Manic Secrets

I am creating a secret place to write.

Why? I don’t know. I have a blog already at MySpace. Lots of people I know read it, and I feel too exposed there. I need someplace that is just for me. And although I know people will read this one too, I feel as though I can pretend this is somewhat more hushed and silent. This is for words and thoughts I will not publish on social networking sites. This is for fears and phobias that belong to me and the anonymous readers who I don’t know in real life.

I am especially manic today. It is the mania that has prompted me to start this furtive blog, I know that. I quit smoking on Monday night, and whenever I do that, I erupt in a fit of racing thoughts and euphoria that leaves me wanting to embrace the world and run into the parking lot of my workplace laughing and screaming a favored song. It is a pleasant madness, but one that can become a little edgy when my co-worker distracts me from what I am doing, which at this very moment, is writing. That edginess would be calmed by the tangy taste of nicotine; oh I so desperately want to be smoking right now, but I can’t and I won’t. I just won’t. Instead I will inhale deeply and push Zen into my brain hard.

Christmas has left me on edge, as well. So many issues these days, creating a maelstrom of anxiety and mania in my mind. They are like vinegar and baking soda, a chemical reaction impossible to cool. My parents are still not speaking to me, and I am angry at them and at my childhood and my sister and at everybody who knows me for not understanding why I am so enraged by their reaction to my being queer and coming out to them. I am a petulant 3-year-old about it all, and I simply do not care, thereby reinforcing my three-year-old status. I have stayed up nights perfecting my revenge should they bother to bestow upon me a gift of money through my sister. I have replayed the hurtful things they have said: I will love her from afar; I did the best I could raising her. How dare they?! This is the last hurt I can suffer from them. I have been utterly rejected too many times. I want to kick a wall and toilet paper their house and demand someone notice me and say: You are OK. I feel 16 and 21 and all the other ages I was when I received strong rejections from them.

As a student of human psychology, I am aware that these gut reactions are normal. I know that I will developmentally integrate, and that I should be patient and loving with myself through all of this, especially considering that my mind is the pace car at the Indy 500. Deep breaths, I remind myself. Zen is not to be forced.

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