Friday, January 21, 2011

Life full of mania with a dash of humor and a slice of normality (those are the secret ingredients) Vol 3 Issue 2

I’d try to run my hands under the water but they burned so immensely I had to pull them back. The backside of my hands felt raw, dry, cracked, and sensitive to the touch. At night I would have to sleep with my hands above my head because the slightest brush against the pillow or blanket would jolt me awake from the pain. At the time I believed the red blotches on my hands were marks of stigmata, a sign that I was chosen (I’m not sure if all this was in my head or what, que-evs).

This is one of the few good memories I have from my last few months in Denver (doesn’t really sound that good outloud). Poncho and Tater (I wish I was making those nicknames up) had come out to visit in early 2008 and we spent the weekend in the mountains (snowmobiling, jager bombs, and boots with da fur). Other than being manic everything in my life was going pretty well (aside from the love life, but when has that been good) and I was happy with taking essentially a promotion, moving to California (definitely living in a bungalow by the beach), looking at Master programs, and after nearly 3 years I was finally feeling comfortable at the tizzle. The trip into the mountains was a celebration of sorts filled with booze, sarcasm, and 3 white country boys from Ohio giving that big booty a smack!

The next few months kind of went in the opposite direction with the whole manic episode ordeal. Since that mountain “adventure” I’m not sure I can say I’ve been truly happy (and yes I tried Happy Meals but they didn’t help, Stubby still makes me share straws when we order) and when I landed in Denver a few weeks back a little part of me hoped that I’d find happiness while I was there. I was hoping I would see the snow capped mountains glistening in the sun and I’d know that I was suppose to be there. In my mind maybe I dreamed that I’d land and drive to Denver and know this was the place I was meant to start over. What better place to rebuild my life than the very place I lost everything?

It wasn’t like that at all, on my flight in and viewing the mountains all I could think about was that one year ago to the day I was being admitted to the psych ward (Southside!) in the Nasty. When I drove the streets of Denver I didn’t feel connected or a sense of new beginnings. I remembered walking/jogging/skipping/climbing trees/running about in the city. That I couldn’t stay in the light for more than a few seconds without my shoes melting/sticking to the pavement. I was part demonic, a hybrid crusader, with uncanny heightened senses but yet fearful of the sun like a nocturnal beast.

The memories of Washington Park with the Witt kids (plus Tronby, he’s basically alumni), shows, late nights, mini bowling, Tuesday night bowling, dance-offs downtown, drinking spit at a Rockies game, watching Tronby get blasted by a homerun at the Rockies game on TV, cookouts, kegs in the apartment pool, parties on the roof, deep frying, dueling pianos, and the list could go on and on never really came flying back like I hoped.

The only moment that I felt nothing, the time when all my worries disappeared, when I was truly at peace happened when I was driving to the tizzle to meet some old friends for lunch. I had stopped at my old apartment to view the garage I tried to drive the big body beamer off (still standing after that impact, impressive). I remembered the back way to the office with no troubles and about half way there I got caught up in the drive. I stopped worrying about my mania and started living. My mind cleared and I was finally at peace after 3 years of hell. This feeling only lasted a few seconds, a moment, but I had forgot how nice it felt to be free.

Since many of my manic experiences involve music I’ve decided to add random music videos to the blog for my enjoyment and your inconvenience. Enjoy!

Coming Correct,

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