I sat on this same couch, the same dark green leather couch that I was acquainted with when I first entered the hospital, and I gazed back at it with pride, as this very same couch, it would be gone soon, erased from my memories, like a piercing shock to the brain, like the electroshock therapy that stabilized me, putting all my moods inside a harness.

(And they would be squirming, pulling their hands out to me, trying to whisk me to a world where I felt the highest of mountains, with clouds and stars around me, touching the goddess' lips, and the lows, where I was back in the earth, crawling with the worms and their shit-spewing mouths, eating nothing but dirt. Dirt that the animals shit on. Dirt that I would lovingly pull apart with my fingers, open my big gaping hole wide, and devour it like I haven't been fed but starved with nothing but electric shocks.)

It became my seat for so long, for as long as many months, I would stare at the celadon walls and look at my holed wrists that were beginning to glow in color, beginning to form and heal, and I realized fully in my head now…that this was the day I would leave the hospital. This was the day I would go back to Shadow, and shower him with love, hug him in my arms until I could feel his heart ache inside him, feel his eyes near my muzzle, hear him crying with joy that I was here, in his silver blue house again, ready to hear the chimes of the clock, ready to hear the chimes of his voice, lulling me to a deep sleep. A sleep with dreams, unlike the kind I get with the Thorazine.

with our hands fully formed like molding clay, creating a beating heart in our fists, creating a bridge, a pathway for our blood and veins to reach us and allow us to beat together, sing together in our harmony with our heart ready to thump inside us. And the nurses, even the one with the glass eyes, she told me that I was ready, and I did the right thing. I got help. I got treatment. And that was more my father could ever give or want. Just like Shadow had told me, all along.

My father, the denier. My father, the liar. He denied ever having obsessive compulsive disorder. He denied ever having any mental disorders, but he knew his brain was streaming with them like a bloody crazed river, inside his neurons would there be a misfire, leading him to wash his hands, to eat the flesh of the hopeful, the flesh of those who wished to help, and he always told me it was a special kind of meat, used to build a fort inside his brain, whatever that meant.

And I believed him. I believed him for so long. Until I decided to stand up to him, and tell him that I wouldn't eat his meat, his disgusting rotted guts as the flies would devour them with acid spit. As the maggots would swarm inside them, pilfering holes in the bodies of those that wished to help, but were ultimately ruined intentions as my father would snag them, sink his fangs into them, and devour his sweetmeat. I watched him many times eating it, with great gusto. He always ate the whole thing, until he couldn't take anymore, until his stomach was bursting of organs, until he thought about ripping his own stomach and devouring it too.

And I was so sick, so ill, and I often couldn't stand to be like my father. But I denied my illness too. The mania, the sweet elixir of dopamine, it made me feel like everything was okay, that I didn't need treatment. But the dopamine release nearly killed me on occasion. The shopping sprees. The collection of guns in my closet, now collecting dust. I was so determined to put one of those shells in my brain, to have myself be relieved of this madness, and I knew that wasn't the answer.

It never was the answer.

And Shadow knew that, all along.

I've spent many days, many weeks, many months in here, without Shadow. Even holidays. Even our favorite month, October, we spent without each other. But he said he understood, even if he missed me so. The staff allowed him to come visit, and we drank to our zest, our heart's content, that we were strong, even with this mercury sea that once drowned us. Now we could finally swim. We could finally swim in the sea, and appreciate how it shined in the sun, how it looked nearly crystal white. Like the lithium I had to take to stabilize my moods. And always, they try to reach back to me, but I simply deny them.

Being stabilized was the only thing I wanted in so long.

I can see the silver sea ebbing away from my shore. The white salty beach of lithium. It tries to eat my feet ravenously, but no longer does it want to drag me under and beat me with its many silver jaws. I knew I could try to swim with the mania, try to roll on with the depression, but they told me I could still be creative without the bipolar. In fact, I could even be more creative.

I thought I couldn't believe them. That the mania always gave me the strangest ideas, the little facets of creativity whenever I thought about something so deeply, my shoes would be worn and torn as I would walk back and forth in the dayroom, thinking of so many solutions to so many problems. The genius seemed to have left me when the lithium salts took me over, parched me dry of inspiration, and I often wondered if this was going to end, if I would still be creative with the lithium, with the dry desert of unimagination.

"You don't feel creative on it, Sonic? There's actually studies out there that prove those who receive treatment with lithium actually are still creative, and in fact, can become even more creative. It's just the flow of thoughts you had in your head. And the ridiculous confidence you would have in performing your work."

