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Scott @ Speaking Bipolar

A Little Fiction for Your Sunday

published3 months ago
3 min read

My wonderful peeps (in honor of peeps season 🐤),

My life is almost mine again.

Nearly 100 clients have passed through my tax office during the last seven days, leaving me beyond exhausted. For the last hour, I've tried to come up with a positive post for you, but the words just aren't coming. Instead, we're going to try something a little different today.

A few months ago, I started writing a futuristic story about a world where bipolar was one of the few things doctors couldn't cure. I'm sharing the introduction today. I'd love to hear your thoughts. If you'd like to read more, just reply to this email and let me know. It's one of the projects I have planned for the coming months.

Hopefully, by next Saturday, I'll be back to me again and able to give you all what you deserve. Thank you for your patience and understanding during these last three intense months.

Until next time, keep fighting.

Scott


Brody Bipolar - Living Life as an Imperfect

Trigger Warning: self-harm

“At the tone, the time will be 6:00 AM. Beep.”

Brody’s fists clenched both sides of his foam pillow as he decided between ripping the pillow in two or throwing it at his Personal Information Display.

“You have an appointment at 10:00 AM with…”

Throwing won out. The pillow torpedo toppled the PID, making it fall to the tile floor with a sickening crash.

“Titanium glass, my @#%!” Brody swore into the room.

His wrist device vibrated lightly, and Brody braced himself for the announcement.

“Destruction of property is unacceptable.” It was the same voice he’d just silenced by destroying his PID. “The fine is 25 tads.”

“Lovely,” Brody muttered. He estimated he’d slept all of 90 minutes during the night prior, an estimation his wrist device would later confirm when he saw Dr. Abernathy in her office.

“All citizens are required to attend breakfast,” his wrist device droned on. “Breakfast begins promptly at 7:00 AM.”

The window shades began their opening process during the announcement, letting in the oppressive light of day.

“Fifty-five minutes, Mr. Britton,” the voice taunted him.

“Shut up!” Brody screamed, but he knew it was pointless. He forced his body into an upright position and stumbled to the bathroom.

“You look like hell,” he told his blurred reflection. Sensing his presence, the glass-walled shower turned on, beckoning him to enter.

It was going to be another one of those days.

Brody stood with his face to the spray and let the hot water wash over him. His brain begged him to head back to bed, but he knew his bed had already sunk to its position under the floor, and his robot overlords wouldn’t bring it up again until sunset.

A six-inch square section of the glass shower wall lit up, displaying Bently, his chosen personal assistant avatar.

“Sally is at the front door,” the kinder male voice told him. “Would you like me to direct her to the sitting area?”

“Yes.” Brody grunted.

“Should I offer her a drink?” his assistant asked.

“Do whatever the hell you want!”

“Angry outbursts are unacceptable.” The annoying PID voice was back. “‘Hell’ is an ugly word and not included in accepted vocabulary. Continual usage will result in a fine.”

“F…” Brody stopped himself. His account was already so low, he couldn’t afford any more tads.

“Fine,” he said. “Assistant Bently, please ask Sally what beverage she would like and provide it for her.”

“Happy to serve,” Bently’s voice returned, and the display returned to clear glass.

Sally was the only friend who understood. Brody had bipolar disorder. The condition made no sense to Brody’s doctors, as most health conditions had been eliminated by nanotechnology. No one suffered depression, anxiety, or ADHD. Except Brody. And Sally. Their brains fought against the nanobots and refused to comply. Instead, they were condemned to take old world treatments, brightly colored pills that no one else in society saw or understood.

“Water off,” Brody commanded his shower. “Heated dry.”

High speed fans kicked on circling cold air around Brody’s wet body.

“Heated!” Brody yelled, but the temperature warmed only slightly.

As his skin dried, Brody fantasized about smashing the glass walls of his shower. He imagined the splintered glass crashing to the floor. If sharp edges cut him in the process, that would be okay too. But the anger inside was unquenchable. Brody learned his lesson the hard way. It was a session neither he nor Counselor Wendy would ever forget.

Brody stepped from the shower and admired his body in the full mirror on the back of the bathroom door. He turned slightly so the light would catch the scars running down his left arm. If the nanobots had worked for him, the scars would be gone.

Brody smiled to himself. The scars were another sign he was an imperfect, the only external signal. Self-inflicted wounds, Brody was glad he’d stopped the bad habit, but the marks reminded him who he was and who he forever would be.

To be continued...


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