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Wahalalafia

My Speak for Bipolar Disorder

By Marie OsuamohPublished 5 years ago 3 min read
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Mental Illness Is...

Wahalalafia. A fitting title to my first ever blog.

If you know me you know that in every little speck of my life, I inject humour, to try and dispel any fear or qualms about life. A year ago, I found out the reason why my head was so scatterbrain and why the world (more-so mine) seemed to be heaven one minute and hell the next. Well, the reason was and still is Wahalalafia, or bipolar disorder. I suppose I give a name to it to demystify it, to make it less of a monster. (Though let me tell you, reader, it certainly is not a monster by any means). The uncertainty of this condition (I won’t call it a disease—I don’t think it is. Is this denial?) makes it even more fun. Almost like being on oblivion, knowing that you may or may not throw up but something will happen. I never wake up, (nor do I want to wake up) entirely sure of what I’m doing or where I’m going in life. I float, I glide, in a world where many peoples’ feet are on the ground, I glide. Gliding though unstable can be the most fun experience with this condition. Stability, though predictable is so boring. It’s not as if I enjoy being unstable, but I can’t lie. I like the ride.

So bipolar has two sides.

The lows. The Wahala.

Depression. The word itself seems to squash me whenever we meet each other. Depression is a black cloud. You see it, you smell it and you know it’s near. You can’t stop it, so you go with its flow.

The thing about depression is that it shows up randomly. A walk in the park. A wedding, a movie. It creeps in as if to say, “Hello, get ready I’m here.” Pillows, duvets, and the hope that it won’t overstay it’s welcome (along with junk food, chocolate crisps, and the like) seem to help alleviate Dick the Depression’s sting.

I’ve made peace with Dick the Depression (middle name Wahala, of course). (I like to think if I give depression a name, I’ll take its power). I know it’ll show its faces, then it’ll go about its way. It’s visited me a few times this week. Let’s hope it doesn’t stop anytime soon.

Let’s talk about the highs.

Then there’s, of course, mania. Manny “Alafia” Mania.

Now, Alafia means “happiness” in Yoruba.

Mania has its charm and is seldom boring. Mania is charming, smells good and feels good. It’s warm, cuddly and likes ego, the thrill and likes it when one spends exorbitant amounts of money on stuff one doesn’t need. The funny thing about mania is that it props you up so high you feel like flying. It’s almost similar to when Jack props up Rose on that ill-fated boat.

Mania and I are partners. It pushes me more and more to buy, to want, to celebrate, to dance, to jump, to fool around with no shame nor qualms.

It really can go over the top after a few drinks at a party.

Most of us who have Wahalalafia are thrill seekers. Pleasure seekers. I know for a fact I hate boredom. Boredom is certainly my Achilles heel. The people around me seem not to understand my mania, so nowadays I’m relegated to having manic episodes in a toilet cubicle.

Well, this journey of Wahalalafia never really has had a beginning. I suppose I’m still gliding.

Let’s see where I am tomorrow.

To be continued, of course

(Full stop deliberately left out)

bipolar
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About the Creator

Marie Osuamoh

I am what I am. 🤪 ok jokes aside, I’m a 25 year old british Nigerian, with cyclothymia. Trying to understand and navigate life, through music, art and everything in between.

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