I stared at the typewriter. And I thought I could feel it stare at me back, with its steel macheted eyes.

I thought with the lithium I could never fathom writing again, that only the bipolar mess I could make sense out of made me creative. Once the lithium was inside me, all that would vaporize and become drifting blue silver smoke. The smoke of the dead, as they decayed in this lone hospital, among with the other spirits inside here. But as they gave me a couple privileges (for being a good patient, I thought), I had on my red hunter's hat and my plaid tweed jacket, with a cigarette attached to my teeth like a magnet to steel fenced in fangs, and I had the typewriter in my hands, ready to type out everything I experienced in this hospital, in this winter landscape below me, the tree branches drifting in the wind, the chill hitting my face and causing my cheeks to turn flushed and red like a fully ripened cherry, I prepared to listen in on the bird's calls throughout the forest, the breathing of the woodpecker, the river that was acidic ice, petrified and shocked, no longer running except for the lone deers that would sink their necks to drink the arctic water, and as I looked at how much of life I was missing with my illness, the beauty of the forest and wilderness and nature, I thought I was missing so much for so long. The nature that God had taken so long to make, with his glorious celestine hands and his moon eyes, he created all these things for me to enjoy, and I am left with this sickness, this cataclysm inside my mind. And the forest would remain untouched, by my eyes, and I am left with these hospital walls to stare at, the small red crosses becoming my trees, the patients becoming my deer and my birds, and the river being the blood that would cascade over this thin white ice of the floor.

The hospital certainly felt so arctic, with their air conditioner always numbing me, always making me shiver with the touch of its breezy fingers.

When I met Shadow we saw everything and anything together. But now, we spent out time doing nothing. I spent 48 hours in that hospital. I spent 72 hours and more, much more, and that time could've spent on him. And I wanted to change that. I wanted to spend our time in a forest like this, in our favorite season, wrapped in dense blankets that weren't at all weak and light like the hospital's, but they were colorful and as flaring as the red orange and yellow leaves that cascaded down the floor, and we would watch as nature around us unfolded, as the flowers slowly decayed, as the trees dropped their dresses and became bare naked, as the birds soon wanted to move somewhere where the trees were decent and not at all like harlots.

I thought of all those lovely things with Shadow, and I wanted him here, with me, ready to tell people about what I experienced, about the hallucinations I experienced, the cilantro growing in my ankles and knees and wrists, the demons crowing for me to be in a straitjacket like my father, and the electroshock therapy, the experience I had when I held Shadow's hand, the loving sensation flowing through me, along with the bright jabs of God's storm.

But that storm was better than the bipolar storm I experienced. My wrists may never recover from that torrent, that godawful downpour of sadness and black ricketing despair that diseased me.

Someone held my hand as I was writing, the small story that I thought would be in people's minds for many years. I thought it was the nurse with the glass eyes again, but Shadow simply held my hand to his heart, and I could feel it beating.

I would not be like my father. And eat it. Even if it was so precious, 20 karat gold, lined with emeralds and rubies.

I could tell that it was glowing like the sun. The sun that was no longer black.

He told me he was so proud of me, and he wanted me to be happy, and as I felt more into his white sateened chest, I could feel the tears rustling inside him, beginning to drip out like a rain storm, the silver clouds in his head.

I smiled. Even if I knew this would be an emotional moment. I brushed his tears away with the glove of my hand (which has since been replaced since the cigarette burn in one of them), and I leaned over for a kiss, his shoulder keeping me aloft. And he obliged, and I could feel his warm lips on mine, and I felt whole. I felt fulfilled.

I was writing so much since he was gone, I told him. I felt like I had a voice now. That the lithium made me more of a writer than my bipolar. I could see he returned the smile, and he read one of my poems, which was called, of course, Lithium.

The white metal

How it creases and blankets the silver sea

It softens and melts into the mold

It makes me think

Without such a utter violence on the world

The salts, they drown me

With dryness

The vomit keeps rushing

From my little black cave

They say it's normal

They say I'm closer

To not decaying

The angels have told me

This is the right to freedom

The right to write

I look upon the fallen snow

Of all the pages I wrote

They create wings from their folded triangular hands

I am not forsaken as the

Lithium has taken me over

The wings tell me what to do next

To find a lover?

To have my blood white and a bright sheen

As bright as the phantom's tooth?

