SAME DAY, DIFFERENT MOODS By Kathy Powers

     When I’m depressed, I awaken in a sweat-soaked, an askew mountain of tossed pillows. Garfield paws at my hair. I smell burnt toast from the hallway and my diaper is wet. I toss and turn, try to evade arising. I  push Garfield out of the way.

     I run to the bathroom, trip over Garfield and pray that I don’t leak onto the carpet. I clean my piss, put on a fresh diaper, angle my way toward the kitchen to plop a can of Nine Lives into Garfield’s dirty bowl, I grab my pills and run back to bed. I position my C-PAP over my face, stick my head under the covers and fall asleep until Garfield again summons me.

     When I’m hypo-manic, I slowly awaken, rested and comfortable. I seek out Garfield to caress him and talk to him. I smell somebody’s fragrant coffee from down the hall. I’m aware of feeling hungry and ask Garfield if he wants some food. He talks to me as we make our way to the bathroom. While I’m on the pot, I check his litter for presents. When I’m finished, I usually scoop it and  wash my hands,

     We hurry to the kitchen and I get out a clean dish for his breakfast. I make a power smoothie and carry it around, sipping as I dress and get ready for the day. I have to hurry. I check my calendar for the day’s events, gather my paperwork and grab a Sudoku to work on the bus.

When I’m neither depressed nor hypo-manic, I awaken in a fog. I operate as a robot with no feeling or permanent memory. I assume that I feed Garfield, take my meds and go to the bathroom, etc...;  but I truly don’t remember doing anything. I feel frozen in a strange land. I can’t emote or think. I am lost. Is this what they call normal? It’s like navigating through a fog or being pumped full of neuroleptics; a blank, colorless forest of nothingness...