They turn a blind eye obediently when they see, not far off, the fake yet considerable believable happy start to go, like the last bit of chocolate literally being erased from your taste buds. They see the low happening and turn a blind eye obediently, like they’ve been practicing for six years, like they know it’s inevitable and have not only accepted but adapted to it.

They’re well-practiced, in the Olympic way gymnasts are because they’ve been training for years. These people, they know how to handle all the breakdowns, they know how to handle when the smiling laughter suddenly dies and in its place is a slew of tears and fears and frowns. They don’t feel stranded on a mountain, anymore, they’re not stuck on an icy slope of confusion and worry. They know now it’s just chemicals that are not being medicated anymore because every medication has failed this six year drug test.

Your typical Paxcil, Prozac, Wellbutrin, Lamictal, Effexor, Zanax, Klonopin, Celexa, Abilify cocktail; a disgusting mix of anti-anxiety, anti-depressant, anti-psychotic mood stabilizers that major-depressive and bipolar disorders just do not take kindly to.  

They know now not to comment anymore on this new push-up bra peeking out from underneath that new skin-tight tank top when the day before the attire consisted of baggy jeans and a collegiate hooded sweatshirt. They know not to comment because it would be wasting their words; who knows what way the mood will swing this day or that? Who knows anything about this strange, bemusing chemical imbalance, so easily influenced by the drop of a pin or the lack of contact?

And so they see the train wreck, feel the hopeful surge down their spine when the phone call goes well and the plans are confirmed, feel so content with the world when all get together to go out or stay in and just enjoy each others’ company. Then they watch the wreck with eyes wide open, unable to tear themselves away from the initial crash of good mood meeting sinking misery and finally look away, lacking the capacity to force themselves to witness the aftermath of an unprovoked low.

This is the definition of best friend, and I can’t blame them. Can revere them, in fact, but never blame them, or understand why they stay. At some point, they do leave, and always come back. What about this vicious cycle draws people back in? Maybe it’s the highs, the real ones, the sober ones; those few and far between bursts of warm sun and cool breeze with loud beats and windows down with no destination and no dedication, but every motivation. Those highs are so scarce but so worth living for, especially when daily you pine for the last and pray for the next, unsure if it will ever happen, could ever happen again. You go over times in your head that were seemingly perfect by your own general definition, like that time at Martha’s Vineyard when your panic was calm and the clouds were burned off by the brightest sun of the year. The water wasn’t cold at all and every pastel-painted house has Jamestown toile print on their drapes. The rocks and shells were sharp from the ocean’s abuse but your feet could suffer as long as your mind was, in those moments, thriving.

It’s sad that all they see are bits and pieces stitched together from better times, patches of this smile and that laugh sewn roughshod together for their benefit and sanity.

And yes I live for those times, and no they can’t wait for them.