I started at my local community college today. I’m taking a mathematics and a symbolic logic course. I am so grateful to be at a point in my life where I have the support I need–both mentally and financially–to try something like this.

It has been really cold here the last few days. I mean, Seattle cold, not like midwest cold. But still, these temperatures make me realize how lucky I am to have the right clothes and a cozy apartment. I’m about to go running in 29-degree weather and that’s only possible because I know I have someplace safe and warm to return to.

When I was driving from school to work this morning I looked in my rearview mirror and saw our beautiful mountains. I’ll never think of anywhere else but the Pacific Northwest as home and if I’m going to live like that I’m sure glad she’s so pretty.

Autobiography · Mental Health


"Metamorphosis" © Viewminder, 2012. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
Metamorphosis” © Viewminder, 2012. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Things are getting quiet around here. The boxes are all broken down and we’ve hung the pictures on the walls. Moved in, but I still haven’t fallen into a proper schedule.

Consistency is key, I know this. I have to get up at the same time every day, go to bed at the same time every night. I have to get at least thirty minutes of exercise daily and eat around the same times. Bipolar disorder thrives on the sporadic. It amplifies the fluctuations, grabs hold to the moments I fall out of rhythm and pulls me hard in a dangerous direction.

It feels like I’m slipping. And then I blame myself for the slip. And guilt myself for the blame. One emotion cascading into the next until it’s everything I can do not to curl up on our new carpet and sob.

I imagine I am the Columbia River, pummeling through the gorge. I imagine I am Mount Hood, tearing up across an empty skyline. I imagine I am rainfall and mushrooms and moss. Powerful and peaceful and radiant. I imagine I am a free-floating seed, but only for a moment. Soon I will find roots again, create channels.


Autobiography · Poetry


Cathedral Grove” © Bradley Davis, 2008. CC BY-ND 2.0.
September finds us holding
fragments of past months.

We search out a forest, green space,
somewhere lush to plant them.

Trees and grass we can walk to,
untouched by the traffic,

by the ever-present whine
of the endless energy cities spit.

Over and over we’ve asked
what’s missing,

but never stopped to wonder
if it might be nothing.

That we might be overflowing
instead of empty.

Longing for the quiet.
The stillness of rainforest.

The song only evergreens,
moss, mushrooms,

and our broken hearts know.
In the cold, wet air

they sing it to us
and we can finally hear

ourselves echoing it back.
Pulsing empathy.

“I know you. You belong here.”