The Tightrope Walker

     I was born on a tightrope and forced to walk on a feeble, wind-tormented wire that sags over what is the rest of my life. No, I wasn't born alone up here. I wasn't the only one born on this rope. The ones labeled "freak" and "ugly" and countless others put on this balancing act and rehearse. Some are destined to fall. 
     The life of a manic depressive is almost identical to one of a normal life. When I'm happy, I'm happy. I'm silly. No need for a doctor. But when I am down, I am touched by Hell, I am touched by fire. I'm alone. These are all merely the thoughts of a twenty-year-old, however experiencing the effects of this illness--because it really is a mental illness--is something I, nor anyone, should take lightly. 
     Around the age of five, I vividly remember being at daycare getting myself ready to go outside with the other children to play. The sitter asked me to double-lace my shoelaces to which I replied by slapping her across the face. I didn't even know what double-lacing was. That rage inside anyone at such a young age typically would have been labeled as bad behavior, however I don't agree. This type of behavior is in fact inherited, very much like a gene from one of your parents who may have inherited it from their parents and then on. 
     If you look down and see a reason you should be down,  then that brings with it a form of clarity, but if there's no reason you tend to think well why on earth am I feeling like this? I don't understand. You're often left to your own devices and you can attempt to try and reverse or stop this seemingly endless cycle of ups and downs through self-medication (narcotics, alcohol, reckless behavior, etc). But for me, the depression came before the substance abuse. 
     It's driven me to what seems irrevocably mad on some days, and to my misfortune it occurs at the most random times. I'll be having a conversation with a loved one and feel the sudden urge to rip all my hair out and dig my fingernails out from fingers. One of the difficulties on other days is feeling paranoid when performing the most mundane daily tasks. I can't go to the grocery store without feeling apprehensive or paranoid. It's a burden. It's a burden on me, on loved ones and everyone around me. Walking through the aisles seeing people looking at me. Why are you looking at me? Why is she watching me? He's following me. And I think, he's giving me a funny look. But then it clicks in: I'm getting paranoid again. People are giving me funny looks because I'm giving them funny looks. When I am very depressed I slow down and slow down and slow down to the point which I am not moving at all. I can see, I can hear, speak and breathe, but I feel utterly lethargic and lack that umph to move forward. And it can be quite embarrassing when I'm in the shop and people are walking passed me while I am just stuck there. 
     One thing I am unsure of how I feel about is prescribed medication. It terrifies me to wonder when I am diagnosed--I am very confident I will be, I'm getting the shakes right now just thinking about it--is if I will ever become addicted to my medication if I am authorized to take any supplements to calm this wary head. However, if it will stabilize this  condition I want it. Desperately. Something for the paranoia, something for the sleep, something for the depression, something for psychotic thinking. Anything (and hopefully supplements that will stop my hair from falling out from mood stabilizers).  
     And while battling this illness there are many days I hate myself and sort of sobbing and tearing at the walls of my own brain. But I always have voices in my head saying what a useless bastard I am, and the voice is my own just telling me what a worthless lump of shit I am. I have had copious encounters with depression and the worst sides of it, namely, suicide. Yes, I've tried more than once. I've stepped in front of an oncoming train, I've tried to drill a hole through my head with a power drill. I've tried overdosing on pain killers that weren't even prescribed to me, but my father. Please, understand I was so utterly despairing at that time in my life (age 15-19) I couldn't take any more.
     It's perhaps a hard fact to accept, but one we should face that of those people who have severe bipolarity and aren't receiving treatment, half attempt suicide and twenty percent succeed. 
     I was surprised to realize that I felt like this, but I no longer am as it is a result of my illness and not me. I have a disease of the brain I share with countless millions all over the world. It's left me kicked out of college for poor grades, nearly arrested for what I'd rather not share and attempting suicide all by the age of 17. It has indeed tormented me all my life with the deepest of depressions while giving me the energy and creativity that will hopefully someday launch the stable career for me that I have yearned for since such a young age. 
    If I were to be presented with a button that will eradicate all symptoms of bipolarity, manic depression, mood swings, all forms of mania and remove them from my life, I would not press that button. I love the life I live simply because it was the one given to me. What comes to mind is when you love the flaws of your significant other. I love my life because it is mine and no one else's. Maybe this is an up speaking for me. I'm sure there will be a down coming over now walking the streets to knock on my door and kick my ass for saying that, but it's true. I love the life I lead no matter how badly I want it all to stop, how I feel worthless, or want to kill myself. I hope this is all coherent. I just want to succeed despite my illness more than anything. I need to make something of myself, not only for myself, but for my loved ones. I need to feel wanted, remembered, significant. Infinite. We're all on this tightrope called life. Some fall, and some have the balance not called courage, but the lack of anxiety.

Thanks for reading.

-Ryan