something sparkly this way comes…

To be fifteen again, is something I both wish I could do, and am glad I will never have to repeat. Fifteen was a nightmare of an age for me, the bipolar disorder had really taken hold of my physiology, with all the classic attached symptoms; the drug abuse, hypersexuality, the not sleeping thing. If I could go back armed with my present-day knowledge, I’d fight for a proper diagnosis, instead of the misdiagnosis of schizophrenia and the attendant drugs that I was given. But there was some fun in that completely fucked-up part of my life, if only while I was manic. I went dancing nearly every weekend in the city. Mostly at the four-story-high Danceteria. I turned around my high school ring and wore it on my left hand, like a wedding band. Although I wasn’t fooling anyone about being married, I never owned a fake ID and never ever got carded. I was a crazy girl back then, with a penchant for vodka and 7Up. I didn’t drink much, didn’t need to, the mania was fueling my drive to dance, alone, or with anyone who sidled up to me. And dance I did, both with my girlfriends, when they dared to accompany me, with our purses in the middle between us, shoes off, sweating like rock stars, and alone, defying my parents’ wishes for my to not go by myself. The music was loud and electronic, and it was a blast, being out there. I watched the clock like a hawk. The derelict train left Grand Central at 1:30 am on the dot, and I only missed it once. I’d been with Steve something-with-a-J back at his place for some risky behavior. He’d promised to get me back to the station on time, but he didn’t. Ass. I called my father, crying, telling him that I’d had a fight with my girlfriend, Sarah, and she’d left the club before me, and I’d lost track of time. Dear old Daddy came and picked me up in his Porsche, me looking like a total whore, makeup running from the sweat, and freezing. The cops pitch you out of Grand Central after the last train has left, so I waited patiently out in front, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible in neon yellow fishnet tights, four-inch stiletto heels, a micro miniskirt, a torn tshirt, and my grandfather’s army jacket. Trying not to attract attention. I garnered some inquisitive stares, but no offers. He pulled up, unlocked the door, and did not scream at me, but instead, asked if I’d had fun. How clueless my parents were. If I could go back, I’d rage until they finally listened to me instead of shutting me out. They saw all sides of my illness, but not many people knew anything about it back then. Instead of doing that, I went out to dance. And hoped for help which never came.