Ah, those swings. I thought I had you steadied for a while. But you always come back, don’t you? Just about the time where everyone feels safe. Hannah’s been normal-ish lately. A bit of a diarrhea mouth, but that’s her. Then, bam! Something’s off about Hannah again…
Last time I posted about the static of depression, the buzz, the way it clings to even bright sunny days and joyous occasions. It didn’t stay long. I pushed back: walked and ran when I felt like sleeping, cleaned the house even though it made me cry. But maybe I pushed too hard?
Now I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to, and I very much do. But I’ll just edit that story, submit to that press, take a long bath, count to 100, toss and turn, give up and stay awake on the couch, away from you. I don’t want to disturb you. But I know that I do. I often disturb you, and you worry about my being disturbing.
Depression is so quiet, so mumble and nod. Not this hypomania. Did you know that “hypomania” is defined as a “less severe” form of mania. Fuck you! If this isn’t severe, I don’t know what is. It’s pretty insensitive to underplay my mania, you asshole internet dictionary! Oh my…maybe that was an over-reaction. I can’t seem to help but over-react. And talk…
When I talk, I repeat myself so much and it all comes out so fast that I can’t think before it is gone, and I say the wrong thing, but maybe you didn’t catch it because you’re so dizzy in my words that keep coming and won’t let you be, and that’s not me; I’m a good listener, I swear, and if I could just shut up for a moment you could see that I also care about you.
Did you catch that? Because I’ve forgotten what I was saying. I’ll just repeat myself again, after I clean the house, mow the lawn, write four chapters, cook a huge meal, play with the kids, go on a jog…what was I doing now? I don’t know, but even after a ten-mile day I can’t seem to slow down.
And I’m so angry. A woman said something stupid to my child. Told my child, with her twenty-five cent sticky hand toy, if it slapped her she’d slap my little girl. In my mind, I saw myself grab her ignorant face and bash her head against the wall until it bled, satisfying crimson. Have you ever had a thought that contained that much rage? If not, you can’t understand how consuming and frightening it is.
I didn’t do that thing, but the words I said, the look in my eyes, frightened the woman, who took a step back and, with an apology, fled. I wasn’t sorry. I was just mad. Until my I saw my child react. She was scared, too. But not of the lady’s threat. Of me. She’s scared of me, and I’m scared of me and I’m so fucking angry.
And horny as hell. Did you realize that was the sick frosting on this jacked up cake? It is. A ball of horny energy mixed with rage. I am aware. Thank God for that. I know why I feel the way I do and I can usually just run until horny can’t catch me cuz my body doesn’t work. But I didn’t always know where this urge came from, why it was impossible to fill, and I was ashamed. I AM ashamed, even though I can’t help it. I simply work around it. Pray it will go away, stop plaguing my every day.
I know I will dip back down. I will no longer be able to write all night and run all day, and I’ll feel so lazy and blissfully normal. And my words will stop running down my chin, so much drool. I will be able to put words together with thoughtful pause, and they won’t be full of anger or innuendo.
Maybe I control it enough that it’s just amusing to you.
But me? I’m paranoid. That everyone can see the crazy leaking out of my potty mouth. That they are all silently judging me, my parenting, my teaching, my insane. And maybe they are. And maybe who cares?
I do. I am sorry for releasing so much anger when my children might have been able to see me react intelligently, with composure. Do they even know what that looks like in a mother? I’m sorry for not thinking and just speaking and not being able to stop and play that game of Monopoly because if I stop moving I’ll be angry.
But know, my babies, that I don’t think it’s okay to always jump to anger, to scare and bully people who say ignorant things. Ignorance meeting ignorance doesn’t breed anything good. Maybe I should just try again. Tomorrow. I can try again. Perhaps that’s a lesson I’m teaching them.
Don’t give up. You always have another day to try to do better than the day before. At the end of your years, you can be proud that you can say, “I was not perfect, but I always tried to be better than my worst days.”
I do always try to do better than my worst days, my loves. And that is not enough. Not even close to being enough.
About H.M. Jones
H.M. Jones is a spinner of verse and a flinger of flagrant lies. You’ll never know her fact from fiction, and that’s part of the fun. She’s written books and short stories and poetry aplenty, won awards and lost awards. You can find her at www.hmjones.net, on twitter @HMJonesWrites, and on facebook.