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“I’m glad,” I replied, keeping my hands firmly shoved inside my coat pockets. “I enjoyed myself, too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” I frowned. “I did.”
“Do you think it’s a bad omen that our first outing landed on Friday the thirteenth?”
“Jesus,” I chuckled, shaking my head. “I hope not.”
“Yeah, me, too,” she replied with a blush. “We should do it again.”
“We should,” I agreed carefully.
“How’s next Friday for you?”
“I’m free on Fridays,” I replied slowly, still wary. “I work the rest of the weekend, though.”
“Cool.” She smiled. “Friday it is, then.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I’ll see you then.”
“Not if I see you first.”
I arched a brow.
She groaned into her glove-covered hand. “I really need to work on that.”
“Nah.” I laughed, crossing the footpath to head back to the northside. “You’re doing all right.”
THIS IS ME TRYING
Lizzie
MARCH 12, 2004
IF THE MANIC STAGE WAS EUPHORIA AND THE DEPRESSIVE STAGE WAS HELL, THEN THEeuthymic stage fell somewhere in between.
For a person like me, the third stage was the goal.
For a person like me, the third stage was the hardest.
While the second stage was crippling and the third was mundane, the first was world-shattering.
The sneaky part about being manic was the allure. In the throes of an episode, I felt invincible, like my brain had been switched to an exciting new frequency and I was suddenly seeing the world through a new lens.
An exciting lens.
An addictive lens.
A lens that spared me from feeling empathy and guilt and all the other crushing emotions that consumed me during the depressive state.
It was an altered state of mind that distorted my view of the world and snipped the wire inside my brain that linked my conscience to the consequences of my actions.
The clearer my mind became, the worse my guilt grew. Because with clarity came consequences and I was drowning in mine. Months of fluctuating moods had resulted in my world imploding around me, and the medicine flushing through my veins provided me with a glaring itinerary of proof.
I couldn’t run from it.
I couldn’t hide.
