As I dance by myself in the kitchen under the midnight light, listening to a song that I haven’t heard in years, I enjoy the way the sound seeps into my soul. I think about how good it would feel to fall in love again. I reflect on how, even if I have already dedicated my favorite poem to an undeserving lover, there are an infinite number of poems in the world, and I should be able to find a new favorite one to dedicate to a new lover. There are infinite chances for love, just as there are infinite poems in the world. And if I ever run out of poems, I can just start writing my own. I am an amazing writer after all, and in this very moment, I become sure that I might be able to become one of the greatest poets of all time.

As I dance by myself in the kitchen under the 1 a.m. shadows, my mind goes a million miles an hour, and I can’t help but think about how happy I am—truly, deeply happy. I am surrounded by people whom I love and who love me. I must be the most marvelous person in the world because there is no other way I would be surrounded by such amazing people. I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the microwave. Although I don’t fully feel like it is me looking back, I can’t help but admire how beautiful I look. I reminisce about my modeling years and how I could have become Miss Universe if I had really tried. I think about how it is actually not too late to try.

As I dance by myself in the kitchen under the 3 a.m. darkness, I allow this feeling of ecstasy to fully consume me. I sit in this bliss for one, two, three more songs. I’ve stopped studying for that test I have tomorrow; enjoying this music—experiencing how the sounds appear sharper, how my body feels when it moves, and how the cotton of my sweater rests on my skin—is far more important right now. At the end of the day, I am the smartest person in every room I enter. There’s no need to study; it’s all common sense.

And then it’s 4 a.m. I lean on the kitchen counter and reach for my meds. I take my regular three pills. I wonder if I should take one more. Four songs. I’ve determined that’s not the best approach, so instead, I fidget with the bottle of Valium for a bit. Five songs. I decide that I do need one, and I take it. Six songs. I’ve left a voice message at my psychiatrist’s office asking for an order on my lithium levels and an emergency appointment.

I sit with this feeling for just one more song… okay, two more songs. That’s eight songs. I know that what comes after this is only destruction and chaos. Nine songs. I’m aware it needs to stop. But I dance on this feeling for ten songs… eleven songs… It’s 5 a.m. now, and I’ve sent an email to a professor explaining that I will not be in class because of health issues, I know I need to sleep. Twelve songs.

I think of that guy I went on a date with who told me that “this thing is a gift.” He talked about Van Gogh.

Van Gogh chopped off his ear.

Van Gogh shot himself in the chest with a revolver.

They talk about Kahlo and Monet and Hemingway as if their contributions erase how awful their lives really were. And the worst part is that I highly doubt I’ll be a Pollock or a Wiener or a Wolf. Thirteen songs. I’d gladly return “this gift” if I could—fourteenth song—but I know I can’t. And so, I listen to the fifteenth song.