I manage to slip in and out of Mania and Melancholy as often as I change my clothing. It has been acknowledged that this is what keeps me from a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, the rapidity in which I move from one to the other. I am the A.D.D version of bipolar.... look, is that a Corvair? Also I have never indulged in dangerous or harmful behavior, a hallmark of Mania, apparently... and no, my intense workouts and crazy event schedule do not count as dangerous or risky, just slightly insane. Does it count that I often think of harming a few others? Only those that might deserve it, of course, and I would never truly act on the aforementioned thoughts, I just ponder. That all being said, in typical rambling fashion (after all, the title of this blog is Random Ramblings, so I am entitled to ramble on as I please), my latest wrestling match with my Demons has left me analyzing, as usual. I really do think that my Demons slip out to remind me of who I am, what makes me unique, what makes me act and react as I do. I cannot hold them at fault for this, after all, they are my offspring, the children that people my thoughts and dreams as I lay awake at night. They are my companions, and are often no more than just brutally honest. Okay, they are more than brutally honest, they can be cruel and spiteful at times, dredging up ghosts, and needling weaknesses, little bastards that they are. But they are my little bastards, my ill-conceived progeny, the tart fruit of my loins, upstarts, delinquents, brats. They taunt and tease, harass and harangue, berate and belittle. They disrupt my sleep, as small children are wont to do, but instead of merely wanting to cuddle themselves back to sleep, they toss and turn, poking me with bony elbows and horns, chilling me with cold hands. Yes, they are pesky little Imps.
I do have a mother's affection for these Imps that have cost me so many tears and sleepless nights. They are directly responsible for some of my more arduous workouts. It is their wicked attentions that inspire me to push myself further, harder, faster. It is my need to keep them shushed that fires my physicality. My flat stomach, firm ass, and lithe body are direct results of just what a mother is willing to do to keep her children resting quietly.
Ours is a symbiotic relationship, my Demons and I. One I accept, even as I rail against it at times. It would be so easy to blithely accept a doctor's diagnosis, take my meds, hide from the world, retreat into my shell, live a lackluster life, let my lunacies take the blame for a sedentary life that goes nowhere. Instead I allow my lunacies out as Demons. I name them, so our relationship is personal, connected, they are old and dear frenemies now, these naughty Imps, my bastard children. I name them, so when they come out to play I know which games I am likely to be assaulted with, which rules we will break, which game tokens will be tossed at my head in fits of sulky snits. They really are like children, my Demons, they can be managed, soothed, lulled back to sleep. Not until they have pulled my hair, screamed, clawed, spit up on my new shirt. But I do know how to calm them, it is just an arduous task. A labor of love. Love of Self, for my Demons are my Self. They are what make me who I am, inspire me to push myself, to try new things. Their nasty prattling makes me want to go on grand adventures just to prove them wrong. Their needling gives me the drive to succeed, to show them I am not the weakling they try to convince me I am. My Demons make me unique, make me strong, empower me, make me understand myself more deeply with each nocturnal visit. My pesky little Imps. Little bastards.