I was going to write a blog about responsibility, but things changed... within minutes.
Since I've been requested to blog when I'm manic, not just when I'm depressed or pissed - I'm manic blogging. This isn't hypomania, this isn't a mixed episode. This is the real manic. YAY! I figured I'd blog while I wait very impatiently for Facebook's fail uploader to upload my damned pictures.
Warning: you may actually laugh this time. Nice change, huh? This is a raw, unedited, full force view of me manic.
*side note: feel sorry for the poor sap I was on the phone with discussing everything from prison and poetry to the Ottava Rima and the stupid theories for the story of Noah. You know, the theories that cannot pass the logic test of anyone with a brain that operates above that of a gnat. - Yeah I bet you're sorry I have your phone number now, aintcha? You're still my favorite person in this mortal world though. You're stuck with me. Haha. Careful though, I have a tendency to grow on people like a toenail fungus. <3 - but seriously to everyone else - pity the poor fool*
Imagine this guy on caffeine, meth, speed, and whatever other upper you can think of combined, and that's me, of course I am sure you can tell that by the "side note":
He's far more attractive than I am though.
This is what I look like in real life.
See why I can't look in a mirror, aside from the overweight stretchmarks on a, well I'm not even sure what damn fruit I'd be. Something like a coconut with tits maybe?
My brain is firing like crazy. Imagine the speed of this increased by like 5000:
I can feel my heart beating inside my chest. I guess that proves that I do still have one at least. My pulse has to be around 120. My breathing is incredibly rapid, probably somewhere near 24-30. Not that I could concentrate for more than 3 seconds to count anything.
Naturally this only further proves this Lamictal is not working. It fails. Miserably. But this high manic is a nice change from where I was... craving death, yearning to use the razor blade for something other than shaving my hairy, gorilla like armpits. You know, that place I wrote about earlier with a deep, inescapable pit full of venomous snakes, demons, goblins, ghouls and butterflies.
Don't mock. Butterflies are really the innocent looking spies of the demons. They fly around and look for people like me and report back to home base. Kind of like a ghoulish reconnaissance mission. Anyway, I digress.
My speech is fast. Seriously fast.... and it's still not anywhere near to keeping up with the trains of thought I'm experien--- oooooh shiney! Anyway. Mouth and pen not moving as fast as my brain. Keyboard not much better. Concentration is non-exis ooooooooooooh another shiney! Yeah. Like that.
You know that kid that sat next to you in 2nd grade that couldn't sit still and always acted like he had to pee because he didn't do anything but squirm and squirm and squirm some more? Imagine that amount of twitch, put it in a 230 lb body, and double. That's where I am.
Just in the few seconds in between trying to formulate some sort of coherent thought for you and actually typing it out, I cannot get my fingers and legs to stop.
Emotionally? Well shit man, I'm not even on this planet. I'm wearing my Batman costume in space, flying around, waving at everyone I like and hocking loogies at the ones I don't. This is the moment where nothing can bring me down. At all. You could tell me I'm the most worthless piece of shit on earth and I'd be all like, yeah, I can still kick your ass. Wanna go outside and talk a sec? In my head right now, I could totally destroy the biggest, meanest, most pissed off drunk in the bar.
In my manic world, there's everything to love about me and nothing to hate. Honestly, I'm fucking awesome. I think I'm the woman every man should desire, though I still realize I'm far from eye candy (eye candy is overrated and have no depth anyway), and more like the ugly chick you bang but you are too embarrassed to let your buddies know you're banging a 2 bagger coyote ugly chick.
This is MY world, you are just visiting it.
The creative juices flow heavily and I can be quite poetic and prolific at times like this. Obviously I have an awesome grasp on imagery and description naturally, it seems to come out more and be enhanced by mania.
Mania only helps creative writing though. Trying to do research papers through this shit is difficult because of the OSF (oooh shiney factor). That and I have the attention span of a slug unless I can do something like creative writing, painting or pyrography.
For some reason I can concentrate then, especially the pyrography. I can get so into it that I can work on a piece for 6 or 7 hours (I have the crappy soldering iron setup, not a real machine) and only smoke 2 or 3 cigarettes. Normally, even worse if I'm manic, I can do a pack a day, easy. - Nonsmokers die too, so there. Plus me smoking allows stupid people to survive longer.
Conversations can be incredibly fun when I'm manic, assuming my brain doesn't get so flooded with thoughts that I can't come up with common words, or knowledge that has been thoroughly shoved into my brain...
(Ferdinand I abdicated for a pony. Charles V said fuck this shit, I quit. You, my brother, can have the Holy Roman Empire. You, my dipshit son, well you can have the headache of Spain and the new world. Just don't piss the Protestants off. Enjoy. I'm going to relax so I can die in peace.) <--- shit like that.
Conversations with me when I'm manic are often lighthearted yet deep (because, well, I crave intellectual stimulation), and they go everywhere. I can talk about Hitler and Hirohito one moment, Boudicca the next, and UFO's the moment after that. Kind of interesting really.
Anyway, that's my manic episodes in a nutshell. My body is tired, but my brain won't shut up. Gonna try this sleep thing and probably fail. Doc appt tomorrow. Should be interesting going on another new med.