On April 27th, I woke up and I felt it. I felt so alone and isolated. I felt like no one in the world knew where I was or how I felt. I knew the depression had come, and the mania was over.

It all started with six months sober, and four months of a depression I can't even begin to explain. The walls crowding around me, my skin tearing from the tendens. A bash of rashing emotions, something I'd equal to a flash fload, only lasting months at a time and talking to you. Like, little devilish green men inside your brain telling you to off yourself for no "appearent" reason, except that it's really the only way. Fuck that. Logically I am intelligent, not always brilliant, whitty, well written, or even well put together.. But I can't care about those things in bouts like these.

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My husband would hit the walls screaming, "You don't need to have a mental illness! Stop it!" until I cried that I wanted to die, I hated myself and felt so scared. To try to be what he wanted I worked on bipolar workbooks every day for hours to get "normal". Meanwhile, with all of his yelling at me, I started to have panic attacks. Then I started to have depersonalization - where I was dissociating so much that I thought I stopped existing. This is normal with PTSD, but the doctor said I was psychotic and drugged me more. Also, I was terrified that zombies were trying to kill me, so I'd hide in the closet terrified and suicidal. This was my way of trying to make sense of the terror I felt.

 

(Song to the tune of Pink Floyd's 'The Wall')

We don’t need any medication
We don’t need any thought control
No psycho study in our art room
Psychiatrists, leave us people alone!

 Just a little passage/story that i wrote free verse... maybe its about me... maybe its not... i dont know, because i dont know which is me anymore.  But what i do know is they all like the medicated Emilie and i dont cry anymore... But what scares me is that maybe this is not me at all, and the truth will come out.... and they will run, and i will cry again...