It’s a protest.

Photo by rawpixel on Unsplash

It’s Me vs Me. The stability my APN told me would come with medication compliance vs the possibility of a hypomania induced all-night jam session. I crave creativity. I have creativity, but I want more creativity. And I don’t want to sleep. The meds are poison, anyway. I want to drink whiskey neat, and then whiskey from the bottle. I want to scrunch my face at the bitterness. I want to feel warm inside and sing loudly because I am drunk and I don’t care that the walls in the apartment are thin. I want to be unstable in an endearing way. I will be popular and people will follow me on the adventures that my mind conjures up last-minute. I’ll have unforgettable sex with a stranger. Maybe a few strangers.

Photo by Sérgio Alves Santos on Unsplash

The depressive crash will be stark and poetic. My melancholy will elicit attention from my family. They will ask all the right questions. My sadness will make me unique and interesting. I will know the answers to life’s deepest questions and although horribly depressing, I will feel proud to understand what everyone else just can’t seem to grasp. When I write my suicide note I will find peace knowing that this is the momento my family will have of me. My mother will understand my decision to die. She will honor my birthday with a trip to the gravesite each year. She will not be angry. My absence in the world will make life better for everyone I knew. They will think of me as a martyr.

“I want to be unstable in an endearing way.”

There are three pills right now. The one that keeps me from killing myself. The one that keeps my mind from moving faster than the rest of me. The one that reminds me that the thoughts that there are people in white vans following me around aren’t real at all.

Before these, there were other pills. There was the one that made me sleep 15 hours a day. The one that made me more suicidal. The one that I am pretty sure the psychiatrist only prescribed because he just happened to have samples from the drug rep. “Are you happy girl yet?” he would ask. I wasn’t but I said I was.

I know that my mental illness is chronic. I know that when I take medication to manage my symptoms my life gets better. I know that when I am properly medicated I am able to practice the coping techniques and self-care that keeps my recovery moving forward. This is what I use to fight the unrelenting fantasy that my life is better when my bipolar disorder goes unmedicated.

I decide to take the pills tonight. But only on the premise that I can change my mind tomorrow.