I spent the weekend with my Auntie C in Amsterdam. We had a really, really good time. It was great speaking Dutch, catching up with an old friend, seeing museums, spending time with my Auntie, breathing the atmosphere. I love Amsterdam.
I was thinking that it’s funny how memory works. I remembered every street name but not all the connections between them. I remember how much I loved living there. Yet when I was there, I wasn’t as happy, well and stable as memory suggests. I had one big up, and one major down. Between and around those, I made some excellent friends and had some great experiences. On balance, I am so happy I went. In memory, it was one of my happier years. But I see that year through a rose-tinted monocle on the one side, and through a truthful eye on the other. One of my friends described me as having been “unstable to the max” there, and it is one of the first times I really felt that I *did* have bipolar, that my diagnosis was something tangible.
Memory plays tricks. Sometimes it’s nice to let it.