Bipolar Kingdom

by Priscila Flores

An amusement park exists within my brain. Some days I ride the rollercoasters, some days I stick to dark rides, pushed by a slow-moving stream of recycled water. I much prefer the rollercoasters. The violent pull of the wind, the stomach-churning drops inciting uncontrollable laughter, and that submission to the chance of being flung off the tracks, landing miles away in a heap of indistinguishable parts.

But through the excitement exists that back-of-the-mind anxiety that it’ll all be over soon. So when I’m on that roller coaster and the opportunistic panic of making every moment last settles in, my neurons violently vibrate.

I’m on my feet. In the air. Outside. Inside. Outside. Inside. Jumping. Running. Screaming. Singing. I’m outside. Two miles away. Screaming. Jumping.

I’m inside. Writing. Writing. Writing. Jumping. Singing. Screaming. I’m outside. Writing. Running. Writing. Jumping. The air reeks of word vomit. Running. Screaming. Writing. Inhaling, exhaling, or something in between.

Singing. Dancing. Writing. Screaming. Resisting the tug of animatronics in the darkness, fighting to stay locked on that roller coaster of frenzied behavior.

Is it wrong to treat my mania like some unrequited lover? To work ferociously and live extremely, taking advantage of the ecstasy before it slips through my fingers? I feel indebted to my brain when my limbs crackle with electricity, feel that my overdue payments are what make my episodic motivation abandon me. How can one inhabit a space split between two extreme climates? When my clouds replace my lightning I retreat to my amusement park, carried through crowds in a state of paralysis. I let strangers guide me to my seat, moving slowly in manufactured darkness like Snow White being chased by her ever-present shadow.