CHAPTER 1

PART ONE:Flying Too Close to the Sun

:: Mania's Flight and the Fall into Darkness ::

I. MANIA AND SELFMEDICATING

The moonlight sliced into the alleyway, its sharp lines making a beautifulcontrast between everything it touched and the black shadows that Ilay in. Opening my eyes, I stared up at the night sky. The stars werelost to the city lights, but the moon was full and bright, its cool bluehue making the alleyway seem cold. My head throbbed, and the worldspun gently when I tried to move. The cold, hard cement I was lyingupon felt oddly soothing, but even with all the alcohol and drugsflowing through my veins, my mind was still racing. I was twenty-oneat the time, and even though I was still drunk and high, I was achingfor drugs and alcohol. It would be a year until I was told that thosefeelings were related to what professionals called a manic episode. I wasself-medicating in an attempt to slow the world down around me, butit wasn't working.

This was not the first time that a mixture of drugs and alcoholhad left me passed out in a less-than-ideal location. I had woken up inworse and far more dangerous situations, yet I never thought anythingabout it. Not once did it occur to me that my actions were not thoseof a normal mind, especially when I was simply desperate to calm theunrelenting torrent of racing thoughts rushing through my mind. Theworld seemed bright, I felt powerful, and I had no ability to stay focusedor any desire to rest.

Although I was now of legal drinking age, legality had neverbothered me, and I had a history of using and selling drugs. To me,alcohol was a child's drug—not that I took any drug seriously, no matterwhat chemical or form of delivery. At the time, I had the potential to bea good person, but something had always steered me away from warmthand kindness. I was a selfish individual. Although I could be nice if itwould benefit me, I could also be extremely cruel, having the abilityto pick out someone's deepest insecurity and exploit it when I felt suchinsults were needed. I was lost to my own reality, and I didn't much careabout myself, let alone anyone else.

Sitting up took more effort than I had expected, but slowly I liftedmyself to my knees, leaning back and taking a deep breath of thecool night air. Looking back, this moment would have been perfectfor self-examination, but at the time I didn't think twice. I thoughtI was doing great. My grades in college were good, I had quite a fewromantic relationships that were flourishing, and I was working ona groundbreaking fiction manuscript that would bring me fame andfortune. I believed I was beyond brilliant and there wasn't anything onthe planet that could keep me down.

With that thought, I smiled, my lips slightly crooked and my eyeswild as I stood up. Suddenly, I noticed that my right sleeve was tornand I had a deep scratch on my forearm that was deep enough to haveleft a trail of dried blood running down my forearm. I touched thedeep scratch, running my fingers along the rough surface of the driedblood. A normal person might have paused to think about how he hadended up passed out in an alleyway, his shirt torn, and his right armwounded. I, however, simply shrugged my shoulders and walked out ofthe shadows, ready to enjoy what was left of the waning night.

Walking out of the alleyway, I looked around, trying to find mybearings. The streets were empty except for a few homeless individualswrapped in sheets and newspapers to protect them from the slightbreeze that had picked up. I wasn't in the best section of Denver'sdowntown area. Although I remembered entering one of the morepopular clubs with my friends, as well as drinking, I couldn't rememberhow or why I had wandered so far from the main strip of bars and clubs.Thinking back, it amazes me that I never questioned how I had endedup in an alleyway tucked in the shadows. At the time, however, I didn'tpause to contemplate as I began walking toward the only main street Irecognized. Though the night was quickly fading, I was still insistenton getting my fill of fun.

After walking for a few blocks, I heard my friend Mike's voice riseinto the air. He was used to me doing wild things, but this time, hisvoice was laced with a hint of anger. "Kirk, I've been looking all over foryou!" Turning around, I saw Mike running toward me. He was dressedin a stylish shirt, his hair spiked and highlighted. His long face was filledwith a mixture of relief and frustration.

"What's wrong?"

Mike just stood there for a moment, staring at me as if I were crazyto ask. "Really? You have to ask?"

I could tell Mike was frustrated, but I turned back around andcontinued toward the street corner. Walking alongside me, Mikecontinued to talk, still surprised that I didn't remember anything."Man, what the hell happened back there?"

"What are you talking about?" I asked as we crossed the emptystreet, a slight chill hitting my skin as the wind kicked up.

"You have to be kidding me," Mike said before laughing. I don'tthink he knew that I didn't remember; he probably thought I was justjoking around. Feeling like I was kidding around, his mood lighteneda bit as he continued. "That stunt you pulled back at the bar got thecops involved, bro. I barely made it out before they arrived. Why thehell did you throw that mug at the bouncer?"

