I used to be a Vibrant Scripturient. Writing used to be my passion. The words used to flow like diamonds in the sky trickling down on the Earth during a twilight evening. I can’t find my grip, I can’t find my place. I am lost in an abyss of duty and responsibilities. Is it wrong that when I was a bum living in my parents’ house, my muse was ever-present in my life?

I am battling my demons in this rehab. I want to get out so bad, but where am I going really? To an Oxford House? Is that any better? I mean it will be more rules and I probably won’t get my own room. I will have to research it first. I want to get my court case over with so I can expunge all the unpleasantness attached to my name. My reputation is ruined, my credit is shot, and I’ve lost my drive when it comes to my words.

I am forever a future forecaster that can’t stay in the present – everyone at this rehab sees it. I can’t accept the day as it is, even though it’s a beautiful day outside with the sun shining brightly. My mind is a rollercoaster of unhappiness and I am in such fear of telling anyone because they will insist on a “meds evaluation.” I am bipolar so I am always up and down but I don’t want to be anyone’s experiment anymore.

I just want to be free.

I want to live.

I want to be happy again.

I want to be inspired so my passion comes back.

God, please help me.

Stay Tuned.