Shaken, Not Stirred

I could feel it creeping in. My speech rate increased, my behavior became more erratic. It was the beginning of a hypomanic episode. Its siren song beckoned, with promises of incredible enjoyment. A live wire running through me. Euphoria. Like a lover from a long time ago, someone that only promised the most erotic of sensations. Seductive attempts to tip me over the edge.

I struggled against it. I know how it ends; the depression fights to be its equal, and they battle inside me, driving me to a fever pitch of tears and hysteria. It always ends the same way, an epic crash and burn that leaves me raw. I wake up the next morning feeling like I've not only fallen off the wagon, but tried to jump in front of it and it's run me over. Brain hangover. I can't function, I loaf around the house until I can go to sleep again. It renders me utterly useless. And yet, it's so tempting to give in to it. The promise of that kind of heightened arousal is too easy to say yes to. It's as if I have amnesia and don't remember how it ended the last time. And I always end up skipping my meds out of defiance, making it even worse.

The next-day exhaustion is bone deep and impossible to shake. Everything seems too loud, too bright, but I feel numb at the same time. I oscillate between feeling brain dead to being completely overwhelmed by everything. Why don't I learn from these moments? I know why. Once the hypomania starts to set in, there's no convincing me that it won't be different this time, that it won't be worth it. It's like having that friend who always gets you to do stupid shit. They have such an energy about them that you say yes to all their ideas, no matter how over the top they seem.

One time - one - my husband was able to talk me out of a full on break down. He told me it was my brain, and I didn't have to listen to it, and I should come to bed. And I did. The next day though? The mental hangover was still there. I guess there's no escaping that once the the momentum of the hypomania gets going, once it mixes with depression. I never come away unscathed.

And that someone is always me.

Better To Ask Forgiveness

My creative writing teacher told me this quote, which I'm probably butchering and not even attributing - when a writer is born into a family, that family is finished. I see the point; as someone who writes often about personal experiences, there's a good chance I might reveal some family secret. Though, thus far, I've been skittish about it, as I'm not sure if it's mine to tell. Or I fear the backlash of it, maybe.

The internet is a big place, and I expose myself (ha ha) to that network. But is it my place to write about others in my life? They're part of my story, to be sure. The question is, can I put them there without their permission? Is it better to ask forgiveness? There are plenty of things I want to say, but feel constricted by this idea.

In my creative writing class, I've had to compile 25 - 30 pages of material for my final portfolio. The majority of them was an essay I wrote about the death of my father, spliced with moments from old videos I recently unearthed to transcode to a digital format. I'm not going to dump 19 pages on you, don't worry.

But there are other things I'd like to share. Things I felt okay sharing in class, because it was a limited audience. There are some poems I've written that I'm reading, in front of people, tomorrow -

I guess I'm not sure I have an answer for this conundrum. Do I edit myself? Do I assume involved persons won't read it, or if they do, they'll be fine with it? I really like what I've done this year, what I've created, and want to share it. But I'm just not sure if I have the right to. Especially in such a public forum, the vastness of The Internet.

I guess for now, I'll keep editing myself, cutting out pieces here and there to protect the "innocent." Who knows, maybe one day, I'll have the guts to write it, send it out there, others be damned. Maybe people will love it, maybe they'll hate it.