They said I was depressed. They said I was too anxious. And they whispered words about two halves.
What's wrong with me?
I've been haunted by this question for years. There always appeared to be a whole other world existing inside my mind while I tried my best to live as normal of a life I could. There would be — and still are — days where I feel like two completely different people. I could wake up ready to attack the day but in any given moment, my mind could do a complete 180.
Just a few months ago, my psychiatrist dropped the word that will inevitably change my life forever: BIPOLAR.
As scary as it was, it did make some sense. I didn't exactly know how to express or react to this news, so I channeled my thoughts and emotions into the following poem. This is my story:
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.
I begin each morning as an indefinite clause — as a
stretching breath without an exhalation. Nothing but the weight
of butterfly wings rests upon my shoulders.
I'm as young as the sunrise and as old as the stars.
As I arch over, my mind switches;
it glitches until my metamorphosis ends.
It was the age of wisdom; it was the age of foolishness.
Insomnia tucks me into bed under a blanket of depression
tonight. Its encumbrance forces my chest to crack under
I see myself — I see my body dancing under
strings; my mind the plagued puppeteer, and
I, Jekyll and Hyde.
It was the epoch of belief; it was the epoch of incredulity.
No mom, I don't know why I keep eating — maybe
To swarm my vacancy with something substantial.
Because I could use a swarm of f*cking bees to sting my pulse
Alive again. I'm sorry sisters that I can't play with you two
right now. I'm too busy keeping those thoughts at bay.
Those thoughts I try to keep under my bed with the monsters.
It was the season of Light; it was the season of Darkness.
I'm tired, doctor. I'm so tired of wishing my days could
End shorter and shorter each day, so that the threat of tomorrow
Will be no more.
They said I was depressed.
And then they whispered words about two halves.
I had everything before me; I had nothing before me.
I'll always have them, you, me shouting nonsense
Into the heavy silence that chokes me into a cocoon.
Like Benjy, I only hear sound with so much fury.
My two halves, those damned two halves—
they make a hole.
I'll forever be a perpetual diagnosis.
Into the bipolar universe I descend — to a far, far worse
place I go than I have ever known.
There are too many people who suffer from a mental health illness. Unfortunately, our society hasn't realized the severity or importance behind psychological well-being yet. Even with a diagnosis and medication, I still feel like a freak.
Why? No one can understand what another person goes through.
While my expression of my situation may not match or even come close to yours, I only wish to spark hope and conversation pertaining to mental health. This topic belongs in the spotlight; it's been shoved into the corner for too long.
Originally published on Unwritten, the number one lifestyle destination for millennial women.
This article was originally published at Read Unwritten. Reprinted with permission from the author.