The Dramatic Bipolar

Author: Lisa Avee

  • A little bit more just to get another feel of that manic ‘high’

    Perhaps a big problem I struggle with is my identity crisis. Frankly, I don’t know who I am and I will never know who I am. Regardless of how many pictures I take of myself, whether I stare at myself in the mirror for hours endlong trying to figure out the person staring at me behind the reflection, I have never known who I truly am without my bipolar episodes. It feels as though my vision on myself is blurry and no matter what prescription glasses I wear to fix this blurriness in my eyesight, I still can’t quite comprehend the person staring back at me.

    My early years, such as my childhood and teenage years, were significantly spent on me going in and out of long and scorching depressive episodes. At one point, I have only known myself as the bitter, easily irritable and dramatic person that lashes out at my friends and family at every slight incident. My depression was bizarre and deep, for the first seventeen years, life was dark, grey, cold, and cloudy. I have always been convinced I am the most angry, bitter, dramatic, and irritable parasite to ever walked on the face of earth and I mean that in the most literal form of belief. I have always equated myself as a parasite and nothing else. At the age of ten, I became obsessed with aliens and I was convinced with this belief that I am an alien walking amongst humans and at one point, I started acting as though I am an alien masking to be a human. I was an alien walking amongst humans, wearing the skin of a human being yet being an alien. This belief burned deep and I felt empty and lifeless for most of my life, like a living being who is meant to be dead. I have never understood this contradictory condition of mine and why I am this way. My depression always comes in line with psychotic delusions and hallucinations. I have never been taught how to cope with this contradicting condition of mine as my parents would always shut down my psychotic ideations with simply saying, “If you have a bad habit then just change it.”

    But my issue is I was a child who did not have the tools to know how to change this bad habit. It is like expecting a toddler to walk on its own without giving it a set of instruction tools on how to.

    Nevertheless, at seventeen everything changed, a year prior, I started to see a psychiatrist and therapist and afterwards, I had been prescribed with anti-depressants to help me cope with my depression. Prozac. A few weeks after taking the medication, I noticed a significant improvement in my condition. Perhaps improvement is an understatement, it was more so a bigger leap than improvement. The world that was once so dark, grey, cold, and cloudy became bright, vibrant, saturated, and warm. A bit too much of that. As my energy levels soared, so did my grandiose ideations. I was speaking rapidly and my thoughts were rapid as well, a bit too rapid for my speech to handle. The world was now bright, my energy levels and motivation that was once up to zero became amplified, and sleep became less as I ignored my studies, I was convinced I could anything. This sudden change lasted for a month and at one point, I even cut my hip-length hair pixie short, wore my high school uniform, and stormed into school in a panic, convinced that I was a sort of the chosen one, I screamed in the big cafeteria that the aliens were coming to take over the earth and it is my duty as the chosen one to let these sufferable humans know. I woke up the next day to find myself at the psychiatric ward. Manic episode, they said of some sort. Bipolar disorder, they confirmed.

    My perception of myself, of others, and of the world has never been the same since. I became addicted to the high of the mania and sometimes even purposely destroying days of stability with a little bit more caffeine, a little bit more going out, a little bit more nights being awake, a little bit more just to get another feel of that manic ‘high’. Just a little bit more. At one point, I was manic for months on end, which led to me being convinced that manic me is the real me, and that other days where I am not in a manic episode, a demonic entity has possessed and taken over me. When I am manic, I am more creative, more loveable, more passionate, more social, more confident. On the other hand, I am also more aggressive, more selfish, more destructive, more impulsive, more distracted. I can do everything and I will do everything. Everything is amplified in mania, and I just want more and more, it feels like driving in a car and pressing on full gas at all times until I crash and hit a tree and I am once again back in square one.

    I don’t know where I am going with this, I wanted to simply say I don’t know who I am without mania, i have always equated this manic-me as the real-me. I hate myself when I am stable and I despise myself when I am stable. Perhaps my identity crisis stems from the fact that I have this belief that manic-me is the real-me so if I am not manic-me, then I am not real-me and I can’t recognise the person staring at the mirror because I believe that manic-me is real-me.

