#sonofcrime

Doctors don't completely understand the causes of bipolar disorder, but experts do believe that it often ruins in families and that there is a genetic part to this mood disorder, causing that underlying problem with specific brain circuits and the balance of brain chemicals which are the major contributors to mood disorders. 

Several studies show that patients with bipolar disorder type II are more likely to give birth to children with a psychiatric disorder. They have a plethora of studies to prove that bipolar disorder is probably genetic, that his mother is to blame for what he is today -- for the multitudinous nature of his persona and the sempiternity of his torment. 

Vincent doesn't believe that.    His mother was not sick.     She was not like him.       His mother was the epitome of loveliness.

For weeks in a row, she'd be floating high in a state of pure optimism. Those would be the times when she'd tell him tales of long forgotten times in a silvery tone, or whisper to him, sotto voce, Machiavellian conspiracies within the safety of their blanket fort. Those would also be the days when they'd go on a shopping spree, or skipping work/school to visit Italy, France or perhaps even Norway and Russia -- and it didn't quite matter if they had the money or not. They usually didn't.  Once they even made fifty-four ham sandwiches just because. It didn't matter the situation, his mother'd always be completely euphoric during those weeks.

Then, almost as if to compensate those days in a row with a schedule of only three hours of sleep per night, his mother would enter a state of mortifying prostration. She'd lie down listlessly on the couch and wallow in melancholia for days on end, zapping through the channels without absorbing shit. Eventually, she'd throw a tantrum -- anything that didn't require too much effort, like throwing the remote across the room and watching it burst open against the wall or dropping the plates of food that Vincent'd try to force upon her every now and then.  Those were the days when Vincent'd find himself bereft of any sense of direction and of mores. Luckily, it was just in that hell of unsatisfied desires turned inward, in that fever of oscillations and self-loathing, that his mother would arise from the ashes like a phoenix: completely anew.

After having buried herself alive for grief in that sea of misery and getting out with every nerve still intact, his mother would fall into the ordinary -- or at least, the commonly accepted sort of ordinary. She'd be a mother, then, and tend upon Vincent's necessities and go to work and do all that was expected from a woman of her sort. 

Until the beginning of a new cycle.

sonofcrime liked your photo“2teapots: Je suis la belle et la bête on We Heart It....”

I see you, El.

For a moment there, Vincent was convinced he had caught a glimpse of his own reflexion on a dimensionally adventurous and traveling mirror -- for he was sure there were no mirrors in his shop --, but alas, a second glance was enough to prove him otherwise. The verisimilitude was unlikely, but the resemblance was very much true; Vincent had to stop and gaze at the stranger for a second or two before he managed to muster a faint smile from behind the counter and offer the other male something akin to a welcoming beckon (maybe, depending on one's understandings of what an inviting gesture should entail, which may or not be the same understanding as Vincent had of the matter).