do not metaphor me

Everything I am about to say is going to sound like one huge contradiction.  That is because my opinion of mania is that it is a double-edged sword.  The feeling of it is so exhilarating while the reality of it afterwards is so devastating.  I swear mania makes the depression worse.  Because how high I get up is equivalent to how far low I get.

No matter what mood I am in at the time, be it mania or depression, it is all consuming.  Something I can’t see past.  So when I am manic, there is nothing else.  Everything is better.  Everything is bigger.  Even colors are more vibrant.  Love is wonderful.  Love is all consuming and busting from me like a cork out of a champagne bottle.  Nothing can stop me.  Nothing can harm me.  I am life and life is me.  I am more than the life of the party.  I am the party.  At least that is what I think, and maybe I am – just a little bit.  But that could just be the memory of mania talking.

Then there is Dysphoric Mania.  Reason number one why I hate mania.  Dysphoric Mania is when a person becomes filled with rage.  It is beyond anger and very physical.  I will say and do things I would not do normally… ever.  I am more than hurtful to the ones I love.  I am rude to strangers.  In my opinion it is the worst side of mania.  It is abhorrent.

I will tell you how much you hate me.  I will slap a wall with everything inside of me because the need to hit something is overwhelming.  I will cry from rage.  I will yell so loud and from so deep down from inside my house you can hear it in the back corners of my property line.

To this day, I still apologize to my children for things I said and did in this bipolar state.  I was told to stop and never bring it up again because they don’t even remember.  My response was, “That makes it even worse.”  There are just so many things I can’t take back.  So many things that haunt me.  So many things I wish I could forget but can’t. 

Then there is the euphoric mania.  The manic episode every bipolar person loves.  The episode I mourned losing for months.  It is just as the title of it says, euphoric.  When I was a teenager and I was in this state I used to walk around with a solo cup of coke and act like I was drunk.  It wasn’t a stretch of thespianism.   Partially because they are too drunk to notice the difference.  And partially because I let my mania flag fly high.  It was a wonderful disguise.

Then there is all the ramblings of nonsense only I can understand.  All of the ideas I have that are as useful as a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle with a piece missing.  All the inventions I come up with.  (Expect for two and one business idea.  I still stand by them.  But the rest were as useless as mud on the bottom of your shoe.)  Not to mention the writings that come out of me are just flat out awkward.  They aren’t just rhythmless.  They are meaningless too.  Or at least I couldn’t find it.

Yeah – so – there was this one time, I stayed up for two days straight and scrapped the paint off of my fireplace with a wire brush the size of a toothbrush. 

And don’t even get me started on the things I can’t keep my mouth shut about, which is everything.  I’m talking to strangers.  I’m talking while people are literally walking away from me because the conversation is over and I’m only repeating it.  And no matter how many people look at me like I’ve lost my mind.  (You know, because I have.)  Or how much I read the discomfort coming off of them in waves.  I just can’t shut up.  My words just go on and on.

Then comes the come down, because in the bipolar world what comes up must go down.  If I remember the episode, it just plays in my head on repeat.  With the depressive state I am in feeding the memory and the shame of it like wood on a fire. Not just for a little while, no.  For years, every time I come down there it is all up in my face reminding me.  My past and present endeavors.  My memory collage of shame.

 Maina is straight from the devil.

I wrote this poem while I was manic.  I know this because I have no memory of writing it.  I don’t know who “you” is.  I don’t know what my failure is.  I have no idea about any of it, but maybe you do.