I hobble home - Anhedonia recedes but pain still high - Fun on the phone - Four hours work

Too beautiful for words, Grace Catherine Deming, age 3 months. A Ziegfield Girl? A Rockette? Dallas Cowgirl?

First photos of outdoors - free at last!

The Upward Slope of Cowbell (see poem at end if I can find it)

Land ho! I emerge from Scott's house at 1 am and walk home barefoot to my house next door. For the first time in my agony, I am able to love my house. Oh, you are so beautiful, I say, as I lie on the couch. I work in my old workspace for four hours. Sitting at the computer is sheer agony. What can I do? Lower it to the floor and work there on my belly? Larry Paster, my physical therapist, says to buy a big plastic ball and sit on it. Doubtful. I'm going for the floor idea.

Donna and me in the meer at Scott's house. She brought me my fruit: green grapes, Pink Lady Apples, and grapefruit.

While loading an earthshakingly important message on FB that no one will pay any attention to, I got a request for an online chat with Matt. He used to come to New Directions.

Matt had a bright future even after his initial manic episode. But it was clear that something went very wrong w/Matt and we cant figger out what it is. The onset of bipolar is truly traumatic - my trauma lasted five years - but usually people are functional while they get their heads used to their new diagnosis. Matt got worse and worse.

Now he is doing better w/a very nice girlfriend and a car to visit her with. He's worked at a grocery store for 3 years. Good for you Matt!

I congratulated him for not hanging out with "sickies" - my word - I was typing real fast and that was the word that popped into mind, a good un I think. And then Matt shocked me with the admission that he'd been in the hospital and began telling me some real bad things he did while there.

Whoa! I shot back, I don't wanna hear about your bipolar shenanigans. If you need to process your feelings about this, talk to your therapist but not me. I told him to read my blog and see how a person can be creative and free and do their own thing w/o psychosis.

He said he'd leave me a comment on FB about my blog. You better you better you bet!

Called my entire phone list inviting em to the Depression seminar on Saturday. See, we run these programs for our members and then no one shows up.

It's about Loyalty. Ada and Gretchen will be in DC for the Jon Stewart Rally.

Hey, carry me down on a litter. Oh, I forgot I had an obligation.

Ruth on her bed cage

But wait. I'm calling people on the phone list. Hopefully none are home and I can just leave a convincing message. But here's Linda Barrett answering the phone. And she's in distress.

Linda is a walker. She's in the Abington shopping center at the Rite-Aid and walks home around the side of Rite-Aid. I've walked there many a time. It's deserted. There's parking and a dumpster back there and beautiful houses.

Linda begins to walk, swinging her black patent leather pocket book on her arm. It contains her wallet with $3, credit cards, medical cards, one or two poems.

She senses someone tall walking behind her but feels no fear.

Then the deed is done - her pocketbook is grabbed from her wrist. She is unhurt and calls out "You f'g bastard."

Then, smart girl that she is, she goes back into Rite-Aid and calls the police.

She thinks it's her fault cuz she walked that way. We chatted awhile and I told her she handled it very well. That she had been traumatized and should talk about with people and even if she wants write about it and post it on our new Readers Voices on our Writers Group Website. She'll think about it, she said.

This is what I love to do, talk to people on the phone, but you know what?

TALKING TO PEOPLE MAKES ME HUNGRY.

I went into the kitchen and cooked a lil meal. My left leg was fighting me, trying to kick me under the table. So I leaned over the table to rest.

I made two delicious scrambled eggs w/brown eggs I'd bought for myself in Cleveland. It was good to see them again. I had some processed applesauce in those cute little plastic packets. And some crackers, for my healthy dinner.

Then I settled down on the couch to eat and the phone rang. David Perkins. He thought I didn't remember him! My god is he ever wrong. Everything. Everything I remember about "Perknose" the gifted eccentric who is living somewhere north of Doylestown w/o a damn car.

Gee, Dave, how can we help you if you can't get to us. Public transportation, I told him, we're accessible, come see us at our Giant Meeting, it's free, we won't scalp you w/our $5 charge.

Mr Perkins is in a rut. He can't motivate himself. I put on my goddess hat and tried to sell him my bill of goods.

-I pledge to you, I said, that if you come to our Giant meetings, we'll get you out of your rut.

-I can't get to public transportation. I live too far away.

-You figure it out, Dave, and we'll do the rest.

And then he swept me off my fee.

-Let me give you a hug, he said.

-On the phone?

-Sure.

-Okay!

MMMMMMMMMM HUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

That's my Perknose. Get him to us and we'll cure him. It's a promise.