Keep me away from myself.
It is not safe to exist in this body.

Irritation is the dragon
That breathes fire and destruction
Should I dare to open my mouth.

The fire ignites at take-off
And grows as I exit the stratosphere.
But it burns even hotter upon re-entry.
I am often at my brightest right before
A crash landing.

I am a member of the Flat Affect Society,
Similar to the Flat Earth Society.
My existence is in two dimensions,
Is unreal,
Is like dragging a bag of bones
And me through concrete.
Was I not on top of the world 2 weeks ago?

My existence is like a million tiny stars,
All bright burst followed by infinite blackness.
It is supernovas then the space vacuum.
It would be  loud
If anyone could hear it.

She runs amok without restraint
In pursuit of the high,
The thrill of the chase.

She's up for a cigarette
And down several pounds.
You'll find her naked outside the house.

They can force medication
But can't treat denial.
The CPS case is going to trial.

Her bipolar diagnosis
Remains hard to accept,
But stability is better than manic distress.

She could lose it all quickly.
No time for delay
Lest she face an endless stream of regret.

I understand her pain,
For I've walked this road too,
But with the right help she can make it through.

I hope she'll make haste in  her recovery,
That she'll see on the other side
Is a taste of what it means to be alive.

Trapped in a mind that's broken inside. There's nowhere left for me to hide. Jumbled up thoughts that don't make sense. Under a quilt, in the dark, cover your head. In complete silence and light from the world. You break down crying when you can't be heard. Everything slows down it's hard to think. Trying to express myself but it's all out of sink. Mind blocks and words that get misplaced. Or I sound like a robot or from out of space. Sometimes I slur or can't speak at all. That's when you know I'm going to fall. Into a dangerous place in my broken mind. So remember this and try and be kind.

Perception of the world is different for all.
No matter how young or gray and old.
We all see things and interpret them our own way. So why can't mental health be the same.
Stigmas attached to silly labels.
Shouldn't debilitate or restrict an individual.
We all have free will and human rights.
Everyone's unique yet we stand apart.

My bipolar fantasy is that one day,
I’m going to come home and leave my bipolar at the door,
Scatter it along with muddy boots and raincoats and winter mittens
I have no use for currently,
That I’m going to take it off and enter my house unencumbered.
My bipolar dream is that I’m going to go to bed tonight
Without measuring my sleep,
Wondering if it’s an indication of mania or depression,
If it’s stress or I need medication to push me into a nocturnal daze,
The haze of which will bleed over into daytime.
My bipolar wish is that this illness
That I lug around like a suitcase made of brick
Might lighten in load or unpack itself once in a while,
That it will not brand me as a traveler on a road
Pockmarked with landmines and loneliness.
I wish that this suitcase did not bear the mark of mental illness.
My bipolar life is a story,
One laid out in the lines of swinging,
Of flying and then falling
Before realizing they are often too closely related to tell the difference.
My story is written in the narrow margins between creativity and hospitalization.
Sometimes the two occur together.
My life’s manuscript is forever alternating
Between the way the night sky speaks to me
Or the way the bathroom smells like my blood.
It is being abuzz with electricity and then short circuiting your battery
And not being able to move.
My bipolar song is a tune alternating between grandiosity,
All hail my intelligence and beauty (psych!)
Before falling into apathy and self-loathing.
Sometimes it’s not knowing what version of me I’m going to wake up to in the morning.
My bipolar hope is that the dizzying combo of diet, exercise, and daily medication
Will keep me out of that 1 in 5 number I’ve danced with so perilously,
Keep me off of those bridge ledges and out from empty pill bottles,
Keep me alive in my skin even in this painful reality.
My bipolar fear is that when mania and depression have a love child
And mixed mania runs amuck in its terrible two’s,
The anger will taint the feelings of loved ones.
I fear callous words uttered insouciantly in my own misery,
Slithering from my mouth agonizingly slowly yet too quickly to stop
Might wound those I care for when I do not mean it.
My distress and agitation sometimes equal cranky.
My bipolar prayer is that when energy plus impulsiveness plus danger is no longer
A concept I understand collaborate,
Those around me know this is not who I am.
My mood is a high-flyer, a free-faller, and an everywhere in between,
But that is not my personality.
I am an optimist, a free thinker, creator, compassion giver.
My story is broader than the confines of bipolar.
I am sometimes aflame and others underwater,
But I weather it all with a twisted sense of humor.
I am a person before I am bipolar.

There are days when being alive feels so good.
For a while it was what I looked forward to.
Every time I had a bad day, a bad week, a bad month, I would tell myself that one day I’m going to wake up and love life again.
I’m afraid it’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way.
Living for other people is exhausting.
Why would I stay alive to let other people love me
When I can’t even love myself?