Page 114 of Down Beat

“No. It’s fine.” Her lips wrap around the straw of her frap, and fuck me if that doesn’t have me thinking about blowjobs. She swallows and takes another stab. “It’s not as though I believed you’d actually get me onstage again, anyway. I mean, how naïve would that be, right?” Her eyes are hard as she veers a little to stay out of arm’s reach.

Fuck this shit. Fuck me and my goddamn mouth. Fuck having to do this, to function in society when all I want is a dark room and a pack of smokes.

Rapid cycling bipolar. I cracked a joke to the shrink when they diagnosed it, asking him if it meant I had to learn how to ride a bike. Dude didn’t seem to see the funny side of things, explaining what the term meant to me anyway.

All it basically means is that unlike other forms of bipolar where the mania phase lasts weeks to months, and the resulting depression does the same, lucky me gets the entire cycle condensed down into a much shorter time frame.

The longest I’ve gone between peaks is four months. My average is exactly this: three to four weeks.

I’m pushing through the low like I’m in the midst of a fucking mud run, my limbs tired, my lungs burning as I put everything I have into reaching that finish line. Mania exists on my horizon, taunting me with its brilliance, with its warmth. All I have to do is survive the pot-shots my head takes at me while I wrestle those final yards and then all will be fine again, for a week at least.

I just need to push Tabby over that line first, otherwise Lord knows she’ll get destroyed in my wake.

We met as I started the slide. She doesn’t know me during full-blown mania, and I don’t know if she’d want to.

I’m a right fucking asshole.

God complex times ten.

She punches the button on the walk signal, sipping her drink beside me while we stand in mutual silence. What runs through her head? Is it as messed up as mine? Or is she back thinking about childhood pets and other fun memories again?

It’s fucked, really. I strived so hard to get where I am, worked my ass off to never want for a thing again, and all I did was realize that everything I did, it was all for nothing.

All the money and fame in the world can’t buy me the one thing I want most: to know what it feels like to be “normal.”

I reach between us and slide my hand along hers, entwining our fingers. Tabby glances down at the contact as the walk signal tells us to move, and offers a soft smile. It’s the best I can do when words don’t seem to suffice. Physical contact. An apology through touch.

The best and most reserved part of me: my intimacy.

It’s all I can give her, and fuck, I hope it’s enough.