No editing whatsoever. (I love feeling this way)

I'm slowly going off of the medication and already I feel so much more like myself. It's so strange that bipolar disorder is so, so much of my personality. I feel like it's only fair to people like me to get to the basics of what it feels like.

Love for someone has so much depth that the other person never seems to feel if they don't have bipolar disorder, and this can make you paranoid. It can make you feel like you haven't provided enough in a logical frame of mind, but in a bipolar one, you feel as though you haven't done enough. It's a very conflicting process and it can make you want to be alone for days, especially if you have someone to talk to who goes through the exact things you go through. This can cause you to seek solitude even more if they're not your lover. 

I'm shifting tonight, into something that no one else wants me to be. But it feels as though this the only thing that I want me to be, the only thing that I can inwardly accept. Imagine being a stranger to yourself, watching you grow away from someone you'd known your whole life. Someone you had analyzed for such a long time, and someone you'd grown to fanatically enjoy studying. That's what I felt for my disorder, and it's what I still feel about my disorder. It's something that's so ever-changing, and it's something that can cause me to learn new things every day for the rest of my life. But it's something that I decided to change because no one else around me could except the solitude I needed, and no one could accept the complete lovingness I needed to show when I was around someone I truly valued. I changed it for them and then I sequentially lost myself, but no more. I'm going off the medication because I'm ready to be myself, and I'm ready to be someone that not a lot of people are willing to let into their lives. I'm off of the medication so that I can enjoy my solitude that much more. This is a change and a familiarity that I need within my life to be complete. 

When my mind lets go, this happens. Ha.

I was beginning to think it was all just nonsense. The beginnings of it felt like the trappings of my own imagination and I thought what made it real was other people witnessing it. I would go from place to place observing the speculations others would make of it and I would feel free. To go against the wall would be my inner eternity and I fear that then no would have the ability to take me away. The spiraling of my beliefs was the first breath of my decline, and in it I would place my most precious things. So there was no other way to recreate than to not face it alone. I brought lovers along with me, mostly men, some just aesthetics to my personality that held no physical attraction whatsoever. I would gather them up from within my mind and give them things within dreams that I never could in real life. They saw good in me when I played them out, that they had never seen in our physical companionship. So we'd be up all night and I would ask them: "Is this not the light of day?" And they being the temporary beings that they were, would just take more of what made me myself and fail to listen, much the same as before I had taken them with me to my designs.

I can't ask anyone of a single thing outside the width of my mind. I'm too afraid to burden them and that they will seek persons who are brighter than I, so as not to be alone within the dark of their rooms. I am a manmade ocean of salt. I am a haven for people who are too late to be saved and too late to want to save themselves. I am looked to for support by those who are stronger than I am, though they don't realize it because I emanate that type of sickness. I lure people in with self-hatred so strong that they think it's made up in a game of modesty. It's not something I look for in others, therefor I've tossed it away within myself. I can't begin to make a mark upon people with originality while realizing at the same time that there is none of that object left. I don't mind taking traits from others, as it means the good people will carry on through me and live throughout a life they never thought they would affect. It's painless and productive, while it is the thing that I just barely have enough strength to carry out. Of all the times I've tried to strive on my own, I've needed someone better than me to help me through. Maybe my sense of control is flawed, probably permanently too. But it is just a requirement and this place is filled with unpleasant ones at that.

Manic Intermission.

He's sleeping but my mind is running around again. I hope this perfect day isn't over yet and that I won't ruin it for him by going manic. I can try to pretend I'm tired, and I can try to get him to believe that I am asleep until he falls, but it would be a lie of negative moral association. Already my mind is convincing me that I somehow don't need sleep. In several hours it will still be running happily on the same amount of energy and he will be gaining his through the normal means of sleep. I don't feel ecstatic yet and I don't yet feel the need to clean the entire house, but I feel like I could stay in this same position and not change. Not feel any type of human requirement. I can just empty my mind and let things go because I feel like I'm so active.

My favorite thing about being able to stay awake for so long without feeling at all tired, is the opportunity to watch the sun rise. When everything in the outside world turns that lovely blue color. I love going outside during that time and having a cigarette until they sky turns golden. I sometimes have hot green tea with it and feel like I'm being reborn. It must have been what the world felt like before it was tamed by machine and we started valuing progress more than we value what makes us fulfilled. Because during that brief time before the sun comes out it feels as though no one is watching or waiting to change anything. It's almost as though my mind owns whatever it can absorb, which thus gives me even more energy and keeps me up throughout the day. That feeling is one that gives a sense of invincibility.

 That slow-rising euphoria is what makes one feel like they have more than one lifetime provided in order to accomplish anything. It's also what takes away someone's negative judgment. It keeps people like me from ever thinking about the bad when I make a decision. When I go manic it feels like I can't do anything wrong, and that everything can and will be fixed. I trust everyone I talk to, and I feel a sense of joy at talking to anyone and talking to them about anything, because because my confidence is soaring and it feels like they must know I'm intelligent. They must know that such a fast moving mind like mine is intelligent. But in reality when I think clearly, I know that's not what it means. In retrospect I know that it only means I'm unbalanced.

Such reasons are why I chose to get help the other day. The main reason being my lover; the one that is patiently asleep right now. I couldn't survive anymore knowing that because of my "chemical imbalance" he couldn't make me happy. I thought about leaving him after two wonderful years, all because he couldn't make me happy. But I had been sick and failed to count all things together. I failed to notice that when depression would strike, nothing made me happy. When I came down from the mania, I almost left him because I failed to see that the problem was mine not ours. When you experience such strange and uncalled for happiness such as mania, it's tragically egotistical that you never realize you must make up for it in the phases of depression. I never do at least, while it's happening.

The depression of it is exhausting. It's almost as though your body wants to punish you for having so much unwarranted giddiness and carelessness. It comes over you like it's its own being and drives out all of the good and light in you. You can think you have things to offer when you're either manic or stable. Yesterday you could have seen what you've given to others and what you've still got to give. But when the low settles in, it's not going to leave until it decides to. There's no way it can be talked out of. Mostly because you can hardly feel anything once you've reached the worst stage of it. It's not always about being sad. It's not always about not being happy. There are times when it seems to be too much trouble just to live. Not because you don't have this or that, you might have everything, but because whatever the low wants to tell you it does. It speaks more believable words than anything, more believable than whatever you can come up with, and it's never anything that will ever help you. It's not just emotional, it's entirely consuming. It eats everything. It makes you lose weight and it makes you sleep. That's the majority of life's productivity it decides to give you.

I remember when I went manic for three days without sleeping and then I came down from it. I couldn't live my life for an entire two weeks. I couldn't get out of my bed for more than ten minutes and I wasn't awake for more than an hour a day. No matter if I'd slept for sixteen hours I felt if I didn't get even more sleep I wouldn't be able to stay conscious, even if I just lay there. I can't imagine what people like me go through who aren't "rapid cyclers." I know that being such a quick cycler as I am is some sort of good luck.

During my worst stage of the low my mother wished to see me once in a while, but I kept my door locked. The only thing I would say to her was that I wanted to sleep or lay in bed. I was entirely on autopilot it seemed. I didn't want to eat or see my friends and I desired to talk to no one. I just didn't feel real or alive anymore. I felt like the alive part of me had completely burnt out and left something earthly yet inhuman behind. I was convinced that my life's purpose was to stay in that bed and be sick and lackluster. My thought within depression is always that my only reason for living is to conserve my physical body so that others can know I'm still alive and not be hurt. But even that was failing me and I started to see the end. The hardest part in thinking about it now, is that this didn't happen to me for any other particular reason than my brain being off-balanced. I was mourning and being tortured and I lost my will to live while turning off all survival mechanisms over something that didn't happen to me. It felt like such an overreaction but really, really I was sick.

I know if I didn't get help the way I decided to, I wouldn't have survived it much longer. Literally. I had thought about ending everything so many times and I walked backward on it repeatedly. I chose to get help though. Not for me, but because of all who are in my life. If I can't handle the burden of preserving myself then I need the extension that I so received. I need to always reach out, because it's not always easy to see the reasons as to why somebody loves you and needs you, but when you get help and have your head and heart cleared of that horrible entity then you can start to save yourself and it's easier to maintain a life.
Any sort of life.

Tapioca

She stares into her tapioca pudding that was long ago placed upon the Sunday table.  It's beginning it's own unique process of solidification, much like all the other things in her life. She's reminded of how difficult things are going to be to walk through if she waits for him anymore. It seems as though everything is a spin off of him. Everything is a prelude that fashions itself toward him in a pull. Each amount of restlessness that she feels and is able to express resonates through him, while no part of him resonates through her. It's only the echoes that stick to the malleable that make it seem worth the time. She had always kept in in her mind to decide that when her current relationship was ready to take off (In accordance to his wishes) then she would devote her life and soul to it. What she didn't understand is that such decisions can't be brought out so far in advance. She also fails to understand that love that develops blood from beneath words can never fail to outdo the plumage of love that develops its blood from the forgery of a physical body of vice. 

