There are times when it seems that sleep is a luxury that I’m not allowed to purchase. My brain just refuses to power down at bedtime, leaving my mind, body and soul drained. Sometimes I am devastated by the silent scream that no one can hear, but is so deafening to me. I walk in the indigo desert a lot, with its sinking, black sands — its loneliness and desperation. I could, honestly, go on forever about the woes of bipolar disorder, but I’m not going to. Not today.
Mental illness is, true enough, a bitch, but there are things about it that I’ve come to love. I feel things intensely, which means that painful situations are devastating, but it also means that happiness can be divine bliss. I also believe that these intense feelings allow me to truly experience life to its fullest. It’s like my brain has nerve endings that extend out to touch the world and all its wonders. I have an active, fertile mind. It chooses not to cooperate when it comes to writing, but it’s almost always an interesting place in which to live. I love being the quirky, creative person that I can be.
I’m a true believer in the idea that everything is composed of both light and darkness. When I can see the light, I am drawn to it and grateful that it is there. Just a little light in the darkness of a weary soul can, at times, shine brighter than the sun.