Sometimes it feels like everything is balanced perfectly on the ledge, teetering away with the wind until you manage to grasp it. The problem is trusting the wind and how it shifts on its own. How are you supposed to trust what you can't see? Are we meant to base everything we know in trusting a feeling or a gentle breeze?
How is balance something that screams to be believed in, yet so easily ignored?
I have a theory that not one soul knows exactly whats going on at any given time.
We scream back at balance, craving it in our every day lives, our last drop of coffee, so much so that we search for it in every nook and cranny we come across. Maybe it's just me- maybe its more than myself.
Maybe it's all of us.
I feel alone without the wind. Where is anything to go?
How is life to be balanced without that extra push?
Where do we hide while our sanity sleeps?
I'm not sure. I don't have the answers. I'm only another being that's searching hard for them. I look anywhere I can for answers- here, there, in the hum of a rhythm or in the lyrics of a song. It's something I can't stop.
I can't tell you if it keeps me balanced, because there are points in my life where I've felt insane. I feel it now, I can't make up my mind when it comes to simple tasks. The only thing I know that I want, is I want music to be playing. It has to, if anything, I never want the music to stop.
It could be addiction, something I and many tend to struggle with. I've been told it's unhealthy or unnatural, but I tell you what; I can stare up at the sky or the ceiling for hours on end if I wanted to and if the music permits. I don't want the song to end- what if I miss something?
I'll never miss a thought or idea when I listen to music, they hold a special thing called memories. Maybe they're made as the song plays, maybe they were made the first time you heard it play.
Looking back on my theory that not one soul has any clue what we're doing here, I stand firmly by this. Scientists might have the answer for us. Jesus or the gods might. God even might, but I've never been able to grasp a firm belief on much of anything, let alone myself. I write, because I like to write, but it doesn't mean I write well. You could disagree with me.
I often take back what I have to say, because that's part of being bipolar, but I think it's part of being a human. I learn and grow and go on from there. We all do. It would be a mundane life if we were to remain only consistent at all stops.
The point I'm making is to be a lot like the wind; never stop. Where's the fun in that?
+++++
Being out of the mental hospital for a bit over a month now, I feel more mental than I did before. Maybe I was hiding in the dark corners of the world like I write about in other stories I've made. Every day is a new struggle; happiness and consistency, where do you hide?
I can't create art the same way I did before. I can hardly type- my nails have become too long.
Even with spending time with my family after my visit, I felt treated like an outcast. I'd have my phone taken away, taken from place to place, when all I really wanted to be was home.
I get they care, I know they care. This is the road to recovery they sing about in a thousand different songs.
I can listen to music freely now and type at my computer, drink my tea- all things my psychiatrist said would be good for me.
I hate to be on drugs, I hate staying away from weed- something that I used to find my balance in. It helped me focus. Now my focus is all over the place. It changes when the song changes. I could be doing something better with my time, but I don't know where to begin or how.
I've lost my drive, my ability. I can't even be in the room with more than a handful of people without looking for a way out. When I find my escape, it's like the bag over my head that was keeping me suffocated vanishes. I feel like I'm still trapped in my own mind somewhere. I just can't figure out if that somewhere is better or worse.
I feel like there's something everyone around me knows that they're not letting me in on.
I don't feel the same.
+++++
I miss my job and I'm tired of staying in one place. I'm tired of getting nervous anytime I get a message. I think I'm just tired.
I feel restricted, like I've been grounded and had my wings cut off.
Humans don't have wings, so I've been told to notice.
I remember during one of my episodes, my parents had to come to my house to calm me down- I still don't know the full extent on what's exactly wrong with me.
We stopped at a fast food joint on our way back to my house from the hospital. I saw, as I thought about how nice it would be to have some water, a kid in the car in front of us wave their star shaped wand.
Once that happened, it started to drizzle.
I may be crazy, but I still believe in magic. This is something I don't think I'll ever stop believing in. I see no point in pretending it doesn't.
Maybe it was supposed to drizzle then, sure. Maybe the kid knew that, sure. Maybe they also believe in magic and wanted to make it start raining then and there, sure. Who knows?
Looking back at it, it makes me smile. There were too many coincidences that got overlooked, too many checks and balances- but maybe that's what sent me aboard the crazy train.
I started to do research on my family history and this is where it all started.
Before that, about five or six years ago, I told a doctor I was sad. Their solution was to put me on a drug that gave me migraines. No one knew I was bipolar then, even though I told other that's what was wrong with me- no one listened. They always want a professional to tell you what's wrong, never taking the time to ask themselves. Then blame.
Anyways, I'm not depressed. I know I seem that way, but I'm not. I may be locked away in my mind, but I still see the beauty in this world where beauty is to be seen. I just can't create art for some unbeknownst reason the way I used to. That will eventually change.
So I was on the wrong drug for five or six years because no one felt the need to listen to me. Then, years later, I was at a block. I couldn't figure out why I couldn't pay attention like everyone else. So my doctor gave me another drug.
The combination of the two drugs did not react well with my psyche. I remember my family sending me up north with my grandparents. I'd brought a few books with me which I read, but my family told me I was asleep on the couch the whole time. I'm crazy though, don't take to heart too much of what I type.
I took a walk, but I wasn't supposed to be alone then. I saw a house that I thought was an elaborate prank my friends were pulling on me.
The house had a sign that said 'Detention Center' on it. I tried to crack the code, but thankfully, I couldn't break in.
I sat on the porch and thought for a moment, until a song by Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention came on in my head.
'Any way the wind blows is fine with me,' so I followed the wind.
That's when I met my grandpa and aunt driving around looking for me on the road ahead. Looking back, I couldn't believe my mind was in that much turmoil that I would try and break into someone else's house.
My step mom has a story just like it about her mom. She had an obsession with Michael Jackson, drove down to his establishment, and tried to break in.
It's amazing where a damaged mind can lead you.
