Reality check: For those individuals who have to medicalize my pain along standard fault lines, Amazon sent me this deal for Philadelphia Shakespearean Theatre, and I was mildly enthralled about the prospect of seeing Titus Andronicus, more interested in the flaws of problem plays than the dramaturgical signification of classical tragedy, I even made a mental note to pitch a review to City Paper, but their box office doesn't offer power chair access. I am not placing blame, it is a small company, but you might be more cautious in the future about putting labels on me.
In the absence of presence, I am not claiming to be a picturesque version of emotional stability. I am certainly not that, but do not engage in the major symptoms traditionally associated with mania. My only self-medicating includes nicotine, caffeine as a stimulant, needed against the symptomology of indolence, and salmon oil, which I've taken regularly for nearly a year. I don't drink, and though I can cry, those tears are associated with stressors, like loss of salary, my bank constantly offering me a line of credit and turning me down.
My half brother got ugly with me for this reason: I asked him repeatedly if he contacted the independent living center near his house, and had to raise my voice just to get him to respond, and then all of the sudden I am as sick as our mother was because I need a change of environment. Between my family, public housing, and disability culture, I will no doubt be joining Whitney Houston on her ferry ride of dependence eventually. [rolls eyes]
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