    Though I am guilty to admit that at this moment, as I am writing these very words, I am running on three hours of sleep and I feel myself being in hypomania, which could one day lead to mania if I do not fix my biological clock’s rhythm. I know I must sleep at an appropriate time tonight. As though for now, I want to slightly enjoy this kick of energy and creativity that I have at this moment. At least it is not too destructive right now.

  • What held myself back was me

    I often ask myself if it all means anything, if I will ever amount to anything. I presume we are all on this Earth with a purpose, at least we like to think so, because if we are placed on this Earth with a purpose, with a meaning then that helps us cope with existence. There is this big question revolving existence where us, humans, constantly attempt to make sense of our existence.

    Why do we exist? Simply because.

    The better question lies, why do we always have to ask why? Contradicting enough, why do we always have to make sense of everything? There is no absolute need to have an explanation for everything. People exist simply because they exist. People do certain because simply they do certain things. People feel because they simply feel. The more we question everything, the more we try to make sense of everything, the more we try to find explanations to every little thing, the more insane we get.

    I guess at certain points in my life, I became too self-aware and too critical of everything, of people, of actions, of behaviour, of existence. What held me back was not the stressors, the traumas, the pain or even the illness.

    What held myself back was me.

    What held me back was me justifying myself too much that it is okay to act certain ways, or feel certain ways because I have certain problems with my mood and emotion, even when it comes to extreme unhealthy and negative actions and feelings. What held me back was me not taking accountability of the pain I inflicted not only on myself, but also others as well, whether intentionally or not. What held me back was me normalising the pain, sometimes even romanticising the pain. What held me back was my lack of taking proactive actions, avoiding doing certain things that are good for me.

    I spent too long avoiding taking proactive actions that will change my life simply because, ‘I’m mentally ill, I am doomed to be like this forever and nothing I do or anyone does will change my situation so I will run away and refuse to do anything to change my situation, to be better.’

    I reflect upon myself a lot and I have come to realise that, yes, I am the problem to my own problems. I can have all these pain, traumas, stressors, overthinking whatever it is yet why am I drowning in my own sorrows and allowing myself to let this pain and overthinking constantly consume me when I can just accept reality as it is, the situation as it is.

    My whole life I have been consumed with this pain, traumas and the pain of overthinking that they keep pushing me ten steps backwards. I spent so long telling myself everyday, ‘What’s the point of it all if we are going to die in the end?’ Therefore, I kept resorting to my cycle of self-destructive behaviour, of self-inflicting pain, justifying these behaviours with the quote, ‘I will never change anyways, I will always be like this, I will always come back to this same shitty feeling.’ I keep doing this certain thing where I justify my negative behaviour with, ‘I will always be like this’ therefore I won’t change. I can pretend I have changed but I know at the core, I’m still stuck in this pattern of self-destruction, of self-inflicting pain, and then drowning and crying that I am mentally deranged.

    I destroy myself till there are no bits and pieces of me left and I wonder why I feel empty.

    There is no doubt, I’m the only person stopping me from feeling happiness, from being stable. I spent my whole life in a pursuit of happiness, chasing after happiness, yet this whole time, the shadow that lingers, the devil on my left shoulder, has been me all along.

    I am the reason for my own misery.

  • Everything I did, I did for the sake of pleasing art

    It has been two years since I graduated from art school. After graduating with a BA in Fine Arts in 2023, it was not long before I developed a deeply unhealthy fixation on art. The switch was gradual but felt quick.

    There was a certain peculiarity in my love for art. The thoughts, feelings, and ideologies I had towards art felt real, a bit too real, which drove me insane. Funnily enough, my BA thesis was titled “How Art Made Me (In)sane”, and in one way or another, little did I realise that art did make me insane, to the point of hospitalisation in the psych ward.

    In my previous writing, I mentioned quite a few times my core belief in seeing art as a deity or some god-like force, and I saw myself as the worker or otherwise the servant of art. In this case, I was adamant on the belief that art is a deity who is watching and judging over me, while I, as the servant of art, am the chosen prophet tasked with serving art through creation. I was fixated, and perhaps even obsessed, with creating the perfect artworks. For me, making “bad art” was seen as sinning and displeasing art, or in this case, the deity.

