The Amateur Psychiatric Convention

Convened during the trip RCW and I took to the Culinary Institute last Friday. (Egads! Almost a week?)

We talked about Emma. Emma did not and does not know about BecsFest.

Emma's formal diagnosis is bipolar disorder. But RCW and I have been pondering the very real possibility that Emma has Borderline Personality Disorder.

Last night, I looked up all kinds of articles on it and since they are on the innerwebz, they must be true. Yes, Bipolar and BPD look a lot alike. Where the difference begins is that drugs for Bipolar work and can control it. As with all personality disorders I've read about (even in real books), you're pretty much stuck with it. If you can manage the symptoms some of the time, you're lucky. You're lucky if you're even cognizant that you're exhibiting the symptoms.

BPD scares me. People with BPD can be very dangerous without meaning to be. And as any good cyberchondriac, it made me afraid that I have it, but there are differences. As far as I can tell, Emma doesn't have any friends out there on the lone prairie. I learned this weekend that I do indeed have friends. There are people in the world who love me. (A curious thing to realize in the midst of being broken-up-with by the ever-absent Anonymous Boyfriend...)

Dr. Becs and Dr. RCW put their darling heads together and came up with a diagnosis that rings very, very true for Emma. It's not easy to see her in this light, but I think that's the only bulb that's lit on this string.

Becs and the Wall-Eyed Fat Man, Part 5 the Last

I kept pushing Moishe for more column inches in his magazine. Perhaps he was wise in limiting me, since in one of my reviews I said "Mork & Mindy" was going to be a bomb. I reason to myself that that was before we knew about Robin Williams.

I think generally, I just kept pushing Moishe. In response, he'd just roll one of his eyes and ask me if I'd done the address labels for that month's magazine. I wanted in, I wanted into his world. I wanted to be pals with Robert Silverberg. I wanted to take Fritz Leiber out to lunch. In short, I wanted in to a place where I was most definitely on the periphery and would continue to stay there.

So I decided to have a big, big, big party on my birthday. Moishe directed me to the best deli / caterer around and I packed his fridge with fabulous stuff. In the meantime, the invitations went out.

As hard as I pushed, there was someone who pushed harder. Harmony had been in class with me and Emma and RCW. She was a little older, but she certainly didn't know any better. The main focus of her life was to bang Harlan Ellison and I hear she eventually got her wish. But when she found out I was going to have this party and that Silverberg had been invited and that Terry Carr was coming, she was ravening for an invitation.

I invited her.

The gathering clouds gathered and the storm finally broke one day at lunch.

I was sitting at the kitchen table eating lunch. I allowed myself an hour and during that hour, I would read and generally entertain myself. It was practically my only Moishe-free hour during the day. His demands had grown to take up more and more of my time and in response, I had become more and more muley about it.

I don't remember what I was reading. Possibly, Interview with the Vampire. I was eating an elaborate salad. I faced one of the huge windows.

Moishe wandered in - he had clothed his nakedness with underpants - and said something like, "When are you going to take those magazines down to the post office?" He tone was decidedly snotty.

I answered in kind. "When I finish eating my lunch." And probably added something snottier in return. Just a for instance, "When I'm good and ready."

For a wall-eyed fat guy, he moved pretty fast. He was across the kitchen in a short and before I knew it, he had grabbed my pony tail and pulled it back so hard my neck was on the edge of the chair and all I could see was ceiling and Moishe's ugly face. "You will get up now," he hissed. "You will get up now and load those magazines into your car. You will take them to the post office." At this point, he pulled me up and shook me by the roots of my hair. He wasn't strong enough or tall enough to lift me off the ground, but I was completely at a loss of what to do except get the hell away from him. He dragged me around the kitchen for a couple of laps.

Finally, he let go. I flew into my room, closed the door, locked it, dragged out my suitcase and started packing. I threw my stuff into boxes, put my shoes on and carrying as much of it as I could, walked out and loaded my things into the Camaro.

"What are you doing?" He was genuinely perplexed that he could drag me around by my hair and I would stick around for more. (Oh, if only this lesson had stayed with me!)

"Is this what you did to your wife," I snarled. "Did you beat her?" I went back into my room and there Kitty was crying on my bed. Now I started to cry, because I knew Moishe would only ignore her. I heard him at my door and turned around. "Get the fuck out of here," I said.

"Get out," he said.

"Pointless. I'm already out of here. Fuck you, fuck your magazine, fuck your stupid wall-eyed life."

I got into the Camaro and backed out. He stood at the car port, arms across his chest, looking like he didn't quite know what had happened.

I can't remember when I called RCW to let her know I was on my way. Maybe I just showed up on her doorstep and once again, her kind parents took me in.

This would be the natural place to write "and then I drove back to Virginia", but I didn't.

First, there was the matter of hundreds of dollars of food left in Moishe's fridge. Food I had paid for, for a party that now could not happen.

But oh, not so. Moishe let it be known the party would go on.

Harmony arrived the next day with an entourage. She harangued me without end about going back to Moishe's, mostly because she knew Harlan, Silverberg, and Terry Carr were going to be there. My friends from my brief Berkeley days called me up to tell me we should go liberate Moishe's fridge and my food.

I am ashamed to say that I let myself be talked into it. We crashed the party. I crashed my own party.

And by the time it was all done, I knew without a doubt that I wanted to get the hell out of California. And so I drove.