I waltz into the doctor's room

The smell of cinnamon and Lysol

They beckon me to come in

Sit and talk

And hope the storm inside my head

Is over

He said it was good. Very good. That he never read another poem like it.

He decided to read about my accounts of the other months I've been inside this hospital, the holidays I had to miss without Shadow, but he thought it was good enough spending them in the hospital with me, talking of my path to recovery.

It is September. I am cold, and I am empty.

I often feel like a piece of paper, ready to be cut by the wicked tail of the wind. I cannot find solace. I am here, suffering from this Trileptal, the medicine that has been making me sick for so long. I am a yellow, dusty paper, never written a single word, never a single letter. It is beginning to make small yellow marks on my skin. They looked as bruised as my wrists, as my legs from the cilantro-pull.

They had to clip my nails. I often had delusions that insects were crawling inside me, that they were making eggs in my valuable organs that my father would've loved so much.

My father, the egg-eater. The ones with pupils and corneas. I don't know if he ate eyeballs, but I knew that wasn't beyond him. He ate anything that came out of the human body. I'm sure he even did something with people's teeth. He probably made a necklace out of it. Made a necklace from the nails. I'm sure if he was still in Hell he would've liked to collect my nails, as they flew away from my fingers, those still having color inside them unlike my father.

I've forgotten many things. I often worry I would forget the memories of me and Shadow, spending all those times every holiday, having bonfires outside our house, having Thanksgiving over at his family's, having Christmas in his house (so quiet and blue it was, with his blue staccato wallpaper! But I have grown used to it, and I never mind the silence at all, and in fact, Shadow and I would bask in it, listening to the chimes of the clock and the crackling of the pit, just…thinking of our futures.), and New Year's, where we would talk about the things we accomplished, the triumphs we achieved. I hope being treated in this hospital would be one of them, as now I am crying that I can't spend those times with Shadow, that I would end up on one on one, without seeing him for a visitation. I often feel like I'm ready to kill myself. I often think of what it would be like if I made the blanket covet my neck, strangle it until it was as blue as my fur. It was the only way I could think of dying, but I knew they were watching me, watching my every step. I couldn't do anything in this damn hospital! I was stuck here, not really living, and not really dying! I was in Limbo!

Nothing to do, except to stare at my battle wounds and be bored. There was the TV, but it was often stale and uninteresting. There were puzzles and games, but I wanted to play with no one. Absolutely no one wanted to bother me, all those crazy dingbats. They say that I'm too crazy for their craziness, and I couldn't be invited in their damn little shitty reindeer games.

I wished this illness hadn't taken over my life. I love the mania, the flow of madness, the bursting with life and energy, the blooming of the roses as they would bleed all over the floor, all over my senses and all over my wrists and all over my eyes, but now it had to be no more. The nurses pitied me, but I knew they wanted to harm me. I knew they wanted to dessicate me and open me up like a fucking baked potato. Have the medicine roast me on the inside, have it make my body and organs pop open and have them look inside. And they would gaze at me with wonder and fear. I knew they did that already, that the pills were cyanide, disgusting acid that threatened to dissolve my insides.

I popped open one of those pills before. I saw salt and acid inside it. It ate through my bed, tore a hole in it, and I didn't tell anybody, because I didn't want the nurses to know that I was beginning to understand their plan, their plan to hang me like Jesus Christ, crucify me for all the patients to see, for me to die for their sins. I could imagine it all in my head, the machine it was, with the many gears and steam engines and everything that made my brain function. I understood that sometimes the lows made the machine malfunction and have the owner, the conductor, be faced with a great emptiness as the cobwebs would collect on the pedals and the switches, but once the highs kicked in, it made the machines work faster and harder until they broke, and I wanted to feel it again. I can't imagine writing again with this sanity. All writers were a little bit insane, whether it was from alcohol or childhood abuse (daddy issues like mine) or mental illness, they all had something that made their writing flow like music, like a piano playing somber tunes by a somber man who had thick wiry hair and whose eyes always looked sad and blue. I imagined the writing as my piano, my platform to play to all the world, but with my moods stabilized, it doesn't sound as magical, as musical, as lyrical. The music is flat and toneless. And I didn't know what to do about it. The lithium magic, it took my life away! It drowned me away with its acidic pill! It dissolved my soul, my being! I couldn't write like this, without the music playing so clearly in my head! I couldn't do much of anything without my piano, except dance, but without the music, I couldn't dance either.

