Waiting for the sun to rise, I have been for three hours already
Wearing leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, my grandma’s old brown leather jacket, boots of the same color, my other grandma’s locket
(it matters because I’m comfortable and cozy, feeling cute and calm, and because I’m patiently awaiting the morning’s official invitation to join it outside)
Come on light, come on optimistic, hopeful light
Spill over into the blue that’s gradually fading into purple, contrast the darkness with your red, oranges, golds, and yellows
My hair is pulled into a bun so it’ll be curly tomorrow, still wet (which isn’t ideal in the 45° weather, but lo and behold, colder weather will be here soon and there’s nothing I can do but get used to it)
Sitting at the kitchen table, door already open so I can grab my coffee, already poured, and my book, Halloween-themed and exciting, and go sit on the steps to revel in the morning silence
The birds are already chirping, though they’ve got a way to do so that doesn’t interrupt the stillness, and they’re making my front porch sound both musical and…what’s the word for “more nature-y than it actually is”
I think it’s time, so I step outside into the chill and as it reaches my core, I don’t shy away from it but inhale deeply and hold for a bit
Another day’s begun, although it feels weird to say that after the night awake just warped time around itself
Even during my darkest moments, I usually woke up with some level of optimism; certainly not a stellar amount all the time, but I remember talking about it in therapy and my therapist told me that my prognosis is better because of it
Now, it might have taken life merely a minute to knock the optimism right out of me, but even I can’t deny it was there, if ever briefly
I’m irritable again, and I definitely know what usually follows such fervent desire to rip my face off, but (as I shouted at the skies countless times for countless years), all I needed was a god damn break…and I got one, and I’m thankful, and I’m not taking it for granted, and I’m handling my issues
It’s cold, I’m probably going to go back inside, but I like starting my mornings out here, and I’m glad that I did today
She was antsy. Crawling in her skin. Unsurprisingly agitated, although she hated to admit that, almost whole-heartedly refusing to believe what was happening, what was approaching. It was also unsurprising that she jumped when the thunder cracked right outside her window. She was just on edge. The noise wasn’t inherently scary; it was simply the harbinger of the torrents of rain that were now falling freely from the ominously-gray-but-eerily-bright sky. It was the unexpected noise, so loud she could feel it vibrate in her sternum, that made her shoot three feet off her chair and that, quite frankly, pissed her off. Why can’t I be one of those people who enjoy a thunderstorm? she wondered. One of those people who find them romantic or poetic or some shit. Her mind wandered but her eyes fell fairly quickly from the rain pelting her window to the coloring page in front of her. Fuck. She’d ruined her “masterpiece” when she nearly fell out of her chair. The anti-anxiety coloring book had kept her entertained enough, but god fucking dammit, now she was too aggravated to continue. Nothing like swapping anxiety for anger, right?
Thunder was shaking the same world outside the window, lighting periodically streaking across the same too-darkened sky. She was sitting at the same desk, existing in her same consciousness (she allowed for a momentary shiver to run through her as ideas that were far too philosophical for this time of day consumed and then released her). The same brain rested between her ears, that’s for sure. Although it might have been the first time she considered it to have been resting. It had been a long few months. But compared to the previous, oh, fourteen years, it hadn’t been that terrible of a summer. The streetlamp flickered on, illuminating the introspection that rolled like boiling water from the core of her being into the expanse of that consciousness that lived in that resting brain of hers. She wasn’t focusing on the obvious, but maybe better things lived a little deeper, ya know?
