As an artist,

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As a writer,

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As a voice,

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From the age of 17, I have grappled with bipolar disorder, a relentless struggle that has consumed me even longer. The defining moment of my awareness came at the tender age of seven when my father escorted me home from school, guiding me to the hallway of our house to deliver the unsettling news about my mother. Assuring me she would be alright, he held me close, shielding me from the looming fear. Our destination was a hospital room where, as a mere child, I beheld my mother in a coma with tubes protruding from her nose—an aftermath of a suicide attempt.
 

Confusion, anger, sorrow, and an overwhelming fear enveloped me, leading to a profound questioning of life itself. Witnessing the aftermath of a failed suicide attempt, I saw my role model, battling not only bipolar disorder but also fighting to cling to life.
 

For years, I grappled with acceptance, harboring resentment towards my mother, unaware of the stigma that clouded my perception.
 

In my final year of high school, the mounting pressure catapulted me into a debilitating depression marked by psychosis and contemplation of my own demise. Like my mother, I, too, am bipolar.
 

The breakdowns persisted—cycles of manic highs, crushing lows, and the grip of substance abuse. Confinement became a recurring theme.

And so, I wrote. Unfiltered thoughts spilled onto the pages, laying bare my mind, inspiring even myself, with the aim of resonating with others.

Read my words and witness the perpetual evolution of my creations.
 

In the midst of the chaos, mental illness reveals its own kind of beauty. I am living proof.