In this ink,

through these words,

A tenuous hope

is entwined.

Our words reach out

to find refuge

from our loneliness.

To find a way to stop sabotaging

ourselves

And start saving

ourselves instead.

Shock Life back into us,

Connect us,

Remind us,

that we are electric.

I could start

With enhanced psychological definitions

“Depression is a state of mind

Caused by or causing low levels of serotonin

In the brain.

Comes in many forms

Only characterized by how intense it is

And how long it lasts…”

But I’m not going to start that way

I’m going to start with a testimony

Once upon a time

A girl woke up screaming

Not in fright but in pain

Not physical pain

But intense anxiety

She was dying

Or coming close

Or giving up

Who knew the difference?

No one looking

And she was too much in turmoil

To know

“What’s wrong darling?”

Leave me alone!

“Please tell me!”

Chest heaving—go!

“I can’t leave you like this!”

Screaming: GO!!

That woke her older sister

She calmly slipped from bed

Grabbed her second journal

And her favorite pen

With easy-flowing ink

She said nothing

When she came and joined her sister

She sat down beside her

Rubbing her still-heaving shoulders

They trembled and slowly fell still

Mother stood watching from the corner

She handed her her journal

And favorite pen

“Write it all away”

She whispered

She opened it

Her sister slowly grabbed the pen

Touched it to paper

Her sobs had ceased

The lines flowed easily

Scratching words into the beautiful lined paper

Though it was dark

The pen scratched faster and faster

Unseen by all but one mind

Who knew exactly what it was doing

And where it was going

Her shoulders heaved once more

Her breathing deepened and hastened

Her sister hugged her tight

And kissed her tear-streaked face

The pen stopped

As if the mind behind it was brought

Slamming back to reality

She returned the hug from her sister

She smiled as she fell

Back into her bed

Exhausted

“Thank you” she whispered

And was asleep within moments

Her sister rose

Taking the journal and pen

Led Mother out of the room

And silently shut the door

They both read what their sister wrote

Beautiful but terrible words

And their eyes filled with tears

Writing is a portal to the soul

Delivering the images in our mind

And impressing them on paper

Turmoiled thoughts

The mind cannot bear

Must be thrust out

Before they destroy

They build a fog in our brain

A deep, dense fog

So no one may see and understand

It blocks us from us

It destroys us from within

Writing it out in solidarity

An outlet for the fog

Drains it and channels it

To the paper

And like all fog

When it contacts cool dry air

It disappears

Fierce, happiness, positivity—thoughts of who I was & how I always use to be.

Within my head, searching like a pirate seeking the X that marks the spot, so desperately.

Hoping to find a treasure chest, but needing it to be filled with different things.

Instead of gold, I long for strength to overcome dysthymia’s obstacle onslaught of anxiety.

The problem is, I’m not a pirate & there’s no cure-all treasure chest In reality.

Oh, this vessel just isn’t as strong as you might think & see—

due to this storm that hit & won’t leave.

One of us have to go, dysthymia or me due to this depression & it’s gang that bullies me, mentally.

I have no choice but to carefully clear out my head by planning an escape to flea.

Quickly I grab what I need, paper, a pen & a quiet place to sit down & think.

Putting pen to paper, helps me free my soul & my mind by expressing myself, to me.

Bipolar & anxiety, never agree with each other nor do they agree with me, depression or ADHD.

Each diagnosis has different views, feelings, emotions & personalities.

You can’t put multiple people all different in their own views, in a room & expect anyone to agree.

Too many points, opinions, shouting, fighting & lack of understanding.

So it’s me against them, one on one with the pen or the pencil, whoever’s on duty & the paper, mediating.

Adhd likes to explain itself through drawings and paintings, since colors explain her issues better than words for she.

Bipolar likes to use her words, verbally but gets ahead of herself, so the pen is key.

Anxiety likes to calm down through scenarios & some poetry.

Depression will do whatever she can, in order to ignore dysthymia’s

way of making my life look darker than the black sea.

Unlike my mind, a pen or pencil can only express one word at a time—

making sense of what myself needs in order to keep safe from me.

I was having a discussion with my psychiatrist

who with a med intern in the room

was having a teaching moment,

"When I think of all the great art science philosophical breakthoughs in the history

so many greats Michelangelo Handel Van Gogh Newton Emerson Florence Nightingale

Theodore Roosevelt Hamilton Churchill Lincoln Byron Keats Poe Dickens Twain

Fitzgerald Faulkner Hemingway Vonnegut Dylan Thomas Sylvia Plath Virginia Woolf

and even in modern times Rosemary Clooney Vivien Leigh Connie Francis Dick Cavett Art Buchwald Abbie Hoffman Buzz Aldrin Ted Turner Jonathon Winters Robert Young Burgess Meredith Phil Spector Patty Duke Brian Wilson Jim Carey Jane Pauley

Richard Dryfess Carrie Fisher Ben Stiller Robin Williams all treated more or less...

I have to wonder if we do the right thing

in agressively treating those diagnosed as ill

considering that by doing so

we'll never know what

those minds

untreated

could have brought to humanity."

Here I insert my thoughts,

"Here's the problem

there is a devilish balance that needs to be achieved

bipolar physically heightens perception and sensitivity

studies have found that people predisposed for bipolar

are born with 30% more neurotransmitters for signaling

Picture if you can, a person with 30% more fingers, 30% more hearing,

or 30% more eyelashes. These features could be huge advantages...

but those same features can overwhelm and get in the way of normal life."