The physical as well as the sexual beings understand less than anyone. When they are presented, they do nothing but feed. When they are faced with sensitivity and emotion, they are blinded and then they hate the difficulty of which it is. When they are confronted with emotion-oriented beings, they very easily mock the lack of realism within the mindset of such people. For them it is not fathomable that anyone would follow fleeting pros and cons as much as an emotional being. They would much rather think along the lines of amiable logic, dismissible countenance,  discussable pretense. They are given gifts of pure sentience from the pit of another's stomach, and they do not return it, because it is not as they please. They do not wish to mull over and over a common emotion, because it is only there for so long. Unlike the material. Nice things, nice company.  Light-hearted matters are of utmost importance, because none of this type wants to outwardly and shamelessly drown. They do not care to show their weaknesses, they do not enable to occupation of emotional thought for very long, and it is never shared when it comes to pass.  If there were such a thing as strength within emotion, the world would be different and easily observed as such. But it is not. Everything to them is set within gradient stone. A texture seen so boldly that nothing silly and preposterous can encompass it. 

The Way We Speak

Says he: 

Good God, I hate seeing you eat yourself this way!

Says I: 

That's amusing, because I already hate eating myself. I have nothing but the fat, and it's all going to places that nobody wants.

Says he:  

I would like every part of you. I dream of them just as they are.

Says I:

Not the parts you can't wear very well. Sooner or later if there are portions hanging off of you that don't appeal to you, you will sever them.

 Says he:

 Not if they were portions of you. I would wear them proudly and love them even more for their imperfections, I would not cut anything. Just for you to be mine.

 Says I:

Yes, but I can never be anything but what I am now, which is that of wallowing and eating myself alive, and purging myself back up when it suits me that I am too full. Do you really wish to wear such bad-tasting things? These are secondary traits of the worst kind.

Says he:

You can not hide from me the softness of your perfection, no matter what terrible things become you. But is it not true that the ugliness of one person's thoughts is the beauty of another's? Must not somebody take them and love them whilst they are finalized in their own state? I can truthfully deduce that I will take you for better or for worse. 

Says I:

I've disconnected at the portion about finalization. You fail to realize that nothing in a person's thoughts can be finalized. What once is beautiful within will become ugly, what once was ugly may or may not become beautiful. Either way it will change. It depends on what amount of threat it poses for the person observing the thought. You do not want to adorn anything of mine if you're looking for finalization. 

Says he:

Oh, but you, you, you are my very finalization! You are the very ideal of it! If I could just wear you and hold you against what I am, I would be the perfect soul. I will take anything you will give me whether it be torn or built of pristine wholeness. It will never seem imperfect to me.

Says I:

I cannot discipline you, nor can I say you are correct. You are a disconnected spirit who does not understand the value of self possession and self-companionship. You do not enjoy your lonely days, or your grief filled nights. There are such times as these when sadness should indeed be appreciated, as it makes a body real. You want to wear all these parts of me, when you can't stand the colors of your own skin, of your own pallor.

Says he:

I don't wish to be myself, because I know that I have found perfection within you. 

Says I:

But you cannot become me, and I will never act as an extension of yourself. You don't value the possibility of being friendly and observing me from afar, the way I would need you to. I cannot give myself to anyone who doesn't become themselves first. It would thus be wrongly permissible for that person to fully take me over, and it would instill the loss of their own identity. Furthermore, If I give you the things about me that I don't want, I would not desire to see them again, can you say you would never show them if you loved them so much?

Says he:

You do not make any good points. Rather, I believe you're submitting a betrayal to me. You choose not to give me what I deserve after craving and taking care of you for so long a time. What is life to me now?

Says I:

Life should be to you as it is to me. It should be a stand-still in which to observe your thoughts and emotions. It should not be the procurement of anyone else, you can not wear it well. Now come, let me be gentle, let me handle you because you are so precious to me.

Says he:

I am not interested in being a solitary creature, and it seems that this is what you wish to make of me by not giving me your covering. I have begged you through the years and brought out your beauty. How am I supposed to go tonight?

Says I:

I am not a home, I am not decorative, I'm not so obtainable. I can not be designed by anything or anyone but who and what I am already. You do not wish to take me within this current form, so why on earth would you want to wear the worst of what I've been? Why do you wish to keep it so close? Is it because you have altering intentions? I suddenly sense you've been waiting for something other than what I am and that of which I give, although you've stated that I'm perfection. Prove to me that this is incorrect by any means necessary.

