There are some things you can't argue with. Like if you stick your hand on a hot stove, you're going to get burned. There's other things you can argue with. Like whether the toilet paper should roll over or under. (Over, btw) And there are other things that part of your mind WANTS to argue with but another part - your mental big bully - won't let you argue with. It just slams any rationality or common sense up against the school locker and lets everyone know that these are HIS hallways.
That's kinda like what a manic episode is like. Except you only realize it after the fact. Usually after the Ativan kicks in.
Here's another thing you can't argue with. When you're averaging three hours of sleep a night, stressed out to the hilt, being barraged by a 48 year-0ld infant who can't survive without you, and dealing with the loss of a friend, your body will shut down. Somehow, someway, it's gonna find a way to crash and burn.
And that's all I'm gonna say about March 23.
Somewhere around 9:30 pm (I'd been asleep since about 6), I woke up and realized I was hungry. For a moment I thought abuout just rolling back over, closing my eyes, and falling back into the wonderful, sweet world of dreams. But I didn't. I padded down the hallway to the kitchenette and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I sat on a hard plastic chair and ate the world's most delicious sandwich ever.
When I read Lance Armstong's "It's Not About the Bike," one comment stuck with me. Everyday, during his entire cancer ordeal, he would get up and get on his bike. Sometimes he coould go ten miles, sometimes only one. But he said to himself each day, "As long as I can still get on this bike, I'm going to live."
A peanut butter sandwich is probably not as impressive as riding a bike ten miles while suffering through testicular cancer. But sometimes you gotta grasp whatever straw is in front of you.