After the Ecstasy, the Laundry...
This is where the screaming starts.
The inner screaming. The pain that comes from not just slitting your wrist, but from cutting off your entire hand. Or seeing yourself do it.
The past seven to ten days have been okay. About as normal as I get. Not too bad. Nope. But I’ve never been a person who goes about things in a subtle way. So it was bound to fall apart, sooner or later.
When depression comes. It’s a black numb night with no stars. Everything becomes about me: about how God is taking special notice of my situation and punishing me. How nobody likes me. How every movement of the world is designed for my special torture.
Mania is all about the stars. Or, rather, the star: Me. Because when I’m manic, you’d be a fool not to notice me, want me, befriend me, sit in the sheer awe of magnificence.
There are people who think the mania must be better. “Whoa, like a natural cocaine, right?” they ask. Those people are mistaken. Both states bring consequences. A dirty litter like the bottom of a movie theatre after the show is over and the people leave. I’ve watched myself rocket around and how some folks shy away nervously, cautious about my exuberance. I only think of them later, realizing how they were on to me, only they usually didn’t realize it at the time. During the mania, I don’t have time for the feelings of others.
I haven’t been really manic in a long, long time. That’s probably good.
The sad comes more often. The erosion of any sense of optimism. Utter reliance on Word and saintly wisdom gets me through, brings me back.
I was stupid and could not understand; I was like a brute beast in your presence. Psalm 73:22
I spend a lot of time apologizing. I don’t always know if it helps.
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I’m participating in the Blogging from A-to-Z April Challenge! Read about it here.
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