Quid pro quo, Cupid.

     I'm on a dating website that shall remain anonymous (hint: it rhymes, and perhaps fittingly so, with "no way stupid"), and on my profile I enumerated a list of potential dealbreakers up front, figuring that secrets untold would eventually come to the light after any decent courtship period. Because I'm too lazy to summarize I'll just copy and paste to save myself the trouble of rehashing the points here (the profile info is listed between the underlines): _____

I do have :

1) bipolar disorder (formerly known as manic-depression. Although I'm grateful it's been in sound remission for some time, I understand there are a myriad misconceptions and taboos regarding mental illness in general and bipolar disorder in particular. That being said, feel free to shoot me any questions you may have.)

2) a tattoo of a-once-upon-a-time-g/f-turned-"BFF" on my wrist.

I do not have :

1) my own place (I live at home).
2) access to a vehicle (you can't beat public transit, the chariot of the people, or at least that's what I'm telling myself now)
3) steady employment
4) money
5) a cell phone

Yes, indeed, I am living the dream as they say.

Irrespective of any extenuating circumstances mitigating the aforementioned deficiencies (which are of course, subject to change - here's to hoping), I figured, it'd be best to let you know off top where I currently stand, so that you may 1) keep it moving or 2) walk with my now, in hopes of flying with me later... No guarantees though, we could be crawling, too.

______

     Whether I should even be on a dating website at this particular time is neither here nor there, but for the intents of the blog, I was taken a back, when in a rather lengthy correspondence a woman thoughtfully wrote the following:

     "The other unsolicited feedback I'd give is that I don't think you should for a moment consider yourself "un-dateable"; nor do I think you need to be so explicit about your manic-depression in your profile. I appreciate the desire to be honest and up-front, but I think it would be entirely fair if you waited until you met someone in person to share that information. I, for one, would not have felt "misled" or like you wasted my time if you withheld that information until we got to know one another a little better."

     Hmm, I thought. I heeded her unsolicited, yet thoughtful, advice for all of 24 hours or so, during which I deleted the first presumed dealbreaker. I thought about it further, however, and quickly reconsidered. Later on in the same message, this brave soul went on to tell me of her bouts with depression during a formative time in her young adulthood; shortly thereafter another woman heard of my confession, she, in her very next email told of her bouts with bulimia, anxiety, and depression. This first woman went on to recommend a book on depression, which she had found so helpful that she had gifted it to at least half a dozen people: The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression by Andrew Solomon.

     

      Flash forward to the present. Somewhere, sometime in the past month or so, my mother's German Shepherd, Beta, brought home fleas that left her scratching her skin raw. To rid the house and dog of these pests, my mother decided to bomb the house with insecticide today, forcing she and I to flee (no pun intended) the premises for four hours. Earlier in the week she mentioned dropping me off at the library for some time, and while it's not normally exactly my idea of a good time, they do have computers, because after all, I don't spend enough time bullshittin' on ours at home. More importantly though, I, also in the back of my mind, I figured it would be a good time to look for the book that my new friend had recommended.

     After spending about sixty of my ninety minute of alotted computer time surfing the net, I decided it was time to look for The Noonday Demon, whose call number I had memorized to six digits. Thinking this was sufficient I walked over to the reference desk and asked the librarian on duty where I could find the "600" section. She, without hesitation, pointed me in the proper direction, and I was off.

      "616.852" I thought. Sounded specific enough. Of course as luck would have it, it was not. As I circled which held the "616's", I looked up and down for the next three digits, so I could be on my merry way. As my eyes looked up and down for the title and author I noticed there were rows full of books with the "616.852" prefix, when I struck gold. I seemed to be in the pysch/self-help section, because all of a sudden books with, "Bipolar" in the title began appearing. There weren't rows upons rows, but enough to make me feel 1) at home in a very real way and 2) compelled to do something about this shortage.

     After doing a quick materials analysis, I chose three books strictly based on their appealing titles and covers. The first is called Detour: My Bipolar Roadtrip in 4-D by Lizzie Simon, the second, Bipolar Life: A Journey Filled with God  by Jason Taff, and the third, The Hypomanic Edge: The Link Between (a little) Craziness and (a lot) of Success in America by John D. Gartner.

     Despite my academically induced aversion to reading I hinted at in my blog profile, I do, when I think about it, enjoy a good read, so long as I find it applicable and entertaining. (The last book I read was a copy of Rich Dad/Poor Dad that my mother had in her collection. I'm not big on financial prudence, let alone investment, but I got through it nonetheless. The last book I read and actually enjoyed, however, was Black is the New White, a memoir by comedic legend Paul Mooney-- who because of my sister's hosting prowess, I had the pleasure of meeting in St. Louis). That said, I was determined to find the Solomon book; after all it was what I had come in search of and it was, according to the catalog, available. With my three books on Bipolar Disorder happily in hand, I continued my search and found it a short time later.
     All of this is to say, or rather to borrow from rapper Ice Cube, "Today was a good day." It started off slowly like most of my days, but now I'm home, awake (which I usually don't feel until I've napped till the late afternoon/early evening-- that's when I have nothing else to do of course), and in good spirits as I type this with my four books next to me. And to think this was all made possible by being open with my situation, on a "stupid" dating website.