I see them on the streets, in subways, hanging out in parks. Talking to themselves. Answering their own questions. They are filthy and smell of feces. Holding signs. Asking for money. Yelling at passers-by. I sit among them. Clean, but in the same boat. Conversations rattle through my head. I mumble out loudly. Cold, lonely and scared. Did I want this? Perhaps I did when I gave up the meds. Five prescription drugs for bipolar disorder and I quit them cold turkey. I had to. No insurance.
Bellevue is a few streets over on 1st Avenue. I promised myself I wouldn’t go into the hospital unless the suicidal thoughts got really bad; they are. Perhaps I should.