I am completely exhausted. Insomnia has finally given way to excessive sleeping, or maybe it’s just because I’ve been taking multiple doses of multiple sleep aids every night, starting at five, just to become unconscious. I don’t want to have to think. Although I say that as if thinking is an active process at this point. It’s something that just happens. I’m dragged into it. The thoughts come in, rising like floodwaters, forcing me wherever they want me to go. My moods move in a similar, violent fashion, dragging me with them in a deranging pattern that seems never to end. I’m scared, as dramatic as it may seem to say. There’s no other way to describe it. Nothing else seems to capture what this feels like, although everyone I come across who sees my dead expression and my body twisted with anxiety seems to “understand.” Because, apparently, they’ve felt the same way at one point or another. I need that to not be true. Because if “everyone” feels this intensely terrible, then what in the fuck is wrong with me? Have they really experienced the painful ripping of their sanity from their brain? Repeatedly? Have they suffered the debilitating fear waiting for it to happen again? Have they been pulverized by the gravity of the rage within them, caused and quelled by absolutely nothing? Have they collapsed into bed, exhausted from staring blankly into space trying to summon the will to move. Have they laid there in agony that stems from nowhere, that goes on without a beginning or an end, an explanation or a solution? Cried empty tears for hours? Heaved heavy sobs until the accompanying headache stops them in their tracks? Yes, sadness happens to all of us. And yes, even depression can be felt by those still lucky enough to not have bipolar disorder. But do not. do NOT tell me you understand. Don’t insult me like that. Don’t compare your commonplace emotions to the colliding hurricanes of unwarranted pain I am tortured into feeling. Your sadness was caused by something, and I don’t deny how much that sucks. But my suffering comes without reason. There is nothing to blame it on, and nothing to repair to try to end it. It is meaningless, but its omnipresence demands it be given a meaning. Confusion rips into every aspect of who I am. My concentration is turned to smoke and dissipates like it never existed. I am sick with it. My appetite is stolen and morphed into disgust. Mr. Hyde to its Dr. Jekyll, they are one and the same, and maybe one is an excuse for the other as goes the moral of the story, but how can I be blamed for the defect thrust into me, for the malfunction that invaded my body and soul like a virus and continues to violate my every moment. Survival is all I can hope for. Day to day, minute to minute. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. It is heavy, the air like lead, but there is no cure. There is nothing left to do. Deal with it. Barely get by, but get by. It requires constant distraction. Frantic, panicked distraction. One wrong thought and I’m paralyzed. One spare moment and I’m incapacitated, another day wasted in the darkness of my mind in the darkness of my bedroom in the darkness of life itself. It wouldn’t be so extreme if it didn’t bring powerful uncertainty and unintelligible, mangled discomfort. All-consuming distress. My deadened eyes announce the signs of visible resignation. The dark bags have never left, and I don’t need a mirror to know they’re getting more pronounced. I scream into my pillow, not actually hearing the blood-curdling slice through the silence. It’s a faraway sound. It might be coming from something outside of myself, but what does it matter if I don’t have a concept of who in the fuck I even am? Spiral again. Spiral further into it. Rather than reaching for relief, clinging to whatever remnants of happiness I can find in my memories, I give up. Relief would only be fleeting. Why bother? Maybe giving myself up for consumption will get this whole ordeal over with sooner. But for now, existing is difficult. Building myself up over and over again is futile, but I have to keep doing it if I want to drag myself from under my covers to the bathroom at least twice a day. My brain is mush, but it’s still firing neurons or something, I’m still alive or something, so I’m left with gray matter leaking down into the rest of me. It’s sticky, and a sickening sight. And it lacks the neurotransmitters that might be some sort of help in this fucked up situation, lucky me. I am left with a mind disconnected, sensations out of my control, moods trying to escape the bounds of their intangible nature, and a stomach ache. Congratulations to me, I’m having en episode.
Random acts of kindness 💕
Cloud watching ☁️
Giving something my all💯
The tippytap of my dog’s paws as he comes to me when I call him 🐾❣️
Fairytales about princesses and castles 🏰👑
Classic Disney movies °O° 📼
Waking up without an alarm ⏰ 🌅
Selfies when I’m really feeling myself 🤳🏻
Coffee ☕️ enjoying that first cup in the morning 🙂
Meeting up with friends 👭
Getting stronger 🏋🏼♀️ (physically or mentallyyy)❗️
Proving my resilience ⬇️🆙
Beer with friends after a long week 🗓🍻
Going on a trip ✈️
Pretty bows 🎀 (and other accessories) 💍
Smiling for no particular reason 😃
Roller coasters!🎢 the anticipation at the top!
