I’m not manic-depressive. I’m manic-deflative.
Like a balloon.
You know how they’re big and bouncy and cheerful when they’re full of air? That’s how I am when I’m pursuing a goal… I’m ebullient, and filled with ideas, which I am uncontrollably eager to share as fast as they pop into my head. Why? Because the more free rein I give to my imagination, the more imaginative I get, and the higher I feel.
But when my ideas are discouraged, and my imagination is curbed, the deflative stage sets in, and it’s an ugly thing indeed. It starts with sputtering… those desperate attempts to get my ideas heard, even though people seem to equate the sound of my voice with a loud and very prolonged fart. This is followed by weaving, streaking, and darting about without purpose or direction, crashing into any object or being that stands in my path, completely unaware of the consequences of such an impact, and frankly, too injured to care.
Finally, I quiet down as I lose most of my air. I become dull. Soft. Immobile. I look discarded, and I feel discarded as well.
Can I be re-inflated?
Not too many times, though. The skin grows thin; holes appear.
How sad it is not to have enough energy to pop.

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