tides

My therapist once suggested that I might have Bipolar II and why yes, I did find this theory quite sexy.

Bipolar is the creative kind of crazy. You're fucking intense, channeling some insane energy from beyond this world, your mortal life overflowing, bursting

OR (and also subsequently)

you are dead. worthless. not even worth berating, you miserable piece of shit. Also moving hurts, and being hurts, and it seems impossible that you should keep doing so, but there isn't the energy to do anything about that either. The mom in Shameless has bipolar and the music that accompanies her depressive episodes is so fucking haunting. Watery, empty, barely there. The sound of sonar pulses echoing into a Hadean sea and finding nothing.

I know we're not supposed to say things like Bipolar is the creative kind of crazy because that romanticizes mental illness and that. Is bad. And yet, there they are. The words, flickering away in my brain, super not giving a shit about any of that. We don't ask for our thoughts, nor their antecedent, that endless frothing mastication of images and episodic fragments spooling out endlessly in the space behind our eyeballs. And yet, there they are. You can hush them and Be Larger than them and you can meditate and visit Yoga To The People and they'll read that Pema Chödrön quote that is by this point so irritating and yet still, perfect. And you will be like Yes. I am the sky. I am empty. And then comes the rain.

We don't ask for our tides, but they move us regardless. Drown. Rise. Drown. Rise. etc.