Somedays I wake up and I feel like I’m a queen. Like I’m on top of the world; I can accomplish anything. I feel like I can take life into the palm of my hand, like I have complete control over every aspect of it… And then, I begin to realize that I’m just manic.
It could be ten minutes, it could be ten hours, sometimes it could even be an entire day, but the fact of the matter is; I will spiral downward. It’s inevitable. I will find myself waking up or slipping into a state of mind that is hazardous not just to my health, but the health of the people that surround me. I shut off, I recluse, I huddle up into a tiny ball and sometimes go days with as little human interaction as possible.
I like to tell myself that I can handle these things when they happen. I like to remind myself that the reason I don’t medicate is because the only way that I feel like I can tackle my art is when I’m spiraling down and out of control. I often lie to myself and remind myself that everything is okay, even when it isn’t. If I lie to myself enough, I come back and eventually reach that manic state of mind again.
It’s so back and forth that I pity my loved ones, the people that have to see me regularly. I think that, sometimes, they forget that I’m fucking nuts. I think that sometimes they might be judging me in the back of their mind, and then I slip into this anxious state of mind that renders me back into the reclusive stage.
I feel like a dog that’s chasing its tail. I feel like a cat that’s stuck in a tree. I feel like I’m trapped inside of my own brain. I find myself looking for all kinds of outlets to bring my sanity back, but sometimes it feels impossible. Sometimes I just want to drive my car 100mph into a barrier. The only reason I haven’t yet is because I try to remind myself that maybe there’s still a chance I can be a decent mom.
I just wish that I could be manic every day, sometimes, but I think that part of the reason I can’t be is because it’s exhausting. It’s emotionally exhausting, physically exhausting. I literally wear myself out of happiness.
Just last night I was in tears, followed into this morning, all for various trivial reasons. By mid-day, I was all smiles and happiness. Driving home, I was pumped and ready to tackle my day. I was excited to see my roommate, I was excited to do things. It hit about 7pm and the spiral began to set in, again. I took myself out to dinner, thinking that maybe if I courted myself I’d feel better.. I was quick to realize that I was mistaken. Very mistaken. I took a few bites and lost my appetite.
I cried on my drive home, hoping that I could just get it all out before I got to the front door. I put my leftovers in the fridge, came into my room, jumped on my laptop and decided that the best therapy that I’ve had for the past several months has been writing it out, riding it out.
When I write, I feel like I can take all of the negative energy and put it into the text. I feel like once it’s in the text, once it’s all out and I’m done writing, that I can read back and mock myself and be okay again. I never thought that there would be an outlet, aside from drawing, but I really do think that this is it. I may not write in here as frequently as I did when I first started this thing, but I feel like the things that I do manage to get in here help. I have another journal, a private journal that I keep to myself, that I also use as an outlet. I write in a quite a bit more. But.. Then, I feel like I’m racked with guilt for not getting it on here; for not sharing my story with other people that could use it in some weird way to try and overcome their own problems.
I use to want to be a hero and save lives. I use to want to do nothing but good, and then one day it all just sort of snapped and I went to do terrible things. Now, I bounce back and forth between one extreme to the other… But, today, I’ve realized that I am a hero. I’m a hero to myself… and there’s really no one out there that should be more important to me than myself. So, if I can manage to save myself; whether it be through writing out all the fucked up things that cross my mind or managing to not drive into a barrier at 100mph, then maybe I can say that I’ve accomplished something. Maybe I can say that I’m a hero… Or I could just fake it until I believe that I am.
Lately I’ve been feeling like my heart is in a million pieces. I’ve been feeling vulnerable, self-conscious, and insecure. I’ve been lashing out at a few people because of it, and then quickly realizing that I shouldn’t. I’ve been getting better at communicating the feelings that I’m experiencing, rather than just avoiding them all together and putting on a mask of “I’m okay”-ness. Lately, I’ve felt like I’ve been making some major life-progress, whilst hitting some major roadblocks simultaneously.
I like to joke to people and say that my life is balanced. That it’s a libra thing. With the ups, we need our downs. It’s all a part of the balancing act. But, the truth is, there’s no gray area, there’s absolutely no balance whatsoever, it’s all just a joke. There’s black and there’s white and nothing in between. There’s up or there’s down, there’s no “I’m fine.” If you catch me saying that I’m okay, you should assume that I’m either manic or that I’m not. It’s just easier to say two words rather than spill an entire novel of things that are wrong with me at this very moment.
My conclusion? Being bipolar is the hardest thing that I’ve ever been tasked with… But, I think that I’ll survive.