Manic Episodes and the Dark Side

Prologue A true friend is one soul in two bodies. Aristotle It has been twenty-one years since his death and I still ache as I recall the joy and innocence with which he met his fate. He seemed to have recaptured the carefree spirit of his youth, yet moments later, it was taken away. Even before it happened, I knew a great work was unfolding: God had willed him to die. I’d had the same dark premonition many years ago when I was moved to prepare, in precise detail, a small apartment for my mother. I sensed she would die within hours of her happy homecoming. She did. This time I felt the same certainty. None but the Almighty could have orchestrated the chain of events that had led to such an unlikely and abrupt tragedy. One split-second sooner or later would have made the incident merely a close call, something to thank God for. Out of a quiescent predawn fog, the monster of death came forth with a singular purpose in mind. My kindred spirit seemed mesmerized—drawn toward the light emanating from the steel beast. After what seemed like an eternity, I decided to prove my faith. I didn’t call out. The terrible collision of unforgiving iron and soft flesh made a crushing sound that pierced the early morning peace. Even now, I can relive each moment of the event. Running to him, I removed and laid my crucifix on his trembling chest. Passion and regret surged from my breast where the charm had been dancing. He had been the source of nothing but warmth, love and joy since we met. All the pleasant experiences we had shared passed before my eyes. He had trusted me completely. Though I cherished him, I had let him down this once and God seemed to have taken his life. It is at this point in a manic episode that I alternately experience waves of unspeakable joy and unending incredible horror, sometimes within the course of only a matter of minutes. Either God was with me, speaking to me, or He had deserted me entirely. The appearance of crimson blood on the radiant pure gold cross gave rise to a hope inside. I prayed for a miracle. Surely, this tragic mistake could be reversed. Take him to the hospital, I told myself. I had wheels for speed. I must have averaged better than 130 mph trying to rendezvous with an emergency physician in the city thirty miles away. While winding out fifth gear, I heard what sounded like a pebble hit a wheel well. I continued to drive like a maniac despite the increasing problems with loss of steering. Arriving at my destination, I quickly checked out the car. I discovered that I had navigated on only three tires while clipping at least three other cars as I wove in and out of traffic. Those drivers and the police would surely understand the urgency of my mission, I thought. A small white sports car arrived with me on the scene. Out stepped a beautiful, Latin doctor wearing a white coat with a stethoscope around her neck. She followed me to the patient. I could not watch, I just stood by and tried to commune with God. In a few moments she gave me her prognosis. I cried. She held me. No procedure available to man would work. Even a lethal injection to end the pain had become unnecessary. Where had God been? The only sentient being willing to have a close relationship with me was gone. God had taken everything. He had surely damned my soul. My dog was dead!