Fruit salad 🍒🥝🍍🍎🍉🍇🍐🍌
When it all comes together like a puzzle 🧩
Old school video games 🎮
Leaving love notes (or any notes!) 💌
Gettingggg love notes (or any notes!) 📬
Good news in the paper 📰
Enjoying nature 🏔🏕
Flowers on a spring day 🌷🌻🌺🌿🌸
Cookies and milk 🍪🥛
The smell of rain/ thunderstorms ⛈⚡️
Tea 🍵 with honey 🍯
Binge watching a good show on Netflix/Hulu 🖥
Tropical vacations 🏝
The smell of mom baking apple pie on a fall morning 🍎 🥧
The sun, rising every day 🌅
A fresh notebook waiting to be filled 📓
Cute puppies 🐶
Cute cats 🐱
My favorite music 🎼 🎶🎵
A stack of books waiting to be read 📚
Seeing a rainbow 🌈
Photography that captures feelings 📸
Improving myself 📈
The sun coming out 🌥⛅️🌤☀️
Cosmic phenomena 🌙💫 -notice the miracles
Getting a good night’s sleep 💤😴
City skylines 🌇 🌃
Office supplies 📎✏️ 📋
Magic✨/ unicorns 🦄 / etc 🌟
Being alive!! 🌎 appreciate that 👈🏻
Shooting for the moon 🚀 🌕
Hot chocolate 🍫 on a cold winter day ❄️
Making someone happy 😃
Deep conversations 🗣 with close friends 👥
My perfect nephew 👶🏼
Learning something new about science 🧬
Comfy pajamas ✔️
Jeans that fit just right 👖
Frantically writing ✍🏻 getting ideas💡 on paper
Pride 🏳️🌈 for whatever I am
Connecting w people I love on social media 💻📱
Self-care 🕯 🧼🛁🧖🏻♀️
Really appreciating stars 🌟 in the night sky 🌌
Good fortune 🔮
Getting into a video game 🎮 (or watching one)
Shopping sprees! 🛍
Fall 🍁🍂🌾🌼 bonfires 🔥
Achieving something to be proud of 🎓
A big paycheck 💵
Late night car rides🚙 with Andrew🥰 singing🎶
Funny memes 😂
The incredibleee excitement the night before a Disney trip 🔜
Waking up on Christmas morning 🎄🎁
Feeling lucky 🍀
Winning something 🎰
Classical music that brings back memories 🎻
When things fit together perfectly 🔐
Making art 👩🏻🎨🖍🖌🖊
Appreciating all the world’s differences 🗺
Becoming the best version of me 🏆
Books 📖 & how so many of them exist📚
Making wishes 🧞♀️🧞♂️✨
Things that comfort me 🧸 🐘 (my stuffed elly!)
My favorite perfume 🥰
The first snow ⛄️ of the season 🗓 [peaceful!]
Singing in the rain ☔️
Checking something off my to do list ☑️
Ice cream (size congruent with my mood) 🍦
Quiet mornings 🔇
Crocheting someone a hat 🧶
Ska shows 🏁
Facing fears 🕸
My infinite internal power ♾ 💥
The journey 🛤
Climbing into bed feeling accomplished after a long day 🛏
A new haircut (or color!) 🆕👱🏻♀️💙
Reliving memories 💭 / looking through keepsakes 🎟🎫
Being the perfect amount of energetic🔋
Finding light in the darkness 🔦
When good things fall apart but better things fall together 💔➡️❤️
Counting down on New Year’s Eve just like the entire rest of the world 🎆🎇
Making someone proud (even if it’s myself)☺️
Late night adventures 🌙
The fact that I kicked the fucking shit out of anorexia once and I can fucking do it again 🍽
It was dark.