Says he:

Why must you have proof of what I say to you? Am I not telling you that I need you with everything that I feel? Is it not enough that I'm perfectly convinced that we're meant to be? I am willing to disregard all affections for you and all bonds we may have, to prove that specific measure.

Says I:

And must I remind you that you do not know everything of which goes on between true lovers, if you're proposing such threats? It used to be that you wanted me free and happy, now it is that you don't understand how to give me time to make a decision though, regardless, there is no room for one 

Says he:

I do not have time left to give you now that you're shoving away at my hope. My one last hope that was so blissful, now I am without it.

Says I:

You can not be without it as long as I am here and as I am your friend unconditionally. Is this not worth maintaining all of a sudden? You only wish to deceive me and get what you want, which I do not understand. Why does it matter what I am to you as long as I love you?

Says he:

What good is your love if it's not portrayed in a way that I can see it? If I could but see it I would believe you.

Says I:

But there is not a chance anymore? Will you not try to see and hold the love I give you while it lasts, while it is still somewhat whole after your messing around with it? If it can not be done, then say so now and I will walk away. I will not shine my terrible instances on you any longer, or trust you with things that I have told no one. It was but a dream to both of us. If you cannot accept me as I am, then tell me now so that I can take away from you all that you deserve to lose.

 Says he:

It will be done then. I cannot have this any other way. It is you the way I want you to be, the way I want to wear you, or it is nothing.

 Says I: 

Then promise to always remind me if we pass again that we can not be friends, so that in turn I can always remind you that we will never be lovers.

 Says he:

Very well, wretched vice.  Good luck, good bye. We will not come to pass again.

10.3.11

I had been looking for a job for such a long time, because I thought that it would somehow complete my identity. It's a foolish thought, but that doesn't matter much. The type of job has been even less important, as I'd just wanted to do something difficult and rewarding, something low that could give me meaning.

So I dressed up nicely today in hopes of covering up the fact that I'm a high-school drop-out that hasn't felt much lately or helped society budge very far from its rut. I went in there and wore self-confident facial expressions that I wasn't too sure of in the first place. I went in there having a good feeling, being strong, seeming to be stable for the first time in weeks. There was a person there who "helped me out" that was hired instead, and I find out that the reasoning is that I may as well have taken a ticket number. He arrived "before me", even though I was offered the job and had attempted to get it for some time beforehand. I wish the manager could've just told me the truth; that I wasn't very capable, hiring me would've made her look like a incompetent because I have no experience, almost no education, I was just an unknown blend of something that has sit back all these years and waited for things to fall into its lap. She could've just plainly told me that hiring me would've made her look stupid, as I'd known it anyway. I just thought that this was the last time I would have to try and that I wouldn't be kicked anymore, as I have been for years.

This was one of those silly little things people tend to bet on to make their life change. We often think that if "this" works out, everything else will, and when it doesn't, we fall apart. So after I left the store I sat in my car and tried to think of things I could do to keep my composure. I felt myself flailing for any sort of self-worth I could conduct anymore, and it still seems ridiculous to me that I thought it would fix everything. I kept producing and releasing thoughts over and over again, and then I looked up and saw a cigarette store nearby. Like the manic person I was, I got out and stepped into the rain, while thus barreling toward the store without any accuracy as to where I was going. I went in, attempted to shield everything, bought a pack of cigarettes, then went back outside again holding my change. When I was out, I could hear the sound of a guitar. I turned and saw a friendly looking gentleman beside the store next to me, with his acoustic guitar and a nearly empty case that was still holding out, being open, trusting and ready for any kind individual to throw whatever scrap inside that they felt necessary. I took my ten dollars in change and threw it in, then sat down on the portion of ground near him that didn't protect me from the miraculous rain. I was reminded of that day I spent in San Francisco, playing music in hopes of someone or anyone listening or caring, let alone giving me money. I was reminded of how many people just passed by and pretended I wasn't there, as I was pouring out my soul and my weakened conceit. My self-confidence tarnished by a few measly dollars. So I gave him my money, I didn't care. Money is nothing to me other than a ticket to England these days. But I can acquire more of it. This man was doing as I had done, playing his music and giving the gift of it to people who weren't even listening. So there I was, sensing such a kindred way of life, sitting in the rain like a fool, being moved to tears by the music. Those around us looked at me like I was the most unstable thing they'd seen in weeks, but I didn't care at all. What is a person who can't be out in the open and feel? It was so much like being broken, not much empathy from his side, but he gave me an astonishing sense of gratefulness. Soon after, I got up and decided to go home. I looked him in the eyes and thanked him. It was entirely sincere. I'll never forget it.