There's a lot you wrote here that I recognize in myself. Not all of it, of course, but quite a surprising bit.

I'm a manic-depressive. My friends used to ask me, "How can you feel so stressed, but you love doing what you do?" It comes and goes in waves. One moment, I'll be fine. A rockstar. The next, I am a rocking star, wobbling into a dangerous orbit that threatens to burn me out completely... I know the feeling of losing control, but not wanting to give up what little inch I have for the life of me.

It's like you say, you get that shortness of breath--that ache that displaces every thought besides: WHY THE HELL AM I DOING THIS? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? WHY CAN'T I BREATHE? IS IT EVEN WORTH IT TO TRY? WHERE ARE MY FRIENDS IN THIS? DID I PUSH THEM AWAY TO PROTECT THEM--OR TO PROTECT MYSELF?

The world is an overwhelming place. It can be overwhelmingly beautiful--disarmingly harmless, toothless... and, at the same time, it's overwhelmingly cruel and lonely and apathetic--makes you want to ball up your fists and scream at the sky for no reason; grate your knuckles on the underbelly of some jagged, ghastly beast...

I guess what I'm trying to say is that... It's like we're all in an auditorium of blindfolded strangers. We don't dare reach out, for fear that no one will be there.

But we're here. We're all alone together.