In the chain of events that got me here, writing this blog, the Explosion is probably the heaviest link. It weighs down all the other links, pulling them closer to It– the Explosion.
The Explosion is the only name for it, no other title describes what happened as aptly, as poetically, or even just as plain old accurately. The Explosion is why I’m here, where I am today. But for the Explosion, this blog probably wouldn’t exist. And that’s enough to explain the heaviness of this link in the twisted chain of events that got me here.
I have a temper. An explosive one. Just ask my brothers, who were the unfortunate objects of my rage many times growing up. Because it’s so bad, I’ve learned to control it. And so it very rarely comes out; once a year is the unfortunate average.
When my temper explodes, it’s all I can think about. I become obsessed with the object of my anger and become determined to punish. The punishment is important. I calculate it to inflict the most damage, depending on what would hurt the victim the most. I balance it against risk to myself– I don’t want to catch any heat from my scheming. My temper is dangerous.
And on the night of law school prom, my guy friend that I stupidly hooked up with was the target, the victim, and the source of the eruption of my mighty, evil and dangerous temper.
Admittedly, there were a lot of bad decisions on my part that led up to the Explosion. Still on a break from the Werewolf and with a distaste for the chore of drinking, I wanted to get fucked up for the dance. Smoking weed wouldn’t be enough, I needed something harder. So I got 5 ecstasy pills from my dealer and took them by myself. Taking E alone was certainly a different experience than the usual sex bender that accompanied the popping of those pills with the Werewolf. I danced all night and was in a pretty good mood, anticipating a promised rendezvous with the guy friend at the end of the night, so I didn’t have to worry about going home alone.
Little did I know, those shitty E pills were cut with PCP, a drug which is on my Do Not Do list (along with meth and heroin. It’s a short list). This definitely contributed to my fiendish temper Explosion and to the events that flowed out as result– which landed me in the crazy house for a second time. On involuntary psych hold. But that part comes later.
The other factor that made me explode was the stupid agreement with my guy friend to rendezvous post prom. He texted me before the dance not to “touch him” or appear to be interested in him during the dance. We were trying to keep our stupid hook up a secret for many good reasons. So I didn’t notice the red flag that was waving right in front of my face.
I behaved myself and slyly ignored the guy friend while silently catching his attention with my fabulous dress and to-the-9’s get up, complete with a salon up-do. I was hot.
Predictably, at the end of the dance he told me he couldn’t meet up because he had to get up early to take a train to Chicago. I exploded. It must have been a combination of the bad ecstasy, the long promise of rendezvous being broken, and anger at myself for landing myself in a situation where he could reject me. My pride was assaulted and my temper flared wildly. I erupted with a tide of a scathing tirade that I poured over the guy friend. But that was only the beginning.
He needed to be punished. My friends thought I was crazy. I was certainly crazed. After I finished verbal abusing the guy friend– to a pulp– I went home to scheme. I decided that the best punishment would be for him to finally know how everyone felt about him. How we all thought he was creepy. How the girls were only nice to him out of pity. How all the guys thought he was a douche; his own roommate hated him. I reached out to other girls that he’d discarded and prepared to mount my assault.
Unfortunately, the explosion of my temper really made me crazy. I stayed up late that night, watching the hours tick by until the sun came up and 8:00am flashed on my computer screen. I had stayed up all night. Staying up late was dangerous for me, I need my sleep to stay sane. Lack of sleep for a bipolar brain leads you down the winding road to psychosis. And I was usually a sleeper, averaging 10 hours a night and easily doing 12 when time permitted.
I stayed up for 48 hours, just getting crazier. I couldn’t sleep. So I started dosing myself with my lorazepam to break the sleepless cycle. But that story comes later– the story of how I landed myself back in the crazy house.
The Explosion wasn’t deadly but it was incredibly destructive. It made me crazy, I burned bridges with friends I thought I’d never lose, and it set me up for my second stay in inpatient pysch treatment– a true nightmare.
The Explosion is a heavy link in that chain, that chain of events that got me here, the chain that wrapped itself around my neck and nearly cost me my sanity. The Explosion is the heaviest, deadliest link in this twisted, ugly chain. Fuck the Explosion.