I found myself at a party I didn't want to be at. I was there too long. You said we wouldn't stay long. We did. My meds wore off. Suddenly, manic onset. Heart racing. Can't find anything to do with my hands to keep them busy. Watching TV with some guy I don't know, who I share nothing in common with. Start talking incontrollably about a television show that he cares nothing about.
I look at my hands like a mirror. I look over at him. I wander into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror like a teenage werewolf about to take form.
Now we play a board game. I hate board games. And I am trying to hide my obvious mania as it pumps through my veins. You keep drinking. This will end badly I just know it. You tell your friends that you ate lunch with me for months because you didn't think that they liked you. One of them says that she thought it was because you wanted time with your husband. You look at me like a stranger, and shrug your shoulders. My heart dies inside because all this time I thought you enjoyed spending that time with me.
Then, I am scrubbing your vomit off the walls of what had been a prestine bathroom. Vomit dripping down the blinds. Running down every porcelain surface. Drops spattered everywhere like the scene of a viscious murder. I scrub until I can't see the color any more. The stink of rotting vegetables and red wine stain my hands.
I help you into the car and drive you home. I help you into the house and put you in bed. I bring you ice water. I run downstairs and scrub the vomit out of your favorite clothes. I use some stain treatments, and I soak it in burning hot water. I hold my hands under the scolding hot water until my skin hardens but the stink is still there.
I carefully climb into bed and roll you onto your side. I stay awake for two hours watching over you to make sure you don't roll onto your back and vomit.
You wake up and vomit for the next day and a half. I patiently cook for the family, clean and continue to scrub up your vomit as it appears randomly throughout the bathroom.
I try to cheer myself up. But depression is setting in. The paranoia clouds my brain. I was so mad at you, because I feel like you don't know everything I do for you. And I see these other men my age act like children. They couldn't fathom cooking meals, doing laundry, or spending a few hours scrubbing a bathtub. I was mad because I don't know why I bother. And now I am crushed because I know that you don't care.
The anger is leaving me now, and it's being replaced by a dark sadness. And I wish that I had a friend right now instead of an online journal where I send my thoughts to die.
Tomorrow is your birthday. So today I will bake you a cake. I will spend hours on it. Making everything from scratch. I want it to be perfect. I will give you the shitty gifts that I bought you knowing that you already bought yourself what you wanted for your birthday. And I will wonder why I continue to try to please and impress you. And as the sun goes down, I will stare out past the trees into the dark autumn sky and try to think of something that my mind can do to keep busy.
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