"Why Process Feelings When You Can Ruin Your Life Instead?"

The door slams behind us — my door — and my heels echo down the hallway like I'm trying to drown out my own thoughts.

I don't give myself a second to stop. If I do, I'll start thinking about outside. About the wrong lips I nearly leaned into. About the truth I almost said out loud.

So I don't stop.

I throw myself into the kind of chaos that doesn't ask for permission.

Felix.

He's right on my heels, slightly out of breath, shirt half-untucked, hair wind-ruined and rumpled from me dragging him upstairs like an emergency exit. And that grin — cocky, golden, like he just got away with something.

"You always drag your guests upstairs like that?" he asks. "If I knew the dress code was panic and no pants, I'd have shown up sooner."

"No one invited you to speak." I mutter, tossing my blazer on a chair and heading for the kitchen. My vest clings tight to my bare skin. My black mini shorts curled up higher than ever. His gaze is heat on my skin.

"You wore this for me?" he asks, teasing but reverent.

"Laundry day."

He steps into the kitchen like he's already imagining the layout of my sins. "You look like a woman who eats men like me for breakfast."

"Only if you talk too much," I shoot back, hopping onto the counter. "Or get cocky."

"Too late."

He steps between my legs, hands brushing up my thighs. "You realize this outfit is psychological warfare, right?"

"Good. Maybe you'll finally shut up."

He leans in, lips hovering just beside mine. "You say that like you don't want me on my knees."

"Oh, I want you on your knees. I just don't want to hear a speech about it."

His grin widens. "Permission granted then?"

"Don't make me rescind it."

He drops without another word, fingers slipping to my shorts. The button pops, the zipper sighs down. He peels them off with patient arrogance, slow and sure. And then, his mouth is on me.

It's methodical. Focused. Like he's working out a problem with his tongue.

It still takes effort to let go — to shut off the rest of my mind. But he knows my body like muscle memory, and slowly, slowly, it unravels. When I break, it's hard and fast, my head tipping back, hand gripping the counter.

He stands, that insufferable grin still on his face. "Still think you're in charge?"

"I know I am," I pant.

He lifts me in one smooth motion. "Let's settle that."

He carries me to the couch, drops me like a challenge. And then just stands there, staring at my vest.

"This thing... this is a trap."

"It's called style. Look it up."

He drops to his knees again, between the couch cushions, trailing a finger along the lapel.

"You wore this knowing exactly what it does to me."

"I wear what I like."

"You wear it like you want to be punished."

I raise a brow. "Try it. See what happens."

He pops one button. Then another. "You look like you give orders."

"And you look like you beg."

"Only for you."

He undoes the final button, pushes the vest from my shoulders, and sits back like he's looking at something holy. "Fuck. You're unreal."

I lean in. "Focus."

And just like that, his mouth crashes into mine, all teeth and heat and need. His hands grip my hips, dragging me against him, and everything else drops out.

There are no games in the way we move now. Just friction, fire, and two people who know exactly how to set each other off.

His rhythm is relentless. I meet him every time. We kiss like it's a dare. Touch like it's leverage. Fight and fuck all at once.

And when I come, it's loud and raw. He follows, buried deep, groaning into my neck.

He doesn't let go.

"Mine," he whispers. "Always fucking mine."

The words, the way he says them—not as a joke, not as a tease—leave something tangled in my chest.

I know it's not love. Not beige domesticity. No couples dinners or petty fights over who to take out the trash. Just the steady, sure rhythm of something that doesn't need naming. Just him, us, in the dark, and the safety of knowing what we'll never pretend to be.

I don't answer. I just grip his jaw and kiss him again. Because I am his. I belong with him. Right there—in the burn. In the breathless, uncomplicated us.

***

In a desperate attempt to wake up I make myself a double espresso from the most expensive thing in my apartment. I down it like the double shot it is, before I make myself an Americano. I cozy up in my window nook, open the window and light a cigarette. The air is warm, the smell from the city thick. Almost unbearable - the trash, the concrete, the crowds of tourists sweating.

It's the time of year when the rapeseeds blossom. The time of year where everything used to be just a little bit easier, lighter, simpler in a way.

It takes me back to my favorite drives with my mom. The ones with the windows down, shout-singing every word, when the rapeseed fields were in full bloom. We lived on a farm, moving slowly through small roads — but I preferred it that way. It let me sink into the sweet, earthy scent drifting off that yellow sea of flowers.

My mom loves pop songs. Her energy is straight out of the '80s — big, bright, unstoppable. Some of my earliest memories with her are just the two of us in the car. Driving to get groceries, dropping me off at soccer practice, after-school programs. Always singing along to the radio, like errands were just an excuse for joy.

