Some times I hold my mind in such esteem that it seems likely I will have  a quality of life in my senior years. I am 59 years old and have a window of opportunity within the next ten years to amplify my writings so I have a network of support on the internet. I have less than that to shore up my physical self so I can bath myself and pee on my own. I want to take daily walks on a flat surface so I do not fall again and break the next series of bones. Then I might be prepared for my senior years.
I do not aspire to being wealthy. I already know that I will be in a substandard nursing home. It is unfortunate and just plain lousy that people with bipolar can not get nursing home insurance. So I have to create a lovely picture frame of me in a nursing home. This may change the perspective ever so slightly to make it a tolerable existence. I only ask that my sense of smell is gone and I have a laptop with head phones in my semi-private room
I imagine myself in a wheelchair with playing cards clipped to the spokes to make that cool sound like my bicycle did as a child. I would rest from writing and buzz the hallways in my retrofit wheelchair. I can see my droopy face and quivering chin from yeas of antipsychotic medication. In my minds eye I see myself in a backwoods nursing home.  I sit with arthritic fingers and write just one more witty yet sarcastic piece about being a therapist with bipolar disorder.
Perhaps we will all be lucky and they will have come up with a treatment that obliterates bipolar illness. Only to find that we are not so lucky and are left with an ordinary mind. It is then that I will ask for a lobotomy!