The in-between times became dreaded, too. Those days when she felt stable when her mood was dictated by the events of her day and not some chemical misfiring. They gave off too much hope, like maybe she’d evened out, but then the longer her happiness went on, the worse it was when she stopped sleeping, to be followed by catatonic days without end; her partners’ frustrations would roar back to life. Jones didn’t blame them. Or she didn’t blame them much.
