I am getting stress pimples at 32. It's super appealing. They fit right in with the bags under my eyes. Because I'm not sleeping well. Restless energy pulls at me: do, do, do, do, don't stop. I know I'm manic. The rage tells me I am, or is it anger? Valid anger? I don't know, and I don't want to ask other people; they might give me an answer that will make me more angry.
Maybe I'm not manic, just angry and over-worked. Maybe it's not my crazy this time.
But I might be, and I hate pity, so I won't ask. I'll just sit and stew over the things that boil under my skin and I won't say them but they'll come out in pimples and cold shoulders.
And maybe you'll work to make it right, or maybe you'll blow it off as my crazy, and you may be right, I may be crazy.
Or you may need to work on building us up, too. So that I'm not one-sided doing everything when I'm manic, then falling far down into a wallowing hatred and worthlessness so deep you won't be able to pull me up too late.
I don't know. So I sit and stew. Because I'm not confident in knowing my crazy from my sane. It's a fine line. And the answer is not mine. I can't know my own brain. I can't know my own sane. You can't either. So we hit and miss daily. And I don't know if I should be sorry.
H.M Jones is the author of B.R.A.G Medallion Honor and NIEA finalist book Monochrome, its prequel Fade to Blue, the Adela Darken Graphic Novellas, Al Ravien's Night, The Immortals series, and several short stories.