Okay, so I spent 16-years stuck in a depression that I believed to be the result of loosing my wife and my child. At some point, though, it became about not-them but rather about the bizarre concept that I am not personally culpable of encompassing the entire evil — and history of evil — of my species.

I loved that girl. I adored that child of mine. But they had grown up whilst I vowed to stay a child. Not out of any sense of purity but the opposite, filthiness as protest. Not all was filth, of course; some was just a little “revolution for the hell of it.” The Generation Gap.

Don’t trust anyone over 30.

Hey, hey, LBJ!

The past two years have been okay. I credit myself, my therapist, my shrink, my medications. Better than okay — riding a manic high into an almost tolerable existence. A stasis. Better than nothing. No, I don’t spend much time outside of my bedroom. Not since 2014.

I read, write, listen to a lot of music, watch movies and cable-series programming. And I watch the news (always on for background fodder). This is my world, this buzzed mania. I helped to shape my world and other’s (usually detrimentally).

As my physical health declines I find that I am becoming more and more unable to fully care for myself. And my mania is a monster of Frankenstein’s making and it is always there, a certain path walked a certain way.

It is more likely than not that I will die of ‘natural causes.’ I have long passed my expiry date and I’ve plotted my cremation as an indigent where afterward my ashes will be shipped to a random distant relative.

Back to the title of this ramble:

If I’m able to feel better in manic mode, is it okay for me to choose mania instead of trying for stability? I may be destroyed by mania and that’s scary. I don’t want to leave my world, though. It’s the bed that I made.

It’s the bed that I made.