My dad loves rock — loud guitars, steady rhythm. I don't remember a single time he drove me anywhere. Instead, he planted rapeseed on our land — nurtured it, weeded it, fertilized it, watched it bloom. He never speaks much, but lets his actions do most of it. He toughed it out as long as he could — but love doesn't pay bills, and the land stopped paying back. Eventually, we had to sell the farm. The rapeseed blossoms still mesmerize me, but now they always carry a stench of bittersweet.

We moved to a small city while I was away at boarding school. It was my dream to become a professional soccer player, and this one had the best programme in the country. They scraped to send me, and I repaid them with a shattered ankle. Despite several private hospitals, I would never be able to play professionally.

They were more disappointed than I was — I could see it, even though they tried to spare me. They looked at me with pity and I hated that more than knowing my dream was shattered.

It was the second worst thing I ever did to them.

I kept trying for my mom. I helped every Sunday at church. Not because I was religious, but because I believed my mom needed my help. She worked at the church, got paid to do the community events, not to believe in god. She drove me to my soccer matches after church, but the drives were different from before.

Her blonde little girl found punk — Sum 41, mostly — and never looked back. She loathed it, but she let me. Said it was better I scream through speakers than during warmup.

Finishing high school was tough on all of us. I wanted to be good, be the rising soccer star they adored and wanted to show off. I showed them straight A's and a side of too many "Not in my house"-violations to count. Even though they only knew about a fraction of my fuck-ups, their disappointment was still too much to bear.

It was around this time my brother, Valdemar, and I went our separate ways. He chose beige, encouraged by the evil stepford-wife he started dating. He made beige seem easy, unrelatable. So, we gave up on each other – we barely exchanged greetings, even though we lived in the same house.

When the acceptance letter for business school came, I saw the sparkle in their eyes again. The pads on the back felt too good to tell them I also got in at art history. They were proud - like my violations were made up for somehow. They looked at me like I would do something incredible, which to them meant stable and secure.

I knew art history would be risky. No job security guaranteed. I had a choice. Pick the route that gave me a certain future where I didn't need to burden them - or needed to submit to "not-under-my-house"-rules. Or, do what I actually wanted and probably fail them and myself. They have my graduation diplomas framed in their house, it was that or me burning them.

At 18, I stopped being their fair-haired little girl — the one with striking blue eyes and lashes so long they looked drawn on. I didn't stop the chaos. If anything, I leaned into it. It was just easier to move out.

I could keep the mess somewhat out of sight, give them the version they could be proud of. The first in our family to get a master's. While the wild, unruly, party-stained parts of me stayed carefully hidden — exactly where they wanted them.

***

As I sit in my windstill, recalling my pledge to stay shiny for them - my body starts to slightly tremble. It's a familiar frustration—exhaustion in every joint and bone, a longing to isolate, to shut the world out. The thought that the world would be a better place without me, that I'm a failure, still broken, still just a shattered ankle. That I'm a burden. I've felt this way so many times before that my will is already neatly laminated.

I have to rely on my medication and my routines to try to make it go away. I've been in a solid neutral state, with a stench of depression, for a long time now. I know better than anyone that the thoughts never disappear—I need to find strategies to avoid them. If I dwell too long on the mood swings I experience while on medication, it feels like a fucking miracle I didn't die back when I wasn't.

I go to the bathroom, find my toothbrush, and instantly feel like a fool. My hands are shaking—almost too much to let me get the toothpaste on. It's pathetic, but I can't stop it.

After individual therapy, psychiatrists, psych-education, and continuous group therapy, I still feel like a walking riddle 99% of the time.

I can lose myself in my work—but I'm not supposed to. Once, I worked from 9 AM until 2 PM the next day without sleeping. From an employers perspective, I was a fucking golden goose. From a medical perspective; It was a defining symptom of hypomania. It damages your brain. It makes you irrational—but, honestly, it felt amazing. Confidence, energy, social, never been better.

The tremble works in favor of thoroughly bruising my teeth and subsequently washing my face. I have to take a few deep breaths before squeezing face cream out of the tube, too much as usual. I sit down on the lid of the toilet after doing my best to apply it.

Everyday, I feel like a fucking failure, struggling with the simplest of human tasks. I cup my face, look down at my legs, just to realize I need to book a wax appointment. I still don't trust myself with razor blades at home.

This is a somewhat stable period - where I actually feel bland most of the time - and hedonistic wage slave 100% of the time.

If my thought patterns like this persist, along with other symptoms, for more than two weeks, I'm in trouble. It marks the arrival of the storm on the horizon.

Where hypomania might last a few days, the depressions often linger. Biologically, bipolars are extremely poor at breaking down cortisol—so the stress manifests as negativity that just stays in your body. Sometimes there's so much of it, you just turn depressed. Sometimes it's functioning depression. Any of them, just sucks - or so I've heard from those who live to tell the tale.

My psychiatrist and therapist believe happiness lies in a neutral state. Beige, and I fucking hate it.

