I’ve always used writing as a way to express what I feel, alongside other formats such as photography. I feel that for me, writing words down is like drawing on paper what you see in your mind but can’t express with your tongue.
I think the worst thing about having a broken mind (and yes, I refer to it as broken, it for me is the same as a broken leg, an impairment that can be fixed at some point) is that it can cause a great deal of destruction in a very short space of time. Much alike a faulty time-bomb, explosions can occur whenever, wherever. It’s exhausting. It’s destructive. It’s living through hell. I cry a lot. Do things to my body that it will never let me forget. I say things to the people that I love that scare them or hurt them. I can not help it. It’s not me, it’s the fault, the instability. Like dementia eats away physically at the brain, my disorder eats away at me. At my personality and at my sanity. I become trapped in the eye of the storm, watching from within as the tempest of my mind causes spirals of inescapable damage around me. I become unsure and scared that there is any way to rectify the damage. Hopefully these is, hopefully there won’t be a day where what I do is unfixable but it’s something I live in fear of everyday. Catastrophe runs in the blood of my disorder.
I am trying to control it, to harness it, to overcome it. Somedays, I am strong enough to ignore the invisible words I hear, to ignore the rapids of rage coursing through my veins and to stand up to the inexplainable fears that my racing heart adheres to. However sometimes, those invisible words roll off my teeth, that rage burns a wildfire in my skin and those fears exploit my body and my tears.
I am living with a monster, a disorder that has chosen my soul as a place to rest. I’m sorry if it hurts you too.