Vishal 的詩 – Bipolar Lessons

My story isn’t that interesting

 

But

When I was a kid,

I guess it felt like I was louder than loud’s meant to be,

Told to pipe down despite not being in polite company,

Tried on being a clown, clowning around’s a productive use of misery,

At least in my experience:

Laugh or cry?

Why not both, said the guy with bipolar.

 

A little mental health joke there for ya.

 

My skin was paper thin, good for writing in,

Prick me I’ll scream, could be a real prick as well,

Sadder than sad ought to be,

Unable to do what for others might look easy

So of course I felt weak and was labelled lazy.

 

Potential: He has potential,

That’s what they told me,

Potential but lazy, full of potential energy,

Like if you wind a spring,

Pull a thread until its about to snap,

 

If you looked closely,

You would see my back stayed hunched,

Eyes on the floor, terrified all the time,

Sure I was fat, convinced I was ugly,

Though at most objectively chubby,

 

A kind teacher noticed some of this,

Got me help, like a psychiatrist,

Counsellor, psychologist, the only one that worked

Was the nutritionist,

The pills did not.

 

And if the medicine wasn’t enough and I was still screwing up,

Then logically it must have all been my fault.

 

So I was anorexic and misdiagnosed as depressed,

 

Bipolar Lesson number 1:

Your gut feeling is bullshit,

Don’t trust your emotions,

Question your thoughts.

And yes, the logical extension of this philosophy

Means that often you will feel lost.

We aren’t friggin Vulcans after all.

 

Aside from my emotions

My memories are flawed

Because every time I have an episode it damages my brain,

And so my memory deteriorates,

And sometimes that scares the heck out of me,

And so I tell myself those are mental battle scars from dealing with my disease

 

Battle scars. That’s what I said.

Sounds a bit melodramatic, doesn’t it?

 

But the truth is when I can’t move,

Because I’m down in a hole in my head,

I tell myself:

Put on your shoes and go for a run

Because endorphins are a hell of a weapon,

 

That I am a fighter and that I didn’t give up.

 

Today at least.

 

Melodramatic maybe.

 

Whatever keeps you moving

 

Bipolar lesson number 2:

If someone looks lonely, just do for them,

What you wish someone should have done for you.

 

And when I’m pumped for the days,

When the sky is clear,

The time finally came,

To chase my dreams,

And I got my schedule planned out before me,

And then one sentence.

One stupid sentence someone says,

Sends me crashing down,

And something’s screaming inside to recognize that I am so weak,

 

I tell myself:

It’s a fight. You gotta fight back.

Don’t give up so easily.

 

But that is not what it looks like.

It looks like I’m doing nothing.

 

My story isn’t that unique.

 

Like a lot of people like me it eventually came to a head

For me it was when I was 26:

 

Rock bottom, finally down for the count,

Truth is I was ready to check out

Leave the stage, adios

Never have to age,

Why would I want to,

When I got 50 more years of this crap to look forward to,

It’s just maths in the end.

 

But for some reason, I found myself in front of a psychiatrist,

Somewhere in Kowloon,

And I begged him to slow my mind down,

Give me pills, anything because otherwise tomorrow,

Well…

 

Here is a fictional recreation of that conversation:

Because my memory sucks.

 

Mr Nanda you are not depressed,

 

Mr doctor, man I am depressed, now give me the pills dude.

 

Mr Nanda you have a mood disorder:

You’re bipolar type 2:

 

Well how about that.

So do I get pills?

 

Yes.

 

Nice.

 

They were not nice,

And I didn’t believe him at first,

Or the next doctor either,

I didn’t want to believe it was true,

I mean you’re telling me I’m what…crazy?

My whole life,

Throughout it all?

But what he was also telling me:

Was that it wasn’t all my fault,

And that can mean the world.

