It's all crashing down.
I left school tonight and felt this fury boiling up inside of me. On the 90 I pressed the accelerator down as hard as I could, I swung the car around the curves, the slower cars, flying up Washington Blvd, swinging into the garage.
I didn't want to come home. I wanted to keep driving. Anywhere. Up the coast, harder, harder, harder, I wanted to press the accelerator as hard as I could, could imagine the dark winding curves of the PCH, mountains crashing upward out of the earth on one side of me, the roiling, churning sea on the other, moonlight glinting like daggers in the cresting waves.
Instead I walked up the stairs to my apartment, picked up a package from Amazon on the deck, turned the key, calmly opened the door, greeted the cats, propped my yoga bag up against the door, put my purse on a stool under the kitchen counter, opened a piece of mail, read a note from J. Ryan saying he'd been here, he'd fed the cats, he missed them, me.
I walked into the kitchen, clicking on the light as I entered, realizing I didn't know what I wanted. I looked in the kitchen sink. I looked in the cabinet. I could feel the fury simmering, growing. I looked at an open bottle of wine. I imagine removing the cork and just pouring the bottle down my throat, could picture the crimson stains pretty and fading against my skin, drinking, drinking, filling, imagined biting down on the glass, imagined consuming the whole bottle, literally, eating, crunching the glass. I leaned against the counter, both hands down, cool against the tile. I was screaming inside. I wanted to drink, to scream, to fuck someone.
The DSM appeared in my head, the pages whizzing past, stopping briefly at Bipolar, Manic Episode, Borderline Personality Disorder, Dependent Personality Disorder, CRAZY, fucking crazy, I'm going fucking crazy, I'm having a manic episode. I can't do this. I can't make it through this. Breathe, breathe, breathe, yes you can, you can do this.
And then I was in the bathroom, the shower running, hot, hotter, peeling off my clothes, standing in the steaming, scalding water. I'm having a fucking manic episode. I'm fucked. I'm fucked. I'm fucked. Am I really having a manic episode? I don't even have the DSM here. It's at the office. I can't even check the criteria. Disturbed sleep patterns. Check. Real or imagined promiscuity. Check. Bingeing on alcohol or food or drugs. Check. Am I making this shit up? I can't even remember. Do I really meet the criteria? I'm borderline. That's what I am. And I'm fucked and I'm fucked and I'm fucked and I'm fucked.
And I turned the shower head off and the tub faucet on and I let the water fill up and I crawled beneath it, twisting and turning as though the water were a blanket and I was trying to cover myself, pushing hard against the walls of the tub, my arms taut and straight, and I was crying, except I wasn't because there were no tears, only breathlessness and an inward wailing scream.
And then I pressed myself hard against the base of the bathtub, pulled my arms around myself. I can do this. I can do this. It doesn't matter if I'm fucked. I'm fucked. I'm fucked. I'm fucked. I'm having a fucking manic episode. It doesn't matter. I'm okay. I can do this. I'm fucked. I can do this. I'm fucked. Breathe. I can do this. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
And then I was standing, and dripping, and lightheaded, and I pulled the towel soft and tight around my steaming body. And now I am here, my hair wet, my eyes tired, a glass of wine at hand, and I am writing it all out. Just like I always have.
And I'm fucked.