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Blitzed and lying on the floor just staring at the ceiling. Merrily I droll along, let my mind wander off to the past. San Diego socks sliding rubbing round the carpet, swimming thoughts and tactile bliss, back alone again on my skateboard, cool salty air thick in my way all along downhill by Balboa, the concrete path led only deeper back into the fray, and into the center of the city, I disappeared, sometimes.
I quit my job, like the one before that, and the one before that, and the one before that. I didn't want to deal with the awkward two week notice that leads inexorably to fake farewells, those 8 hours of full time bullshit made all the more unbearable.
Shirt and tie, trembling against the bathroom wall, digging through my pocket for my panic pills. This is something different, something I don't understand. I can't sleep, fearful streaming; Worried. I don't know what I think about it, and for all my medical research and news junkie ways, I don't want to read about it. Schizophrenia.
A manic depressive, in my case, a bipolar wrist cutter with brilliant euphoria beyond my control sometimes only hours later. What's got me keeping my cell phone in the closet, dormant even when it's turned on--seems nobody calls me--it's desperation that I'm drowning in psychosis; rage of pure paranoia. Fighter jets at three A.M., an increasing feeling that someone, for reasons that I wish I could undo, is waiting for the perfect crime; Car bombs don't make turning that key easier. Seeing things walking in the park that might not be there. A glance around in the coffeehouse, my world colliding with yours. Thought I heard somebody, but no one called my name.
On the road I catch myself gripping the wheel with such a grasp that my knuckles are white. If things are what they seem, a disturbing revelation that I want my life back, but I don't know what on earth to do.