Today

I feel like I’ve been in prison for 8 years. In a way, I have: I am the solitary, lonely inhabitant in the labyrinthine prison of my mind. I’m tired of feeling like I’m f*cking crazy. Sartre would say that I’ve bought this upon myself. Perhaps I have. Every day produces an existential crisis. So many questions and no answers. I’m seeing my psychiatrist on Friday, so hopefully he will save me from myself. If not, I think I might be in trouble. The clashes between the Cloud of Depression and the Sunshine of Mania are taxing. They are at war in the sky. It is exhausting. Being bipolar is a full-time job, 24/7, it manifests in my dreams and in my nightmares. Sleep, the only escape, has been infiltrated by anxieties and utter fear. The only things keeping me alive today are Valium, cigarettes and the possibility that someone will save me: all three may be the death of me.