Northport, Alabama

My world is constantly in a state of flux. No amount of drugs changes that. I sometimes think I’ll be up, down, and scattered for the rest of my life. I can only flee my head for so long — eventually, the hangover abates, the drugs relinquish their synaptic stays, and I look around to find the same flooding landscape I left behind.

Bipolar, the psychiatrist says, and I mutely nod my head. Tell me something I don’t know. Manic. Depressive. Black. White. Never gray. I don’t want to be gray. What artist would choose that?

Every night, I spread a multi-colored pharmaceutical buffet across my desk, wordless incantations running counterpoint to ever-present negative chatter. It’s a game of roulette. Maybe this one will work. Or maybe it’ll just make everything I eat taste somewhere firmly between cardboard and roadkill. Maybe that one will work. Or maybe it’ll mix with this one and when I throw in a little tequila I’ll spontaneously combust, curled on the bathroom floor of a no-name bar while all my highs and lows crash together.

Hands shoved deep in my pockets, I scuff through the leaves in my yard, thinking how similar I am to their mottled hues. I show up dewy wet, glistening with promise, fragile and hopeful, oddly resilient — more so than I’m given credit for being. Flashing red and orange, brilliant fire that won’t stay. Can’t. I know this. I’ve seen it so many times, I don’t even question it anymore. Yeah, today I want to write and shoot and conquer the world. Tomorrow may not be the same. Tomorrow I might shrivel to a brown husk, crumble in your hands and fall apart.

So I junk out on most anything that will simulate the high. Dopamine, nicotine, caffeine, adrenaline. Anything that keeps me hurtling headlong through the world. When I’m upset, the only thing that really soothes me is to wrap me in a blanket, shove me in the passenger seat, crank the stereo to some growling rock, and drive as fast and as far as you can. At some point, I’ll probably cry. Then I’ll start laughing. And then I’ll be okay — until tomorrow.

Music: Fake It by Seether (lyrics)

Posted on October 27, 2007 by Carmen K. Sisson tagged Alabama, autumn, leaves, Northport, orange, writing