A Faggot In the House

Recently, I had a severe asthma attack and ever since Obamacare (or the Affordable Care Act for my liberal minded friends who believe that this piece of garbage legislation has or will ever bring anything good to our nation like to call it), I have not had health insurance.
For me, not having health insurance is bad. I have several health problems, and more than a hundred thousand dollars in medical health bills, frankly, the last I checked that number was really pushing the half million mark. My inner Fran Drescher reminds me that I should be with a doctor, everyday. Or, maybe that’s just my mom. Who knows. 
Anyway, after attempting to squeeze every bit out of my emergency inhaler I could, I finally had to just give up and go to the hospital, and get a breathing treatment. Said breathing treatment, caused an anxiety attack. Why, you ask? Oh, because I am terrified of hospitals. I have spent too much time in them, and frankly, the less I see of them, the better. 
Ironically enough, or maybe it’s just God’s way of smiting me as he has been doing to me lately, we end up at Stony Brook hospital, which is the school I really, really, really, really, really, really, really wanted to go to. But couldn’t. So, instead, I went to the hospital. And I was in and out of there fairly quickly. Minor aniexty attack, no problem to a hospital that actually knows what they are doing.
Prescribed to help me with my lung inflation is a drug called Predisone (50MG), I recommend reading up on your medications you are taking. In fact, I recommend reading up on them long before taking then.
So, today my Friend With Benefits spent the night, which was all cool, and my landlord (a homophobic Yankee fan who sometimes makes me question if I could truly get away with murder) is gone. He was gone all last night, so this morning after I made Friend With Benefits crepes in bed with Nutella (hey, he might be a hot Italian stud, but the hazelnut butter doesn’t have to be.. once it touches an Italian, it’s Italian…) my Friend with Benefits was doing dishes when in comes the homophobic landlord.
Landlord is unhappy, because there is another “faggot” in the house.
Now, this, alongside the fact that I am already pretty annoyed with this concept in general and felt like I was being bullied by . Throw on these steroids that make me feel funny, more aggressive, angry, more like a man, add on top of that the the reality I am bipolar, and the next thing I knew I had Friend With Benefits help move every single item out of my bedroom and into the  car, with no home in mind.

Now, that, my friends s a bipolar move. Impulsive, not thinking clearly. Emotionally, I realized what I wanted to do, but that was not the first thing that came to my head. The first thing that came to my head was to flea, and fight (I even contacted a lawyer friend on Long Island here regarding this issue). Legal, the law is more or less on my side. My guest did nothing wrong, except failed in giving a back massage (hint, hint) but beyond that, he did everything perfectly.

But it was me. It was me, and my bipolar self, that had me moved out because I saw a cause, a mission.

What I realize, looking back on this, is that I simply need to talk to my landlord. Explain to him the odd position he is putting me, remind him that he doesn’t pay taxes on my rent money, and perhaps remind his girlfriend about how they woke me up the other morning doing the nasty. That alone should shut him on any Friends with Benefits I might have over (though really, I have one, which, apparently means I am sucking at this entire dating the field thing… it’s not so much not selections, but man oh man Friends With Benefits is pretty amazing).

In any regard, I needed to act like an adult. Instead, I acted like a child. I cried, even. This was the first time I felt very specifically attacked for being gay, but still…I am a smart man. I just lost it. Big thanks to Friends with Benefits for the hugs, for making me feel not nearly completely worthless.

This entire episode, however, has me be thinking about bipolar disorder in general. I have been diagnosed bipolar, and frankly, feel (and honestly, can say) I am doing well using this blog as a good source to help sort and collect moods (oh, and of course write seriously meaningful columns that win awards [yes there are blogger awards, yes you, all of you are going to be nominating me for a few, soon, check back for details].

In any regard. I am going to try to write more about what is like living as a disabled bipolar man. I think people forget that I am in fact bipolar, and I do a ton of stupid things because my brain doesn’t work the same as yours. Yesterday, my bedroom was clean and everything was in it’s neat little place, now, however  — not so much.

The difference, I think, is that while I knew I had to take action regarding putting an end to hate speech, I was ready to run from it. Like many Americans, gay or straight, bipolar or not. But my way ended in me watching a hot Italian boy move a ton of boxes and clothes up and down the drive way…

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