Bipolar barbie at 19

I was 19 when I met my boyfriend. And, looking back, I was a completely different person. I was a sophomore in college and that September when I arrived back at school I decided to stop taking my meds. I think it was a curiosity thing. I had never consistently taken my meds, but I had also never completely stopped taking them. So I was curious what would happen. I had little to no responsibilities besides produce good grades and maintain good health, and I was morbidly indifferent toward the latter. I spent the summer before (which was dark and deep in its own way and certainly deserves its own post separate from this) hypomanic. I entered the new school year all sex, drugs, and rock and roll. I went out every weekend and drank until I puked. My favorite part was trying on different personas. Themed parties were in, and I was more than down to get into character. When there wasn’t a theme, I created my own. And every night ended with my favorite game: Who am I going to fuck tonight? (Answer: Whoever responds to my 2am-bootycall-text first).

I hit my breaking point during halloween. I was dressed as Peter Pan that night. The original plan was Tinkerbell, but I impulsively box-dyed my hair brown one day, so Peter it was. I have a very specific memory of running down the street, yelling back at my friends that they either needed to catch up or I’d meet them at the party. What a metaphor, huh? Well, anyway, that’s where my memory starts to blur and all I know is that I crashed that night. I ran straight into that spot where mania meets depression and the two enter into a violent love affair with full intentions of, quite literally, murdering me. Within a few days, I was on a train home to “rest.” I resumed taking my meds and within a week I was healthy enough to be able to convince my mother that I was healthy enough to return to school. Between you, me, and I’m sure my mother’s inner voice, I certainly was not healthy enough.. Whatever that means…

We met as a one-night stand. I was drunk and dancing in a haze of manic promiscuity. “I’m crazy.. no seriously, I’m crazy hahahah” was actually a good pick-up line for one night stands and relationships that meant next to nothing. Guys looked at me with amusement, bewilderment, and lust. I can only imagine what others thought of me. At the time, I couldn’t care less. And now, the past is the past. It turned out pretty damn well and even if it hadn’t, you can’t change the past, so whatever, right?

 

It’d be really cool if I had a point to this post. I don’t. Just reflecting. *shrug*

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