"Ah" they both say at once.

I continue

"That's exactly why

treatment is vital

because

like fire

bipolar - out of control - can and will burn down your home

with your loved ones and everything in it.

in control - bipolar can provide you and those you love with amazing warmth and light harnessing and leveling bipolar energy is everything

finding the balance

teaching self-awareness

providing coping skills and correcting brain chemistry

is the answer you professionals must provide for humanity

so those thus gifted

can blend into the ordinary world

while preserving their extraordinary stable sensibilities."

Together again they both said,"Ah"

*This is technically a repost of an old & buried piece, so if that doesn't qualify for this challenge no worries

The world drags you down

with tightly packed cubes

made of sugar or offices

but either way, you lose

Long ago it was easy

to run under the sky

hunting, foraging, moving

just trying to get by

You feel that it’s wrong

but can’t move with the weight

they’ve spoonfed your brain

and stacked up your plate

Madness some call it

Madness some say

When you can’t fight the future

You only live for today

Then depression sets in

and surrounds you in waves

your friends are all sinking

you can’t roll any saves

One by one they give in

to the pills or the dark

but within you it burns

that small, little spark

Never it whispers

Not you it roars

If you can’t feel happy

Then I’ll make you soar

Madness some call it

Madness some say

When your mind’s had enough

And it goes its own way

Soon all your thoughts race

through the once empty halls

they tug at your strings

and smash at your walls

You’re drunk on your ego

a wolf among sheep

you can do all you want

except go to sleep

The ride feels so good

when you’re nearing the top

but much like a train

all this crazy must stop

Madness some call it

Madness some say

When you realize you’ve lost

More than just your own way

You clean up your act

you lift and you jog

you start eating veggies

you find a new job

You balance your diet

along with your mood

healthy mind, healthy body

but you’re just being shrewd

For inside you it sleeps

the beast is alive

if you fall in despair

it will make you survive

Madness some call it

Madness some say

But for you it’s a safeguard

Of your ancient DNA

most days, getting out of bed

is a war

clinging to the comfort of the sheets,

shying away from the cold of reality.

but once i'm out of bed

i have to move,

every action

spurred on

by an invisible whip

that cracks against my spine

until i stand a little straighter.

maybe it's

obligation,

the pressure that comes with

letting yourself come

unglued.

being crazy

takes too much work.

better to

get out of bed

and pretend.

maybe it's

mania,

frantically searching

for something to keep away

the lethargy

of who i used to be.

writing

glues together the cracks

that form in my psyche,

daily repose that i'm granted

in spare minutes of free time,

when i can gather my thoughts

and spin them outward,

tossed like frisbees,

knit like yarn,

until i can no longer recognize them

as my own.

taking my depression

and replacing it

with mania,

words upon words that i carry on my back

until they drive me into the ground.

i convert my depression

into meaning.

find solace

in darkness scrawled out on white pages.

i am a missionary in the mountains,

preaching to my depression's closed door

until it finally gives in,

settling back in my head,

making room for something more

until it rears up

and spreads again.

thus the cycle

continues,

conversion and relapse.

depression is eternal.

and i am confined by mortality.

it will outlive me.

but maybe i can create something

that will live

longer

than my disease.

Sometimes

it's easier to express myself in writing.

On the days when someone asks,

"how are you?"

and I burst into tears,

I can still move the pencil to write,

"I am hurting so bad

and I thought no one noticed"

tears making the ink run as I add,

"Everything feels so heavy

and I don't know if I can carry it alone."

In my highs

words burst forth like butterflies from cocoons--

steadily, sometimes slowly, not yet knowing their place

but beautiful, soaring,

wings full of sunlight.

Some days

depression sinks me down,

down into the dirt

and I lay with sadness on my chest

while words squiggle like worms around me

just out of reach

and I can't help but notice

the richness of the soil where they've been.

I dig my fingers in

and words wriggle around me

writhing with delight in my hands.

Sometimes, in the in-betweens,

words come out of me angry, like vomit.

I scream and retch and scream and retch

words, wretched, smelly, sticking to the paper

I have to hold my nose to re-read them

but I'm glad they are out

and the ugly parts can be flushed away.

And other times

when I feel, but not so deeply,

remnants of me in the written word

mark my growth with notches in the kitchen doorway

of my own apartment.

My skin and bones

Fallen on the floor

Stepped on by my enemies

Because they’ve never seen me as anything more

Than a rug to dust everything under

Because who else was there to blame

For the mess I had became

Cobwebs invading the corners of my soul

My bad habits have gotten

Incredibly old

The cleaning service forgetting to sweep them out

Losing my hair

To the vacuum that is my starvation

The suction scares me but its a numbing feeling

And my enemies love my pain

A rapid decay

Of the people who will listen to what I have to say

Distance myself to my journals

Words of my skin

Plugging out of my bones

Emotions so intense

The trashman leaves them on the curb

No one will accept depression

As a cancer that lives within you

Unless you’ve already been cured.

The ink of my pen

Is the therapist my parents refused to send me to.

Void Must be Even Keeled

All are welcome here

the gross bilious resistance

that draws the masthead

beneath the dangling seaweed

will be made--

Maniacally clean.

The journal shall document

that our Tuesday next

was well spent...

How could I neglect?

the mental flogging

that dusted out every speck

in the mangled red carpet,

from the Attic of Aspirations

not yet met?

I mark it on the calendar

in pencil

for myself...

for you, you will not forget.

01.26.2023

Bipolars Gather Here Challenge @Finder