Oh-So-Wicked Games We Play

     I've got big boobs.  In high school, I was a C-cup.  My average is about a D.  Since I've gained all this extra weight, I'm up to a DDD.  That's right.  Three D's.  I wasn't planning on writing about them today.  I just wanted to brag about a body part after that whiny fat-kid post last week.
     Today's topic, boys and girls, is my mania.  I've discussed it before.  I discuss it a lot.  This is because it's on my mind a lot.  I have to watch for it, like a paranoid old lady listening to the police on a home scanner.  I have to wonder if each reaction is sane(.) or not(!).  I'm not always either Up or Down... I'm pretty stable and normal most of the time.  Today I am okay.  Stressed, but really, I'm fine.  So, shall we begin?

     You would think that I wouldn't want to talk about my suicide attempts.  You'd be right, sort of.  I don't like to talk about them.  I need to.  I feel them in me, like eels.  This will be as basic as I can be about it.  I tried to hang myself in my closet my first semester at college.  The bar I was strapped to, by a brown leather belt, wasn't set into the wall well enough.  It fell.  As I tried to adjust it, my roommate walked in.  I'm not religious... but I can take a hint.  I am also a weenie for pain.  I don't really believe I'd ever kill myself, knowing me as well as I do now.  Not deep in me.  I tried to leave it to fate once.  I was driving on a very slick, wet, curvy road during a storm.  I had no headlights, and I kept running red lights to see how long I'd last.  I was doing 60 in a 45.  I didn't even hit a kid or anything.  And the pills don't count.  Not really.
     Depression is not the scariest time for me.  And, yes, I do sometimes have trouble telling the mania from the depression.  For the most part, depression just makes me weak.  I give up.  I cry on my couch, throw up from stress, pace the house, hurt myself.  It's bad.  And maybe it should cause worry.  But it's not a very dangerous time for me. 
     The most dangerous place for me to be is in a manic state.  I do terrible and dangerous things in a manic state.  In fact, I have had depressive episodes triggered by thinking about the things I did while manic.  I've shoplifted.  I've disappeared for days.  I've been driving down the interstate, and kinda started communicating with another driver- because we each had a foot hanging out the window.  We pulled over at a gas station to hang out, and we hung out for hours.  In the middle of the night, at a gas station, in an unfamiliar place.  With a stranger I met on the highway.  But I didn't sleep with him.  He's about the only one.
     I've had sex with four different men in one week.  I had sex with three different men in one day.  It wasn't during that week.  And only one man belongs to both of those sentences.  I had sex with a man because he loved me.  I had sex with a man because I wanted him to love me.  I had sex with a man because I wanted to love him.  Because he was there.  Because I got turned on by music the band was playing.  Because he was dating someone I thought I hated.  Because he was the most beautiful man I'd ever met.  Because I had sex with his brother, and it was good enough.  Because he went through all that effort to get me to sleep with him. 
     I don't know how many men I have slept with.  I've never told anyone that.  I've never said that out loud.  It does not scare me.  The number does not scare me.  Not knowing scares me... not knowing them well enough, not knowing why I was doing it, not knowing what I wanted out of it.  Those things scare me.  I didn't care about my life enough to protect it, or to cherish love-making.  I've only loved three... really loved three.  And not high school drama loved.  I would have only run away with three.  I would have married, cried for, died for, and obeyed only three.
     I wouldn't say fidelity is an issue.  Now.  When the man is deserving, I guess.  The Pretender was not deserving, but I loved him like he was.  But he was the only undeserving one I never cheated on.  DaVinci deserves more than I will ever be able to give him, and I give him everything I have, even things that are not his.  I didn't love the others enough to care about fidelity.  If they did not have what I wanted, I looked elsewhere.  Like a bitch in heat, roaming.  And The Poet was a victim of that.  Because of how I felt, about him, about sex, about myself and even the man I was with- whom I felt nothing for- I was willing to use him.  And I loved him.  And I don't know if I hurt him. 
     I was not out of control.  I just wasn't holding the reins.  But when I feel myself becoming manic, I hold on as tight as I can, then I hand the reins over to DaVinci.  Because if I do not, I would hurt the man I love most.  I would ruin my life, and every reason I have to work towards sanity.