Hello Again My Old Friend
It was a moonless night, and I was plowing down the U.S. 90 at 80 miles an hour in my Pontiac Grand-AM. Not necessarily speeding in Texas standards, but dangerous enough where if a deer or coyote were to jump out into the middle of the road, we’d all be finished. Just another statistic. A hashtag. A mangled-up ball of machine, flesh, and pelt.
I could only make out what several yards of light the high beams could illuminate. It was like driving into a black hole. The void was calling to me and pulling me in, sucking all the light out of existence, and I was having the time of my life. I had decided hours earlier that I would quit my shitty retail job and start a new life in Del Rio to win over the girl of my dreams. The only thing is that she had no idea I was coming.
Yeah, I had it all planned out perfectly in my head. I would find a job at a local business; I don’t know, let’s say, perhaps a local coffee shop. I would earn extra income selling my art and performing street magic for the local town folk. Yes, taking this leap to live in Del Rio had to work. I mean, this is a huge romantic gesture that only exists in indie movies like Garden State or something. I’m the story’s main character, so I must win, right?
I’d smoked a pack of Camel Silvers and downed several energy drinks. I needed the euphoria to last and keep the party going. Anything sort of energy supplement or drink was more economical than cocaine and readily accessible. Also, I must remain lucid. An out-of-control, control freak with nicotine, B12 vitamins, and high cholesterol running through the engine. Fuck it, I thought, tonight was an adventure, and anything was possible.
I’d navigated the dark side of the moon and finally made it to Del Rio. I pulled up in front of the house of my best friend’s parents, walked to the door with ambition in my heart, and… 3 months later, I’d come to the realization that I’d made a horrendous mistake. The manic buzz had dissipated, and I would come to find myself in a strange town, jobless, in debt, and pathetic.
I lived rent-free at my best friend’s parent’s house like a rodent. I more than worn out my welcome, crashed more family dinners, and self-invited myself to many family outings than anyone could comfortably bear. My goal of confessing my love to my best friend and living happily ever after went straight to garbage. One can only handle so much cringe and uncomfortableness before changing the channel.
Then the crippling depression would possess me like a dirty-ass evil spirit. I’d watch my best friend move on with her life leaving me a heartbroken buffoon. Doomed to wander alone in the room in my mind with only one window, and outside that window is her and her new boyfriend talking about marriage. Finally, I had no choice but to head back home and face all the people who were thinking what I was cursing to myself on the drive back, “What the fuck was I thinking?”
Over 12 years later, I’d look back on this memory and many others as I would receive my diagnosis for Bipolar II Disorder. Was it the mania? Was that me? Blaming any sort of mental illness for my behavior feels like a cop-out. It’s not like I could go back and tell everyone. Hey, remember that one time? I was just having an episode; now I’m off the hook, right? No, the deed is done, and everyone had moved on years ago, leaving me here in the past. It’s about time I leave that town of 2009 behind, too.
It’s January 2022, and I’ve been seeing a therapist regularly for about half a year at the age of 34. It was my first time seeking mental help, and I felt like it was too late in the game to repair anything. I was wrong, of course, and little by little I’m becoming more comfortable letting people know about my mental health. Stigma is a bitch. Telling people about the bipolar diagnosis is usually met with, “You always seemed fine to me.” But there was a secret battle with myself. A battle that likely started in 8th-grade summer school. Shoot, maybe even earlier than that. What’s important now is that I’m getting help and that it’s not too late for anyone to get help. It’s hard work, but it’s not late.
I had taken a break from writing for the past eight months due to depression. There were the random spurts of mania, but nothing too out of hand. Maybe the sudden motivation to become a chess grandmaster was a little nuts, but I didn’t go into debt because of it, so that’s a plus. Nevertheless, going to therapy has helped me reckon with myself and get back to what I love doing. Write, tell stories, share my ideas, and connect.
