My Parents Say That Even

I Was Perpetually Grief-stricken When I Finished A Book, And Would Slide Down From My Sitting Position On The Bed, Put My Cheek On The Pillow And Sigh For A Long Time. It Seemed There Would Never Be Another Book. It Was All Over, The Book Was Dead. It Lay In Its Bent Cover By My Hand. What Was The Use? Why Bother Dragging The Weight Of My Small Body Down To Dinner? Why Move? Why Breathe? The Book Had Left Me, And There Was No Reason To Go On.

There's Childhood And Early Onset Bipolar, But It Transitions In Your Early Adulthood Into Something A Little Bit Different, And Extremely Severe. It Was At That Time That My Impulse Control Just Went Out The Window. Impulse Control When You're Manic Just Disappears.

For A Long Time I Believed The Opposite Of Passion Was Death. I Was Wrong. Passion And Death Are Implicit, One In The Other. Past The Border Of A Fiery Life Lies The Netherworld. I Can Trace This Road, Which Took Me Through Places So Hot The Very Air Burned The Lungs. I Did Not Turn Back. I Pressed On, And Eventually Passed Over The Border, Beyond Which Lies A Place That Is Wordless And Cold, So Cold That It, Like Mercury, Burns A Freezing Blue Flame.

In Truth, You Like The Pain. You Like It Because You Believe You Deserve It.

We Turn Skeletons Into Goddesses And Look To Them As If They Might Teach Us How Not To Need.