The Bloody Doors Off

There’s usually no warning. No hint. And when it subsides, I’m a mess.

But accomplished.

Manic episodes don’t hit that often, thank god. But when they do, don’t be standing in front of me.

It started with an overwhelming urge to get out and pick up groceries. I needed to pick up some protein, make or freeze a few meals. Now that I’m working two days a week, I want to get into preparing stuff to take in, something better than sandwiches or frozen dinners. And today wasn’t hell-frozen-over, so I walked back, a good 15 minute jaunt. Of course, the dumpster is still in the way and trying to lug the cart over it was its own Herculean effort.

I’d barely gotten stuff put away before it crashed into me. The stove top, the element basins and underneath. Scrubbed for a good half hour under those damned things. Really wish either (a) you could pull the top completely up, or (b) I had one of those new-fangled stoves with the flat ceramic surface.

Once the ingredients for a casserole were cut up and water in the pot for pasta, I was attacking the bathroom. Scrub scrub scrub. Then back to the kitchen. And the bedroom, mirrors, electronics in the living room.

My fingers ache.

I finally calmed down around the time the casserole finished baking in the oven. Now I have to try and unwind and fall asleep early. Gotta go into the office tomorrow and get the paper set up for InDesign. Which is going to bring its own mania.

Yes, Laura. I know. Breathe.