When the whole time I’d been labelled by myself and others

As a failure, or at least lazy

 

Bipolar lesson number 3:

They’ll call you lazy because it’s hard for you to do what they think looks easy

But a black hole reflects no light and that they can’t see,

They’re pulled on by a different kind of gravity

Still I’ll be lying if I said it didn’t feel pretty shitty

I am not a Zen Buddhist monk, a stoic center of calm.

I’m pretty sure Marcus Aurelius was not bipolar.

 

No, we’re trigger happy.

One word leads to one thought leads to an emotional extreme,

It’s all about falling down,

And yo-yoing back up,

Inconsistency, nothing steady or sure,

Storms that come out of nowhere.

 

So yeah,

I tell myself I’m a freakin mind warrior.

Shooting fire balls out my ass if needed.

To deal with what I hear you think,

 

Bipolar lesson number 4:

Never be too sure you know what others think,

You are not psychic despite feeling like it

If you were you would understand that some people whilst thinking of you

Touch themselves

And ain’t that a comfort

 

Along side that, I worship at the temple of hope.

 

And other people don’t understand what it’s like,

To live that kind of life,

Because this is my life,

Until I die,

And it took me awhile to accept that,

But it’s better to accept than deny,

 

Bipolar lesson number five:

You’re gonna have to fight because

They merely inherited the dark said Bane to Batman,

Whereas you will be trained to recognise the light.

 

So yeah, in my head,

I pretend that I am a fighter,

And that this is a fight,

Hell I could be a Jedi,

Except they are way too calm am I right?

I don’t think there are bipolar Jedi,

What I’m saying is I do whatever it takes to make myself strong,

I tell myself that the voices are demons,

They aren’t who I am,

 

And on a really bad day,

I might go online to find the others with bipolar,

People I’ve never met,

When everything in my head is telling me I’m a mess,

I go online

And you know what these strangers said?

 

And I quote:

“Fight on”

“Fight the demons”

“Keep up the fight”

 

Because for some reason,

We say we are fighting.

We never agreed to it.

Never had a bipolar world meeting,

It would be hard to schedule that considering our mood swings.

 

So I guess I’m not some lone samurai in a dark forest,

But a soldier on a battlefield,

And one person’s comment is a signal flare,

Lighting up and revealing my comrades all over the world.

 

Before the light fades.

Yeah: bipolars are dramatic,

Have you got that yet?

We got that in spades.

 

So its a freakin mental war,

That can go on for days,

And meditation,

Is your katana made out of adamantium,

Exercise your plasma bazooka,

Your green lantern ring? Proper sleep routines.

You want to learn psychic martial arts?

There are many forms:

Panther: IE CBT

Crane: That is to say gratitude journaling

Iron fist: Mindfullness practice

And lest I forget,

Your tactical nuke,

Take your meds for god sakes.

 

We pretend to be fighters,

And you know what?

 

I posit to you

That maybe we are.

 

Maybe we are titans,

Bench pressing mental weights people will never see,

Contending with lies in our mind, sometimes for days on end,

Enduring despite loneliness and isolation,

Struggling against overreactions

Sifting hallucination and delusion from reality,

Believing beyond all belief,

Whatever it takes to keep us going.

 

So yeah we’re a rising phoenix…

A heavy weight taking hits…

A level 20 fighter thief in dungeons and dragons dealing crits…

 

Oh shit,

Right:

 

Bipolar lesson number 6:

You might be manic.

Rather than Jesus, Yeezus, or a genius

But in the words of Douglas Adams:

Don’t panic,

When you come crashing down and look around

At all the wreckage and regret all the things you’ve done and said

It’s not our faults I promise.

 

We’re just sick.

And despite believing I’m in the X-men sometimes,

Many days it doesn’t do the trick.

 

Believed I could feel it all when I was up,

All the pain in the world,

All the love,

Sensitive as a landmine,

About to go off,

Mad splurges of productivity,

How my mind could speed,

And how nothing was ever enough.

