Mental Illness Protip

Mental Illness Protip

When I say I have bipolar

by all means, ask which kind.

Thank you for actually thinking and not

just dismissing me.

but protip:

When I answer “Type two"

do not say “Ok, that’s ok then."

because I’ll think-

what does that mean?

Ok because I’m not crazy?

Not full brown manic?

just type two?

Or ok because

it’s ‘easier’ to live with

as if the stigma’s not the same

the shame’s not the same

the inability to control 

my heart

is not the same?

It’s ok because I’m not suffering

not compared to

others?

It’s ok because

"it’s not so bad"

not so bad that I rapid cycle

don’t know what dawn brings

not so bad.

It’s ok.

Protip: If that’s what you have to say

about the thing

that rules me

chains me down

sends me through

deep water

dark fire

that leaves me out of breath

shake-sobbing

that throws me from cliffs

into a phoenix flight

I’d rather

you not say anything at all.

Phoenix Flight

Phoenix Flight

The phoenix flight is

a dance with no end

ash to flame

flame to ash

so goes my heart.

I am trapped within 

a cyclone of feathers

made of match heads

then drowning on ashes

clogging my throat

I cannot help the dance

the flight.

But the ashes don’t last.

Just as from the minute

I take wing I know

I will fall,

when I am a broken bird

my fire doused

dying

I know

I will burst into flame

and into the sky.

Flame nor ash will last

but my phoenix song

my phoenix flight

it will.

I am darker than a moonless night

grey-black and falling

and then reborn

brighter than the sun.

My Reality

“Bipolar doesn't exist. 

Your therapist made it up for money

 Get a hold on your life and 

stop looking for excuses.”

It’s people like you

who make my life so hard to hold on to.

Do you understand the devastation

 in my heart

when I learned I’d never be in control?

That even with pills

I’d never own my emotions

grip them in hand

stay sane?

Just because you can’t see 

the chemical imbalance in my brain

 by looking at me

you discount my suffering

the light, the dark

the wanting to die

wanting to fly

pretend it’s not real.

It is not me being a moody teenager.

It is not me being weak.

It is not me not owning up

to my faults and flaws.

It is not an excuse,

it is reality,

my reality,

one I pray never touches your life.

This is the stigma I live with,

will always have hounding me.

It is as real as blood

as the chemicals I have off kilter in my body

as the knife

as the pen-

it is real.

Shut your mouth about things you know nothing about,

cannot understand

refuse to understand

and leave me and those

that suffer the same

my brothers and sisters

united by stigma and pain

and bipolarity-

leave us to gather what shards of sanity 

we have.

Dark Fire and Depression

Depression

Numbness spreads

and leaves me like a void of space.

Black behind my eyes

down my legs.

The world is icy wool

Static-y and cold

and I’m a thin veil of skin

disconnected from the darkness

outside of me.

Disconnected from the blackness

inside of me.

Floating through a half life

in half light-

murk.

It is beyond tears

and sorrow.

I am fallen past that line

empty and numb.

I am space,

cold and void

and the stars,

so tiny in comparison,

are the only feeling I have left to me

pain.

Dark Fire

Even as my body shuts down

so long without sleep,

my thoughts are racing,

clinging to each other,

fingers twitching

ink and paint spattered.

I can’t keep my eyes open,

embraced by overheated sheets,

but I must.

Creativity flares in my mind

burning bright as eyesight dims.

I’m falling through dark fire,

a half sleep punctuated

by jolts awake and pacing

wash my face,

write a poem,

fret away minutes, minutes,

until I pass out again.

The flame guttering in my head

then rising stronger than ever-

Mania.

I write for silver Ink stars

I write.

I write to bleed off the poison

of mania and sorrow

that creeps into my thoughts

and soul.

I write to cast off the shame

of who I am.

Bipolar

full of light and shadow.

I write to show what holds my heart

today

because tomorrow it will change

twist and sway

and I want to have a record

to look back at

hold on to.

I write to find myself

and lose myself again

in a new world

an older world

of ink blotches and stained fingers

where things are different.

I write to put myself in the shoes

of another girl

with other problems and-

hopes

I write to understand

that what I know of worlds

is limited

but through silver ink and straining-

limitless.

I write to tell myself a story

that my spirit knows

but my mind does not.

To put into words the yearnings, pleadings, 

all the thoughts I have

running pure wild

though empty space.

I write to sing myself a song

that soothes me into slumber

or else wakes me from fever’s hold

and sends my heart racing- 

to, away, even I can’t tell.

I write to take my breath away

and pull it back into my body

catch my thoughts tumbling 

from tongue and teeth.

I write for the solitude

of pencil scratching on paper

ink bleeding across my forearm

keys click, click, clicking.

I write for the conversation between 

two halves of the same mind.

I write-

I write and write and write-

to hold myself in my hands

like a globe of suspended

starlight.

Eclipse

Halo of white fire
around a darkness
the heart of stones
rim of light around the moon
and caught in an ocean
of cloud and sky
blue tinged space
and the gold blushed
face of the world

Drip Dance

For Magpie 170

Ink, black and vivid
drips into the glass
one liquid into another
and then- dance
tendrils of not smoke
but pigment
wisps of ink
snakelike
silklike
swirl and sway
blossom like blood on cloth
like light on water
the ink expands
trails, dancing,
 sinking and floating all at once-
the droplet twists
turns
extending slowly
lazily
a pattern of shadow on light
suspended but not still
never still
drip
drop
dance