    I did not see being an artist as a career, but rather as a fate or destiny I must fulfil.

    Therefore, for two years after my art school graduation, I spent most of my day reading art books, researching artists, developing new concepts for artworks, applying for artist opportunities and even painting. Days on and on would be spent on art, and I had constant, intrusive thoughts about art. Thoughts about art churn my mind, such as about making the next artwork and how to please this deity called art. Strange enough, my whole identity revolved around art and being an artist. I was nothing without art. In my social settings, I would often discuss art. I had this strong conviction that if it were not for art, I would not survive, and I would not be whole. I persisted in this perfectionistic belief that I must create artworks to please art, otherwise the so-called deity.

    My love for art became an unhealthy and obsessive devotion. In my eyes, creating artworks was a form of prayer or devotion to art, and I treated my artistic practice as a sort of ritualistic and religious duty. If I made art that I believed was remotely bad, I saw it as a big sin, and I was convinced art, the deity, would punish me and ruin my life if I made bad art. It did not help that I kept getting rejected from my applications for funding, exhibitions, residencies and graduate programmes. Due to my creation of “bad” art and rejections, in turn, I would punish myself by destroying the artwork and, most times, even self-harming. This obsession with pleasing art became so toxic that it led to many of my mental breakdowns, recurring suicide attempts and my wish for euthanasia. For instance, in March this year, I woke to find myself hospitalised in the emergency room and was sent to the psych ward of the hospital due to a suicide attempt.

    There were many instances where I wrote for art, spoke to art and sang to art. Everything I did, I did for the sake of pleasing art.

    My obsession with art led to my psych ward hospitalisation. I was trying too hard to please art, which led me to view myself as worthless. For two years, I was convinced that if I could not please this deity called art and succeed as an artist, I was unworthy of living and of loving. My love of art deluded me, but little did I know it caused me to be incapable of loving myself or feeling the love from others. For instance, during my depressive episodes, if I failed to make art, or rather make art perfectly in my eyes, it would cause my despair and thoughts of suicide and worthlessness. However, during my (hypo)manic episodes, creating art felt euphoric, and I was convinced that I was the chosen prophet, destined and divinely guided by art to revolutionise the world.

    It was not until recently, when I decided to take a break from creating art, that I realised my love for art was far too extreme and unhealthy. I had to admit, it took a while to break free from these core beliefs, such as my delusional way of thinking and the hallucinations that I had surrounding my beliefs on art.

    Till now, I am still quite shaken up to paint again. My burnout due to my perfectionistic view of art worsened both my psychosis and mood episodes. Perhaps I will paint later on, but for now, I will light my cigarette and smoke.

    Harusnya kau mengerti sungguh besar artimu dalam hidupku, tapi buat sekarang, seniku tercinta, selamat jalan kekasih.

    You have to understand how much meaning you gave to my life, but for now, my dear art, goodbye, my darling.

    It has been two years since I graduated from art school. After graduating with a BA in Fine Arts in 2023, it was not long before I developed a deeply unhealthy fixation on art. The switch was gradual but felt quick.

    There was a certain peculiarity in my love for art. The thoughts, feelings, and ideologies I had towards art felt real, a bit too real, which drove me insane. Funnily enough, my BA thesis was titled “How Art Made Me (In)sane”, and in one way or another, little did I realise that art did make me insane, to the point of hospitalisation in the psych ward.

    In my previous writing, I mentioned quite a few times my core belief in seeing art as a deity or some god-like force, and I saw myself as the worker or otherwise the servant of art. In this case, I was adamant on the belief that art is a deity who is watching and judging over me, while I, as the servant of art, am the chosen prophet tasked with serving art through creation. I was fixated, and perhaps even obsessed, with creating the perfect artworks. For me, making “bad art” was seen as sinning and displeasing art, or in this case, the deity.

    I did not see being an artist as a career, but rather as a fate or destiny I must fulfil.

