Poison Pen

I promised myself, swore an oath, that I’d only write words that built up instead of tore down. Right now, just this once, I’m breaking it.

(But then again, I’ve always been a very good liar haven’t I?)

So, for just right now, I’m pouring poison out of my fingertips, bleeding out built up toxicity, exorcising demons (so to speak)– just to see if letting it all out will make me feel a bit better. Here goes:

I’m losing hair. Large clumps of it. I’m sleeping poorly– it’s always either too much or too little, for me. When I go outside, walk around the streets alone, face the normal human world alone, I hear voices in my head. My heart is wounded by shards that pierce against my chest whenever I try to breathe too deeply. And my mind– my mind has cracked quite some time ago, fractured when I was 17, broke itself in the midst of mania.

They say it’s all in my head. Of course it is. It’s not called a mental illness for nothing.

(And I read the warnings in my medications and realize that every time I take them I die a little on the inside. Hair loss. Risk of high blood pressure. Risk of diabetes. Discontinue use if rash occurs– symptom of kidney failure. What choice do I have? I can’t function without them either way.)

My greatest envy has become unfathomable– I most envy people who are sane. Normal people can’t grasp the struggle I go through because it’s biologically impossible for them. They can’t know what it feels like for their minds to become sand against sieve. They can’t know how it’s like for me to try and keep it all together. (My mind so easily slips through, you see.)

They can’t know what it’s like for people like me.

(On the cusp of mania, I’m begging God for sleep because I hadn’t gotten any for more than two days, and any longer without it would break my mind completely. Reality blurs, and the pain is all in my head in my head in my head, yes, but damn it it’s real to me.)

Then, there is the realization that I will struggle with this for the rest of my life. The rest of my life will be a constant battle against myself, a constant struggle to hold everything together– my mind most importantly of all.

(How? How do I hold on to something intangible?)

Worst of all is the knowing, the foreboding knowledge that, even when I’m in a better state of mind, even when I’m in a brighter mood– I know that it’s all going to happen again. My broken mind is a cycle unto itself.

Madness has become a part of me, an unwelcome visitor that I am forced to entertain whenever it comes.

And I must live with it.

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