The only light in the room was coming off the clock on the nightstand, which indicated that it was 4:02am by way of a dull blue glow. It was too fucking early. And too fucking dark. And cold. Fuck the cold.
Insomnia ravaged her. Again.
The grunting snores of her boyfriend, fast asleep next to her, sent her temper spiraling but she was comatose despite the succession of jittery shockwaves pulsing through her body. She didn’t get up. She didn’t move. No matter how hard she willed herself to, she didn’t so much as roll over.
She didn’t want to wait til dawn to break. She wanted it to come now. She needed it and needed it now, in this moment, because waiting is the worst and she didn’t have the patience for it. This sucked.
It was her fault, she hated to admit. She’d drugged herself to sleep (thank you sleeping pill, melatonin, and cbd oil) at 6:27 because she couldn’t stand the thought of being awake for a moment longer, staring blankly at the wall. No, her brain was too loud but it wouldn’t allow her to move and her stomach growled angrily but it couldn’t bear the heaviness of food and there were texts to answer but no words were available to her. No, fuck that. Time to fucking sleep.
At two in the morning she’d opened her eyes but forced them shut again. Forced her brain into a quasi sleep mode by having made up conversations in her head, half concentrating on them until she couldn’t any more and the fake attempt at batting away the longing for a friendly voice, a friendly presence, faded into unfulfilling sleep.
Two hour of tossing and turning and it brought her to her present wide-awake state. Fuck.
Get up and do something, she berated herself. Get to your headphones, blast some metal, or open your laptop, do some writing.
No amount of internal urging seemed to be enough to summon the motivation to move.
She was just about to attempt to get another round of restless sleep in, but the thought of doing so was more exhausting than actually doing it. So she finally got up. Cold enveloped her.
She paced. She paused. She stood motionless like a confused zombie trying to get her thoughts together but it was a messy, tangled web up in her mind. Wires were twisted. None of them were plugged into the right connections.
Gravity amazingly pulled her to her desk, where her headphones thankfully sat on a pile of books, which thankfully was next to her laptop. A sweatshirt was thrown over the back of her chair, and she used what little energy she had to pull it over herself. It was a miracle that the setting was now one that allowed for a meager amount of productivity to take place.
A miracle. That’s what’s worth calling a miracle? How stupid. How pathetically stupid. But whatever.
Headphones on. Music loud. Laptop open. Document pulled up. Aaaaand, go!
“Going” took another few minutes of zoned-out staring, but somehow her fingers were brought to the keyboard and somehow they started moving and somehow the movements formed words that appeared on the too-bright screen in front of her.
Why is this happening again? Why did I let this happen again? Why did I make this happen again and why am I continuing to push myself father into it. Again. I’m guilty as charged. I hate myself.
It went on like that for a while. Her words chased themselves in circles. Negativity. Self-hate. Anger. It went on until she began to write fervently and passionately and quickly, so quickly, her fingers barely keeping up with the pace at which her brain threw thoughts into formation.
She shrugged her sweatshirt off. Rolled up her sleeves. Was it getting hotter, or was she becoming overheated like a computer that’s been on for too long? Did it even matter?
Her eyes flicked away from the computer for a fraction of a second.
Bad move. Losing the flow was always a bad move. She lost the momentum and let her thoughts wander and…fuck, no. Why did she let her thoughts wander?
But the tattoo on her left forearm shouted loudly from its type-written font: Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise!
Yet there was a pale light in the distance now. It fell through the window as if by accident but it stayed like it was comfortable in the bedroom. Morning had come. She shut her laptop.
She collapsed back into bed, weary from the exertion of being awake and alive.
But at least she got an hour and a half of sleep.
“If you have the courage to make it through a lonely night with nothing but your self destructive thoughts to keep you company, darling, you have the courage to make it through anything.”
They say “making a mountain out of a molehill” is expanding what is, in reality, a tiny insignificant issue into something monumental and dramatic. An overreaction. An over-exaggeration. A histrionic response to something that doesn’t warrant such theatrical feedback.