    Therefore, for two years after my art school graduation, I spent most of my day reading art books, researching artists, developing new concepts for artworks, applying for artist opportunities and even painting. Days on and on would be spent on art, and I had constant, intrusive thoughts about art. Thoughts about art churn my mind, such as about making the next artwork and how to please this deity called art. Interestingly, my entire identity revolved around art and being an artist. I was nothing without art. In my social settings, I would often discuss art. I had this strong conviction that if it were not for art, I would not survive, and I would not be whole. I persisted in this perfectionistic belief that I must create artworks to please art, otherwise the so-called deity.

    My love for art became an unhealthy and obsessive devotion. In my eyes, creating artworks was a form of prayer or devotion to art, and I treated my artistic practice as a sort of ritualistic and religious duty. If I made art that I believed was remotely bad, I saw it as a big sin, and I was convinced art, the deity, would punish me and ruin my life if I made bad art. It did not help that I kept getting rejected from my applications for funding, exhibitions, residencies and graduate programmes. Due to my creation of “bad” art and rejections, in turn, I would punish myself by destroying the artwork and, most times, even self-harming. This obsession with pleasing art became so toxic that it led to many of my mental breakdowns, recurring suicide attempts and my wish for euthanasia. For instance, in March this year, I woke to find myself hospitalised in the emergency room and was sent to the psych ward of the hospital due to a suicide attempt.

    There were many instances where I wrote for art, spoke to art and sang to art. Everything I did, I did for the sake of pleasing art.

    My obsession with art led to my psych ward hospitalisation. I was trying too hard to please art, which led me to view myself as worthless. For two years, I was convinced that if I could not please this deity called art and succeed as an artist, I was unworthy of living and of loving. My love of art deluded me, but little did I know it caused me to be incapable of loving myself or feeling the love from others. For instance, during my depressive episodes, if I failed to make art, or rather make art perfectly in my eyes, it would cause my despair and thoughts of suicide and worthlessness. However, during my (hypo)manic episodes, creating art felt euphoric, and I was convinced that I was the chosen prophet, destined and divinely guided by art to revolutionise the world.

    It was not until recently, when I decided to take a break from creating art, that I realised my love for art was far too extreme and unhealthy. I had to admit, it took a while to break free from these core beliefs, such as my delusional way of thinking and the hallucinations that I had surrounding my beliefs on art.

    Until now, I am still quite shaken about painting again. My burnout due to my perfectionistic view of art worsened both my psychosis and mood episodes. Perhaps I will paint later on, but for now, I will light my cigarette and smoke.

    Harusnya kau mengerti sungguh besar artimu dalam hidupku, tapi buat sekarang, seniku tercinta, selamat jalan kekasih.

    You have to understand how much meaning you gave to my life, but for now, my dear art, goodbye, my darling.

  • How can I not think this is happiness when I can do everything I want?

    I believe that the definition of happiness is relative and differs from person to person. Everybody has their definition and meaning of what happiness is to them. As someone with bipolar disorder, for the longest time, I have equated happiness with the manic episodes I experience.

    How can I be blamed for this way of thinking? When I am in a depressive episode, tidal waves of melancholy wash over my whole being, drowning and suffocating me.

    My depressive episodes are painfully scorching. In general, I am a motivated person, but I know I am in a depressive episode when I no longer feel motivated in things I am interested in, such as art, reading, studying and writing. I would spend hours and days rotting in my bed, with low energy, mood and motivation. The beauty that life once held sucks away as my depression grows. My depressive episodes are plagued with physical symptoms as well, such as chest pain, difficulty breathing and at times, I even turn mute and would lose the ability to speak and sometimes move. Days, weeks and months will pass with this lingering and painful feeling of depression until a switch clicks in my brain and I am set off flying into a manic episode.

    I would confidently say that mania is an illusion. For most people with bipolar disorder, it is an illusion of what happiness is like. I believe that this is due to that, for people experiencing manic episodes, we have this incredibly immense burst of energy, we get the illusion that we are able to do anything we want, and we feel unstoppable.