Since I was little, I've never believed in happiness beyond moments. Which makes sense in the context of hypomania—when your confidence is through the roof, everything clicks, the batteries are full, and even if your attention span is that of a goldfish, you're extroverted and feel like you own every room.

In some ways, a life of highs and lows just makes more sense to me. The idea of fewer negative swings, but also fewer intense bursts of joy, feels barren somehow.

My pathetic attempt at finishing my morning routine, just triggers my urge to give in to my tired bones. I just want to go back to bed and not move until Monday morning. My survival instinct needs me to write in my journal, get dressed, tidy, and distract myself.

I know, It's always a little better after I've followed this routine—especially the part about getting dressed. I drag myself to my closet and decide on a blink 182 concert crew neck and a pair of denim shorts. This is what I feel most like me in, and I need that after posing for five days straight.

I make myself a celebratory coffee and assess how much effort it will take to clean up my apartment. A full week of putting on a polished front has left quite the dent, the floor almost echoing the collapse I've been holding off.

I start to gather my clothes scattered in the living room. It reminds me of Friday—before Felix. The memory of him had almost completely erased the almost-kiss with August. Instinctively, I touch my lower lip as the memory comes back.

I'm almost certain I would've been swept away and dragged him upstairs if it hadn't been for Felix. Like the tension built up after two days of feasting on his appearance was too much for me to resist.

I know I can't blur the line, I can't afford to. He's potentially catastrophic. His appearance. His presence. My stomach turns by the sheer thought of entertaining trouble like that at work. Of everything, that's the only thing I can't afford to screw up. It's my paycheck, my apartment, my parents pride, my sanity. I can't afford to be reckless, risk anything that might force others to clean up my mess.

I'm grateful for Felix in so many ways.

I crawl under the duvet again. I'm still as tired as the ashes in a fireplace. In a desperate attempt for a hit of endorphins, I touch myself to the memories of Felix and last night's moments. August forcefully takes Felix' role, and I'm not exactly disappointed by the switch.

***

My duvet and pillow are perfectly positioned, hugging every part of my body. It feels like waking up in a giant's embrace. I grab my phone, it's 2:32 PM. I've slept for about three hours, but don't feel even the slightest hint of energy. I feel like human garbage, and go to my fountain of energy to try to somehow resurrect.

The caffeine must have not been absorbed into my system, as I accept and not decline the daily call from my mom.

"Hi mom, what's up?"

"Oh hi, how are you honey?"

This question has never not triggered this reply from me,

"I'm good, yea, had an early start - and quite the day already, you know."

"How nice, how did the talent session go?"

"Well, Terry was Terry, the talents genuinely appear somewhat talented. I, uhm, thought it was very educational. Just a few more sessions to complete, and then – hopefully – the promotion's just a formality"

"That's incredible, honey. It really is!" Her voice is the certain proud pitch that gets me weak in my knees.

"Yea, just Amsterdam and Barcelona left" I say, as a yawn slips out. My body must unconsciously voice that my body's dreading to go.

"You're tired? You didn't, did you?" She replies, in what I know is her worried tone.

The tone that always makes me lie,

"No, no. Well slept in, but nothing too bad. Got up at about 9-10.00 ish"

I'm not supposed to nap. Sleep in. I'm supposed to keep a very strict sleep schedule, no naps ever, no staying up or getting out of bed too late. I once got into bed at seven in the morning, slept till four in the afternoon. They put out a missing person's report on me, because I didn't show up to lunch and they couldn't get a hold of me.

"Have you eaten?" I'm supposed to eat something resembling food before noon everyday, again to keep my energy level and not to mess up my sleep schedule.

"Yes, the animal crackers had just the right crispiness to 'em" My pseudo meal, when I'm nauseated by the thought of food, happens almost daily.

"Fred." Her mama bear voice, she clearly forgot I'm not seven years old.

"I know, I know - no naps, food before noon, and no caffeine after noon, meds at ten" It sounds like a chant at this point, the words have lost most of their meaning anyway.

"and.. " She always was smart enough, well-read, able to manage a room, and become a school teacher. I've just always felt I didn't need one-on-one tutoring.

"Easy on the alcohol." I say in defeat. I know she will not rest until I actually voice the commands out loud.

"Did you journal today, monitor your development? And uhm.. When is your next appointment with.. uhm.." her voice gets shaky by the end.

"My psychiatrist? It's okay to say it out loud mom. She's not dangerous, you know."

"I know honey, it's just. You know. What about your monitoring?" I know she's afraid of mental health professionals, because she doesn't know what they do. It's intangible, difficult in her opinion. She knows my psychiatrist adjusts my medicine, tracks any side effects I might experience. They pay for my bi-weekly therapist, as they don't know how to fix me. Maybe she can keep me beige, or more like get me to beige.