I was withered and embittered. I had nothing to make me alive. I imagined myself like those flowers at the nurse's station I tried to smash, the colors ready to dissolve onto the checkered floor. Their blood was my blood. I was suffering from the lack of suffering in my soul.

All my writing was sad and pathetic. I always wrote such sad things that made people get their energy sucked out of them. They often told me I was always depressed, but I often found solace in writing these terrors, these things that always kept me up at night, and right now, I couldn't sleep, because my father always kept me up with his sodium smile, his moonlight fingers, his eyes that shined like iodide and death. He wished he could have purple eyes like the rest of the special people in the world. He wanted to switch his eyes because he felt his were flawed anyways, that he had to wear glasses and he was extremely near-sighted. But he never got to perform that surgery on himself, because he soon committed suicide, and either way, he would've died by his own hands, no matter how much of a skilled surgeon he was.

He soon didn't went to work, even if he had surgeries to do. He just ate his bloody drugs and did nothing else. I remembered he might've snorted some cocaine too. He claimed it made him have energy. He might've done meth too. The bastard tried all sorts of drugs, all sorts of insanity-driven things, just to get his fix, just to feel better.

He would never get help for his OCD. He never got help for that same disease he gave me, bipolar.

Heh, bipolar? They said it might've been schizoaffective disorder. Whatever the hell that meant. And they said it was a terrible mood disorder, with the symptoms of both schizophrenia and bipolar.

I knew nothing about the disorder, except as I heard the diagnosis, I could feel my insides reek, dying a little faster inside. All I wanted was just peace from my disorder, but the Trileptal hasn't been giving any of that to me. I still feel sick, disgusted, holed with the claws of the mercury sea, and I felt like I couldn't stop being sick. It was a habit now. A Godforsaken habit that I couldn't stop, like my father couldn't stop washing his hands.

My flesh would be as bone dry as his. I could feel them warping in the sun's light, underneath my gloves with the cigarette burn inside them.

I don't feel cured. But cured is just a hopeful word, something that could never happen. I would forever have this disorder, this disease, this decay.

I could never be happy. Until the mania bloomed again, and I was sent to a frenzy with my writing, with my crescent needles ready to be inserted inside me, ready to put me back in the dreamless world of Thorazine.

And with that, I am going to bed, away from this nightmarish reality and into a nightmarish dream. At least when I wake up, I realize it's not real. And I wished I could do the same with reality, but I was stuck here, and God wanted me to suffer, for I was his new son, his new Christ.

Jesus Christ is no longer in Heaven. He is in Limbo.

It is October. The light feels more tangerine, more bright, and the colors beckon me to get up, to experience the beautiful world around me.

It was my and Shadow's favorite month. Fall was beginning to clamber down the steps of Seasons, and it unfurled its glorious dress, the reds and oranges and golds, and she would smile at me, telling me that the cold would prickle my skin, but it would always feel nice, and I could feel the soup and drinks warm my soul. I wished I was out of this hospital, so I could spend that time with Shadow, to watch the leaves fall and dance in the wind, to go to the cafe and have our usual apple cider, and watch as the woods began to fall in their splendor, to shed their old colorful skin, now bare and gray, ready to be picked apart by winter. And we would talk of many things, things that made us happy, things we could always hope for.

They told me Shadow was coming for a visit, but I thought I couldn't believe them, that he would never come see me in the condition I was in.

My body was touched with purple spots. I started bruising myself a lot more often. The Trileptal didn't help me much, so they put me on Depakote. And I often felt tired. Depressed. I didn't want to get up and do anything, as the nurses would drag my lifeless body out to the group room. They told me if I didn't participate in any of their activities I would be stuck in here longer. So be it, I said. I thought I was stuck in here forever.

My gloves were gray. My fur was matted and thorned. I often felt like I was dirty. But I didn't shower in so long, no matter what the nurses said to me. It was difficult for me to bathe. I couldn't imagine doing it everyday. I hated being the servant to my body, always cleaning it, always brushing it, always making sure it didn't smell ripe. But I knew if I didn't had to do it once, but nearly everyday of my life, it would be too difficult for me to do. I just wanted to do it just one time, and never having to think of it again. The nurses keep saying to my doctor of how much I didn't care much for my appearance anymore, but he keeps putting me on different medication, medication that I felt has always never worked. Not to mention the electroshock treatments he gave me for a couple of weeks, being plugged into that giant tape recorder and having my body shake with the tremulous might of God and Zeus. I felt like I couldn't take it anymore, that I wanted to be out of the hospital, into the blue house Shadow had, the silver blue wallpaper that I often thought was so depressing, but now, it seemed comforting, more comforting than these green walls that always appeared in my dreams, the halo of heaven, the place I always wanted to be since I've heard of my father going to his own little wonderland, the fiery gash of Hell.