I’m known for this.
A spilled cup of coffee is The End Of The World. Spill a cup of coffee and the ground cracks in a violent zigzag that spits forth red-hot molten earth. Spill a single drop and the skies open up, a foreboding, gaping hole revealing heaven itself, and the only result is torrents of rain that send floodwaters rising too high to fathom. Spill, and the apocalypse is surely coming.
It works in reverse, too. When I wake up and the sun is shining it means Life Is Amazing (so long as every other star has aligned itself with the sun so as to create such a perfect condition of Amazingness). When I have a fun night out with my friends it means, for some reason, that I Am Invincible and if I wanted to go for a run I could make it across the country without needing to stop (particularly if this happens several nights in a row, but providing that nothing happens during the days between the nights that could fuck it all up). When I’m driving and a song shuffles on that accurately fits my mood it is a Sign From The Universe that everything is perfect and nothing can go wrong and incredible things are going to happen and and and and (just as long none of my thoughts go rogue, because just one gone wrong could sabotage the whole thing).
And I guess there are more than a few people who fit into the category of blowing things out of proportion. But of those people, even fewer experience it in the same ways I have.
We’re called bipolar. And we come in different degrees of crazy, to phrase it in a probably-offensive way but one that speaks to how I personally feel about it. But what I mean is we have differences in the nuances of our illnesses. We’re all different. Our symptoms manifest in different ways, and we experience different degrees of those oh-so-stigmatized monsters called Depression and Mania. Some travel up and down faster than a slingshot roller coaster, ascending to deranging heights only to be dragged back down to earth accelerating faster than the 9.8 meters per second squared allowed by the laws of gravitation. Some fluctuate slowly, the wavelength between highs and lows longer, like a photon of angry red light as opposed to calm, collected blue.
I would love to analogize by using the snowflake comparison, but I think that one should permanently retire; people are all unique in and of themselves, and unnecessarily comparing our species to a form of precipitation just, for some reason, fucking pisses me off me. Like, WHY? That now-hackneyed characterization of human beings doesn’t make sense to me because the fact that everyone on this planet is totally individual should be as clear as day. But people are dumb so it isn’t.
Oh but look, I’m being melodramatic again. Unintentionally proving my point. What was my point again?
Right, I’m so used to “making mountains out of molehills.” It’s second nature. Or perhaps a more appropriate description is that I go to step over a molehill and suddenly I’m looking up at a mountain, its dizzying height sending me into a panic because dammit wasn’t this thing so much smaller a literal second ago?!
Cue a little something I like to call “a proper dose of a medication that actually helps.” And suddenly the idiom is reversed. The mountains I am so accustomed to, the ones I’ve had no choice but to expect after years and years of begrudgingly climbing them, they’re becoming smaller. And I’m beating the phrase to death, but I’ll use it one more time in this reversal: the mountains are becoming molehills.
Yeah, so the obstacles are still there. There are still days when coffee spillage is upsetting, even overly so, and on those days I might crawl under my covers and hide for a while. But the earth doesn’t split open at its seams and I don’t fear for the end of existence as I know it. And there are definitely good days. Ones where I wake up feeling hopeful, go about my morning routine with a smile, hit every green light on my way to work, and actually getting to work doesn’t ruin that specific brand of inner peace that the day has brought me (or perhaps that I have brought myself). On those days I still know that I’m in control. Under the layers of my consciousness, in the far reaches of my mind, no panic bubbles to the surface. Nothing hisses at me from the corner “this is too good to be true,” and I don’t respond with “oh shit you’re right.”
It’s weird, actually. I’m still partially anticipating the worst. But I’m not consumed with worry. That’s the weird part. I’m not living in fear as a result of every hill I hike through. I mean, that’s a good thing. I know that’s a good thing. So why am I somehow scared of it?
