Haze / ✓

part III

Forty-two days without pills.

Forty-two.

Days and time are all meaningless - even the very concept of time means nothing. To us, twenty-four hours is a long amount of time. A day. A day in our lives feels like a year. How much can happen in one day to us? The amount of things that can happen to us in a day - in an hour - is inexplicably mind-blowing.

And yet meaningless.

Every minute on this earth means so much to us, but no one else. Failing a test is so shattering to us, a simple event like that is enough to anger us for hours. Each little event in our life is something so big - one little event can be a landmark to us. But to everyone else? It's nothing. To everyone else, our lives are meaningless. Nothing. In a hundred years, will anyone know you? Remember you? Care to remember you?

So if no one knows us, were we ever really here?

I think I'm having an existence crisis.

That thought has me rolling over in my messy bed, shoving my face into the pillow and holding my breath until I just can't anymore. I groan loudly and flip over, wrapping my arms around the pillow and taking it with me. My head flops against the mattress under me and I blink, staring up at the ceiling, my mind as blank and dull as the white ceiling above me.

I think I want to die.

I don't think I'm suicidal, but I think I want to die. Maybe. I'm not too sure, but it's been pricking my interest recently. If this is the life I'm stuck with - one filled with pills and inspiration slipping so quickly from my body that I feel bedridden - then what could death possibly be? I can't imagine a life much different than the one I'm living, and maybe that's what catches my interest. I can't picture a life different than this, but I want one.

I think to a week and a half ago, a time when I felt as though I was literally greater than the world and everyone on it. I think back to the days following after I flushed the pills, how inspired and happy I was. I think about the unfinished book sitting on top of my desk.

I want to throw it out, but the very thought of even getting out of bed sends a shiver down my spine. I lay back down.

I haven't gotten out of bed much the past week, and I can feel the effects of it starting to take its toll. My stomach is flat, but I'm afraid that when I stand up, the effect of eating all junk the past week will have twisted and distorted its vision, giving me a body that I'm afraid to imagine. My legs feel so accustomed to laying that I'm not even too sure they would be able to hold up my body. I've only gotten up to go to the bathroom, and the mere thought of going down the steps is unsettling.

It's a bit funny to think of how inspired I was a week ago. A week ago inspiration ran through my veins, not blood, and it had been the best feeling in the world. I had practically been a different person a week ago - one who had control of his life and who knew he could make it as something. A week ago the idea of laying in bed was disgusting to me. I was too inspired to even sit.

It's funny, really.

I know what this - the sudden swing from inspiration to depression, one so strong that will probably last another few weeks. I know why I was so inspired and now I know why I'm feeling so devastated for no apparent reason.

It's a manic-depressive episode. It's a part of being bipolar. I went off my pills, and now the symptoms of my bipolar are back and worse than ever - manifesting themselves into an episode. An episode of confidence and inspiration, and now an episode of depression so heavy that it tears at my heart, dragging it down through my body until it loses the ability and motivation to keep beating.