Oh middle of the night thoughts precipitated by a meditative documentary on a topic I both loathe and require. Manic depression.
I was going to write a paragraph literally putting a thought within a through within a thought through the use of my punctuation army to illustrate the racing thoughts of my personal brand of mania. But instead, I kept typing and deleting the beginnings of said thoughts, abandoning them three or four words in to move onto the next thought, because I keep losing them, because I am constantly slipping through my own fingers. Not the thoughts mind you, me. I am only the thought I am having at the time I am having it.
Anyway, I could not make such an illustration.
In the documentary a profiled woman talks about the highest of her mania. How on the sweet edge, right before psychosis, she feels like God. It's like the energy of 100 of her best days wraps around her rendering her invincible. How she can be this God for days at a time. Her face is not like in awe when she describes this, as I suppose mine was, it is more heartbreaking and blunt. Her exposure makes me feel empty.
I actually enter into a thought process that is incredibly fucked up. Questioning why I never get to feel like God, only some sort of wild fish air swimming across my living room floor while Lilo watches in shades of caution and amusement. That's what my mania is like. A little elevator to the next floor up, just high enough to be a personality quirk. Just high enough to freak me out, that this is the time I really crack, that I'll end up committed like everyone else in my nuclear family. I get the fear, but it is, as always, Godless.
Forgive my offensiveness. Yes, I just envied this woman's textbook mental illness, because I often don't feel crazy enough to ask for help.