It’s change, I assume. Or maybe it’s having to learn how to live life without making those molehills mountains. The two are probably related.
Well, either way, I’ve gotta get used to it. Gotta focus on scaling the other problems I have (I’m sure I can find enough of them to occupy myself). And whether they reach the clouds or simply rise above ground-level in a mound, I’ll survive –and live to tell the tale dramatically.
We don’t have curtains on our windows, which is probably dumb for a few reasons, but the upside is that I get to wake up in harmony with the entire stretch of world that exists on the other side of the glass. Sometimes that means there’s a gradual lightening of everything outside that is echoed on my face when I’m starting to open my eyes and sometimes that means night’s darkness simply fades into a dull gray. Sometimes it means waking up to a burgeoning sunrise that paints the sky in broad red and orange strokes. It all depends on the day.
I’ve come to think of the morning sky as a screen on which the quality of my day ahead is projected. In layman’s terms, the weather has a pretty big effect on the already-tenuous grip I have on my moods. And this isn’t coming from a place of superstition. Weather patterns actually impact mood. The sun can pull people away from the abyss of depression, rain can send gloom through even the happiest of people, and humidity makes people edgy and irritable. It makes sense. Not to mention seasonal affect disorder, whose sufferers’ moods cycle with seasonal changes (and oh hey, as a resident bipolar, I’ve obviously noted that my episodes align with such patterns).
So when the morning sky is a vast expanse of bright blue, chances are I’ll be starting out well-rested, rejuvenated, ready for the day’s adventures to begin. When the early morning is masked with cloudy skies, I’ll likely be starting with a vague ennui that might develop into nagging anxiety if not taken care of. When red and orange clouds linger with the climbing sun, it’s usually wise for me to heed the phrase that sailors have passed down over time and “take warning,” since chaos is surely brewing. Picturesque dawn means the sun is shining from below as inclement weather approaches from the west, scattering light through the present water vapor. And as beautiful as it might be, the calming hues of purple and blue are still chased away as if frightened by the impending storm.
In reality, no known atmospheric condition has power in itself to transcend symbolism and legitimately affect the circumstances of my day. My reaction to certain circumstances is certainly influenced by them; sunshine might make me more inclined to brush aside annoyances, clouds might make that harder to do, and a storm might bring forth my desire to hide away.
But it’s necessary to remember, even if only in the back of my mind, that I have the power to control how my days go. Regardless of the weather, and mood disorder aside, I have more power than I think.
People will criticize your dreams,
Layer doubt and uncertainty on your consciousness
Because they don’t understand
The intensity and ferocity of your fire,
With its red passion,
Aggressively orange desire,
And burning yellow optimism,
Your fire, your eternal, internal warmth,
With its propensity to spread, to expand.
They’ll approach the ladder you’re steadily climbing
And insist you’ve missed a rung or two,
As if you haven’t reached a higher altitude already.
They’ll warn of the dangers that lay above you
Without regarding the successful resilience of your past
Or the Houdini-style escapes you’ve scraped your way through.
“You can’t marry the mood,” they’ll chime,
Thinking they’re ringing out like virtuous bells of truth.
But if I can’t marry the moon,
Explain to me why I’ve been bathed gloriously in its light
Why it’s soothed my dubiety,
Quelled my ever-questioning mind.
Explain why it’s kissed me goodnight
After I’ve collapsed into a cocoon of blankets and pillows,
Exhausted from the efforts I’ve left behind,
Whispering in my ear that the sun is going to rise again soon,
Powering the winds of renewal
Like my perfectly-paced, everlasting forward motion.
You are a fighter
which is another word for
openly battling an enemy,
heart like a fist punching the wind out of opposition
however much of it there is.
you are a threat to life’s struggles, however strong they may be
(or seem to be).
A force to be reckoned with
because goddammit giving up isn’t an option.
Collector of emotions extreme,
sometimes (all times) aggressively powerful…
You are a fighter at all times, in all places
partially because you have to be
because you simply are as you are