Manically Yours

This poem is about the ups and downs of Manic Depression aka Bipolar Disorder.

By Amanda ZylstraPublished 5 years ago • 3 min read

I am stuck in a race against time.

I am the rabbit with the pocket watch moving as fast as I can from place to place.

My list of errands is never-ending.

I can’t write everything down quick enough.

I have to get everything done in one day.

Few understand my mania.

Some view it as a gift.

A form of extreme drive and motivation.

No one sees me after the time runs out and the hands on the clock stop moving.

No one sees me once I crash and sleep for days on end with little productivity.

No one sees me in my depressed state.

I have Manic Depression.

Bi-Polar Disorder.

Whatever name you think is proper for this chemical reaction in my brain that makes my mind speed up and slow down in random waves.

I take medication to try and level it out.

To try and appear normal to those who are quick to attach a stigma to any mental disorder and want to throw me into an institution and label anything I may do or say as “crazy” or “insanity”.

What is balance anyhow?

There is a fine dotted line between insanity and genius.

All I know is the functions of my own mind.

This is my normalcy.

This is my mania, and it's also my depression.

It’s having everything you look at making you want to cry.

Wanting to hide under a rock and avoid everyone.

Ignoring my phone when it rings.

It’s self-doubt and low self-esteem.

It’s the feeling that the sky is falling on you and there is nothing you can do to make it better.

It’s the lack of Serotonin in my blood that gives everyone else a happy feeling naturally.

Nero transmitters that my body fails to produce.

Happy feelings I lack.

I can throw psychology and medical terms around.

Deaf ears will still say that I am “Crazy” and medical doctors will have an actual conversation with me.

They have knowledge of how the brain functions.

They prescript me drugs that make my body produce Serotonin.

I am on different medication over the next twenty years.

Searching for a needle in a haystack to find one that works best with my brain chemistry.

It’s a never-ending battle against my own mind.

I don’t want to feel depressed.

I don’t want to have mania.

But my own moods are out of my own control.

I look for a pill to work as a band-aid for my problems.

I read medical journals.

I become my own advocate.

I have an invisible illness and I have to hide it from the general public.

Everyone is so quick to judge me and label me that I have to hide my secret.

I have to hide my diagnosis and try to mask my own behaviors.

I hide within myself.

I come up with excuses for everything.

Excuses become my safe haven.

“I just feel off today” is easier to say that “I am manic depressive.” Or “I have a mental illness and am on meds for it.”

I am having a bad mental health day.

Never give up on yourself.

It took twenty years and six wrong prescriptions to get an accurate diagnosis from a medical doctor that I already knew was correct in the back of my mind.

I kept my mouth shut for years since when I was in a manic stage I spend long nights awake researching my own symptoms.

Finding my own answers.

I self-medicated with alcohol.

I went through denial.

No one wants to be labeled “Bi-Polar”

Doctors are so quick to label everything as “Major Depressive Disorder” and move on to the next patient.

It’s an easier diagnosis to swallow.

Though it gives little answers.

Everyone has depression to some level.

*This poem is featured in "Peeling Sanity."

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