#22: Mania

I can’t remember a time where I ever lived inside the box.

And it’s funny to me because I would argue that I’ve surrounded myself with very well-rounded, centered, down to earth people. But I often feel like the outlier in every single group of friends. Maybe that’s true, maybe that’s just my paranoia again. Well, maybe not an outcast but I know that my thoughts are free and my world is in shades of grey. That grey makes me want to know everything, that grey makes me so explorative of the world and our minds.

I’m like this with everything. When I started high school the idea and constraint of having to be at this place for the next four years was really weird to me and by the end of that first year I was dying to get out and switch schools. The same thing happened to me in college; I transferred out, only to transfer back a year later. I do it with boyfriends and guys I date too. I cannot commit for the life of me, and when I do it freaks me the hell out after a little while. They all intrigue me. They’re cute, they’re funny and then – its over. I’m bored, I’m done, I won’t even give it the time of day. It’s the difficult ones I love. Those are the ones who keep it interesting, those are the ones that I’ve never had a problem investing myself into.

I never like whats in front of me, I always think there’s more. With schools, with careers, with guys, everything. At least that’s part of what I’ve been trying to work on with myself for a while now – being appreciative of what I have, understanding what is there is meant to be, and ultimately, being content with what is.

So it’s really no surprise that I went to college for an English degree with an Advertising and Journalism minor. I wanted the ability to go creative and business-like, but I wanted the skill set of a writer. I wanted choices when I graduated.

Anyway, I dream of my dreams. And I feel like more people do this than not. But my dreams are so abstract and at times feel so out of reach that I know they’re perfect for me. I’m wildly determined, and I make sure everyone around me knows it. I become so obsessed and fixated on making things happen, they will never not happen. I will not stop until they absolutely do.

I want to be a therapist, right? But I don’t really just want that. I want that to be my base but I want to be a writer still. And a speaker, and a blogger, and a group leader, and I want to advocate for policies in change. I pretty much have the dreams of being Oprah. Don’t laugh, it’s true.

I mean I guess I am a writer, right? I want to write a book soon. I’ve promised myself I would, I promised a lot of other people too. And I guess that’s the fuel that keeps me going – my promises. So yeah, I want to write a book, I want to have a podcast, I want to be known.

In college my professor asked me what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be – I told him I want to be known. He laughed and told me the chances of that happening weren’t likely, I told him he didn’t know me. The truth is, I don’t think many people do. At all.

I’m going to die one day and that really doesn’t bother me at all.

Dying doesn’t scare me. If I died tomorrow it would be sad for my soul because I feel like I could offer this world a lot and I feel like there’s so much more I’m meant to do for the sake of mankind. But if I’m 100 years old one day and I just die, that would be a lot better because that means I have 76 more years to do everything I want to do.

This probably sounds weird, but it’s not supposed to. What I’m trying to say is I have dreams, and I don’t get scared of not making it or not reaching them, but I get scared of not being who I’m meant to be. I get scared of wasting a talent. I get scared of not making my dreams happen. Because if I don’t do it, someone else will.

Lately I feel like I’m at the beginning. Like I’m going to look back on the year of 2016-2017 and be so unbelievable amused that my deep, dark, depression ever kept me up at night. Or at least I hope that happens. I feel my body radiating this energy thats about to attract everything I want, everything I ever wanted. But then I remember, this can also just be another manic episode.

So let me explain what that means. It means I’m high right now on my body’s chemical imbalance. It means I’m in euphoria. I’m hyper, I’m happy, I’m talkative, I’m excited, I can’t keep my thoughts in order because there’s just so many and when it’s over, I’m going to crash. You’ll know when that happens because my writing will die out a bit, you won’t see me out, you’ll barely realize I exist because I will be comfortable nestled in my bed with my phone on airplane. I’ll probably lose 15 lbs again or whatever. It happens. No matter the medication, no matter the help – it happens. But I can recognize this now.

They speculate that Vincent Van Gogh was bipolar. I totally felt that when I was in his museum this summer. I was in Amsterdam right, and I was so high off this weed called “the northern lights” I think I saw my life more clear than I ever saw it before. He did all these paintings of himself and I felt like the way he would paint and paint and paint in search for himself – is the same way I write for myself. To get to know myself, the never ending search to who I am. Maybe it’s even a little narcissistic.


I get lost and I write because I’m actually a little obsessed with it. It’s this weird itch. I’ll be in the car and I’ll actually hear a word or a topic on the radio, or a line in a song and it sparks a whole sequence of thoughts. I want to write them down but usually they just become notes in my phone that never end up making it past two sentences. I’m working on that too.

Pretty much, I’m on overdrive. I’m really goal-oriented right now, I’m super concentrated. Honestly it feels like I’m on adderall. I’d say the equivalent to 30 mgs in the library on a Sunday during finals week, everyday. So yeah I’m talking a mile a minute and I’m not going to be able to keep up with myself in a little. THEN, I’ll crash.

But until then, I feel like I should talk about the mania. Maybe get to know it more, maybe get to understand it. And maybe my mania is why I can’t live inside the box. Maybe my mania is why I know no boundaries, maybe my mania is exactly how I’ll be known.



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