My father, he was a Lutheran too, and always, he told me to pray before I would eat my dinner. My dinner of liver and onions that I refused to eat, that I knew was yet another liver from another hedgehog.

He told me the meat was good for me, that it would make a huge difference in my life if I ate it everyday, just one little morsel, it could make a huge difference.

All I had to do was eat it.

And it lied on my plate, a deep bloody juice seeping from it, the knife cutting through its body, it looking miserable and orange after it was torn from the hedgehog's body, and I thought I could hear it crying as my knife sunk into it.

And he told me to eat it.

Eat it.

He told me I would feel so much better if I ate it.

The fork dangled from my mouth, as the liver I thought I could hear continued to scream and call me a cannibal. A disgusting creature. Why was I listening to my father?

The smell was disgusting. I could hear the maggots worming their way through it. My father probably didn't bother keeping it in the fridge. I could hear the maggots, munching, munching, munching through the dark red organ.

My hands shook.

I didn't want to be called a cannibal, no matter how well the meat was cooked, how nice it tasted. I didn't want to do such a disgusting thing, to be claimed as insane as my father, as he ate his liver diligently, as he craved the next bite as soon as he swallowed it.

I wanted to get away from this dinner table. To close my eyes and wish I could teleport out of here with my father's shadow so large, looming over me like a wolf about to eat a sheep, his fangs so black and so sharp like saws, and I could imagine my father ready to eat me if he so wanted to, like I could imagine he would do to my mother, the princess with the cancer-coated throat.

He looked at me expectantly, as he completely devoured his plate. And he kept telling me I could eat it, I could feel better, I could have my illness cured, because it helped him, it made him not do his OCD-rifled actions as often.

But I knew that was a lie. And as his green-bladed eyes continued to saw through me like his damned black teeth, I told him I wasn't going to eat it, that I didn't want to be sick.

"You won't be sick. When did I ever told you you'd be sick eating your dinner? Your mother ate it!"

She just took her plate to the other room, and then threw it in the trash. Without batting an eye on how my father believed cannibalism made you feel better about yourself and your mental health.

He scorned me with those loveless eyes. I could tell he hated me, for simply not being a part of his insanity. I told him I wasn't going to do it, because I could tell this was someone else's liver, that he was eating various parts from other people. And he told me it was a lie and it was just good old cow liver. The finest he could ever get from his slaughterhouse.

My hands continued to tremble when I put them on the table, staring at my plate, my father's shadow appearing bigger, darker, his fangled teeth beginning to tear through my conscious.

And I took the plate and broke it. I made the liver sit there, rife with flies and sins, and I told him I would never eat his food, because I could tell there was always something deeply wrong with it. I knew he tried to poison me too. Sometimes he puts cigarette ashes in his chili. Sometimes he would put laxatives and rat poison in all his little deadly concotions. My mother never ate it, because I knew that she always knew and always ate somewhere else. She always ate at fine restaurants, as my mother often got a lot of money being an entertainer, but she never shared that money with me. Or my father.

I felt like both my parents hated me. My mother was as sweet as saccharine at times, but she barely paid attention to me, because I knew she was too busy trying to forget about the existence of my father. She said she once wanted to divorce him, but she never believed in divorce, and she tried to tell me that she thought my father was a fine man, but he needed to go to work otherwise she would leave him because he was a slob, but I knew my father only went to the hospital for one reason only, to get his meals and to prepare them as nicely as he could for his supposed family to eat.

As I thought more of my family's past, the nurses told me that Shadow was here, and that while they would forbid it, they allowed him to bring some apple cider, and we sat together on that small round table, discussing my plans, and discussing the little things in life that Shadow was photographing, telling me I would never miss another fall's moment without him.

I told him that yes, I missed him, but I wasn't ready yet to get out of here. That they're still trying various medicines on me. I was now on Depakote I told him, and I told him it really wasn't working for me. I often felt tired, lethargic, and even as I sat with him drinking our apple cider, I felt like I needed to quickly go back to bed, else I would pass out in front of him.

"If it isn't working for you Sonic, then you need to try something else. The reason they call it medication is because it's supposed to make you feel better. If it doesn't make you feel better, then you need to tell them why you don't like the medicine and try something different. Again, I'm on lithium, and it has really helped me. It's usually the first choice they give to people like you, and I'm surprised they haven't started it yet."

