One of the problems that I often have with bipolar disorder is that I obsess over things. A few years ago, I was completely possessed with the thought of writing a novel. It took precedence over almost everything in my life. My mind was alive with ideas of scenes and plot twists, and I had a hard time sleeping because I was constantly hatching out new material for my book. I bought books to help me with writing, and I created an elaborate outline — that was almost as long as a novel itself. I was very passionate about it. The problem was that I was impassioned to the point of it being like a wildfire burning out of control. Soon, I became consumed until there was nothing left of me to fuel the flame. Right now, my outline sits in a three-ring binder next to the bookcase in my bedroom and does nothing more than collect dust. I take it out from time to time and play with it a bit, but, for the most part, it just sits and waits. I have since gone on to obsess about “Metamorphosis.”
I often think of my book — it is a book; it’s just waiting to get out — and all the pretty, sparkly ideas that I have for short stories. I fear that “Metamorphosis” will become another neglected inspiration that will inevitably dull. My love of writing is complicated. I thoroughly enjoy writing. I especially love creating new ideas for fictional stories, but many times, when I sit down to get those thoughts on the screen, my mind can’t sort through the information. It gets all jumbled up and nothing comes out coherently. I don’t believe that this is anything new. It’s a problem suffered by most writers, if not all. That doesn’t make it any less annoying though. I can see the scene clearly in my head, my brain just won’t cooperate and allow me to put it into words. It also causes issues with my confidence; and now it’s more of a mental barrier that I automatically think that I won’t be able to sit down and write anything creative. I’m not giving up though. I’m going to find a way to break through.
My mind has been an odd place in which to dwell today. Either it has been totally lit up with thought or completely dead — no stability in this brain. It hasn’t been bad — or perhaps I’m just learning to handle these incidents better — but it has been frustrating. I can definitely handle the racing thoughts better than the dead head effect. Luckily for me, the sparkly ideas were the dominant malfunction of the day. I just hope that I’ll be able to sleep tonight. I’m in desperate need of a good night’s rest.
Visual Writing Prompt:
Write whatever comes to mind when you look at this picture.
Alice Robbins never suspected that anyone, much less the young boy from two houses down, would peer through the hedges to see her nearly every day as the sun was getting ready to set. Tony Lightfoot was seven years old. As a foster child, living with the Alexanders, he was often dirty and hungry, and he longed for the day when he would find a loving family. Alice was widowed with no children, but the young child saw her as the perfect mother figure. She was kind to him without showing pity — he hated pity — and was always giving him books and treats.
Alice lost her husband during an armed robbery at the Quick Mart two years earlier. Jason Robbins was the love of her life, and although many friends had tried to suggest that it was time to move on, she was not ready. Every night, just before sunset, she would walk in her beautiful garden, surrounded by tall hedges, and speak with him — just as she did when he was alive. At the end of the conversation, she would blow kisses into the air. Tony was especially fond of that part, and would often times try to catch the kisses for himself.