friend of mine had just given me a twenty for a couple books. I was selling my self-published poetry books at $8/each, and I had two titles out (the third's release date was already announced), and since I hadn't had money all weekend, I didn't have the $4 change to give my friend. So I had a twenty. "Oh, wait—" I took out my change pouch and produced the money. "Give me some more," the voice said through clenched teeth. "I don't have any more. Here's my wallet," I managed. All this was automatic. My mind was where my body should have been—somewhere around the third floor of the staircase leading to my fourth-floor apartment, fatigued, happy, and ready for bed. "Give me some more," the voice was more and more forced-sounding, angry...

Continue Reading
16
59
1 resources
4 results
info