I feel right now. Like a tart kiwi. Subtract the hairy exterior… yes, that is more accurate. Now, place a spoon and remove the fruit from the hairy-shell. You have me! Careful… I am fragile when dropped, but get a taste of me and you won’t be able to stop.
Okay, on to more relatable example. Today I feel refreshed, yet a tad physically exhausted. Almost as if you had a long workout, but coffee right after. That is exactly what I did, so… yeah.
Mentally, I am still processing some news I received yesterday and it has me feeling a little bit off. The news, you ask? I was diagnosed with Bi-Polar type 2. I don’t know that I agree, because I have Borderline Personality Disorder which can account for feeling my emotions so intensely, but it doesn’t explain the rapid mood swings. Apparently that is called “Rapid Cycling”.
My biological mother has Bi-Polar (we think, she won’t get evaluated) and my father has anger issues. I have always had a temper, but after 3 rounds of anger management in middle/high school, my anger is abated… usually. My inner fire of anger is not. Captured in the thick walls of my cranium, the anger pounds furiously for a release from its prison, but I have learned that this affliction is best contained – away from the people.
To be honest, I have no idea if this is correct or not. It didn’t feel correct, but I am basing my medical knowledge off of far less than that of a psychiatrist. However, I could be correct. That is the part that still sticks with me as I ruminate over what was said to me prior.
Aside from minute turmoil in my mind, I am feeling decent. It is a beautiful, breezy day with the sun shining brightly overhead. Light notes of freshly murdered grass dance on the breeze with a slight scent of something inorganic; perhaps it is motor oil?
Motor oil brings back a ton of memories. Memories of the pit in my grandfather’s garage. It was far taller than I and contained 37 years of oil and grease drained from the underside of decades of vehicles. The baby blue mustang shaped lump to the right of the pit with it’s partially torn brown tarp masking the beauty of its edges was a permanent fixture. I hadn’t seen it move, nor have I.
My father would come inside from the garage smelling intensely of car guts. He would rifle through his sink cupboards for a small orange container of textured hand degreaser. It smelled like oranges and chemicals. I always knew when dad was done working. Citrus and motor oil.
Citrus and Motor Oil
Amidst the whispers of Citrus and Motor Oil,
My father would say, “We’ll go soon, my loyal foil.”
I’d believe him with the scent of citrus so sweet,
Innocent at nine, my trust in him complete.
Trucks and engines, they held his fascination,
In the garage’s grip, he’d find his elation.
But we’d stay put until the hood was closed tight,
I, a young observer, in the fading light.
The aroma grew stronger, that greasy perfume,
Underneath the car’s hood, in that workroom.
Though I was but a child, I understood,
In Citrus and Motor Oil, our bond withstood.
My father, my hero, in his world of machines,
Amidst oil-stained hands and mechanical dreams.
In those moments of waiting, I found glee,
Another moment with my dad is just what I need.
©️ Arwen-Wynter Oakley 2023