Suddenly the memory came flooding back. I remembered meetingup with a girl and buying her a drink. I also remembered hearing thepeople sitting next to us talking about me. I could still remember feelingtheir eyes on me, staring and judging. What I had heard, or thought Iheard, had ticked me off. As at every juncture in my life, I didn't think:I lashed out.

Though unable to recall every detail, I remembered approachingthe men at the next table and pushing the first one who met my gaze.As the exchange quickly exploded, I remember holding a thick beermug in my hand and chucking it across the bar, missing the bartenderby inches. The glass shattered against the wall, and the bouncers andstaff closed in on me. I remembered wanting to fight, but luckily Mikehad taken action, pushing toward the door and shouting for me to run.Feeling like everyone in the club was out to get me, I wasn't about tobe captured. Shoving my way through the chaos, I barely made it outthe door before breaking into a full run.

Thinking about it, I couldn't help but chuckle, which Mike did notappreciate. Pushing me, he spoke with a harsh tone, although he washaving a hard time not smiling. "Seriously, bro, you could've gotten mebusted, especially with the crap I'm holding for you."

When Mike pushed me, I could feel my temper flare up. I almostlashed out, but I was distracted by the sound of laughter. We weregetting closer to the clubs. Interested in getting back to the clubs, Ishrugged. "How about I buy you a round? We'll forget what happenedand have some fun."

"Are you nuts?" Mike shook his head, holding me back. "Youcan't go back there, bro. Not for a few weeks. Besides, it's three in themorning, and the clubs aren't serving alcohol."

"Doesn't mean we can't have some fun," I responded as I pointed atMike's pocket, which was filled with illicit drugs.

"You are a bad influence," Mike said with a chuckle as he pointedto my sleeve. He was no stranger to trouble, and I think he found mysudden explosions entertaining. "If that sleeve hadn't ripped, you'd besitting in jail right now. I still can't believe you broke that bouncer'sgrip."

Finally knowing how my arm had been scratched and my shirt torn,I shrugged. I should have been asking questions or wondering why Ihad lashed out with such violence, but all I could focus on was how toextend the evening. As usual, I was focused only on myself and pleasure,unaware and uncaring of my actions or the potential consequences.Although I was drunk and drugged and should've been tired, my mindwas racing, and I was filled with an immense amount of energy that Iwas itching to burn off.

"We can still hit a few after-hours clubs," Mike suggested, makingmy wild eyes flash with excitement. In Denver, last call didn't make thenight scene vanish; it just changed. The after-hours clubs were a placefor drugs and a more extreme approach to partying. Although the afterhoursclubs tried to police their establishments, there was just no wayto control every individual.

"Sounds good to me," I said. I always enjoyed partying with Mike.He was one of my more radical friends and went out with me whenmy other friends were avoiding me. This was mostly because he foundme entertaining, but it was also due to the fact that his drug andalcohol problems made him less sensitive to my sudden outbursts andexplosions. I didn't know it at the time, but my erratic behavior hadalready begun to terrify my closest friends and family.

I lived at home in my parents' basement and was in college, whichwouldn't last for long. Every aspect of my life was unstable, and I wasunable to hold down a job or maintain any relationship, professional orpersonal. Mike was one of the few friends who stuck by me. AlthoughMike was just my party friend, unconnected to me in any other way,even he was sometimes caught off guard by my sudden outbursts ofviolence or radical mood swings. It would be years later that Mikewould vanish, lost to the drugs he always longed for.

After we spent three more hours at an after-hours club, the sun wasup, and Mike was ready to go. Sober now, I was still aching for moreaction. My mind was continuing to speed from one thought to another,and I was having a hard time concentrating. We had run out of drugs,so we ended the night, even with my objections.

The drive home was quick, and I was enjoying the feel of his car onthe highway. "Dude, you gotta slow down. And would you please stoptalking? My head is killing me."

Mike's hangover had finally caught up to him. A bit ticked off thathe had told me to quiet down, I cranked up the radio and pushed hiscar above ninety miles an hour. Mike sighed, knowing me well enoughto understand that I wasn't going to listen. When I arrived home, itwas seven in the morning, and I wasn't the least bit tired. "How abouttonight?"

Mike looked at me like I was crazy. "Dude, don't you sleep?" Mikechuckled, seeing that I wasn't kidding as he added, "We'll see."

I moved out of the way so Mike could get into the driver's seat. "Justplan on tonight. It'll be fun."

"It's always an adventure," Mike said before closing the door anddriving out of the cul-de-sac.

I stood there for a moment, alone in my parents' driveway. What Ididn't know at the time was that my manic episodes were not a single-stageevent. They always started off with a sudden spike of energy andproductivity until I reached a second stage, during which my focus waslost and all I wanted to do was slow my mind down.

