leave me as a blind girl, for sunlight burns my eyes - it is not real

I've never written about my mania before.
Usually I only write about the depression aspect of my bipolar disorder. People are generally more accepting of depression than they are of bipolar. There's a hell of a lot of stigma surrounding it.
But, well, here goes.

Sometimes, my heart beats faster
It picks up from the slow plodding walk it had been
And it races, like a show horse pushing beyond limits 

This is when the mania kicks in
My depression is replaced, if only for a little while,
With glee, an unnerving sort
- It's involuntary.
I become restless, hands fidgeting, knees bouncing
And my sad patience is washed away
By quick-to-ignite irritation 
I'm more likely to do something stupid,
To take risks I shouldn't,
To act like the world is my oyster,
And I'll chew before I swallow
Thank you very much

I ride on a high
That I am fully aware will crash
No, it isn't the Earl Gray talking,
This is me, becoming a maniac
And trying to hide it
The way someone hides an infected cut 
Because it's red and puffy and swelling 
And it's ugly, so nobody should see it
Even when they could pour disinfectant
All over that poor bugger

When I get like this,
An old man's laugh could annoy me
And I can't sit still, I have as much grace
As an elephant with the flu and a blindfold on 
It takes me twice the time to
Actually get anything done

I'm tired 
When I'm not infested with
This false happiness anymore
Like my brain is trying to convince me
Of something that even it knows is not true
This happiness is an illusion,
Fragile as a child's belief 
And yet it still has the bad aftertaste 
Of artificially-flavoured chemical sugar 

People are objects this happens
- not as much when I'm in the depression again -
You see, this one girl is blue pancakes
A blonde I know always manifests in my mind as
White chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies
While my best friend is silk curtains

Everything is inky,
Slurred around the edges, 
I shake like the devil is after me
- Although I swear on Lucifer's playing cards
That I have no idea why it happens -
And I'm clumsier,
Tables smash themselves into
The softness of my thighs,
Leaving imprints of my mania 
As multi-colored bruises
That metastasize as though they are a medication,
A medication that hurts like all hell

Sometimes, though, I wonder if
Maybe my mania and my depression
Are going to be my only two emotions
For the rest of my life.

I try to stop that line of thought
After a while
When I am drained
And my fatigue
Seems to be my only true feeling
These days.

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed