Every time I think back to this phase in time, it’s like a scene from a movie where the sun is shining and everyone is happy and smiling…but the soundtrack has cringey tones, and you just know something disturbing is right around the corner. Or like a bad dream where everyone you meet is lovely but it’s because they’ve all had lobotomies.
Despite the recent loss, I was somehow high on life for just a short while. The world was full of Love and Light…a beautiful, exuberant place to be…and I couldn’t imagine getting enough of it.
I might have been able to guess what was coming next, based on past (pre-medicated) experience, but I didn’t.
The descent came quick and hard. I never quite remember how this part happens. It’s just suddenly there. It’s simultaneously anticlimactic and excruciating. Anguish and despair show up on my doorstep to remind me where I came from. They taunt me for having ever been joyful and thinking that I could be free. I can barely function and I see only darkness. The tears flow day and night and I wish that I could just cease to exist. I believe in those times that it would be better for everyone if I had never existed in the first place.
Lies. This is what it is to be in Hell.
It’s not fun to talk about–nor, I imagine, to read. I want to skip right past it, even in my own mind–but it is, of course, part of the story.
And also what happens to me in this muck, in this post-manic phase, is that I become even more attached to my newly formed obsessions. My passion isn’t extinguished; it’s fueled by my depression.
In this case, my intense but carefree infatuation turned into a fierce longing. I could not live without Superbloom. And now I was aware of the formidable suffering which would be required of me to become pregnant and lose another baby. It wasn’t all fun and games, on either count, but I was still as in as ever, and desperate to be.
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