Manic-Depression
Friday, January 26th, 2:53 am
Winter is here at last. S.A.D. hits full swing, colliding with bipolar programming already in progress. No commercial breaks here. Thoughts of suicide creep into the edges of my mind. Last attempt failed due to faulty blade. Previous attempt failed due to expired prescription. Mental checklist of current possibilities. Romanticized scenarios of social aftermath play out on the silver screen of my imagination. Who will cry for my life? Who will tell? Will they think to call Vivian? Will someone tell him? Will he cry when he finds out I’ve left, or has he cried too many crocodile tears to muster any real ones? Sleep takes over, plan postponed.
Saturday, January 27th, 4:15 pm
All goes swimmingly. No need for tears now, only for my phone, caught in the midst of an epic battle of wills in the other room. It’s Mommy Day. We will go to a movie, have dinner, talk, gossip and giggle like old girlfriends, with no overhanging financial or familial problems to spark the tears and arguments that perforate our past. Anticipation is always dangerously exciting.
11:52 pm
She’s gone. We almost made it. Religious ideology rears its ugly head to ruin a perfect evening. Situational drama and the stress of having to come up with “pleasant” topics for seven long hours creates the desire for alcoholic reprieve, cookies make for comforting bedfellows.
Sunday, January 28th, 10:43 pm
Beautiful. Everything is beautiful. Except me. Friends, companions, food and films. But the face in the mirror is hideous. I hate myself. My skin is too pale, my calves too big, my thighs not thin enough, my breasts not firm enough, my nose off center, my arms not toned, my cheekbones not pronounced, my hair is stringy and dry, my eyes are dead. Hunger is for the weak. I will smoke another cigarette to curb the appetite that seeks to destroy my thinning process, and drink a glass of milk to trick my body into jumpstarting my metabolism, fooling it into burning caloric energy despite the hollow rumbling of the walls of my stomach sticking together. I’m hideous. The sound of my own voice repulses me. The urge to validate myself through meaningless, disease tempting, poor sex with a multitude of strangers takes over. There’s nothing to live for when I’m sleeping alone. I have to be better.
Monday, January 29th, 5:17 am
Minor emotional identity crisis. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my life right now. My house is clean, and warm. My classes are challenging but manageable. Rehearsals increasingly purport a show that will be fantastic. My bank account sits happily well fed. I must create a problem. I cannot handle perfection.
Wake up. “Mmf. Wake up. “What?” You should go home. “It’s five in the morning.” Nevermind. “What the hell.” Sorry. “Are you crying?” No. “Abigail.” I’m sorry. I can’t love you. You should probably go before…
I don’t know how to deal with happiness.
11:24 am
Gorgeous day. I’m on top of the world. To class, and rehearsal, and the now! Joy comes with the morning.
Winter is here at last. S.A.D. hits full swing, colliding with bipolar programming already in progress. No commercial breaks here. Thoughts of suicide creep into the edges of my mind. Last attempt failed due to faulty blade. Previous attempt failed due to expired prescription. Mental checklist of current possibilities. Romanticized scenarios of social aftermath play out on the silver screen of my imagination. Who will cry for my life? Who will tell? Will they think to call Vivian? Will someone tell him? Will he cry when he finds out I’ve left, or has he cried too many crocodile tears to muster any real ones? Sleep takes over, plan postponed.
Saturday, January 27th, 4:15 pm
All goes swimmingly. No need for tears now, only for my phone, caught in the midst of an epic battle of wills in the other room. It’s Mommy Day. We will go to a movie, have dinner, talk, gossip and giggle like old girlfriends, with no overhanging financial or familial problems to spark the tears and arguments that perforate our past. Anticipation is always dangerously exciting.
11:52 pm
She’s gone. We almost made it. Religious ideology rears its ugly head to ruin a perfect evening. Situational drama and the stress of having to come up with “pleasant” topics for seven long hours creates the desire for alcoholic reprieve, cookies make for comforting bedfellows.
Sunday, January 28th, 10:43 pm
Beautiful. Everything is beautiful. Except me. Friends, companions, food and films. But the face in the mirror is hideous. I hate myself. My skin is too pale, my calves too big, my thighs not thin enough, my breasts not firm enough, my nose off center, my arms not toned, my cheekbones not pronounced, my hair is stringy and dry, my eyes are dead. Hunger is for the weak. I will smoke another cigarette to curb the appetite that seeks to destroy my thinning process, and drink a glass of milk to trick my body into jumpstarting my metabolism, fooling it into burning caloric energy despite the hollow rumbling of the walls of my stomach sticking together. I’m hideous. The sound of my own voice repulses me. The urge to validate myself through meaningless, disease tempting, poor sex with a multitude of strangers takes over. There’s nothing to live for when I’m sleeping alone. I have to be better.
Monday, January 29th, 5:17 am
Minor emotional identity crisis. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my life right now. My house is clean, and warm. My classes are challenging but manageable. Rehearsals increasingly purport a show that will be fantastic. My bank account sits happily well fed. I must create a problem. I cannot handle perfection.
Wake up. “Mmf. Wake up. “What?” You should go home. “It’s five in the morning.” Nevermind. “What the hell.” Sorry. “Are you crying?” No. “Abigail.” I’m sorry. I can’t love you. You should probably go before…
I don’t know how to deal with happiness.
11:24 am
Gorgeous day. I’m on top of the world. To class, and rehearsal, and the now! Joy comes with the morning.