Journey to the Center of Ethel Moore

Heading downstairs into the foreboding basement/laundry room, with its whitewashed stone walls, overhead fluorescent lights, and four laundry machines feels like a one-way journey. The muffled music from the room just above the basement can be heard. tonight it was johnny cash. i was contacted by a friend of a friend who is in the media; she just might do a story about me and bipolar. that would be really exciting, to get my voice and my story out there, since i need to talk and others need to hear what i have to say. no more of this ridiculous and unnecessary and extremely harmful silence surround mental illness. so many people are on psychiatric meds, yet the stigma, secrecy, and shame continue. such inner peace tonight.

it's a good place to do homework while waiting for one's laundry to be done: you're a captive in an extremely boring, window-less location. i think it could be made into a funky, almost comfortable place to contemplate one's dirty laundry--with a few carpet scraps, some old armchairs and posters or painting on the walls, maybe some subdued lighting. one of my textbooks has not yet arrived. grrrr. must go to office depot for computer paper, bulletin board, and multiple outlet plugs, and to ikea for the right size picture frame.