I'm not manic

I'm not manic- at least not manic in the way that people who are manic get a lot done. Quickly. I don't know much about mania but I know that I am not that. I don’t get a lot done. Quickly. Or ever really. Perhaps I am manic in some sort of way. I know I am manic in some sort of way. In the way that sometimes I want to rip my eyeballs out from the boredom. The angry gripping energy that boils up inside that makes me want to do something, do anything, do everything. The energy is always internal though- it doesn’t seep out into the actuality of accomplishing anything. It manifests itself in days of unstoppable fidgeting, fighting, planning the perfect thing to do , the perfect place to go, the perfect plan to get it out. But nothing's ever perfect enough so I don’t do anything. I normally just end up so disparate at the lack of choices that I give up on planning, on running, on fighting it at all and just crumple into myself. I cannot count the amount of times I got in my car as a teenager planning to go on some elaborate trip only to end up in a parking lot 10 or 20 or 5 miles from my house crying and pleading for it to stop. Calling my mom and telling her I was going somewhere for a couple weeks. No I don’t know where. I don’t know how long. I have no idea what answers I gave to certainly asked questions like where I would sleep or how I would pay for things. I'm sure I had some sort of plan. A brilliant plan I'm sure that included something about experiencing life and sie la vie and all that shit. And then I'm driving and I realize I'm just running and I realize it isn’t going to work- I cant outrun this. And then I'm pulling over because I cant see through the tears enough to drive and I learned my lesson about trying to drive while crying month ago with that tree. And I'm throwing a glass bottle on the ground outside the car in some parking lot somewhere in jersey and cutting my ankle with the glass. I'm letting the blood and the pain and the endorphins carry the energy away. at least a little. I’m on a train platform staring at a route map trying to decide if the pain will more likely go away in south amboy or Trenton. Or maybe I could go north somewhere. Maybe the energy -the pure energy of the pain will dissipate somewhere in ny. I’m on one side of the train tracks at a station I must have walked the 3 miles to and then I'm on the other because I decided west is probably better. and then I'm crying and somehow my dad is there and he drives me home promising he will drive me to upstate new york to see one of my best friends if I just come home. I never ran away from them I was running away from me. I cannot imagine how painful it must be for a parent to know that. And to know that that is not possible- to wonder and worry about the dangers about how far your child might possibly run. To try and save someone from themselves. Perhaps there is some phycological disease that explains everything I do perfectly. Perhaps. But I don’t know it. Perhaps if I started to go to drs again they would tell me something new- give me some new diagnosis some newly discovered or widely known phycosis with a name that explained it all. Oh I have…..now I understand! Perhaps then I would get it, everything, my life and my actions and why things spin around me so much. Perhaps It would make the spinning stop. I doubt it. I also don’t have insurance so I ignore the possibility. Some days I am good to myself. Some days I sooth myself with imaginary hands- pet my head ‘you’re doing the best you can’ rub the small of my back ‘you can only give what you have to give’ pat my shoulder with a reassuring ‘”these are the cards your were dealt”. Other days it’s bare knuckled punishing blows . ‘you just aren’t trying hard enough’ a right hook to cheekbone ‘your life isn’t harder than anyone elses’ a punch to the head ‘you don’t deserve to feel bad for yourself’ a hard jab in the stomach. I know I am falling because of the anxiety and nuatia and way my lungs gets heavy and leaden when a character in a movie is about to do something obviously leading to embarrassment. The way I have to turn away and just wish, wish their impending humility would pass already just go away so I can return to my romantic comedy so that both of our lives can be ok again. I know I am falling because of the bitchyness because of impatience that is well more severe than my normal high strungedness. I know I am falling because I hardly ever want my boyfriend to touch me. Because sexuality all but turns itself off. Because I fully understand that it is not him, not him. Because I wouldn’t want anybody to touch me. And because it doesn’t matter. Not to me. Not for me. It matters because he deserves better but that’s a different story all together. I know I have not fallen fully because I don’t sit in corners, on floors, huddling my knees and crying and rocking for hours. Not a lot. Not lately at least. I don’t know if that is partially or fully because I live with him. Because we both work from home. Because he is here- always here- in a way that I am both greatly thankful and awefully embittered by. I do know that the one time in the past few weeks that I did find myself huddled in a crying ball was also the one time In the past few weeks I actually came home to an empty house. I do know that what should have been a 5 min shower just to get out the door turned into 20 mins of me telling myself I had to stop crying, had to get off bathtub floor, had to pull myself together. Me picking myself up a little bit, crying at the effort, at the fact that it was an effort and shriveling back into my knees. Crouching, crying, letting the cooling shower mix with the tears. I do not know if it happened because he wasn’t there- or was allowed to happen because he wasn’t there at least. I do know that I trust him. Fully. With the actuality of who I am. Or least I trust as much as any girl who has truthfully had every single long term relationship, with every single boy she has ever loved, end with them honestly painfully shaking their heads with despair and pity. Crazy. I have been called crazy by just about every boy I have ever dated. Every boy who has known me long enough to get past the appeal and intrigue of what seems like harmless wackiness, cuteness, adorable creativity to the grittyness of these diseases. To the girl huddled in a ball crying with what seems like unstoppable force. I trust him. As much any crazy person can trust any sane person to willfully participate in this world that is our own hell. You see we understand—we would run from it if we could. Most of us do. I spend most of my life running, running in circles around myself, from myself. So how much can you possibly trust someone else to willfully follow you down the rabbit hole? Down the spiral staircase to the depth of a mind that fights and forces and pushes against normalcy.