A Chapter by Amy D. Brooks

IT IS just blood, chemicals. If they pump my blood with enough chemicals, I become a different person. A capable, strong person. A happy person. But I have this blood, this bad, poisoned blood. I like to think it’s the blood of my father, he was obviously poisoned, too. It makes me feel like this thing, this poison, is something that we have between us, a sacred bond of father and daughter, the one thing he gave me that I still have left.

And when it’s good, it’s really good. I can stay up for three days without any sleep at all. It’s not that I will be tired, I just won’t need it. I’ll be more awake, more alert, and more focused than ever. I have so many ideas! I can stay up all night painting my room bright pink, head in to work for eight hours, then drive to Los Angeles to watch the sunset. I am a superwoman, I can do anything! I am beautiful, fantastically so! I am in great shape, I haven’t eaten in days and I’ve spent four hours at the gym and ran ten miles every day, never getting fatigued. Every man wants to have sex with me, and I let as many as I can. Sex feels good, so good! I can’t stop thinking about it. I need to buy new clothes and makeup and shoes and cars. I’ll figure rent out when it comes, right now I want this instead. I should always drive as fast as I can so I have time for all of these fantastic things.

Then it ends. It never lasts long. All of my money is gone, I’m so stressed about paying the bills. I am in a ditch and will never be able to dig myself out. I have no friends, nobody will talk to me. I’m such a loser, my job is stupid and they hate me there anyway. They hate me everywhere. I’m not attractive, men just f**k me because I’m here. I’m such a s**t. I’m so tired. I’ve slept all weekend and I’m still too tired to keep my eyes open at my desk. I can’t work out right now, I can’t even get out of bed. I’m so hungry, I can’t stop eating. I’m going to be alone forever, worthless and unloved like this. Drinking would solve things, maybe some pills. Can’t do that though, that was bad. I’ll kill myself instead. Yes, of course, this idea again, coming back like an ideological boomerang in my head, always reemerging with a somewhat varied or new pitch, seductive somehow like it isn’t the same thing I’ve been chickening out on since I was eight. This time I’ll do it. I’ll run the stove until the apartment is full of carbon monoxide. No, I will kill my roommate if I do that. I know, I’ll take all the right pills then go to bed, like falling asleep, and all of this will end finally. But my mother and my brother and my sisters and my friends (the ones I don’t have), I can’t do that to them. So I’ll live, I guess, for now, begrudgingly.

And then maybe it starts again or, more likely, more often, it just goes away for a while. I become normal, balanced. I forget I was ever that way. I talk myself out of it. It wasn’t that bad. I was going through a tough time and I was upset. It wasn’t that bad. I’m not bipolar. I was caught up in the moment. I just need to grow up a little bit, get a better handle on things and it will be fine. I’ll be fine. I am fine. Everything’s fine.


© 2016 Amy D. Brooks

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This an interesting start. The duel personality must wrestle with a drink in order to get by and be happy and outgoing. Sex is never a cure nor is suicide so the conflict of alcohol is showing its real face. Interesting.

Posted 2 Years Ago

Thanks for writing this! I especially liked the description of the mania, I felt like I was superman with you

Posted 2 Years Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

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2 Reviews
Added on May 3, 2016
Last Updated on May 4, 2016
Tags: amy d. brooks, addiction, bipolar disorder, manic-depression, amelia noel sobel, alcoholism, memoir


Amy D. Brooks
Amy D. Brooks

Portland, OR

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