I started a folder named Manic Ravings. I was tired of them clogging up my main drive where I might click on them accidentally and be subjected to their random nonsense at any time. I thought it might be better to just give them their own space. That’s why I wrote them in the first place. To get them out of my head. I don’t need to keep seeing the files. They are disjointed and hard to follow. It’s part of the disease I call Temporal Lobe Epilepsy and Bipolar Depression or Mood Disorder or whatever. I like to tell myself, “Bitch, you’re brain be broke.”
Not all of my thoughts are correct. Not all of my memories are coherent or consistent with facts. My brain works overtime, ruminating on the same thoughts, thousands of times over again. Each time it evolves and twists and spirals into something else.
I wish I didn’t have to think so much. It’s a burden. All these thoughts clog up my brain. Gears whir in the background, the springs tighten. My muscles are tense and ready to pounce. I don’t like to feel that way. It aches. It seems predestined, like a freight train, unable to be stopped.
There is always a small part of me that knows the rest is false. A small light shines through the fog. It takes a long time for that light to grow bright enough to illuminate the room. I am a ship lost at sea or Lake Erie. I can’t remember where I set sail or how long it’s been.
In the meantime, I will be left to stumble around in the dark and hazy gray lobes of my brain. If I’m lucky, I’ll keep my mouth shut and not say every damned thing that comes to my mind.
Somehow I doubt that. I have never been able to shut my mouth. My words and thoughts assault me at all times. I have no choice but to spit them out. It’s a nasty habit. I try to be a reformed mood addict, then the rages take over. I cannot think of anything else. My body shakes. I scream and cry and can’t remember clearly when it’s over. I can’t say it’s worse than seizures, but it’s not better that’s for sure.
I write about my mood swings least of all. They are the most shameful to me. The loss of control of my body is less scary than the loss of control of my mind and my mouth. When I am enraged I will say anything to anyone. I offend myself with the things I say. I forget what I say. Then a seizure will wipe it all away. My memories are questionable at best.
All I can do is try to live in the present moment and not the past. It’s a sticky trap back there. There is no sense in trying to make sense of mania. It’s not sensible. It too shall pass. It comes and it goes. It is the nature of the Beast. I cannot kill it. I cannot tame it. I can only hope to someday live symbiotically with my Brain.
Today is a good day.
(Image by Rosemary Carson: Patients waiting to see Doctor)