The lighting is harsh. There is a melodic rise and fall of strained voices calling out in repeat:  First, a request for water echoes from down the hall, and a plea for the restroom vibrates from closer still.  There is the quotidian hum of the workday - brisk walking at a sliding scale of urgency.  My choice of wardrobe is spirited if not slightly formal but I am relying on such signifiers to gain speedy acceptance.  Am I wearing glasses?  

The facility is at capacity and I’m held up in the hall attempting to retain some sense of dignity, by neatly folding my jacket and sitting up straight.  I refuse to look at my phone for fear I will get lost in it. This occasion calls for the presence of the mind.  My sister emerges, a stone’s throw away, rounding the corner in step with the gentleman I need to speak with.  Kind eyes and appropriately scholarly, he sits at eye level and calmly asks me to describe the preceding events.  As if reciting the banal contents of my breakfast I sound off:

“I have not slept in several days.  My Doctor is on an extended maternity leave and will not answer my emails.  Calling can take hours in this city and I do not have an attention span - it is hard to stay still.  While I am experiencing a very heightened creative energy that is benefitting my work, the line between reality and fantasy is fading fast.  My moods have been volatile to say the least, fluctuating steadily from euphoric to terrified, suppressed regularly by my own denial. My memory is at once heightened and deluded.  I had nowhere else to turn.’