I have now deleted two paragraphs, twice.  God forgive me, but when I sit to write, I miss the mania.  I am a blunted object now; happy, functioning but blunted.  It has been almost a year since I have penned a word.  I am only attempting to write today because my friend Peter Neofotis just read the blog for the first time and wondered how much I had... I was humbled that he read it and ashamed that I didn't have more for him to read.  Certainly, the last ten months have given me much to reflect upon and celebrate but finding the tongue to convey it all is difficult.  

I just finished reading David Lovelace's hypnotic work Scattershot.  Lovelace poignantly describes his lifelong struggle with being bi-polar.  Somehow, he wrestled the mania and managed to write a book.  He did so while on medication.  I am in awe.  Without my struggle, I am not sure what I have to say.  

I have managed to find some creative outlets despite being "evened".  I have started sewing and I find that making clothes satisfies a need.  I suppose cooking fills the void as well.  Wow.  Now I just sound like I am penning a Stepford diary.  Somewhere in me still is a voice.  I need to find the words.  I need to find the story.  It is there trapped among the things that I am still frightened to say.  I know the tale... it is ancient and salted.  It has a throatiness that I am scared to utter while medicated.  So there is the challenge... unearth the story, see if I can give words to this life hymn even while so neatly bandaged.