blakereflected

I, an artist

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I, a writer

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I, a voice

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Since I was 17 I have been bipolar and have struggled with this destructive illness even longer than that. When I was seven my father took me home from school early one day. He stood me in the hall of our house and told me something happened to mom. He reassured me that she would be okay, and held me tight in his arms so that I wouldn't be afraid. We went to visit my mom in the hospital, and I, barely a child, saw her lying in a coma with tubes up her nose. She had attempted suicide.

 

I did not understand this, and I immediately questioned life in a way, that can only be described as anger, sadness, and an enormous amount of fear. In those moments, I saw what a failed suicide attempt would cause. I saw the woman I looked up to, fighting with bipolar disorder, and fighting to stay alive.

 

For years I struggled to accept her illness, and I resented my mother for I unfortunately carried a stigma that, back then, I did not recognize.

 

In my last year of high-school pressure pushed me into a crippling depression. I had psychosis and even thought of killing myself. Like my mother, I am bipolar.

 

The breakdowns continued. Constant bouts of mania, depression and drug addictions took over. I was locked up repeatedly.

 

And so, I wrote. I wrote my thoughts. I didn't edit any of them, revealing my mind, inspiring even myself, and intending to do the same for others.

 

Read my words and see my constant creations.

 

Mental illness can be beautiful. I can prove it!