I never thought of myself as manic or bipolar. But, here I am 3 am with a cup of coffee and no intentions of resting. If I was younger, with better feet I would go for a long run. I think between the sharp cold stinging my lungs and the burning in my thighs, I may be able to rest afterward. But, I’m old and tired and manic and can’t think of anything physical to do that wouldn’t feel like nails in my feet.
So I write. I drink. I write. I wonder around the house. I write. I edit. I drink. I pace. It’s such a bizarre ritual that is so void of any routine except waking up at 3 am and being alone.
It sounds bad, right? It’s not. It’s astonishingly free and creative and it has to stop. The house is quiet except my basement where I am listening to King Krule and writing a second book. This time it’s a romance novel, because you want to get lost in a world where you already visualized the ending and things make sense. I'm particularly happy with this part:
She was beautiful. Even to someone as calculating and observant as Dominic, he was immediately struck by his first, and only true love. After struggling through Shakespeare in high school and French Lit as an elective at state university, he finally understood what the prose and stanzas were all about. She was…remarkable. The lights in her eyes burned like the sun and gleamed with colors that he never knew existed. Her precariously thin lips stretched across her milky, freckled cheeks as she bit at her tongue as to not laugh at his misfortune. Maybe it was the head trauma of hitting the asphalt or maybe it was his free shot at being freshly embarrassed, but he said those three words that every woman wants to hear.
“I need help.”
There’s a cat that comes by this time. He’s fat or pregnant. I’ve already researched the mating times of feral felines and I know that it’s not until another few months so he’s probably just fat. Fuck that cat. I’m going to catch him. This’ll gives me something do besides pace and write.
I have ADHD too, which makes this whole thing worse. I’m restless and every drug that I used to use to tone it down has been taken away because it’s bad for me - although I don’t know how “good” it is for me to get 3 hours of sleep a night. This lifestyle is not sustainable and I’m dreading the inevitable crash.
I’m starting a new depressive bipolar medication tomorrow that may help, but at this point it’s just all trial and mostly error. The doctor puts you on something new, you wait a few weeks until your brain decides what it wants to do and then you adjust the levels to meet the lifestyle the people around you want. My mind is like Robert De Niro’s scene as Al Capone at the table in The Untouchables. It looks like all is going well, then BAM! A bat to the head as the other dopamine inhibitors watch on in horror.