Poem #16 is an oldie. Flashback to 1992, six years into marriage and three wee ones on the ground. I found this poem in the garage last week while cleaning. It solidified my grasp on the fact that Bipolar Disorder is something I have truly struggled with for my entire adult life…
 
What is it like to be a tightrope walker?
I think I know.
It is to hover
on a thin thread
between sky and earth
and yet
being a part of neither one.
It is to balance–ever so tenuously–
between fear
and self-control
terror
and rationale.
Caught with a scream
held tightly
between your teeth, too busy
concentrating
on your next
perilous
step
to let it out
let it out
let it all out
and risk falling, not knowing if
the net is even there.
Is it there?
Is it gone?
Can I trust, and not hang on?
Can I fall, or did somebody take it
away when I wasn’t looking?
I think it’s gone
but it was no stranger who removed it
it was me.