I've been good, I've kept my head down, my eyes low. I've stuck around. I've only been way out of town for 29 days so far this year, and there have been more than 100 days.
On the bright side, some wishes are coming true: I was 5, and I wanted to be a garbage man when I grew up.
This is pretty much the same deal.
I hardly recognize myself, going through the motions, spending my free time stalking error airfares and standing, open armed, in the crossfires of airline fare wars, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. I am closed for business and looking to downsize. Pieces of my brain fall apart.
I'm 25, so biologically I'm dying now. My broken brain has done its developing, and it is now free to finish its disintegration.
I've disbanded all attempts to calm myself down; I'm in my hometown, I know where my perpetrator is. He might know where I am, might remember who I am, I do not know, I will not attempt to find out. I saw him twice this week, twice, for the first time in years, years, years, years. Yesterday I learned that he works at the place where I get my medicine; medicine that is required, in part, because of him. And now I am backwards. All of my attempts to work, run, claw my way out of here have imploded and brought me back, straight to him. It is true that we are never safe, this is never over.
My visceral reactions are standard and they are not getting better, but at least I'm thankful that they are invisible. The invisibility is two-fold. On one hand, folks on the outside usually won't see me panicking on the inside, for which I'm thankful. On the other hand, my visibility is low, literally, because I dissolve into a dizzy cloud of black dots and things are swirly and hallways expand and contract and solid things start to wave at me like the ocean. I am all flight. I am the pilot of this flight, low visibility, I take off anyway.
I'll see my psychiatrist on Tuesday. I'll likely tell her that the medicine I've been taking is fine yet insufficient; okay for everyday bipolar, but not okay for this. The impulse is too much. My brain is broken; not fundamentally, but irreparably. And I am turning out less, disappointingly less, than the sum of my parts.
Average Speed = 15 mph
Change in Time = 11.5 yrs = 100740 hrs
Distance = Speed * Time = (15 mph)*(100740 hrs) = 1.5 million miles
But inside, I am back to square one. And I feel as sick as I am.
Displacement = 0.