Bipolar Disorder: Fear of Missing Something
Two bags of decaffeinated tea rest in my mug at eleven forty-five pm on a mundane Monday evening. Maybe I shouldn’t say mundane because it has been a bit more of an eventful day than usual for me. It’s been the sixth day at the acute partial program for behavioral health therapy. I’m restless, came back from class with a failed grade and two energy drinks because I know tonight I will not be able to sleep anyway. Unless of course I can gracefully quiet my mind so as to rest my spirit. I can’t write anymore, because the stream of consciousness that used to be my mind has left me completely solitary and without the ability to tell what is up there. As you can see I’m being redundant, I’m at this constant loss for words and can’t really begin to grasp what I’m trying to say. I do definitely believe it’s the medication I’m on, it’s quieted my mind. So much so that to even further quiet it would mean to increase the deafening silence that only continues to ring out the truth of my breakdown. I, the artist, have starved without producing any creations. It’s ceased to be me, by this time before I would have been able to fill the page up with so many words that it becomes meaningless and yet sensible at the same time. But now, now all I can do is write over and over and over again about how I can’t do that anymore. What has happened to me, I don’t know. I want to stop taking my medication so I can be what I USED TO BE AGAIN, BUT WHAT I USED TO BE is so far not right. Not good I’m told. It was wrong and I can see the parts of it that could have been seen as wrong. At the same time there were so many factors of ME that were right. Oh so right that people would seek my ideas and listen when I SPEAK. Now I don’t even listen when I speak because where’s the endeavor anymore?
- Bipolar Disorder: My Monster just wants to have fun!
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- Psych Central - Medications for Mania and Bipolar Disorder
A description of antimania medications prescribed for mania and bipolar disorder (also known as manic depression).
My nose is cold to the touch, my ears are warm, my lips are chapped from an absence of moisture and my crippled hands are still typing away at the keyboard hoping to make sense out of something. Or maybe not find sense in anything. I WISH I WERE MORE USEFUL TO MYSELF. Irony is I’m more productive now than I used to be. I’m more able to get things done and meet deadlines but still am not completely happy with myself, in group therapy I see many people older than me who could have mothered me who have been dealing with the same things for years. So where am I now, I wonder if I’m them many years ago, still trying to figure out what’s right and what’s wrong. As a rebuttal to those who shout that us bipolar people who are on medication should keep taking our meds, you do not know what it means to have a part of you taken away and for the justification to be that you’re finally supposed to be whole. It’s not the same, do I suffer the consequences now, or do I suffer them later. There seems to be no means to my ends. Trapped between this rock and a hard place, I’m reminded of how things used to be, hopeful for how it can be. Side effects of these medications muddle the brilliance that once was me, deepen the depth that I am right now.
Some days I feel so hazy that I just want to be numb, now tell me, the medications that’s supposed to help me, how do they do so when they confuse me. I’m not ready for this. Maybe today or this week I’ll skip the meds and be able to find sense in my reality once more. Touch me and I’m cold to the touch, I no longer remember what to be touched means or meant to me. I am in an individual captivated by the things that make my senses flutter. That’s who I am, I move breath, live on the fact that I knew what I was made of. This certainty pushed me along in a world of darkness sometimes, lightness in other times. Back and forth I went over and over and over again till the froth was so thick that I just couldn’t move anymore. I looked down and gleaned the smiling one on the edge of the crowd because I was able to relate. On the edge of society, so-to-speak, maybe an outcast, but definitely not cast out. Oh no, that was something I did to myself, willingly because it was just so natural to myself to be this loner. I didn’t feel like I was on the outside looking in, I felt like I was on the inside still looking in, but able to walk outside whenever I wanted to look in. That ability to drift when I wanted was what kept me afloat all these years, above the bull, you could say. What some would call unique and others would call not quite so nice words. It was something though, one besides this routine dull person I’ve become. A recap on my life of twenty one years will find me peaking at possibly seventeen, still filled with hope yet crushed underneath so many dreadful, painful, memories.
Oh well I should say, at least I’ve got something to say about myself. I’m not dead yet, there’s till hope. But I can’t even begin to ignore that gnawing irritating feeling that something is missing. There are reasons out there why I need confront my existence in order to keep it; I just need to stay on that road with the intentions to find them. I mean I have found them, I suppose I just need to hold onto to them? This is to you who took the time to read this. Thank you for listening.
Color me red, I am fire stippled in my correct right winged cries. Color me blue, I am foolish for believing that hope would ever have birthed me right.
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