memoir of a life filled with crazy

I have noticed lately,
and by lately, what,
i really mean is:
the last ten years.
is there have been a large
amount of personal accounts,
written on bipolar disorder/manic depression.

my therapist from community mental health,
who i saw once every two-weeks,
over a nine year period,
until i was put onto my husbands health coverage,
and they said i could no longer come there-
(it turned out my dear therapist retired around the same-time)

Anyways, she always said, Emily
you should write a book,
about your life and your illness.

She thought, I was some sort of
gem of wisdom in the raw,
i think.

Anyways, yesterday I tried,
to start writing such a personal account-
and it is agony.

So much easier to write poetry,
and share artwork,
than to share a personal story.

i only wrote 20 pages, before i
realized, there was a hell of a lot,
of my story i was leaving out.

I’m not sure if i will continue on-
with it or not…
I realize personal accounts of mental illness,
sell much better than poetry.

i’m not sure how much i am willing,
to share with everybody.
i’m under the impression that a memoir,
is supposed to be a real account…

But the art therapist in me,
insists I could never write real persons names,
in such a book.

I would have to use pseudonymous,
fakery-type phony names.
I would not change the details- maybe just the names,
and also the places,

but then would not such a work be fictitious?
Would that defeat the point?

As it is, if i tell people,
what happened from my point of view,
it is going to be sketchy, due to
the nature of crazy,

the nature of my own
personal type of


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