My patterns are very reminiscent of those I last went through over ten years ago– a state of alertness that led to my even questioning my need for sleep at times, a sense of always being in standby mode. Some nights were spent in the cavernous pit of my office, a single desklamp the only illumination. It came to be known as the Batcave, and some knew that I could be reached there at nearly any hour of the early morning.
Under it all, there was a churning, a constant asking of the same questions that troubled my soul. There was also the longing, occasionally met in flashes of brilliant, mad reconnection, a connection ultimately lost to me. I'm not sure just when in that process I shut down, though the final decision to move on with my life wasn't marked until 1993. And even that wasn't so much a decision as a recognition of my new reality.
I truly don't expect a repeat (though I sometimes fear one). Many things are different now, as am I. Over and over again, I've lived the same story, with different players playing the same inevitable roles. This is the first time it has been different. Perhaps the last story was to prepare me for this one.
This time, I don't know how it ends. Or when.