This is not a confession, nor a weakness. This is just my way to express feelings I failed to state using other mediums.
---Notes Before Reading : This Is A Very Dark Piece And By Dark I Mean Horrible So Please If You Can't Handle Such A Thing I Suggest You Don't Read It ---
Of all pains and aches, the emotional ones still remain triumphal despite our most sincere attempts to conquer them. And up to this date the psychological damage seems to be the most dexterous and cunning hit man. Like a silent assassin it crawls between the rows and formations of this dark army, recruiting more hands and feeding on our fragile endurance. There in the dark it awaits for the perfect moment to take its first and final leap towards us, a beginning of what may seem a baffling end. Feeding on the very essence of the soul and injecting its poison inside each and every particle of our bodies, this foreign and uninvited guest starts deconstructing the texture that binds us, and caught in the cross fire, our bodies hopelessly tremble to such inflicted tyranny. Once the air becomes so thick you can literally feel its mutinous chunks suffocating you; you know you’ve succumbed to loss and destruction. It is always late, by the moment you find out you fell victim to this slayer, the damage would already be permanent. Forget what you read about it and dismiss all the theories, all what we know about our brains are some colorful MRI prints and endless heaps of heaps of paper each trying a different approach and offering a ridiculous remedy to a rather enormous foe.
If I ever managed to express my feeling in the middle of this clash I would do that in such a way; it feels like you’re Malevitch’s Black Square. You’re entire existence reaches a pitch dark corner, surrounded by a white void that threatens to consume you if you ever dared to trespass, and in the middle your own fears and thoughts tie you down so firmly. Alas, Russian Suprematism was never an icon of such a devastating mental state, but I took the liberty to use one of its greatest icons as reference because that’s how I always felt. The square itself is rigid and unforgiving and in every sharp corner awaits a new threat. The white borderline remains mysterious and treacherous, very much representing a purgatory, except this one was created for all the wrong causes. During the almost sudden mood transitions and stampedes of thoughts and ideas, a new killer is at large. Silence has finally managed to force itself upon us, and this new oppressor shall be heard. How shouldn’t he be when the only thing that you hear while descending down this abyss is him. The shocking throb upon recognizing is sufficient enough to throw us between the blood thirsty wraiths of denial.
And so does this demon starts to hack and slash its way through your thoughts, hovering over your existence in an attempt to eradicate it, and no matter how hard you try to defy its own existence, it remains intact. It would usually start as a sudden change of mood that you fail to link or relate to any other incident of such nature, a swift transition between sunshine and none, or on some rare occasions, vice versa. And you can’t really predict it or for that matter defy it. The more you fight back the fiercer it gets and the deeper you fall into the snake pit. You can only succumb and conform to an element that never really acknowledged the ethics of morality and would never give you a chance to fight back to grasp your own claimed freedom. The only impotent shot you would have left is hoping that this sudden switch passes away soon and its severity arrives to a trough. But the truth remains that no matter how hard you strive to inflict a change, you are forced to show gratitude to this awful guest and look forward to suffer, for a few minutes, a couple of hours and sometimes longer depending on how comfortable it finds the stay.
And just when you think the wizard has no more tricks up his sleeves, his wand is quick to charge at you with another much more incurable blow. And to be as precise as possible I would like to put it this way, it usually starts as numbness on the lower back of your neck; right where the spine parts to dive into the shoulders. You can almost feel its coldness sending chills to all different ends of your body, and before you could realize it, thousands of miniature unseen needles start making their way through the skin pores and under the flesh. And then follows the infamous pulse. So powerful you might have to twitch to accustom to the newly, smaller regained head space. The grandeur of such an arrival makes this new weapon unmistakably malevolent. Another brute has come out of the wood work to help finish what his younger but much more aggressive sibling has started. It’s brain storming on a brand new super sized level. It’s the part most people fail to recognize as a threat and tend to soothe its sting by dubbing it as distraction. But I digress. No matter how hard your casual psychiatrist cajoles and cajoles; this is not normal. Not even remotely related to anything of an earthly nature.
If the ability to control the thoughts came with the package, we would have been living on other planets by now and probably found a cure for most terminal diseases. But good things are never complimentary. The colossal pull of such a monstrous current opens the door for a brand new generation of psychosis. You get stormed by so many ideas that you lay half traumatized trying to bring yourself to harbor. Everything you might have done during your life will get back at you at a quadrupled speed and ten times the size. That’s when all the demons orchestrating this anarchy weave their initial plan. Death seems to be the only option, at least that of a brain. The irony of such a situation inflicts more self loathsomeness, never in your entire life and under any situation would you feel so weak and impaired. You have just realized or felt like your brain is working against your brain. You feel your heart trembling in fear in response to such a massive failure and in a final attempt to save what’s left. But what could a fragile organ do against the armies of hell itself. This combined with a severe depression would bring your soul to its knees imploring salvation. You pry upon such a bedazzling riddle but you never hit the bottom, only your spirit does.
The unfailing urge to reprieve becomes a vital need by time, the monotonous and sometimes increasing rhythm of this tragedy, inspires the wildest thoughts and devices. Soon the ominous silence ensues and before the curtains fall to declare the end of this chapter another one starts. This time, its insomnia; a shadow congealed by stress, creativity and insanity. Part self inflicted and part deviously crafted; this black raven mourns what’s left of your decaying state. Sleep seems to be the only way out of this raging whirlpool but this is one foe you can never run away from. He will make sure the last round ends in splendor. The black comedy is not quite black yet. That’s when he summons his last card and watches and laughs while you choke on your own nightmares. Only then do dreams of death sound so soothing and relieving. The idea of taking life by the hand never seemed so vivid and just. Your soul becomes worthless after it has been violated, tainted is your faith and the lump soon becomes a chain saw shredding your own throat. But this is not your default option; the rules of the game defy such an act. Weakness is a part of the deal and so is cowardice. This historic fear of the inevitable prohibits you from getting near the outskirts of this territory.
Other than the internal mutiny, you sometimes are faced with an external one if you ever choose to beseech others for help. Not to dub everyone as a partner in crime but there are some individuals who would just drive the last nail harder inside the coffin to spare themselves the guilt or just the bitterness of such a happening. God knows there are some persons out there though who would do whatever it takes to help alleviate the pain. I myself have been blessed with a few. But others deliver more damage than redemption. Oblivious to their own acts; some would drive an even bigger knife by choosing not to regard this defect as a serious disease. “It’s all in your head” would be the next thing you hear if you ever tried to open up and vent to someone who is not so tolerant.
Truth remains that bipolar personality disorder is a very serious illness and can lead to unforgiving aspects and results. But you can never really expect someone who doesn’t have the slightest idea of what’s raging inside you to understand the horribleness of such an unfair conflict. And to imagine fighting with this on a daily basis makes Sisyphus’s attempts seem merely insignificant and rather ridiculous. And as I earlier mentioned this is not a confession, this is just a chronicle of what a bipolar person’s every day might look like.
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