Bipolar pushes me to the end of a rapidly fraying rope.
It steals my temper and hides it inside a grenade that I must hold gingerly, never knowing when or how it might go off.
It drives me into a manic state, where every sound is amplified and the air takes on inglorious texture.
It burdens me with terrible habits and compulsions, then robs me of the force of will to control them.
It makes me depressed so I loose interest and passion in things I once enjoyed.
It curses me with a lethargy so powerful, I can barely keep up with my toddler, my work, or the demands of daily life.
It causes me to withdraw from human contact, and then convinces me that I prefer to be isolated.
It constantly demeans and belittles me, making even the smallest transgressions feel like capital sin.
It is easily distracted, never settling on one task long enough to invest time into the task’s quality or completion.
It tells me I’m fat and ugly, then demands soothing in the form of binge-eating.
It causes me to to act recklessly, to say and do things that are potentially harmful.
It constantly warps my perception of my environment, so benign things appear hostile and minor barriers become major obstacles.
It makes me paranoid, suspicious, and jealous, robbing me of my good intentions and the ability to be happy for others and their successes.
It makes me sad — so sad that I see no potential worth in myself, my endeavors, or my future.
It exhausts me in body and in soul, such that I would rather sleep my idle hours away than face the bleak stretch of time before me.
It makes me perseverate, circling the same thoughts round and round the drain of my feeble mind until nothing makes sense anymore.
It confuses my energies, steals my words, befuddles my mind, and makes my hands feel small, inept, and useless.
Bipolar depression bridles me, as mania drives me forward into the Sun. It dampens me, as the cool depths of depression well up and weigh down my limbs, my head, my mind. It is within and without. My beginning, and also my end.