I think life is more about learning how to work with yourself than how to work yourself to be with. I’ve been asked before if my extremely good moods might possibly be mania or at least hypomania. My impulsivity notch gets stuck on high, my need for excitement growing, the incredible things I think I’m capable of sound unrealistic. From the outside looking in perspective, I see your concern and I raise you a thank you for caring. The words out of my mouth, “I’m just fine, I’m working with it”.
Manic
I say that I’m manic but I think you should know,
I’m not sure if I’m manic or if I just go
CRAZY! Absolutely crazy, from time to time.
I tried to blame it on my period, but I’m thinking that’s a lie.
I get up, so high, I think I’ll never come down.
Then before I know it, I crash to the ground.
These highs, they scare me, so much more than the lows.
They scare me because at least with depression, everyone knows
that I’m not doing well, it can clearly be seen.
At highs, though, everything seems so clean.
“You’re doing so much!” and “You seem so well!”
I hate to say it but in this moment, I can tell
I’m about to plummet to such depths you’ve never seen.
I’m acting very pleasant but I’m feeling oh so mean.
So mean I’d rip your head off if you grind your teeth one more time.
So mean, I’ll scream at you for nothing but a sigh.
An anger and hate brews so deep inside
but all that you see is the disguise of the high.
I say I’m not well, but you don’t believe it’s true.
I’m saying I’m not well but this isn’t what not well looks like to you.
This frustration, this itching, it leads to more pain
than the most consuming depression on the darkest of days.
A pain so intense, yet I’m enjoying my high.
I’m hoping it won’t end and simultaneously hoping I will die.
Medicate me, I’m sure it’s the only way.
To keep my highs not so high and my demons at bay.
Only I don’t want to be in the middle.
I don’t want to feel that creeping numbness, not even a little.
Not even if it helps get rid of the pain.
I’ll die a thousand deaths before I refrain
from feeling these highs and feeling these lows.
The pain that I keep feeling, it just goes to show
Show that I’m alive and I feel and can breathe.
Though sometimes I can’t, and that’s not what I need.
I don’t need an anxiety that tears at my chest,
Nor a sadness so strong it masks all of the rest
The rest of these wonderful things I can feel.
All the things so good, so intense, and so real.
A realness I need, and a realness I crave.
I’m sure I’m that percent that won’t be okay.
Won’t be okay if I’m medicating my pain.
The percent that said that the thing they complain of,
It’s getting even stronger and taking the shape of
Something much darker, much harder to hide.
You see, I’m the percent that goes off the ledge.
Swallows a bottle of pills, chugs some pledge.
Pledge, will that even do the job?
Poisoning, I mean. I wouldn’t want to rob
Myself of success, success at leaving so well.
Maybe you can push me and say that I fell?
No, I can’t put that on you, that wouldn’t be right.
And I can’t take those pills because otherwise, well, I might.
Much love, until next time.
Madeline May I... 