Lately I’ve hated being “on the way.” Car rides, elevators, walks, in-betweens. It makes me restless and I loathe the feeling. It got to the point where I even hated sleep. I would reach the twilight hours, sipping on something soothing, wishing it were sunrise so it would no longer be strange to hit the gym and start getting things done.
I thought I was just addicted to productivity. I thought the meds were just working. It turned out I’m hypomanic.
My last therapy session, my diagnosis was changed from unipolar depression to bipolar disorder 2: depression and hypomania. I took an upswing which explained away my hyperproductivity, urgency to reply to people in online communities I co-founded, my quasi-grand dreams, and most of all, my decreased need for sleep.
My allergy to transitions. My craving to already be There, wherever that is.
So I did what I always do in response to plot twists: I wrote about it. My writing chat group writes poetry based on a word prompt once a week, and I dedicated this week to my new diagnosis. Read it below.
It comes in waves.
Tsunamis that threaten
sooner than you can say,
It comes in rises
Like the world’s best roller-coaster,
Teasing you a terribly vast view
you can only enjoy for a second before
your stomach swims in its own womb knowing
what’s coming next.
It comes in drops.
Bomb drops, kamikaze planes, World War 10,579
but only in my head. The innocents, crying.
The warriors, worrying for their lives, their wives,
But soldiering on to save souls.
There is a high, for sure,
The promise of potential to save someone, somewhere.
Make a difference, rise above the tidal waves,
Higher than the skies you dreamed of seeing since you were an infant,
Seeing stars and starting over and grasping the great absolute zero following the noise
But for now all you hear is your heartbeat like clashing drums,
a sinful symphony singing your questions like how did you find yourself in battle?
Wasn’t all you wished for peace, why did it take fighting to find it,
When did happiness become a war zone?
The surfer swims back to shoreline safety,
The thrill-seeker regrets the view
As the ride dips down and
the last explosion booms across the city.
There is a supernova in your eyes,
You feel the blast
in your hands,
Taste the blood
on your tongue,
P.S. Watch me perform this poem on the PARC Foundation’s Pride Night on June 30 in Lt. Artiaga, San Juan!
Photo by evanmischelle on Flickr, via Creative Commons