"Mom, my mood has been steady for a long time now. Only a couple of bumps here and there, but I talked about it in therapy, so I'm good. I really am" I repeat the chant, but I've never known the words to say anything but I'm stable to them.

"Okay, you know I'm not saying this to offend you or baby you, I'm just wor..." I know, but that doesn't make it feel like she isn't.

I cut in, hoping it will bring about the change in topic I desperately need,

"How's dad?"

"Oh, he's fine. You know. He seems to like a new project - he's going to run the re-landscaping of a golf course, but I don't know exactly whe.."

"Sounds fun. What do you have on your plate?"

"It's all good" This is what she says when something's not good.

"Anything at work?" I ask, experience tells me that's anything but good.

"Oh, actually, I probably didn't tell you, did I? But you know Gunnar? The guy in charge of.."

Gunnar is always the problem. He's only ever done one good thing - give me a job. The only job I'd ever landed through connections.

Every summer I picked weeds by hand, on all four, on the burial plots in the churchyard - including those of my grandparents on both my mom and dad sides.

I doze off after she mentions Gunnar, mumble 'uh huh' and 'really's' whenever I think it fits. It isn't until she asks about my weekend plans that I mentally re enter the conversation.

"You know, just like tidying, there's a new drama out, maybe do a little cleaning. I just need to uhm, recover a bit from the intensity of the talent programme."

"Well, you know you can always just come by, stay over. Dad and I are just here, you know you're more than welcome" She always wants me home when she thinks I'm not alright.

"Thank you mom, I think I'm just too beat to really go anywhere" I try.

"Let me know if you change your mind, you know we'll come pick you up if the train's too much" They always do. They would buy me a car if they could, just to make me visit more.

"Thank you mom, I appreciate it. I uhm, need to go. Say hi to dad for me, okay?"

"Okay, will do. I'll call you tomorrow, bye now". She will. She calls every day.

I hang up, just to feel bad about lying to her. My nap, my non-existent lunch, my thoughts, my alcohol intake. I'm not hungry at all—only craving coffee. So in that sense, this day is just like all the others, except for August intruding on my fantasies.

My go-to pseudo-lunch really is animal-shaped biscuits. They actually taste pretty decent. Today I'm lucky enough to get a giraffe and a rhino which perfectly pairs with another americano. The knot in my stomach seems to be guilt more than hunger. I can't help but feel bad for my parents, wishing I was better somehow, not still a kid they need to take care of.

The idea of being alone with my thoughts for the rest of the evening stirs a restlessness in my body. A feeling that it would be a reckless choice. To think I could, on my own, get my thoughts under control. I rarely trust myself outside of work, and at this moment, I don't think highly of myself.

The only mildly kind thought I have about myself is that I know my limits when it comes to my thought patterns. Today, I can't switch them off - disappear from the face of the earth, just by reading, listening to audiobooks, cleaning, cooking, watching Korean dramas, or listening to music.

I need real noise, lots of noise around me, I need to deafen my thoughts really - indifferent to it being icicles or scorching daggers stabbing into my skin.

I'm terrified to be surrounded by silence – be alone with myself. It feels like the walls echo all my bad decisions. My revolt against beige. My lies. My inability to feel at ease in my own mind. It's like it's telling me, pushing me, to implode. And sometimes I end up wanting exactly that.

It scares me, and I always feel like making a run for it. Like getting a car, speeding out of the city, as if I could somehow escape myself.

I'd try anything to get me out. Group therapy, schedules, recommendations just feels like a collar, a sentence to beige for life, and.. it doesn't do anything but have you rawdog life – no sparkle - no flames. That, just doesn't really cut it for me. Half the thrill, the ability to refocus my mind, is anything but polished and neat.

It's Saturday, and usually, I can manage to leave the house and slip into a kind of sensory fog that, in many ways, mimics inner peace.

Looking for viable distractions, I check my phone.

43 notifications from the group chat Mentally Out of Office. 

My three best friends from uni. Could be a 911, but most likely a meme-war. Their bullshit detectors are always on high alert, and I'm not in the mood for a reality check.

1 text from +46 70 723 55 97

Swedish area code, definitely not checking that one.

2 texts from Nick

Yes, shitshow in slowmotion please.

Nick and his boyfriend, Bo, want me to join them in the meatpacking district. I know this night out well—it's the same rollercoaster every time.

We drink cocktails at my place. Head to Six, drink more while scouting potential hook ups for me. Nick and Bo get a little snippy with each other when one of them compliments some guy a bit too much. Sparks of jealousy lingering a little too long.

By the time we reach our final destination—Club Sascha—they've made up, and we dance until we're too drunk to function. Predictable, but like a fizzy aspirin, it always manages to ease some of the pounding behind the eyes.

The best thing is, they don't know about me, so they don't police me.