In the past, I have been less than compliant with the medication regimes and advice of psychiatrists, but I listen to Meredith. I have always complied with her, I have always been a good girl. I have a ‘cancellation’ appointment today with the wonderful Meredith.
I will have to admit that she’s wasting her time with me as nothing much has really changed from the brief emergency session I had with her last week after e-mailing her in a moment of weakness begging for help.
Nothing has changed because I changed nothing; I ignored her advice.
I can’t do it right now, medication, the side effects are too bad. I need to be there for people, I need to be able to take the kids to school and my parents to appointments and do the shopping and clean the house and generally do all the shit that doesn’t do itself if I stop to spend two weeks in bed gaga as I get used to the meds again.
The euphoric mania side of this weird mixed episode is so fleeting but so good, it’s costing me a lot of money and that’s affecting my relationship but when it’s warmth embraces me I don’t even care about those trivial ‘life’ things, because the trees are so fucking green and the sky is so fucking blue and I never want to see the faded colours of reality again, I much prefer surrounding myself instead, with the colours of madness.
Beauty reins superior until the tide finally turns and I tremble for an hour, lost between two alternative realities, or sometimes I just wake up and the worlds has returned to winter, life is black and white, the colours of madness all but a memory hidden by a blanket of the thickest fog. Nothing matters.
But the knowledge that mania’s vivid hues lie just below the surface are still enough to stop me swallowing the bitter pill that will augment my reality to someone else’s ideal, if I can just grasp it again for a second I can hold on and never let go, I can run forever with its colourful kite tails flying behind me. Free.
I would rather die here with my demons than live in a world of another’s making, a world where I have to live with the knowledge of what I have lost.
And I don’t remember how to care about what I leave behind.
The titillations, tribulations, vicissitudes, and oxymoronic cogitations of a very lucky and unfortunate Neuroscientist with Bipolar Disorder
It was almost funny.
Torn. Broken. Writer. “For me, writing is an art of converting feelings to words.”
Read between the lines
The ups and downs of my recovery
On Being Creative, A Mother & Bipolar
Stationery Enthusiast & Mental Wellness Advocate
Speaking Out on the Unspeakable
Creative Writing. Book Reviews. Adult Humour.
NOT ALL WHO SUFFER ARE STRONG
Shattering the Magic Mirror