Crash. Bam. Boom.

Really the suckiest thing about mania is that it inevitably ends, crashing me into a pit of crabnasty meanface and hatred of all things. Awareness that it is merely the natural cycle of my illness doesn't make it much better. I still want to bite the heads off the cats and spray their blood all over the room, then yell at someone else to clean it up.

So what I practice is this. I make my face into a smile, I breathe so deeply. I close my eyes and pretend that everything is fine. Just fine. I take a little extra medicine. I go out for a walk even though I'd rather lie on the couch until I am dead and rotted. I apologize to my people. I try to do better. I try.

One day, it gets better. I sweep up the piles of shattered anger glass, wipe down the bloody misery trails, hug my poor children, then bake them a cake.