I do not gush.

I do not gush, what I mean to say is, I am not one for voicing my issues. I see it daily, whether on social media or the street. People are confident enough to express the way their emotions, be it anger, love, or sadness. Not me, I am a private person. I believe nobody would want to hear my nonsense, or my thoughts should remain shrouded behind a plethora of prescribed drugs. Who knows.

Writing this has and is the most difficult thing, which is why I write fiction. Fiction is as far away from my reality as possible, it’s easy to do. It means I can stay locked away in my bipolar prison where nobody can see me. I suppose I believe if any of what I say may help another human being, then my words have achieved my wish.

I digress. Where was I?

Teenage years, pre-diagnosis.

My teenage years were a car crash and then some. Hormones mixed with the maniacal manic highs equalled dreadful consequences. I said in an earlier excerpt I had scrapes with the law. But, on one occasion, my scrapes came back to bite me on the butt, big time.

Two days before my eighteenth birthday, I woke to a feeling of Euphoria I had only experienced in mediocre bouts. This day, I felt different, invincible beyond measure. This day would see myself consume copious amounts of cocaine and ascend a bridge, believing I could fly. Without going into the details, I ended up being rescued from guaranteed death by a man named P.C Jonathan Clarke.

This officer, who has remained a friend, dragged me from the edge before I could test out my drug and mania induced flying abilities. Without him, I have no doubt I would have died that night. What is interesting about the event is his words made me think about who I was, who I was becoming at least. The conversation went something like this.

‘What the hell are you thinking?’

‘I can fly, I am a bird.’

‘You are not a bird; you are a bloody idiot is what you are. Do you realise how difficult it would be to visit your parents and tell them you had died? Have you any idea how tough it would have been for me to scrape you up from the ground. You are a f**king stupid idiot.’

I had never heard an officer of the law use expletives before, it shocked me. The tears in his eyes shocked me also, my actions had affected him profoundly. It was at this moment that I realised my death would have dramatic consequences, not just for me and my family, but for the wider community. The events that transpired that evening were the reason I decided to clean up my act, to become a ‘normal’ member of society.

That night, officer Clarke took me home. I was not charged with an offence; he remained quiet on the journey back. I remember his words to me as he pulled the car to a halt.

‘One day, I will not be there to save you, Pete. The only person who can save you is yourself.’

He was right, and yet at that tender age, I didn’t quite understand what he meant. But over time I would. I decided it was time to get myself straight, to deal with the extreme highs and devastating lows. It was time to visit a professional.

Behind me a trail of carnage, in front, a chance to ‘get better’ hopefully…