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Chained

A Glimpse into Life With Bipolar

Depression.  It climbs on top of me with an agenda: suffocate and deplete.

I am here, but my mind is not. I'm sure I'm fading out of my own reality and yet I'm not sure of anything.

The darkness covers me like a blanket of utter defeat. It absorbs every essence of who I am, who I should be. It stares at me with intent. What does it want this time? What more could it possibly take? I have nothing left to give.

It wraps around me; hauntingly familiar shrieks of silence erupt from all around. I cannot think beyond the distance of the fog. Somehow, I find a disturbing comfort in my long lost friend. He's back again. He always comes back.

I contemplate my purpose, my existence. Thoughts of closing my eyes forever creep into my mind, which immediately overwhelm me into a fit of waterworks. I force myself to shower and brush my teeth, but my hair remains in a matted bun high on my head.  I fake every smile just to get by. Nothing is beautiful, nothing is enjoyable. The very sight of myself leads me into skin-clawing rages. I pull on a hoodie in 90 degree weather to hide my scratches in shame.

I know I need to escape the grip it has on me. I know I should run. I lace up my running shoes and prepare for the sprint of my life. I reach, but I'm pulled back, glued to the wall. Melting to the floor, it whispers, "succumb". I call up my friends and let them know I'll be gone a while.

Mania. It sneaks me into a bold embrace with an agenda: humiliate and destroy.

It tells me to call up my friends and let them know I've changed my mind, "I'm not going anywhere, silly!" I'm here to stay; I'm here to win.

My mind races in a pace much faster than my feet ever could. Mania gets high off of that. It takes me on lavish shopping trips, spinning me around and around- reminding me how important and beautiful I am. Then, it takes it a step further and I have no idea how much I've drained my bank account, or my soul. It says I must redecorate my house, my wardrobe, my life.

It tells me to spew venom off of my tongue to those I love, because how dare I be wrong? How dare they challenge my thoughts, opinions, views? This angers mania. It decides I should play dangerous. It decides I need the wrong kind of attention because it feels good. I find myself laughing in danger's face. Bring it on.  

Later, I realize this ultimate kind of high isn't appreciated and I fight the reoccurring urge to drag a razor across my wrist. I cry, I scream, I throw things, and threaten to bust out car windows.

At night, my family sleeps. When I think of how little I've slept in the past week, mania lashes out at me in ambition. I am reminded that I have fifty new business ideas, twenty new meals to prep for my husband's coworkers, and five play dates tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes. I hide my face from the sunlight falling into my bedroom in disgust that I have to face another day. I do not go on five play dates, I do not prep twenty meals, and I do not put a single new business idea into motion. I deactivate my Facebook and barely reply to those I love. I hide myself in the bathroom so that my toddler cannot see the tears I am drowning in.  I am disappointed in everything I did not accomplish. Failure, the word consumes me.

I call up my friends and let them know I'll be gone a while after all.

And I am here, but my mind is not. 

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