I’ve been angry and I cannot help it. I’m angry at every little thing lately and I feel like I cannot control it. Irritability is my least favorite attribute to this lovely disease of mine and it makes me feel sick. I hate feeling sick, as I’m sure most people do. I want to control it but I have no control so now I have anxiety and oh, how well do they mix together. I hope whoever reads this is in better spirits and I wish you well.



I have so many words waiting to come out and even though I wish to pour them out I can’t.

I’m stopped

words trapped, all jumbled and messy in my head,




the words are halted and I can’t think of a single word in a world so filled with words and it should be a grand


but it’s not and I can’t seem to find a way to pull myself up and string a few sentences together because no words can seem to fit the way I’m feeling;

and what I’m feeling is


I did a beautiful thing

I learned to let go.

I have been holding on to so much doubt and instability.

I finally said no to it, I won’t allow it to hurt me anymore.

I let it go.

In doing so, I feel less pressure, I feel lighter.

I feel better.

And that’s what I’m here to do.

To whoever reads this; it takes small steps, but be proud of them, they’re progress.



I have found myself to be completely infuriated at my lack of motivation to do anything. I know I’ve hit the depressive side of things in my bipolar disorder when I feel sluggish. The only good thing that I can say is coming out of it is my ability to complete my “tasks” throughout the day. I am still doing what needs to be done but I just feel so blah and empty about all of it and that makes me more depressed. It’s a vicious cycle and I’m trying to climb out of it. I hope whoever is reading this is coming out on top of things that they are struggling with and I wish you luck.



Floating in a sea of blue,

grey days have come to pass.

Sunshine feels unreal, exquisite on the skin.

Feels like I’ve missed too many days,

slumbering in my depression.

Like a choke hold, only smothered and pressed.

No release until it passed,

now I’m floating in a sea of blue.

It is so hard to write

When I feel like I have nothing to write and everything to write at the same time. So many ideas but only half-ideas because my brains already off and onto the next one.

So many half finished ideas, all stuck together like glue waiting to be brilliantly unfolded and revealed. But I cannot do it. There’s nothing left in me to finish what I started and I feel like I need to but I cannot.

Even when I do write I hate it, I feel as if everything I write is juvenile and repulsive, the more I look at it the more I hate it. It is so hard to write when my brain won’t let me write because it tells me I do not know how to write and I’m terrible at it anyway.

But I write, and will continue to write, because it stills me if only for a minute; my brain is focused and no longer on edge. It calms me, if only for a moment,


I will continue to write.

If you’re bipolar and you know it clap your hands

For a long time I could feel something was off; the constant edginess and uneasiness I felt around everything and everyone. The back and forth racing thoughts that could no longer hold my attention because that was already off on its own endeavor of grand design. The constant feeling of hopelessness or elevated sense of self-worth at the drop of a hat. The tortuous and monotonous agitation felt for even the most minute thing.

Sexual impulses coursing through your very being, bad decisions are like nuclear bombs. Great in design and interpretation; earth-shattering and wreckage ensue and unfold. No taking back, no going back. Money flies out of my hand like a kid in an arcade saving all his tickets for that one useless item he’ll never touch again after that day. Bills and fees piling on the table with no sign of a breaking point. No “save game and return later” option in this master quest I’ve sent myself on. Spiraling and swirling, filled with destruction and disappointments.

The only end in sight is clarity, reasoning, and understanding. Understanding my brain isn’t capable of fulfilling unmet needs. Understanding outside help isn’t weakness and defeat, it is power and control. It is the ability to tell yourself no, I am not this person, I am greater than this, I have power over this and I can overcome it.

Strength is power. My power is unwavering.

A professor once said

“This class is not for the light-hearted. Neither is this program, and to deal with the insane amount of shit you are going to see and have to deal with; you’ll need to take care of yours first. Take care of your shit and figure it out. It is the only way you are going to be able to be successful in this industry.”

This really motivated me because I had shit that I was absolutely not dealing with and had no plans to start. But this resonated in me, felt like I was meant to hear it. My shit needed to be taken care of and dealt with. I took the sign as an invitation to turn my research paper into a challenge for myself. Could I write a research paper researching what I had to come to terms with and really understand? Research for what I felt I had no control over and that gripped and strangled me tighter and tighter each and every day?

I could and I did.

“Bipolar Disorder and Death Anxiety”, a research paper, by me.