I wasn't sure if I wanted to try it. It seemed like a dangerous drug, a toxic drug that would kill me, but he told me that I was here for this reason, for everyone to monitor me with my medication.

"They'll make sure your lithium levels aren't too high or too low. Lithium does seem like a scary drug, but it's made a huge difference in my life. I'm able to function at my job and I'm able to function when we're spending time together. And now it's your turn. Just ask them that you want to try it and see if it works for you. I'm sure you will be able to brave through the first side effects. It will make you tremor or even make you sick if you don't eat something first before you take it, but I know you're really strong, Sonic. I know that you can do it."

I stared at my apple cider, until Shadow placed his hand over mine. I wanted to look away, but no, this was one of the things that Shadow told me I could look forward to once I got treatment. Once the bipolar vanished.

He kissed me. I felt warm, and my cheeks were red, as red as the fall's first fallen leaf.

I held his hand, and told him I will get better. I will suggest to be put on the lithium. For him. For his sake. For my memories' sake to never be like my blood-curdling father.

Soon, he had to leave. I wanted him to stay here, be another patient with me, be sick with me forever, sleep in the same small bed, sleep in the same pink fragile blankets, but he said he had a job to go to, he had to help pay the bills, he had to help paying for my medical expenses. I felt ashamed that he was the one paying for it, but he told me to not worry about it, and he'll take care of everything.

He gave me the photos, which the staff also allowed me to keep. I looked at the furling dresses of the trees, beginning to droop down and unsheathe, showing the trees naked breasts, and I wished we could go outside and look at the wilderness, but he told me soon, we would be able to do that, but not now. Not while I was sick. Not while I was trying to recover.

The path to recovery was a granite road, full of sharp stones while you strolled on it barefoot, while the sun was sharp and glazed on your skin while it popped with sweat. But it was a road I was willing to not give up on. It was a road I wished to see the end of.

November had many storms. Both the storms of fall, as the rain was streaming on my windows, and the storm of my bipolar. But I thought it was beginning to quiet down. It was slowly dying away.

I could see the rain streaking on the window, as I no longer wanted to stare at the walls, but always, I gazed at the windows, as I wanted to see the woods next to the hospital, the stars shining gallantly and the sun that I noticed becoming a little bit brighter, setting and rising. The sun was orange now, ever since I got on the lithium, the drug that Shadow suggested for me to take.

The cloud dragons left their tails in the skies. And the raindrops soon would be dried in the sun's heat, no longer letting the screens drink their might every time the storm lion's roared and shook the sky.

They agreed not taking the Depakote was a wise idea if it made me extremely tired, and now, the lithium salts were down my throat, into my stomach, forcing me to throw up every time I didn't eat something with it. The doctors made note of it, and now I eat the salts with every meal, and often it didn't made me sick, although the tremors and the thirst was beginning to be irritating.

But I could tell it was working, as the sun I saw was no longer black, but a deep russet bloody color. It was a little unsettling, but I knew that was a start. That the sun would soon become brighter, and no longer would I be stark weak and cold against the black sun.

Shadow came to visit me again, and the staff allowed him to give me his mother's recipe of yams that I always loved. He asked me if I was feeling better on the lithium, and while I couldn't see much of a huge difference, I knew I was getting better, in increments, little by little. And he told me it was better than nothing.

"If you can feel it working, then it will work. You just got to keep taking it. Soon you'll notice a huge difference. And those side effects you're getting, they'll eventually go away. Once you get used to it it won't bother you as much. The first week taking it is always hard, but once you get past it, you'll feel a whole lot better. I can guarantee you that."

I told him that I wasn't sure if my lithium was going to heal everything. Make the scars in my wrist stop hurting, make my mind not as slow and dull like it usually was when I was on these mood stabilizers. But Shadow lifted his hand and stroked my cheek, which he could catch a few hints of tears in them.

I hated crying in front of him. But I felt so confused, so riddled with questions about this medication and how I was supposed to feel. He always collected my tears. I thought his gloves were much like the window screens after a storm, the drops dripping down until they fell to the floor. I thought of myself as nothing but a rainstorm, like the outside, as the rain began to down its tremble, a small drizzle, very few tears being collected on the sidewalks.

