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The Black Hole and the Meteor

Chronicles of a Manic Depressive girl

If I try to undress how I become in words, it would be like this.

I’d be a bursting meteor and a black hole.

When I burst, I blind everything I know.

Sleeping and eating doesn’t feel right.

I feel immortal.

I get to be a wandering meteor no one can keep up with.

Jumping through street lights and rooftops,

deeply falling in love with the moon.

Everything feels right, even the wrongs.

And then

The light dims to black; suddenly I’m a black hole.

I engulf every light that draws near.

I cave in.

Blinking through days.

Everything is wrong. Living hurts.

Then the light flashes to white again. And then dims to black. Over and over, for long periods of time.

There are spaces where both happen all at once. That black hole and the bursting meteor.

I go everywhere and nowhere. I am deathly.

If I could undress these episodes to words, I am unreal.

I don’t ever know what I’m capable of and how my limits get. I can’t decipher the difference between dreams and reality. There are times I get so happy I literally want to die.

I know it doesn’t make sense. None of it does.

But I’m helping myself and trying my best.

When I was finally diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, a lot of pieces fell into place. Things made more sense. The suicidal tendencies, psychosis, mania, and everything else that stirred with it.

I called for help on my own. I wanted to finally find some sense into what has been going on inside/around me. I wanted to know how to stop it. Or if not, how to at least get better from it.

I’ve run away for so long. The paranoia ate me away for years. Either one, there is something wrong with me. Or two, there is nothing wrong with me and everything is made up.

It all piled up over the years. I was a tipped-over teapot. The anxiety of talking about it with anyone. Thinking that what  I’ve been feeling wasn’t valid. Or… is. God, help me.

To think, if I merely helped myself when I just talked about it at 13. I would have known how to handle myself over the years. I wouldn’t have to wake up by railways. I wouldn’t have felt so scared and alone all this time. I never told anyone, I hate talking about myself with anyone. No boyfriend or best friend can crack me open.

There’s just some things that just don’t go away by putting a blanket over it. All my life, it always resurfaced even worse.

If there’s anything I’d like to tell my younger self, and what I still remind myself up until now is this:

Stay strong, stay brave. And most importantly, be kind to yourself. You are not weak for having to carry all this weight. The fact that you brought yourself to now after everything shows your strength.

Talking about it doesn’t make you weak. Taking care of yourself is a necessity for your wellbeing.

It’s okay.

I don’t regret anything, all I want is to become kinder to everything and myself.

Taking my medications everyday. Drinking water. Knowing I’m worthy.

I’ve been doing quite well, I think. It helps to surround yourself with people you trust. It helps to just be.

If you think there’s something wrong, please don’t be afraid to speak out for yourself. Please take care of yourself, too.

Like making art, studying for a test, or exercising; I promise you, it gets easier. You just have to try everyday.

bipolar disorder


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