Hanging by a Bipolar Thread

The bottle feels heavy in my hand. Not heavy with the contents held inside, but heavy with every problem that's ever weighed on my mind. I just never imagined there would be so many things I couldn't handle; so many things that would bring me to this point. I roll the bottle over in my hand, listening to the sound of lots of little pills cascading down, over and over again. I'm simultaneously staring at a spot on the floor where the whirls in the carpet have formed what I think looks like a duck's profile. I want to look away and focus on something else but I know the instant I take my eyes away, the duck will vanish. After another minute or so, I decide the image must be a sign so I put the bottle back on the nightstand. I'm thinking that's where it will stay for now; in limbo until I make a solid decision. Putting the bottle in the medicine cabinet seems like a final act and I'm not totally sold on the idea that sticking around for much more of this bullshit is the way to go.
I decide taking a shower may somehow cleanse my soul. Removing my robe, I catch a glimpse at how destroyed my pedicure is and vow to be better about keeping myself up if I decide to remain among the living. I bet they have everlasting cosmetics in Heaven, which makes me rethink answering the Devil's call. As I step through the wall of hot steam, the scalding rain reminds me I'm very much alive. The water is so hot it would make most people scream, but for me, the heat ricochets along my nerves and gives me something non-threatening to think about.
It really doesn't take long at all for me to get used to the water temperature. How is it that our bodies can acclimate to a hot shower so quickly but be slow to respond when it's the dead of winter and we're trying to keep warm? I mull this over as I wash my hair, wishing I could stay in here forever, hiding from the world. Well, most of the world; there are a select few that I'd miss after a while. The guy that would have to service the hot water heater would probably be one of them.
As I open the shower door, I make out the lobster red image that is my reflection. I stand dripping on the mat, feeling the exhilarating rush of cool air tickling every cell. As usual, I forgot to hunt down a fresh towel before I came in here. This leaves me one of two equally unappealing options: I can use this tiny hand towel that has toothpaste residue on it, or I can streak through the apartment and hope the nosy neighbors in the units across the alleyway are all at work.
I take Plan A and hastily brush over the major areas with what seems like a towel more suitable for Barbie's Beach Party, rather than for drying a woman who's almost six feet tall. No longer dripping wet, I think twice about tossing the overgrown washcloth into the hamper, and instead, wrap my scraggily hair up inside the soggy material. My mind instantly wanders. With every new activity, chore or action, I constantly compare what's currently happening with the scads of information living in the most remote creases of my brain. Because my hair is wrapped up, my mind jumps to thoughts of women who wrap their hair like this every day. Do I know anyone like this? Just one; Loretta from the laundromat. She makes it look stylish. This makes me wonder if she wears her hair like this because she has to, or because she wants to. Maybe under that turban is a short, shaggy, unattractive haircut, like Oprah. Or maybe it's coils and coils of dreadlocks, like Eryka Badu. Then thinking of Eryka Badu makes me think of music and some random reggae song I heard this morning comes back to haunt me. This song will be going through my mind for the next few hours until the 'next big thing' comes to tickle my thoughts. And it won't be the whole song; it will be one excruciating line that plays an endless loop, dancing silently across my tongue all day.
Name one thing worse than wrestling clothes onto your damp, sticky body, I think to myself. Ugh, it's like trying to get a bodysuit on a cat. Now that I'm both sweaty & frustrated, I head back to the bedroom to fetch some earrings, getting sufficiently wigged out by the stale, foamy feel of this old shag carpet under my clean, bare feet. I pay too much rent to have to worry about contracting a disease from my rug. Ick. Thank god my bedroom has area rugs I can hop to and from; like safe little islands in an ocean of germs. I get to my bed, open the bedside stand and pull out the antibacterial wipes. It makes me feel better to give the soles of my feet a quick disinfecting before I pull my socks on, "sealing them in". I turn back to the bedside stand to see my pharmaceutical arsenal staring back from its hazy brown bottle. I stare at my name on the label and think how if I take those pills, that name will cease to exist. No one will have a need to type it on anything anymore. I shove the Wet Ones back in the drawer and dismiss the idea. I have too much to do to die today.