The highs, they made me feel like I was powerful. That I was a god like the Greek gods, their madness always giving them instances of brilliance, their bodies always feeling true suffering from both their mind and the punishments from Zeus, even my father, the sick Apollo, who ate the flesh of the dead. I couldn't imagine leaving those wonderful feelings, that feeling of being raised in the air by some lone creature who would soon sink his claws into you and make you smashed on the floor, the lows, the burn and crash you can get by riding in your little rollercoaster, your little adventure through your moods.

"I miss them sometimes too. But the more manic you are, the more your depressive moods are going to make you feel like you're in deep emotional pain. I experienced those too. Such a fleeting high where I felt like I could challenge everyone and defeat even the police when they were handcuffing me for drinking and driving, and when I was in jail, I suddenly wanted to kill myself. I tried to die by anything I could get, until I was sent to solitary confinement because I was depressed and suicidal. And I hated it. Even if the other people in jail were shitty to me and hated me, I hated how quiet it was for some reason. How I sat so alone in that jail cell, with no one who gave a shit about me wanting to help me with my depression, because my mother and father kept telling me, as the disease was handed down to them throughout many generations too, so they knew how it went: to get treatment. And to stop drinking. And to stop doing God knows how many other drugs I was lapping up. You never knew the me before I got treatment Sonic, I was fucked up. And while my parents tried their best, they knew that the only way I would truly get better is if I realized I had a problem and I had to talk to my doctor. The highs may be great, the creativity may seem so strong in your mind, but I would rather be stabilized than get back to that again. Even if it seems like I could never be as happy as I was when I was manic."

I finished my yams, as I always did when his mother produced a heaping plate for us to feed on (his mother always believed in finishing a large plate of her food was such a big compliment, so I always tried to do the nice thing and finish everything even if my stomach felt like it would burst) and as we stood in the starking light, we hugged, and he told me that he hoped I would be much better during the Christmas season. And we could spend Christmas together, at his house, listening to the beating of his clock, the beating of our hearts, and the beating of the fireplace as it singed and devoured the wood with its flaming orange teeth.

As visitation hours were over, my heart felt like it was floating again. I knew I would slowly get better. The doctors would make sure of that.

I was getting closer to the end of the Road to Recovery. I could feel my head be pumped with the medication, the lithium driving the silver sea back to the throes of my brain.

It was December. I could feel the frost collecting on my fingers, collecting on my eyes, the frost even dusting my nose. But while the hospital was cold, even if the blankets never seemed to keep me warm, it was time for me to leave, as my heart was warm, as I would arrive back at Shadow's, just in time for Christmas.

I sat typing on the typewriter, feeling so proud that I still had the magic mind, that the mercury sea didn't at all made my writing full of that magical spark go away, the ignition to set a reader's thoughts on fire with my own flames.

The nurses and doctors walked out of the hospital and told me I could leave now, that Shadow was waiting for me with open arms.

The nurse with the glass eyes, I saw her there, with her clipboard deftly to her side, even if I thought she couldn't see it. She told me that she was so proud of me that I got better, that I was ready to make such a huge impact on my life. No longer would it roll with the sorrow, the suicide attempts and the mania that had me hallucinate, full of fervor over my downward spiral, full of the passion I had for drinking down pints of vodka, the pity I had for myself simply because of my father who passed down the insanity to me, for my mother who was murdered by his bloody steeled surgical tools. My father, I will no longer remember him. He was a true monster, a true wolf in sheep's clothing, and I no longer need to feel like his illness was my fault and that I was overall responsible for it. I now know that I will not be like my father, for I admitted I had issues, that I needed help, and the lithium shores, they made the sea no longer so daunting, so scary.

And most of all, I felt…happy. And I haven't felt that way in such a long time. Ever since the last mania had dissolved away.

My wrists no longer felt like they were sore and damaged. I still had the barbwire inside of them, but I no longer called it barbwire, but stitches. And they kept me alive, from all the acts I pulled throughout the years. Acts that I thought were the right choices. But they were simply emotional acts, things I thought would keep me more alive by killing more feelings inside me.

Shadow met me down the hall, and I could catch a hint of a smile. I smiled too. And I tousled his quills, and he laughed, and I laughed too. We laughed all the way to his car. The hospital hall's rang with it, and I hoped it gave people happiness, because I often wished there were people who showed me it was possible to be happy in this place. I often sat on that chair and stared at walls and stared at the swollen, universal wrists. The other men in that hospital often just talked to themselves while the nurses never seemed to show love or happiness to anyone, because the room seemed to be so dark, so infected with insanity. But I knew it was possible to be happy. Because the sun was yellow as we drove out of there, and it followed me all the way to his home.

