The thought of publication feels like throwing invisible darts on a shifting board.
Do I stuff it all in a Hefty bag and toss it towards the wind or neatly wrap it in a box topped with a bow?
The sum of my creative expressions that paint the picture of my disease, an artistic illness that packs an imaginative punch.
At the ripe age of 32, I never imagined I'd be perched on life's Bipolar Tree. Sure I've heard the typical phrases of the outside world.
"Why can't you just be happy?"
"What's wrong with you now?"
I could run a verbal marathon on all that's been said and done. Make a mistake reach for the whiteout. Cover it up, try again.
My life has been far from perfect and Miss Normalcy left me on the baggage claim years ago. I can still remember the day I was given my mental surname. I was 26 and standing on the ceiling of a world turned upside down. I had a job with respectable pay and had just become a newlywed in what seemed like a perfect match.
Boy was I blind. Boy was I wrong.
My job had become a boiling pot of stress and panic. Anxiety made it's debut and Mania followed suit. My heart would race with the request of the simplest tasks. My boss started sounding like a Psychotic Charlie Brown. My concentration had turned from a mature structure to a kid in a bounce house. I spoke in riddles and scribbled endless circles. Throw in a side of Dispair and depression and thus my illness was born.
I had gone mad. I had gone bat shit crazy.
I did the song dance and tangoed with doctors and white coats as I became a player in pharmaceutical battle ship.
A2: Prozac, miss C5: Valium D7: Trazadone, miss B4: You sunk my battleship.
My days turned into an endless cake walk. Continual movements in hopes of grabbing Stability's cake.
These never ending shenanigans gave birth to marital tension and divorce, job termination and triggered the start of a battle I still face.
I lost my voice in a sea of ignorant neglection and paper and a pen became my only alibi.
Fast forward to now and many pills and writings later, I'm still bat shit crazy. The only difference has been the evolution from silence to thr illustration of creative conversations. These are the pieces of the puzzle I'm still solving. This is the babbling of a Bipolar baboon.
There's a gap in understanding for the many of us carrying the hastag #bipolar. No one can see through our eyes and hear the chattering in our minds. So I stand here before you spilling my guts on the table of truth in an attempt of bridging the gap. The publicity of my tabloid of antics. This is my attempt at opening the window and letting what's inside out and letting what's outside in.
This is the poetical language of a chaotic, bipolar mind and the communication of of a beating heart.
Do I stuff it all in a Hefty bag and toss it towards the wind or neatly wrap it in a box topped with a bow?
The sum of my creative expressions that paint the picture of my disease, an artistic illness that packs an imaginative punch.
At the ripe age of 32, I never imagined I'd be perched on life's Bipolar Tree. Sure I've heard the typical phrases of the outside world.
"Why can't you just be happy?"
"What's wrong with you now?"
I could run a verbal marathon on all that's been said and done. Make a mistake reach for the whiteout. Cover it up, try again.
My life has been far from perfect and Miss Normalcy left me on the baggage claim years ago. I can still remember the day I was given my mental surname. I was 26 and standing on the ceiling of a world turned upside down. I had a job with respectable pay and had just become a newlywed in what seemed like a perfect match.
Boy was I blind. Boy was I wrong.
My job had become a boiling pot of stress and panic. Anxiety made it's debut and Mania followed suit. My heart would race with the request of the simplest tasks. My boss started sounding like a Psychotic Charlie Brown. My concentration had turned from a mature structure to a kid in a bounce house. I spoke in riddles and scribbled endless circles. Throw in a side of Dispair and depression and thus my illness was born.
I had gone mad. I had gone bat shit crazy.
I did the song dance and tangoed with doctors and white coats as I became a player in pharmaceutical battle ship.
A2: Prozac, miss C5: Valium D7: Trazadone, miss B4: You sunk my battleship.
My days turned into an endless cake walk. Continual movements in hopes of grabbing Stability's cake.
These never ending shenanigans gave birth to marital tension and divorce, job termination and triggered the start of a battle I still face.
I lost my voice in a sea of ignorant neglection and paper and a pen became my only alibi.
Fast forward to now and many pills and writings later, I'm still bat shit crazy. The only difference has been the evolution from silence to thr illustration of creative conversations. These are the pieces of the puzzle I'm still solving. This is the babbling of a Bipolar baboon.
There's a gap in understanding for the many of us carrying the hastag #bipolar. No one can see through our eyes and hear the chattering in our minds. So I stand here before you spilling my guts on the table of truth in an attempt of bridging the gap. The publicity of my tabloid of antics. This is my attempt at opening the window and letting what's inside out and letting what's outside in.
This is the poetical language of a chaotic, bipolar mind and the communication of of a beating heart.
This is my story, my illness's truth.