Standing in the driveway, I could feel that stage giving way to whatI can only describe as a third stage, or a peak. Although I didn't knowit at the time, this third and final stage was always accompanied bydelusions of grandiosity. It was also accompanied by paranoia, thinkingthat someone might steal my great ideas or that everyone was conspiringagainst me. That mixture made for a dangerous combination, leadingme to start more fights than I can recall. Luckily, I had never beenseriously injured nor done so to another, not because I wasn't trying butbecause I usually started fights with multiple individuals. I took quitea few beatings throughout the years.

Although many of the most inspired, productive, and creativemoments in my life came when I was at the first stage of my mania, theprice I paid for those flashes of brilliance was never worth the cost. Mymanic peaks would end with a terrifying eruption of violence and angerthat made me a danger to myself and everyone around me. I wouldn'tknow until years later that that peak was a warning that I was aboutto crash into a deep depression. It never failed. The higher and moreintense the peak, the quicker and more violent the fall into darkness.

II. MANIA'S RAZOR EDGE

As I stood in the driveway, the sun continued to rise above the Denverskyline, beginning to cast its warm glow onto our small street and mymother's garden. When I entered the house at around seven thirty, Ifound my mother and father standing in the kitchen staring at me, deepcircles under their eyes. Their worry quickly turned to flashes of anger,and I became defensive and prepared for a fight. They were both gentleand kind people, but they were growing tired of my radical emotions.

"Where have you been?" my mother asked. "I've been worried sick.The least you could've done was call." Unlike the people who knew meonly as a friend, those who lived with me saw the truth and severity ofmy mental state. They were aware of exactly how violent and irrationalI could become.

I didn't care about my mother's concern as my mania was quicklyrising beyond my control. "I'm twenty-one years old, Mom," I lashedout in a harsh voice. "You can cut the parent crap!" My mother took astep back, a bit of surprise edging out the anger on her face as my dadstood up and stepped between us.

"That's no way to talk to your mother."

I was taller and more muscular than my father, and when I walkedpast I slammed my shoulder into him in an act that still repulses me. AsI had my entire life, I saw everyone as two extremes: friend or enemy. Atthe moment I didn't see my parents but just people out to criticize andjudge me. "Lay off!" I shouted at them as I walked toward the basementdoor. "I was out with friends."

I had been in a great mood, but my jubilation had quickly transformedinto an anger that I couldn't shake. In a final show of rage, I took holdof the door, slamming it shut as I walked into the basement. The forceI had put on the door broke the handle and caused the door to crack.Too furious to go to bed and unable to focus, I decided I would paint.

Handling my mania was like walking on a razor's edge. I didn'tunderstand anything about my mind or what was wrong at the time,nor did I realize that I was becoming more dangerous, angry, violent,paranoid, and delusional. With no ability to analyze myself, I wastrapped between euphoria and utter despair. The only thing keepingmy mind from crashing was the paint that I was hastily and violentlystroking onto the canvas.

I had no way of knowing that my mania was going to grow moreintense and eventually peak. I didn't even know what mania was. It iseasy now to understand that the first stage of my mania made me witty,playful, and confident. I loved those moments; I was always productive,and going out with my usual friends was extremely fun. It was thefollowing stages that always spiraled out of control and caused damageto my relationships and life. It was typically during the second stage thatI would go out drinking and seeking any and all drugs in an attemptto calm and quiet my mind.

Currently, my second stage was quickly speeding out of control.Even as I painted, I couldn't shake my anger. Anger, aggressiveness,and frustration with everything around me were clues that I was aboutto hit my peak. Unfortunately for me and the people I cared for, theothers around me did not know about my mental state and were alwayssurprised at my sudden outbursts of violent speech, actions, and angerat the world and everyone in it.

Even the way I handled the brushes was violent. The strokes of paintwere not thought out, just actions; I believed I was meant for greaterthings than the average person. I broke two brushes just because theyhad not delivered the effect I was looking for. Slowly, the anger in mewas bubbling up, but there was nothing to trigger it. I was a tickingbomb, just waiting to be set off. As I finished one painting, I set it down,staring at it with a heightened sense of pride that led me to wonder whyI was not yet famous. Painting faster, I had no idea that I had been atit for six straight hours with no sleep and no food. In the end, I hadpainted four large landscapes.

It was during these peaks that I became delusional enough to believeI was capable of anything, believing that the world was lucky to haveme and that fame would soon be knocking at my door. I had no ideathat these peaks were a warning of a coming depression where I wouldfeel as though even breathing wasn't worth my time.

(Continues...)