My name is Neil de la Flor and I am (probably) (moderately) bipolar. Thank you, Oprah.com.
Last night I took the “Mood Disorder Questionnaire” at www.oprah.com because I believe in Oprah, polar bears and the accuracy of self-diagnosis on the Internet at the witching hour while moderately depressed.
In other words, I had nothing better to do.
I was listening to Ladytron's “Soft Power” in bed and that's when I decided it was time to learn my psychological truth. I wanted answers from the dark side of my baboon head—answers from the part of me that swings back and forth between seas of entangled and unentangled states for no apparent reason.
According to the questionnaire, which I assume is totally legit and vetted by professional psychiatrists or, at the very least, one competent veterinarian, I am moderately bipolar. The diagnosis came with a disclaimer that read something like, we're not 100% sure you're crazy, so if you really really want to know, seek professional help.
I was pissed. I felt scammed and distraught to discover that I am almost officially probably moderately bipolar and that I would have to seek out more advice. Why can't Oprah.com just sell pills direct and bypass the middleman-woman?
FYI #1: I went to a therapist two years ago and I told her that I thought I was crazy. She told me that I'm not crazy because crazy people don't know they're crazy. I thought that was crazy and left disappointed that she didn't diagnose me with anything except being normal, which is the worst diagnosis of all. In my opinion.
FYI #2: My cousin's girlfriend just posted on Facebook that she is cancer free. They haven't been together too long.
FYI #3: A close friend, who is a writer and Wonder Woman's step-sister, just told me he has cancer. He is almost bald.
FYI #4: I am in love with a Cancer.
FYI #5: I am also in love with Jupiter.
According to Erwin Schodödinger, evolution almost always moves from a rock of unentangled states to a sea of increasingly entangled states. This idea is illustrated by a seaweed-strewn sea. Translation: we're all screwed in the end. Get use to it.
FYI #6: Schodödinger likes (cat)astrophe.
Before I took the questionnaire, I thought about going to Grand Central, a nightclub/performance space in downtown Miami where kids—some of them are probably my students—get high and dance their thighs off till dawn.
I am almost 40. I'm losing my hair and I don't have a faux hawk anymore. I have fancy boots, but I can't wear them, because my feet hurt when I do. But, I love to dance. I love the way the sonic vibrations pass through my body (or soul) as I rage beneath the insane flashes of the green and magenta or whatever color laser lights.
Dancing makes me smile. I forget that I live inside my human shell. I forget my mood swings. I forget about that Oprah and her clandestine tricks to get me into therapy. I forget about the universe of cancers that penetrate my Facebook wall. And I forget about the two poles as they merge into one on the dance floor.
When I dance, I am unhinged, yet whole—the simultaneously ordered and disordered Neil. And I'm tyring to get use to him.
-Neil de la Flor