Inside The Mind of An Anxious Bipolar

What everybody, who is not somehow associated with Bipolar Affective Disorder, fails to understand is how a disease takes over every single part of one’s life and why one would use this disease as an “excuse” for all the tasks one couldn’t complete. Its hard for somebody who doesn’t have Anxiety to understand why one feels so out of place in one’s own classroom, why even familiar faces appear cold. You’ll know what helplessness is when you see all these affecting the one thing you wanted to be right in your life. Your grades start to fall and being a child of Asian parents, that’s the worst way of letting your parents down. Your parents, your hardworking honest loving down-to-earth parents, who never asked anything else from you. Your parents who, despite being unfamiliar with the term bipolar at first, accepted everything, even your average grades, with a smile.
So you become desperate, you understand that you NEED to up your act. You understand this, yet you can do nothing about it. You miss classes, you can’t study and you inform yourself that you are a fool for even considering good grades in your life again. You try to encourage yourself by saying you’ll do better the next time. But you don’t believe that for a second yourself. You blame yourself, you doubt the existence of your illness, you start suspecting that maybe you are just a lazy, inactive person. And your indolence is affecting your loved ones. You think of escaping, once and for all. But you are told by your parents that they would rather have you with your average grades than no you at all. You wish they wouldn’t say that, you wish they would rather see you dead. So you continue to breathe and try to ignore what feels like a personal purgatory.

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Torn

I looked at my husband.
He was crying like a baby, the sides of his face in my hands, his four days old stubble grazing my palms.
At that moment, the line between romantic affection and motherly love wasn’t there anymore and my heart went out to him like he was my own kid.
I felt like I was dying of cancer, not by suicide, and that he was my four year old son.
It was as if he had been looking at the doctors coming at our house for days and although he hadn’t quite figured out what really was wrong yet, he knew in his heart that his mother was going away, somewhere very far.
All I could think of was how he would get very lonely soon.

“Weed-draw”

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The furious storm had turned into a mere drizzle when the rickshaw stopped beside the road. It appeared Zeus was done for the day.
The rickshaw puller was all drenched in his “lungi” and shirt. He mumbled a bad word, probably aiming his own anger at Zeus or some similar figure. Or maybe it was meant for the last passenger, who couldn’t be persuaded to give a few bucks extra for the rain.
He took out his little packet of weed and its paraphernalia and started to make a stick from scratch. Then he cozied up on his rickshaw seat, gave it a puff and uttered, probably at Zeus or at the raindrops or the last customer, “damn you!!!” and closed his eyes in ecstasy.