Manic in Ireland (Part Three)

Back to the fall of 2002. I’m not manic. When I first see her, though, I’m still madly in love. I assume she is too. After all, we’re soulmates. We’re twin flames. Her name is Sophia. She’s from France. She proceeds to become the object of my manic obsession for many, many years to come. If Daniel Johnston has Laurie, I have Sophia. At the start, we become friends. We have a connection. We yell “Super Freak! Super Freak! Super Freak! Super Freak!” into each others’ faces. To us, it’s hilarious. To me, it’s true love. To her, it’s friendship.

When I become manic in March of 2003, Sophia takes on a very special delusional meaning. It’s difficult and embarrassing for me to unpack this. Basically, I think that Sophia and I are supposed to get married, move to rural Ireland, and give birth to the messiah. This is particularly weird because, at the same time, I think that I’m the messiah. So it’s almost as if I think we’re supposed to give birth to the SUPER messiah or something. I further think that when it’s revealed to the world that I’m the second coming, I will be killed. This is okay, though, because my son is the true messiah. My death will actually provide him with the cover he needs to move forward and save the world. Yeah, that is some “#1 Dad” shit right there lol.

Every time I’m manic over the course of the next 11 years, Sophia makes the beating heart of my psychosis light on fire. Thank goodness, somehow, amidst my insanity, I never harass her or scare her. This is a miracle. When I’m not manic, I’m so humiliated (and actually still in love) that I don’t even allow myself to think about Sophia. For more than a decade, I only message her once on Facebook. In my mind, the stakes are high. With every keystroke, my emotional core becomes more and more exposed. I ask her how she’s doing and say that I hope all is well. Simple. Sophia messages me back and says that she is doing great and is happy and healthy. She asks if I have any plans to visit France. She actually still sees me as a friend! She actually would be cool with hanging out with me in real life! She has absolutely no idea of the insanely intense and grandiose meaning that I have assigned to her for so long. This is wild. She must be crazy. I respond by telling her I’m glad that she is doing well and that things are good on my end. I tell her I would love to visit France but don’t have any immediate plans to do so. Our entire exchange is quite mundane and short-lived, but, for me, it’s knee-buckling. We’re not in touch again. That’s okay.

From 2003 until 2014, I burn for Sophia. Then, finally, it just stops. I don’t know why. I don’t know how. But it does. I get over the delusion. I get over her. I still get manic, but she no longer plays a primary role in the insanity drama. She finally gets to retire. I finally get to transcend what can best be described as an 11 year psychotic soulmate mind-fuck. I wish Sophia the very best. I’m not exactly sure why, but I’m sorry.

I’m also sorry that, throughout this time period, my Sophia fixation keeps me from achieving real intimacy with other women. I’ll date and I’ll connect, but, in the back of my mind and in the depths of my heart, I’m convinced I belong with Sophia. It’s not fair to my partners, and it’s not fair to me. My long-lingering delusion makes me throw away good love again and again and again.

Now enter regret. Now enter so much regret. It’s one of the many tragic aspects that lies in the wake of Bipolar mania. Whether it be love lost, family members pushed to the brink, friendships destroyed, life goals shattered, scary and erratic behavior toward anybody unlucky enough to cross my path, yelling and screaming, cusping violence, arrests or hospitalizations, regret looms. We’ll get into all of it.

But hey, at least, in my mind, Sophia thinks I’m really funny. Here’s to you, Super Freak!

Love,

JFOD

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