Self‑awareness can be a scary thing. While writing, I’m starting to see myself — my habits, my patterns, the reasons behind the way I behave. Things make more sense now. I can see why I reacted the way I did, and sometimes still do. Rewiring your brain is hard. Your mind fights you on every step, every realization, insisting the old way is safer. The old way kept you alive, so why mess with it now? Overpowering a perfectly trained survival brain is not easy.
Having experienced mania recently — the kind that takes you out for the count — I know the signs. I’ve seen them in my ex‑husband, in my former roommate, my children. And now I can see them in me. The sheer amount I’ve accomplished in the past few days is staggering. One hundred ninety pages written, edited, and scheduled over the past sixty days. My manuscript is almost done, and the next two books are already swirling in my head. I have fifty pages for the next one and an outline for the third.
None of that is too earth‑shattering. But sleeping while typing notes into my phone? Writing one story in my head while typing another on my laptop? Everything around me feeling too loud, too bright, too sharp?
That’s something else.
My usually pinpoint focus is everywhere. I’m multitasking nonstop, juggling so many balls one or two are bound to fall. I just pray they’re not the explosive ones. My hair needs washing, dishes are piled in the sink, and I’m in yesterday’s clothes. My head is spinning so fast my fingers can’t keep up with my brain, and the computer can’t keep up with my fingers. It feels like my skull is about to launch itself into orbit.
Part of me almost likes it. My writing is good — getting better. My memories are easier to dissect. My insight is sharper. I’m drinking way too much caffeine and barely eating real food.
I’m a mess.
The sensible part of me knows I need to rein it in. I know I do — I just don’t know how. And I’m afraid if I admit it to anyone, I’ll get a one‑way trip to the psych ward. A place I’ll never go back to.
They’ll have to catch me first. And I still run fast for an old lady.
Still standing, trying to take deep breaths,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 