Like anyone in the world, there are tasks at which I do NOT excel. At the top of the list? Dusting. I learned to dust as a kid with a surgeon's attention to detail, as my mother suffers from terrible allergies. Once I was old enough, I was taught to complete the tasks that would normally send Momma into an asthma attack. So, I can dust like a pro. I just hate it, and there's nothing that can be done about it. I have chosen to believe that dust can act as a protective layer in the home, and should be removed less frequently than originally assumed.
On another side of my brain, I am gearing up to dive into Dickens' "Pickwick Papers" once again. The last time I read it was in high school. This is a similar challenge for me right now. I NEED to read it in order to take part in discussions at my Dickens Fellowship Meetings (go Greater Boston chapter!), but I don't know if I can handle it. Dickens' use of language sometimes overwhelms me, and I hate that, but there's nothing that can be done about it.
Both of these tasks seem particularly difficult because I am flying frantically and awkwardly through a manic episode. I am able to speak in sentences (usually). I am able to complete tasks (most of the time).
What scares me is how debilitating mania can be in my brain. There are people out there who love it; they are efficient, creative, even euphoric! I am simply furious to an unseemly level, and my head feels 20x too small for my brain. I want to punch each and every person I see in the face. I snap and speak out when I would usually ignore the ridiculousness of others. Nobody's done anything to elicit this reaction (most of the time). My brain is simply out for blood.
I am categorizing mania as another "task at which I do not excel". Imagine you're sitting in a room with three people talking to each other, a radio playing music on a loop, two TVs powered up (each showing different programs), while reading a book and doing a crossword puzzle. All at the same time.
That's my brain on a normal day. Mania is when the volume and brightness on everything goes to 11, and I feel as though it taints everything I say and do.
These are the times when I ask why I've been abandoned by God, or at least why He decided that right NOW was a great time to sneak out back for a cigarette. They say everything happens for a reason. Or, at least they did, before I ripped their throats out with my fucking bare hands. What reason could there possibly be for creating this malfunctioning person, unless there isn't any God, and I'm just one of those items that's supposed to be on the clearance table at Ocean State Job Lot because it didn't come out right?
For the moment, I have no answers. All I have is frantic, ALLCAPITALLETTERSWITHNOSPACES thinking. And the knowledge that I have to keep dusting my house, and reading "Pickwick Papers", and having manic episodes......I hate it, but there's nothing to be done about it.
