Bipolar Death

The worst part about being Bipolar isn't the mania. In fact, the mania is probably one of the BEST parts of this whole thing, at least in my honest opinion. Partially because I usually don't REALIZE that I'm manic until after it's over, and when I'm truly manic I GET SHIT DONE! Have you ever seen the movie "Limitless" with Bradley Cooper? Whenever I'm fully manic I honestly feel like I've just taken one of those smart pills because my brain is working OVERTIME and I'm usually not sleeping AT ALL, so I can get so much accomplished and I find myself being more creative and essentially HIGH on life.

But that's not what this blog entry is about. This is about the phase that ALWAYS comes after I come down off the manic high. It's the fucking DEPRESSION, and let me tell you, it can be a killer (seriously). This phase scares the fucking SHIT out of me because each time I'm faced with this monster (the depression) it gets worse and worse and worse. It literally comes out of no where and feels like you've just been hit in the face with a bag full of bricks. It knocks you down. It cripples you. And every time it happens it gets harder and harder to escape it's hold on you.

The images in my mind during these times are of myself standing there near the edge of a cliff talking to Death himself and he's taunting me to step closer and closer to the edge. He tells me how fucking worthless I am. How I'm nothing more than a burden to my friends and family. How the world would be a better place if I wasn't there to plague everyone with my existence. And he's right. He's not telling me anything that I hadn't thought of myself a thousand times before. His words just reassure me that I'm right. I AM fucking worthless. NO, I'm fucking MORE than that. I'm way beyond just being worthless, I'm a God Damned BURDEN. And so I begin to inch myself closer and closer to the edge, scared but confident that this is the right thing to do. I owe it to the ones that I care about to rid myself of this world. They deserve better.

And so I begin to wonder, not whether I'm doing the right thing or not but whether or not I have the fucking balls to go through with it this time. I've got a plan on how to do it, to make things right. I've come so close before, but I wound up taking the fucking easy way out by trying to overdose on my meds or sleeping pills and aspirin. Then I found myself waking up in the intensive care unit of the hospital strapped down to a hospital bed unable to move my arms or legs, and when I did get out of the ICU I found myself admitted to the Psych ward where I have to explain myself to some fucking shrink and participate in group therapy (which is bullshit by the ANY of them could EVER understand the battles going on in my head). And that place fucking SUCKS. They call it a treatment facility, but I fucking call it PRISON. You have to get up when they tell you and go to sleep when they tell you and take the fucking meds that THEY determine you need so it all becomes a thick fog in my head, and you have to participate in group therapy and make crafts (like this is some fucking summer camp). And you're enslaved there until THEY decide that you're ready to leave. Like I said, it's PRISON, and I'll tell you one thing for sure, I'm NEVER EVER EVER going back to that fucking place. I'll make SURE I finish the job next time.

FUCK Death for being right....