I began writing a novel for NaNoWriMo in November 2012. It focuses on a semi-biographical story of a 30-something facing head-on with bipolar disorder after various suicide attempts. Though it is a gritty tale, it is also filled with humor and a light at the end of the tunnel. I started writing it to give people a peek into the mind of someone relateable dealing with mental illness. I will share excerpts from time to time. Hope you enjoy!
I like to tell folks I don’t have a story
But I also like to fuck with people
That in itself tells a story.
You confused yet?
Good, now we have something in common
I think that’s how friendships begin.
Not sure if I can maintain it but that’s part of the story too
Pay attention to the details
That’s where the angels are for me
I live in devilish broad-strokes
Details are the only way the good creeps in
Giving the true life to the picture
Details are what fill funeral obituaries
Speaking of obituaries…
When I exit this world
I mean exeunt this world
-I am a lot to take…
2 paragraphs can’t hold me
But I digress.
Reality bites. Colloquially and actually literally if strife had jagged incisors and firm molars. I have always had a flair for the dramatic. However, this time the drama was real and I did feel a bit chewed up. For a month I had been in a state of realized suspended animation, but probably many years of unrecognized pause. Now the play button is pushed and a rush of terror permeates my body through every available nerve ending as I step off the bus.
Let’s go back to month earlier, the last day of June, I step off a bus at 11:00 at night, drunk beyond reason, bag of random clothes, satchel of crap, $30, fresh pack of cigarettes, bottle of sleeping pills, zero clues, and a huge plan. Bad plan, but huge. It is a beautiful breezy night that humidity decided to spare. The city is quiet, the universe is listening. This is not comforting. Discomfort makes my mind race.
i hate…silence. i don’t want to hear repression. memories then have my undivided attention nothing to drown out the incessant firing of synapses playing target practice with my pain. bang.
I sit down on the bus stop bench and proceed to sob. My mind and its stupid misery marathons. Quite an entry back into the world after 2 weeks of not leaving the house, talking to barely a soul. I begin a quite familiar thought process on the bench on this warm summer night. My mind races:
What if I killed myself today, who would come to my funeral? What would they say? Does anyone even know my favorite color, favorite song? Will they know of the extent of my Badu standom? Will I have a Next LIfetime? Who will tell my internet friends? I guess people could read my blog. How can I update my blog if I’m dead. Should I update it now and let them know?
I sit on the bench a little longer in my drunken stupor and take a few pills.
My mind begins to race.
Boston marathon. Beantown. Mmmmm beans, I like black beans. Oooh, if you don’t like black beans are you racist? If you are racist does that mean you hate races. Does that mean I hate my mind. I am so confused….
Yes, imagine this line of thinking, except extended and more nonsensical, going on in a drunken state, in the middle of the night deep in a depression while contemplating ending it all. I take a few more pills. Maybe they are my magic beans, it would fit the theme.
I then feel invincible. I have magic beans for goodness sakes! I am taking them and not getting sleepy, in fact I feel like I am running a million miles an hour. The tears disappear and an awkwardly footed confidence takes over. I can take over the world!
more to come soon….