Is it really worth another breath?

Beneath this smile is a thousand tears hidden from your eyes. Wiped aggressively from my glassy window pains which have been bolted shut from the outside. In between each breath is a thought I cannot carry. Reaching out for the latch to escape. With every wondering gaze I’m wishing I could see what was behind me. Even in my own home I feel fear of a lurking evil prying. I have been trying to think of ways to be normal all day. It took me hours to leave the house today and now I’m out I realise I haven’t eaten anything at all. But I have planned out my route to go back and cook. Can’t break the plan as my stomach twists and dives. So I have to wait. Feeling a guilt and sadness lifting up inside. Pushing down my insanity I focus on the smells of the flowers and the cheers of children playing. Absorbing the wonders of life I find myself paralysed sat on a bench overlooking a beautiful park. The sloping plush green grass, bees zooming effortlessly working hard. I wish I knew what to do today. I envy the bees with their purpose. I have to make plans in my head verified by the crazy person inside. She is me and I am her. From time to time I let her run the show and destroy someone else’s smiles as well as my own. Today I will just sit outside and hope the breeze can lead me away from my suicide.



Bipolar is when you feel depressed and hope it’s just a mood not an episode stretching far and wide into your future.

When your mood changes you are happy that you suffered just a few hours or days and not a relentless episode stretching into the unknown.

Am I ill?

Stamping on my chest.

Devils claws sink into my shoulders.

Pushing me down

And sitting in my view.

Whispering ‘You are just another small time muse’

Meaningful gazes ask if I’m fine

Glances back scream ‘I’m fucked.’

I show a small apologetic smile

One that let’s you know I don’t need you.

That it will be fine.

It will be OK.

I am just someone who cries in the street on Thursday.


If our pain is unavoidable,

Let it be a pain of our choosing.

So I guess at 13 pulling a blade against my sick was a choice?

I chose my mental illness like its a option at lunch

Bipolar, anxiety or OCD.

Normality fleeted my deck of cards that very day,

Lined up just jesters and fours

Winners cards crumbled into ash.

From blood smeared on the walls

To vomit filled toilets.

It began so easy and trivial

To vodka downed straight

Dancing in the darkness

I guess I chose pain or did it choose me?

I guess I was unfortunate,

That my parents did not raise me right.

Or the bullies viper tongues,

Venom was deadly in my mind.

When I choose to date women,

And give my virginity away for free.

Did I choose suffering or was that all was offered to me?

When I was given black eyes as love

When I was locked in a secure ward

It was not just for fun.

Did I choose the pain or did it choose me?

I guess if it continues rifling through my successes

That I left an open door for it to walk in.

I guess it saw the weakness in me.

Maybe I will never be free.


Medication gives me more awareness to the highs and lows. It stops the hypomania creeping into mania, saddles the depression and takes it for a ride right out of bed into the everyday grind. Maybe it makes me a normal neurotic person and not the bipolar neurotic. I get through the day.

I recently added a old friend quetiapine back into the mix. Quetiapine is like a old lady on your back, she makes you hungry and makes you foggy like you would looking down from the highest peak. She seems to make me brain dead, out of it completely and I don’t hate it. She desensitises so much that I’m not even bothered by death, that a lot of the time I am just trying to get through the day back into my bed where I can relax and be myself.

The mood of Valentines 

Busted, happy valentines day and already started on a bad note. My colleague came to work too early meaning I rushed to get up and felt exposed. I walked from the house to the town centre feeling on edge. The mizzle turned to rain and my mood plummeted. Then I resisted buying wine before my bus ride home. I am going to remain sober, I am not going to let myself get out of control. I resisted the urge to cry when something made me jump. I hate being so jumpy. I hate feeling bad about myself. It’s been getting worse and worse. I normally try and kill myself by this time of the year. Should I feel proud or that I know that I have a pattern which is so regular that with out it I begin to feel lost.

Lost, losing my my mind. Am I lost? I have begun to see the world in black and white. Is this worth it, should I give it a chance?

A guy I know came over, he didn’t even want me. Nobody does. They say I need to work on myself but is it possible to grow with no idea where you are going.