Dating : A Look Inside A Manic Mind

The following is an excerpt from Crossover: A Look Inside a Manic Mind by Brett Stevens. Copyright © 2019 Brett Stevens.

Crossover: a basketball maneuver in which a player who is dribbling the ball switches the ball rapidly from one hand to the other, to make a change in direction.

Bipolar Disorder: a mental illness marked by alternating moods characterized by periods of mania and depression.

How I remember it…

The Release

“Everybody, shut the fuck up! I’ve had enough of you all talking behind my back!” I screamed, looking out at a public crowd having lunch that day at a packed pizza shop in Texas. “Shut the fuck up!” I yelled even louder, as loud as I could. The place went silent, except for Twenty One Pilots’ “Heathens” playing on the pop station in the background.

♪Please don’t make any sudden moves,

You don’t know the half of the abused♪

I had the crowd’s attention: five foot eight, white skin, black hair, strong build, light beard. I was wearing gym shorts, Nike shoes, and a soft T-shirt that was a gift from my mom this time last year. I looked around and saw nervous college students, fathers ready to protect their wives and young children, and restaurant staff looking for the closest phone to call 911. I took a deep breath, enjoying the peace and quiet that hadn’t existed in my world for the last week. A beam of sunshine shed through the window, landing directly into my eyes. I’ve served you well, haven’t I, God?

Then a brave man, about my height, chubby, and friendly, joined me in the spotlight. “Hey, man, you all right? Let’s take a walk outside.” He represented everything I was going to change about the world, this fat, fake world. Then his face transformed, teeth growing into fangs, eyes widening, voice deepening. All the spectators disappeared. He put his hand on my shoulder and, in a deep voice, belted out, “Come on, man. There are kids here.”

I felt his internal poison being transferred to my shoulder and saw his words floating in front of me. Come on, man, there are kids here. I pulled the letters that I needed to unscramble, and the words hear me lit up in the sky.

This is your world, Brett. You are my son. Now, go take it.

Then I was back in the pizza place, with the crowd of insignificant mortals. I looked at the man’s hand on my shoulder and thrust my arms forward, with perfectly utilized force, knocking him back over the table behind him. A chair shifted, and silverware dinged on the floor. A woman shrieked. Kids cried. Now, about thirty men stood up, ready to physically remove me from the premises, fifteen of them standing in front of the exit. God showed me an image of myself as a high school basketball player running sprint after sprint to motivate me to escape. I got low and charged forward toward the door, like the crowd wasn’t even there. I was met by punches, name-calling, “Kick his ass!” and the loud rip of my shirt. We were all looking for the same result, getting me out of the restaurant. Eventually, our combined force knocked me out of the front door and onto the street. I stood up like nothing had happened and went about my day with a ripped shirt, enjoying the sunlight, available to answer work e-mails if needed, excited for a blind date that I had planned that evening, and most of all, ready to accept the next challenge that God had in store for me.