Based on true experiences, dramatically told.

I run.

Literally. I’ve been trying to do 5K under 35 mins, which I think is okay given that I’ve gained 10 kilos the past year with my antidepressants. I cross 4K at 28:something. Quick math. 7min/km. 7min left, which means I’m on track. It’s awesome. I’ve done it again. Whatever I start out to do, I do to utter perfection. I’m so pumped.

As I start this post, I’ve already asked three people if I’m being too pretentious.

It’s so stupid. I still have an entire kilometer left. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, say the wisdom of the ages. Besides, my lungs feel like I smoke a 100 cigarettes a day (I average 5). My legs are lead. Shut up, endorphins, I’m no athlete. The world’s cast in pink sunshine, the first stars are out. It’s a lovely evening, cool and mellow. Birds chirp the day to sleep. I don’t notice any of that. 2 mins back, I felt like a God. Now I feel utterly, ridiculously naive. I feel like I’m running through tar. Not the body, that’s fine. My head’s the problem. The inside of it. No way I’m running the last 700 meters in 5 minutes.

I run it in 6. 36:06, that’s my time. It’s good, I feel good. I breathe, the evening sets in.

Happens every time. Over and over. What do I make of that. Maybe it’s completely normal, maybe everyone can relate. I wouldn’t know, the only experience I’m aware of is my own. A psychiatrist told me August last year that I probably had bipolar disorder (didn’t specify a type). Maybe it’s that. I’m absolutely sure that it wasn’t always this way. When I started running, I loved it. I wouldn’t be able to tell you what it felt like exactly, because I didn’t care, and that was the point. I loved life. Sure, there was loads of stress, stress that led to this. But back then, I could confidently deal with it. I was 100% sure that I was okay. Now I’m quite sure I’m not.

Let’s keep going.

I’m going to talk about running for just a little longer. I come back home and stretch out. Endorphins pumping. I try to feel proud of myself. Try to feel proud. That’s the mistake. Thoughts take off in a black whirlwind that I won’t even try to describe. I shower, eat and go to bed. Stupid thoughts follow each other. My evening is pretty much ruined.

And my run wasn’t that bad in the first place.

Much of the rest is generalisation, since I don’t have the linguistic capacity to describe the obscure contours of my mind.

I’ve constantly been on edge for a very long time now. I’m either too scared or too excited, and they’re both basically the same thing. It’s difficult to be around people, it’s difficult to be alone. I’m not at ease with my friends. Just a few days ago I stood alone in the black of the night in Spiti Valley, looking up at the milky way for the first time, and trying very hard to feel something I wanted to feel but wasn’t feeling. It was hopeless.

But it’s not always all melancholic. When I’m motivated, I’m on acid. Even as I write this, I tingle with excitement. I have to make an active effort to stop my knees from shaking vigorously. I’ve had a long day, I took an independence day quiz at a school and caught up with a long lost cousin. It’s 2:30 in the night. I should sleep, it’s not going to be easy tomorrow. But I feel unstoppable. Maybe that’s the illness too.

Usually, however, it’s just depression. I can tell you all about it in a later post that will probably be much more difficult to read. Maybe I can go over some parts of what caused it as well. In fact, if you find this interesting, there’s loads more that I can share. For now though, let’s just get to the part I hate the most, and then end it.

Lately I have no convictions.

Is being a perfectionist being an over thinker? Is craving love and attention too needy? Does motivation drive productivity, or does productivity drive motivation? What comes first, spending time with family and friends, or seeing the world? How do I make my life worthwhile, what battles should I pick? Am I getting enough recognition, do I even deserve praise? Should I believe in the wisdom of the ages, or should I just wing it? What’s wrong with people? What’s wrong with the world? Is being born even the right thing? I have a friend who’s convinced it’s not. He’s depressed too. Heck, at least he is convinced.

Speaking of convictions, a few months into therapy & medication, I asked my psychiatrist whether I even had bipolar, or was it all in my head (pun wasn’t intended). He said: “You felt something was wrong, and that feeling was strong enough to make you seek out my help. That’s what matters.” I’d like to believe him. We’re far from understanding mental illness as a species, so it’s a pretty pointless exercise for one puny human to try and figure it all out in his first blog post. I don’t want to explain anything, I’m merely expressing.

I erupt and sink at once. Racing towards zenith and rock bottom at the same time, I’ve reached this point.

Writing this post made me exceed my daily cigarette average by quite a bit. That’s alright, creative justice.

Thanks for reading!

This write up took shape from a shower thought that came out of nowhere. It’s a hackneyed notion that self expression helps. What I really want to know is what others make of this. If it’s any good, I’d love for people to read it. I’m not big on social media myself, so if you like this post, please share it.

You know that’ll make me feel like a God.

Banner image: https://mymodernmet.com/depression-illustration-jungle-animals-dawid-planeta/