Dead End

Some days I’d feel insane.

And I know that’s a vague concept to explain, because at some point we’ve all felt that way. The only difference is where it led us.

While you took a nap and binge watched Netflix, I felt my mind shatter into a million pieces. I felt like I could fly, but the logical part of my brain told me that was false – and I got angry. Because I wanted to be as free as the birds I watched in the morning sunrise. On the days that you felt the blues, I was the blues. My body crumbled as I placed my toes to the ground. A functioning human being is what I pretended to be during these weeks.

So I made questionable choices to make myself feel some version of alive. And these have made me a liar in my honest nature. I wanted to escape these mountains that I was forced to climb every day just to act normal. Drugs kissed my mental wounds and told me that I could relax for a minute, so I fell asleep peacefully and thought about never coming back.

Life couldn’t continue on this endless trail; I found myself stumbling over broken branches and loosing my footing every two steps. So I became determined to find a solution that would lead me to a better place. Snow caps on mountains were a beautiful sight at a distance, but they were hell to get to in one piece.

It’s been two months now, and I’m stuck in the limbo between being mentally unstable or a new version of pill-popper. Every outlet had been exhausted and this was my last resort. Yet, as I popped a pill every morning and every night, I still heard harmless whispers saying, “Be careful, I’ve had friends kill themselves on that shit.” Though the warning was in concern, it was also a message of, “You’re a fool for thinking this medication will make you any resemblance of normal.” 

While I see a stability that I’ve never experienced before, you look at me as though I’ve changed. My head sits high because I’m no longer afraid. My anxiety has subsided and I no longer find it terrifying to talk to another person. I am my version of ‘better’, but you still think of it as a mistake because I am not who I was. You fear I’ll take my own life because of this medication, but the reality is that without this medication…I’ve already tried. I cannot go any lower than I was, and I’m intelligent enough to know the warning signs. The only difference is now my mind is steady enough to recognize I never want to go back to that dead end, repetitive behavior. The only thing missing is your support, instead of your fear that being a pill-popper will kill me in the end, rather than the disease of Bipolar Disorder.

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