 

Didn’t even know who I was,

Between the ups and downs,

The medicine:

 

So bipolar lesson number 7:

You are going to question who you are are

Are you the guy who got into the fight last night

And cried

Confided that you wanted to die

Pried a bit too much into someone else’s business

Lied when you felt the rush

Waking up with someone else to the ruins of your life

Where you will deny that you are a hollow shell

To that I say: screw that crap!

Here’s my YouTube TikTok TED talk:

It’s called:

You are your best self

Nobody else.

You are the version of you that takes care of yourself,

You are the version of you that tries every day to get out of bed

You are the one who said they’ll be there for their friends

You are the one that tries to make do and do better,

And rebuilds after the storm

Despite the mental weather,

You are your better angels not your inner demons,

You are the one who doesn’t give up

Contending with mental illness makes you mighty

Not the other way around

 

And the truth is I’m one of the lucky ones.

And my story really isn’t that interesting.

My meds work, for the most part,

I could afford private therapy,

I had the support of friends and family,

By the grace of my luck, I get to survive, maybe even thrive,

Or at least I get to try.

 

But not all of us who fight get to live that kind of life.

 

Like my brother who refuses to take his meds,

Is in the throes of a psychotic episode,

Where he thinks he is at war with Elon Musk,

 

Or my sister who hears angels and demons in her head,

Jumped out of a moving taxi when she was depressed,

Put on 20kg because of the meds,

Has been unemployed ever since.

 

And the people around them can actually worsen their days,

 

Bipolar lesson number 8:

No matter how much they love you they still might not relate

That can create a certain kind of loneliness

You have try and remind yourself that they’re trying to help in their own way

That’s a love that’s worth keeping track of

It’s hard, people sometimes don’t know what to do

They aren’t mental health professionals

They’re just loving you as best they can

You’re gonna have to be big enough to realise that counts for something

Try to explain, educate

 

Or just avoid the hell out of them.

 

That’s a viable strategy too.

 

And if I tweaked their brains.

And gave them the same condition,

There is no guarantee they would do any better.

 

They call it being touched with fire.

The artist’s disease.

 

Some people romanticise it,

 

But its really not that romantic.

 

Some people wake up at 3 am to clean,

Spend way too much money

Incapable of anything but playing video games

 

We aren’t all Vah Gohs and Kanyes.

 

It’s really not that romantic.

 

You might ask me what to do,

You can’t edit my genes,

Though if you can invent some better meds,

By all means please go ahead,

Or maybe a microchip inside my head,

Whatever, I’ll take it.

 

But all I’d ask is for you stay awhile, and listen.

 

(Just as you have been patient enough to do tonight / this evening)

 

It might sound trite,

That love kindness and empathy matter,

That love, kindness and empathy can change a life.

That love is necessary, not just nice.

And to a person in a desert,

It can be the oasis.

 

You never know what someone else is dealing with inside their minds.

 

My bipolar bear buddies are some of the best people I know.

And no name tag,

No address, no CV or salary or certificate,

No list of accomplishments will ever record their medals.

 

My story may not be that interesting.

But ours is.

And not just people with bipolar,

But anyone who struggles with mental illness,

 

They can totes pretend to be badass mind fighters too,

Welcome to our battlefield,

Design your own uniform.

Make sure it looks cool.

 

And you may never be able to fight our battles for us.

 

But you can stand by our side.

That makes a huge difference.

Supporting doesn’t mean you have to solve it.

It’s just who we are.

 

And whatever illness you face

If you are in the fight,

If you constantly try,

 

There’s bipolar lesson number 9,

10,

11,

12 and all the way to the end:

It’s simply this:

Dear friend,

You are not alone.

 

You aren’t the only one.

There are millions of us.

 

We are not weak or broken.

 

We just may not always be in the same room.

 

But if you are weird like me and imagine a cyberpunk dystopian battlefield,

With psychedelic shape shifting demons,

Or something like a little less extra

Like you are just being pestered by some kind of squeaky annoying heckler,

 

Whatever you picture,

Add to that image the truth:

 

That we are right there standing with you.