The skies were fuchsia, dotted with bleached and smiling stars. My breath came out in small little puffs of smoke, as my body was warm, warm with positivity and opportunity, and I could feel color returning to my hands again, no longer ash white like my father's were, thank God.

And God. Of course. I felt like he didn't hate me anymore, but just gave me a challenge, a challenge to overcome these obstacles, to fight through these creatures, these shadow monsters that came underneath my bed when I was a child, with the appearance of the wolf, my father, the meat-eater and the purple-eyed canine with fur of flames that always wished to see me burn.

But I never did.

I couldn't see myself ever falling in his footsteps. And I fought. And I made it.

I felt like I had fully recovered. That I was ready to get back to my life, after my falling from trees.

The trees were so tall as we drove through the winter woodscape. They looked like when I was up above them so long ago, they pierced heaven, and I was so close to seeing the face of God.

It was so silent that I could hear the snow falling outside my window.

I could hear the clock chiming, the fireplace brewing.

I knew what day it was. I knew what Shadow was doing. I could smell him making something for his mother, to celebrate the holiday back at her house once we were done spending time here, together.

I knew it was Christmas.

The fire crackled. I gaze at the cerulean walls and sighed softly, for I felt so peaceful, so much lightness in my heart and soul. I've never felt so calm in a long time, that the bipolar storm inside my head was gone, that it quieted down, and now, it was only a gentle rain that continued to water the flowers and help everything in my world grow.

He sat so still, patient, waiting for his casserole to bake, waiting for me to arrive. I saw him stabbing the fire with the poker, while humming old Christmas showtunes that his mother would always play back at her house. And I sat right beside him, feeling the warmth of the fire as it massaged me, as Shadow hugged me closer to his fur, and I listened to his heart, how radiant it was, how soft it sounded underneath all that silk.

I felt warm. Safe. And I never wanted to be anywhere else in the world.

"I'm glad you're here," he said. "I thought I would spend Christmas, all by myself, without you. I understand you wanted to get help, but I would've felt so lost, so shattered, if I didn't get to spend this day with you. Because I consider you a part of my family, a part of my stars in my sky. I consider you a part of my universe. And I'm glad you're here, recovered. I hope those things will never hurt you again. I never want to see you so sad, so lonely, when you know you have me, your guide. I will make sure you aren't hurt, ever again."

I closed my eyes briefly, listening to both the fire and his heart split the wood, his own passionate flames inside his chest.

"I know I'm going to be hurt again, Shadow. That's how life is. It's a series of feeling good and being hurt, feeling good and being hurt, but the bipolar…it made it unbearable. I feel like I'm more capable in dealing with those hurts that life is going to bring me. Knowing that suicide won't solve anything, knowing that I have you with me through the darkened times, through the times where the light is so strong I think I can't see, through the black suns and the gold suns, the blue suns and the bloody suns, I know I can deal with them all. And I feel so…loved with you, Shadow. That I'm glad I experienced all those things, whether they were terrifying or they made me feel hope, that now I can sit with you in your home and just…relax."

I closed my eyes, as both his heart and his fireplace were warming me, the silence lulling me to a deep, tranquil sleep, and I could hear him softly humming as he held me, singing Bing Crosby's "White Christmas".

I could hear the clock beginning to chime along with the song, telling us it was 7:00. But it wasn't time to leave. And right now, I didn't wish to leave. I wished we could stay here forever, perched among Shadow's universe, gazing at the gods as they smiled at us, as they took delight in me, conquering my demons, my fears, and that I was closer and closer, to becoming a constellation like Taurus and Orion, like the two Dippers, like the Ursa.

The clock droned on, the fire continued to speak to me in tongues, and I fell asleep, listening to the lithium shores in my head welcome the mercury tide, as I sank my feet into the wet sand, smiling, laughing, holding onto Shadow's hand as the bipolar sea no longer looked so scary. It was a beast we conquered, a creature that will always sink away to the horizon.

The sun was pink, like a newly born love. It shined all of the world, and it kissed my face as we faced the sunset, watching as another day died away, until it would flare back again like a revived phoenix, the sun forever gold.

No longer black like it used to be. No longer shining that misery as I would sleep in my bed with Shadow, kissing and singing and laughing, as the sun was as pure and as bright as our hearts, our love.

I was so high in those trees again. I fell to Hell and got back to the face of God. And I could hear him in his mighty voice say, "You've done so well, my son."