It was not the first time I’d considered death as an escape hatch. Nor was it the first time I felt my head was not my own, not in my control. Once, after a vicious fight with my mother I went to the golf course in the neighborhood, houses on either side, blonde patios and a long stretch of grass, and drank a bottle of cough syrup. I laughed into my hands, I laughed out loud and took an Uber to the supermarket. I sat in the front and felt as though the driver knew how special I was, the mission I’d been granted, wanted to fuck the powers out of me, suck my light. But he dropped me off and I went inside, ate a candy bar without paying and ignored the phone calls. When my brother appeared, he asked if I was alright. I was gone, not Jasmine at all. But a puppet carried by someone with restless hands. I experienced depression first at eleven years old. I would want to sleep all the time, asked for sleep on my birthday; I couldn’t focus in school, limped through my classes and said not very much. This came and went, once resulting in taking a bottle of aspirin then laying on the couch and telling no one what I’d done, nursing a stomach ache. But at sixteen years old, a girl raised on Lolita and Arctic Monkeys, vinyl records and poems, I had my first manic episode. I have only bits of recollection. I know the broader scope; I wore loud clothing, hung out of cars, was convinced I was either going to win a Tony award because of the music I was planning to write or, if that didn’t work out, an Emmy for my film I was in the process of making. I had hired two young girls, gotten permission from the library to film inside, had written the script—but I had no camera. Still, I would mumble beneath my sheets at night, rehearsing my acceptance speech over and over again. Thank you so much. This is an honor, really. More episodes would follow; seven years would pass punctured by episodes, long stretches of being king, a couple of dark holes. I set toys on fire. I started smoking. I lost all my friends. I loved everyone on earth. I dropped out of school. I shocked myself again and again, electric kisses. I heard orchestras in empty rooms. I found comfort in hallucinations. I was going to save the world. I was incoherent, listen to me.
