'I'm alright, don't I seem to be?'

It's difficult to get sympathy from people for a thing no one is really sure exists. No doctor can point to an x-ray and say "there, that, it needs to come out." I have no test results to show my condition, to hand to someone so they can making clucking noises and hug me and say "we'll get through this together". Indeed, what exactly am I going through? This disappearing act called "Bipolar 1,2, or 3" or simply "mood disorder". The latter which conjures up images of a blond house wife in flowing robes throwing her bonbons across the room and collapsing on a fainting couch with a tear-stained face.

No, it's nothing like that.

But it's always there, you see. And I can't get rid of it.

Oh god, if I could just rip it out. If I could pry it's claws away from my soul...they dig so deep, and The Pain brings me to my knees and stops my breath. I squeeze my hands together to stop from screaming. But it's swallowed my voice, so I let go my grip. I stare ahead in horror, alone on the floor, soaking my space in tears. The Pain, please God, The Pain is too much, I won't make it this time. I shake my head and rock back and forth like a mother over the body of her dead child. All at once I am mourning and dying and falling into the pit of Hell here in my very room. Suddenly my skin is so heavy on my bones, it's so heavy and my bones are breaking and I have to get out of my skin before I crumble into pieces. My clothes are covered in Pain and I can't stand them and my skin is crushing my bones. I can hear it now, my soul is giving away I can feel it tearing...The Pain, I can't stand it I've got to rip it out I tell you I've got to get it out oh God......


And then my memory is gone until the next day. I know I am still alive because I can hear the noises of my home. I know it must have all been in my head, because no one has rushed me to the hospital. This realization amazes me. How did I survive The Pain then? Didn't anyone look on in fear and desperation? Didn't anyone cry at the sight of me in Pain? Did no one lift me from the floor and carry me to help? No. No one did. No one heard. No one saw.

So I move carefully out of bed, naively expecting a wound to bleed, and bones to crack. Nothing happens, I'm together with no flesh missing. Slowly the memory of The Pain fades as I make my way back to life. But it will be back. I know it will be back. It always is. And I can't get rid of it.

I get by with a little help from....

It's a scientific fact that loneliness does as much damage to a person as heart disease or diabetes. Whether we want to accept it or not, as humans we are wired to long for physical contact. When we do not receive it our brains send out a signal that something crucial to our survival is missing. It is the same signal that is sent out for food and water. In fact, given the choice between physical contact and comfort over food and water, we will choose the first. It is also true that one can be completely alone in a crowd. I do not have to be shipwrecked on a desert island to feel that my soul has no mate. I do not have to be secluded in an isolation cell to feel that my words will never be heard. In fact, I'm usually quite cramped with people. But my soul is the only echo in a very empty room. And if you do not feel love, if you cannot pour it into your heart so that it overflows and you leave marks of happiness wherever you go....then love does not exist for you. Words can be an immense comfort. They can make us feel connected....until you realize that words are all you have. Words cannot help you stand when you are bent in half by emotion. Words cannot warm you with embrace.

Just as words won't fill a hungry belly, words won't fill an empty room. And there aren't words enough to express The Pain.

Dream sweet dreams for you, dream sweet dreams for me.

It always seems it's easier for the things we're most vulnerable to, to get to us at night. Things that have ceased to be seem to come alive again and memory becomes a hole to fall into, instead of a place to visit and leave when we wish.

When I say "we" I mean "me" of course, but I hope and mostly know I'm not the only one.

As soon as the sun goes down we're stripped of anything that can't follow us to the next life, and left with only the things that determine our judgment. It's no wonder so many people have trouble sleeping. It's no wonder we look for ways to dislodge our burdens and places to store them, out of sight but safely secured. I long for the day I could take off my memories before bed like I take off my jewelry. I would place them on my bedside table, and be able to sleep unabashed, knowing I wouldn't be jilted awake from the stab of a sterling silver feather in my neck. Or the scratch of desperation on my arm. How many of our wounds do we contract while we're sleeping? How many times have we forgotten to put away our fears, and left untamed, have sliced holes in our hopes when we roll over? How many times do we check our locked front doors, our ovens and heaters, but think nothing of letting our regrets and animosities roam the night streets? Getting into God knows what.


I long for the day it would be like flipping a switch. After all, I never forget to turn my light out.