I don’t know how much it hurt When I came home collapsing. Words slurred together into a sentence, At least that’s what I think it was. I stumbled like a baby taking its first steps, With a naive and innocent grin, But you can tell my breath smells of sin.
I slam the door behind you, I jump in surprise, While I laugh stupidly, with glossy eyes. You watch as your girlfriends fuss about, You do your best to no think out loud. She basically carries me, A cadaver with no function, To the restroom to handle my body’s eruption.
I sit silently, cowering on the couch, The retching heard through the house. A command is issued from the echoing hall, I stand and follow, and watch your downfall. The cure is made, or so I thought. You just threw it up.
My mother apologizes for me, But there is nothing she can do. My question is will you? The disappointment settles in, as tears wish to stain my cheeks. You doubt that I’ll remember that I began to slam the cabinets, While I laughed idiotically, A violent action for someone so normally calm.
I don’t know the sadness you felt, Nor the disappointment that flooded your mind, You were so ready to see me for more than five minutes, But I wasn’t in my mind. I won’t know the fear you felt, But you think that to you it is like a game. You hold the phone close because you’re afraid. You are afraid of me, What I could do.
I won’t remember the fact that you didn’t sleep, That you checked on me, When I stopped snoring to see if I was breathing. No you don’t think I will remember, But each time it happens you can’t forget. But I don’t think that it is something I’ll regret. It will simply become something I’ll forget.
You look at my body laying on the floor, The emotions flooding through a broken door. All those memories, all the fun, All those moments replaced by one. Here you are on the verge of tears, Feeling betrayed, disappointed, Forgotten, broken.
You blame my state to my return home, Since I was sober before. I sought comfort in my friends, And forgot about you, So I set out to drink. What will I remember when the sun rises? What will I remember, and what will I not? Will I apologize, Or go on like it’s all okay? I won’t care because it will haunt me every day.
Now before you go to sleep you will be left to wonder, What am I doing? Am I out working, Am I out drinking, Even the occasional drugging? You’ll be left to worry every night, And pray that I’ll make it home alright.
I’m Sick and Tired of hiding these scars. I’m sick and tired of dreaming about being hit by cars. I’m sick and tired of lying. I’m sick and tired of going to bed crying. But most of all I’m just tired…Goodbye.
I’m tired of feeling numb. I’m tired of being sick, I’m tired of people calling me dumb, Just to get a kick (in the gut).
Stop the Stigma, Break the Silence, The answer will never be to scare them with violence. Speak UP, Speak OUT, Let’s show what MENTAL ILLNESS is all about.
We fight everyday but try our best to love life anyway, We’re the artists, the outcasts and the misfits, The dreamers and the movers, The believers and the doers, Not our faulty genetics or traumatizing pasts. Let’s create a change that will last.
Stop the Stigma, Break the Silence, End the Violence.
4 Years Ago I had a different plan but today I’m Alive…
“Pen and pad in my hand, and I was writing a note. Didn’t get far, as soon as I wrote down “Mom” I just stopped. Couldn’t lie to her, couldn’t figure out how to say bye to her. Couldn’t explain the “Why” to her. Couldn’t picture her getting a call or somebody saying her son had died to her.” – (Joe Budden – Only Human)
SEPTEMBER 19, 2017 was my set date I planned to leave this earth. I was sick of crying, tired of trying, yes I was smiling but inside I was dying.
They say God works in mysterious ways. Well I definitely believe that. After 1 year and 2 weeks clean and sober I questioned what else is there to life? It was the very first time in my life I contemplated living or dying. Just how I hid my addictions, I hid this too.
I questioned what else is there to life? It was the very first time in my life I contemplated living or dying. I thought about death wondering how I was gonna go. I couldn’t be insane for just wanting to know but in my head I died often.
Framing suicide as a method to get attention paints those who are sick as manipulative, when in fact, they are simply really ill. I’m ill. In addition, even if a suicide attempt is a cry for help, it means they need help–so let’s help! My depression and bipolar overtook my mind to think lower of myself.
Suicide doesn’t end the chances of life getting worse, suicide eliminates the possibility of it ever getting better.
The emotions, feelings, thoughts, addictions, and depression I had faced daily were now burdens lifted off my shoulders. I had overcome such adversities throughout my life and I wouldn’t allow the easy way out — SUICIDE. I always stress reach out to each other. No one knows what goes on in my head just like anyone else. I can text anyone back “LOL” but I wasn’t laughing at all.
The suppression of my darkness and my shadow self-came to a head almost 5 years ago as I found myself toeing the line between life and death as I battled Alcoholism and Drug Addiction. For me, my addictions became the band-aids for the deep bleeding wounds I had been suppressing and denying my whole life.
