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I love to write. Writing has been my escape since I was young and my salvation when my bipolar tendencies became more and more pronounced in my mid twenties. At the peak of my medicated life, I was on eight different pills; this included three different forms of tranqs. I was a walking zombie. Days blended, memories were hazy, apathy was my most common emotion - but I was "under control." Over the last two years, I've weaned down to one mild anti-depressant and something for my ADD on a need only basis. I've never gone through pain like the withdrawl from those other medications, not to mention the mood swings, hallucinations, and voices the withdrawl triggered. I spent night after insomniatic night pounding away on a computer keyboard. Now, I have the occational three, four night run without sleep and the occational crash where I go to bed Monday night to awake Thursday morning - I've never felt better. Being bipolar isn't a cold, a flu, a disease to be cured or covered. It a way of being - a skill to master. Embraced, accepted, monitored and harnessed: it's a wonderful gift.

Reflections

On the wind, see begotten.

Fall of fall and night and day.

Till not when light has gone forgotten,

Shall meek and mild lose its way.

Melody made by heart’s pound thumping;

Pleading, crying for rest dismay.

Harmony found in lung’s need pumping;

Gasping, wheezing; cannot convey.

Life’s water boiling, body leaking,

Surface slick and slide away.

Smooth and stick combine in seeking;

What leaves one morose, leaves others gay.

Murderous intensions whorl and tremble.

Victims find both bond and flay.

Apathy and courage come assemble,

Mumble or boast: “Come what may.�

Strung along by higher powers,

Like the Golem birthed of clay.

Fighting orders from the towers,

Laughing – screaming – demanding: “Nay!�

Want of pain and torment and torture;

The great gift was given; the great price to pay.

Release brings both reprieve and horror.

Rest only where the beast shall lay.