Image from Philadelphia’s China Town, taken last Saturday during my manic episode.

After a couple of nights away in an uncomfortable hospital bed, I returned to my dorm Wednesday. Tomorrow I go home to be with my family for a night.

Prior to my hospitalization, my mind had been running a marathon – an entire weekend of aggressive obsessions, frustration, and self harm. I wasn’t sleeping enough, wasn’t eating enough. I took unnecessary risks and tried to give all my money away.
Finally, my energy dwindled enough for me to fall apart. After the Breaking Bad finale, I crouched on the carpet and cried. I cried because I knew that if these thoughts didn’t stop, I was going to die. My body couldn’t outrun my mind.
Chris stayed with me through the night. He stayed with me on the way to the counseling center in the morning, and he stayed with me in the police car on the way to the hospital. He held my hand and hugged me close while I panicked in the emergency room. Finally, he had to leave me. I walked to the Psych Ward with the company of an anonymous nurse.
The morning after I was admitted, I could already feel different. Even though my meds were changed, not enough time had passed for the changes to be effective. I developed an appetite, I slept deeply, I felt stable. My thoughts no longer spun, and my manic episode was ending.
I was released to my mother on Wednesday afternoon. I don’t know how to keep my mind at a jogger’s pace, how to maintain equilibrium and avoid episodes. The fact that I can do my best and still end up in in the Emergency Room terrifies me.

I want to be happy. I want to wake up and feel in control. I want to be normal. I want to share all I have to offer the world sans bipolar addendum. I want to be a positive force. I want to be grounded.

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