I’m losing my mind. I can feel it leaving as the house grows dark and quiet. I can feel the walls around me moving in for the kill, leaving me breathless and without escape. I am getting sick and I am too tired to fight.
I have spent the last eight months fighting for disability. I have spent the last year taking care of my mother, trying to get doctor’s to solve problems that they don’t seem to care about.
I am losing sleep. It is becoming harder and harder to grasp. I feel my eyes growing heavier, I lay down, and suddenly I am wide awake again. It is a cruel cycle that leaves me more and more panicked every time it happens.
My thoughts are scattered. I can’t seem to pin them down. It’s like everything is tied together but I can’t seem to figure out how.
Traditionally, the holidays are my favorite time of year. Everything is still magical to me, even at the age of twenty-six. The nights are cold and foggy and even street lights take on a mythical glow. Or at least they did.
Even the cold has been taken from me. I’m left to suffocate in the perpetual Texas heat. I want to be able to breathe again. I want to feel that sense of magic. But now I am losing my mind. My bipolar disorder has snuck in through the cracks and caught me unaware. I am too tired to fight. I am too tired to defend myself to my ever aggravating psychiatrist. I am trapped by exhaustion and yet I cannot sleep. So I suppose I must surrender. What that means, I’m not entirely sure. Do I sacrifice the holidays? Head to an inpatient program? Or do I ask for help? And if so, who do I ask? My mother is certainly incapable of helping me in her condition.
I know none of this is coherent. I’m too tired to polish the rough edges. So I suppose I’m just sending out my exhaustion, frustration and hopelessness into the universe.
“Sweet surrender was all that I had to give…”
-Sarah McLachlan, “Sweet Surrender”, Surfacing