Sleeping under plastic stars
Glued to the ceiling
More than this
By Yahoo Silverman
Dear mother, this is just survival.
December is bittersweet. The sweet can be attributed to the memories of adolescent Christmas’ past. Crusty nostrils. The not so cold Florida cold. The fight to fall asleep on the 24th and thrill of waking up on the 25th to gifts under a real tree wrapped in a way I could and would never subjugate. Every December I am a bystander to the battle between these cerebral souvenirs and the trepidation inducing possibilities that have accompanied every winter I’ve experienced since my 24th trip around the sun, no matter the weather.
Of living till I die.
Over the years I cannot claim to have gotten “better” at handling it. I’ve never established a go to bi-polar combatting modus operandi, and I certainly have never found a reliable chemically based method through any avenue, be it my doctors or far less professional resources. Like turning the dial an old gas stove, each winter the mania slowly grows and while I spend the rest of the year trying to determine what causes that hand to turn that dial up, each winter I just try and keep my hand, palms still scarred from the year before, away from the stove.
Never thought that I’d end up this way
Now, in my early thirties, I live far away from everything and everyone I once knew, although my final years there I successfully kept my distance. To be clear, I am much healthier today. However, while I can say I’m proud of some of the things I have created, self-declaring compliments towards the person I see in the mirror requires a rehearsed encomium or stolen mantra to be regurgitated containing far more eyerolls than eye contact.
To my friends and enemies who could have been anything.
The most poetic part about spending your twenties like you won’t see your thirties sets in at about thirty-one. Who can you repent to with your remorse for a decade of sabotage when you are the effector and affected?
Quetiapine, Depakote, Adderall, & Neurontin.
Quality time afforded by the season.
Unexcited = underControl ();
Unfortunately, one way I have found to deal with the winter mania is to contain my excitement. I don’t date anymore, especially in the winter. I nullify my “hopes” and expectations and pour my energy into writing cumbrous pieces that lack as much focus as structure. I built this entire website after reading a piece by Tim Rogers on Final Fantasy 6. His work made me realize that it is okay to write about games without compromising your style. Maybe a reader out there will relish in this edgy mess the way I did when reading that piece by Rogers. One can only “hope”.
If you follow the jaw line down over the heart.
I have no idea what this is. I just wanted to write something with no objective. No motive to make you laugh. No end goal of writing an informative piece about friggin video games. Just something to communicate my frustration. People have it worse. I’ve had it worse. Had. I’ve built just as much as I’ve lost. I cannot juxtapose the amount of pain I’ve caused against the amount of pain I’ve felt, but I can say it was never intentional but manic me is still me.
There's a height beyond skyscrapers, There's a distance beyond the freeway.
This may be forever, but forever does not have to be this. I do not know what this winter has in store for me, but I do know I have more than chemicals and mental souvenirs to get me to spring with hands unburned.