I was playing with fire. The fire of Alcoholism and Drug Addiction. I was miserable, hopeless, discontent, angry, and bitter. And I really just wanted to be numb because I saw no way out of the hole I was living in. I was living on the outskirts of society, and I was closer to death than I was to being alive. My mental illness was mixed with my addictions that I was a walking torch.
I was in agony and I couldn’t admit it. See, I had spent most of my life in pain that I couldn’t talk about, and this was the culmination of years of stuffing my feelings, ignoring my emotions, and blocking the flow of energy within me. I was suffering from a massive disconnect from my soul which resulted in my utter inability to connect with those around me.
I stand in the shower head against the tile wondering is my life worth living. The water turns from hot to ice cold down the drain spinning. Why Me? Why Me? Why Me? I want to be “normal”. I want thoughts of better days but that’s impossible when my mind is a dead end maze. I’m good one minute, psycho the next. Ohh Hello BI-POLAR you came out to play. Is this just a brief stop or you deciding to stay. Come along the ride with DEPRESSION and pick up ANXIETY while you are at it. A MANIC trio on a road of disaster. Charles take these HAPPY pills it will swallow the pain and agony but in reality I’m swallowed whole grasping for air. I see a little light…HOPE.
I am not ashamed to say it. It’s the Stigma that shames us all. Just thankful to shed some light upon my darkest hours. We scroll up and down Facebook overlooking the underlying issues of one in danger or seeking help.
There’s only One that Sees and Hears the Pain We Hide From Others. A tear is made of 1% water and 99% feelings. Sometimes sad memories sneak out my eyes and roll down my cheeks. I hide behind my smile and laughter that it breaks my heart and I’m falling apart. Behind my brown eyes are so many hidden tears and behind my body is a soul trying to fight.
Hi, I’m Charles. I don’t thank my Bipolar. For anything. Not a single thing. I acknowledge my illness, I understand it, I make my peace, but I don’t give my Bipolar any credit. That belongs to me. With or without it I’m fabulous. And my Mental illness can go fuck itself.
If I could take a pill that would cure me, I would snatch it right out of your hand and swallow it dry. Because my Bipolar Disorder doesn’t make me special, it makes my life complicated. My Bipolar Disorder doesn’t make me brave. It’s not the source of my strength. It lingers under the surface of my consciousness, wheedling into my brain and poisoning how I feel about myself and how I experience the world.
I’m special, brave, strong, and talented without my illness. Bipolar Disorder isn’t a trial that I need to tackle in order to show the world I’m tough enough. I don’t need an illness to exaggerate my awesomeness. With an illness that mimics identity it can be hard to tell where Bipolar ends and I begin. The boundaries are never that distinct. But my Bipolar Disorder isn’t a badge. It’s a label, a diagnosis, a hefty, troublesome detail. My Bipolar doesn’t get to take a bow.
Man, what the hell? Your energy is all over the goddamn place. One day you’re bouncing off walls, and beds, and thoughts and you can’t stop thinking or talking long enough to hear someone is speaking to you. I know you hear it, I know you hear me. I know there’s at least a buzzing in your inner ear that calls your attention A whispering child that’s begging for two seconds of your time.
Other days, seem like nights It’s quiet in there Literally nothing is on Nothing is open You’re off. Thoughts are like molasses when they happen and when they don’t you’re not surprised you’re relieved, even. Glad you don’t have to muster the energy muster the motivation to breathe a millisecond faster than you already need to. There are these orange see-through bottles on your nightstand. They have these marbles inside At least I think they’re marbles Except you swallow them and they come in different shapes and sizes and colors I can’t pronounce them sometimes but the one by the alarm clock right now is easy: Lithium Next to it, there’s Lamictal, and then Vrylar. Your psychiatrist said that’s the old-type name. Who knows what that means. It still stops the tremors that Lithium keeps gifting you.
You’re given this really neat marble collector cabinet. They are mini-cabinets for the marbles by day. Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday If you wake up, that is. Twice a day with a meal If you eat, that is. Don’t forget to take them though, I’m scared you won’t wake up again if you stop taking the marbles. They’re good for you and so am I. Day N’ Night.
I once read a story a long time ago that Depression was like a bad dog who creeps up on you slow. I have Bipolar Disorder it’s an ugly disease another kind of bad dog who never really leaves. Yet training this bad dog has taught things to me, sometimes hard to remember, but I can think of THREE. The FIRST is to find the silver lining of things if I see only dark only pain it brings. The SECOND is to think outside of the box to learn coping skills and ways to detox. The THIRD is learning how to talk about pain and not suffer alone with nothing to gain. Taming the bad dog was harder than hell it took years of my life and left me a shell. But looking on the bright side, I take heart to know that despite the dark winter I managed and continued to grow.