“ After a week or so of my lying in bed, the cobwebs in my brain start to clear and I venture back into the wreckage of my office, a whirlwind of paper and books. For the seventh time in two years, I put things in their places, stack the papers, re-shelve the books. I look at my desk calendar, still open to the date I went in. The pages are almost unreadable, crammed with black scribbles, the notes I’d taken on the cesspool of my mind, the dozens of appointments I’d made in my frenzy to cram my days full of the endless things I wanted to do, believed I could do — get PhD, write new book, go to London, start advocacy group. It’s not that I couldn’t do these things — people with bipolar disorder do things like this all the time. But each item on my list was cooked up in a fit of mania, when anything is possible. In any case, I don’t even necessarily want to do these things, now that I’ve come down. I turn the page to the correct date, smooth my hand over it, and think for a minute.
Jeff comes in.
“Whatcha doing?” he asks.
I look up at him. “Starting over,” I say.
“All right,” he replies, and jogs back downstairs. Madness: A Bipolar Life by Marya Hornbacher
Jeff comes in.
“Whatcha doing?” he asks.
I look up at him. “Starting over,” I say.
“All right,” he replies, and jogs back downstairs. Madness: A Bipolar Life by Marya Hornbacher
