So I asked him: "Is this me? Is this who I am?" "No. Of course not. You're mind is sick," Fuck him. He didn't know. He didn't understand. I can't...move. I just want someone to unplug me for a while. You see? I can't talk. I can't walk down the hall to smoke. I can't eat. I can't read. I can't even look at you. I can't think. I can't feel. I can't love... I can't... I can't...

(She is unable to continue. Pause.)

This is me. This is who I am.

I've had a savior before. My own personal savior. Reverend Jim would come by everyday at the hospital I was staying at and he would look at me with blue eyes and tell me everything was going to be all right. And I believed him, because of those eyes. I could look right through them and see right into his soul. He'd come by my room every day and it was the same thing- he'd brush my hair, he'd take care of me even when I was at my lowest? And then one night he kissed me. A good, Christian kiss. And it didn't even make me sick, because it was nice and soft, and he backed off as if, like, that kiss would be enough; like he didn't want anymore- that was enough. So I kissed him back. Not so Christian, I guess. And I gave him everything, even though, well... because he was my savior, my own personal savior. He said that when I was well he would take me out of the city and we'd be together forever. One flesh. Well, the thing about saviors, I guess is they're always looking for a new project because when I got out- and I fucking got well for him- he looks at me so kindly, with those same blue eyes, that said, "come with me, I'll show you the world if you come with me", now said nothing but...."Please. I don't love you, Franny. Please."

There's a little crack in the ceiling in the room that I grew up in. Four inches. Maybe. A tiny little insignificant crack. Ceiling's green... or light blue. Fuck, I don't know. But I remember the crack. Because it's about the only thing I could look at while my dad fucked me.

(Beat.)

You wanted to know about my childhood. Jesus. I didn't start this psychology shit. There it is. 'I'll give you a dollar if can get it half-way this time' I've got a million of 'em. You want me to clear my fucking closets, really, I'll show you some things you'll never put out of your mind. Bipolar, that's a fancy word for moody, right?

(Pause.)

When I'm high, everything's clear, it's like everything's on overdrive and you can actually have a conversation with me, I mean it might be a little one-sided is all, but you could be around me. But when I'm low... Jesus. I know that people want to be supportive and they want to be my friend, but when I get low it's like I'm this vacuum of love and friendship and good feelings and I don't blame people for not wanting to touch me with a ten-foot pole. Not one fucking bit. That giant sucking sound is me.