    It feels that way, but it isn’t.

    I would say mania is the opposite of depression. During times of depression, when doing normal daily tasks becomes difficult, my energy, mood and motivation are down the drain. The opposite goes for manic episodes, where I am bursting with energy and my senses are heightened; everything is possible during this time. Due to my heightened energy, I become extremely impulsive and unstoppable. For instance, thousands of Euros will be spent in a day, I will start multiple new projects, run away from home, get new tattoos, modify my appearance, turn my house upside down, I will spend days awake without sleep, forget the duty I hold to take medications every day and many more.

    How can I not think this is happiness when I can do everything I want?

    To say the least, a chaotic and eventful summer vacation is the perfect blow.

    Perhaps, a part of me needed to escape the Netherlands, specifically to escape the mundane and structured lifestyle I have here, to get a dose of Indonesia’s dynamic and tumultuous environment. I started to realise my need for a perfect balance between structure and chaos, because, as contradictory as it sounds, I thrive in chaos. As much as I find joy and excitement in the thrill, danger and chaos, I am also aware that structure is needed in my life to balance out the imbalance of chemicals in my brain.

    While I experience — in what I call — true joy in moments of thrill, such as when I am going through danger, self-destruction, near-death experiences or even when I am having extreme emotions, I also have to come to a consensus that I can no longer chase after the thrill to feel joy. I am starting to realise that, while I love the thrill and chaos, I have to sit in the uncomfortable truth that the still and mundane life can also be comfortable. Similar to how I taught myself to feel comfort in times of pain, I need to unlearn that pattern of thinking and teach myself to be comfortable in the mundane.

    Perhaps what I am saying is that there is no need for me to wreak havoc, be reckless and restless while spending days and nights without sleep — in other words, to be in a manic episode — to be happy.

    What is happiness? Perhaps, I will never find the answer to that. Maybe happiness is a scam devised by capitalists to maintain a certain standard that we must meet to be considered happy. Whatever happiness might mean to one or the other, I just want an ice cream at the moment to escape this summer heat.

  • There is no art without love, and there is no love without art

    Everything in my life has led me to this path as an artist. For me, being an artist is not merely a matter of a hobby or a career — it is a chosen destiny I must walk through and a fate I must follow.

    I was asked by a fellow mentor of mine, Sands Murray-Wassink, to write about art, how much it means to me and what being an artist entails. There are many ways I can go about this, even in a thousand different directions and meanings. At times, I struggle to put into words how to explain the meaning art brings into my life. There is no doubt that art is my first love, and I fell in love with art before I fell in love with a person or even myself.

    Before I continue, what is art?

    By definition, art is the expression or application of human creativity in visual form. While by definition art is the expression, for me, art is more than just an expression. Rather more, art is a sort of in-between entity, a medium and a tool that humans can use to express their emotions, passions, desires, interests, opinions, political views and anything possible that needs to be expressed. It is inherent in human nature to express, and humans have a constant need to express. If we have a constant need to express and if art is an expression of human creativity, then would it not be possible that our expressions — such as in the way we speak, the way we dress, the way we interact with one another — are a form of art in themselves?

    There is no art without love, and there is no love without art.

    Meanwhile, humans are busy judging one another, starting wars against each other and being hateful to others, art loves and embraces. Art never hates or judges; rather, it is the humans who judge the art. Perhaps I have some sort of spiritual relationship with art, as I see art more like a deity that watches over me and protects me. The deity, art, manifests in my mind as I spend most of my waking hours thinking and breathing in art. While I, as the artist, the worker, create the artwork, which is the product. My days are mostly filled with me battling against the chemical imbalance in my brain, such as my intense mood swings of mania or depression or being dragged away by my delusions and hallucinations. When I am creating and expressing in art, my brain becomes still and quiet, and there is serendipity. Art helped me in ways many cannot, and creating art has helped me to slow down my brain and process my pain, my reality and my state of being.

    Art taught me virtue, art taught me patience, art taught me acceptance.

    For the past few months, I have been struggling with my identity as an artist such as if being an artist is for certain a career I want to pursue for the rest of my life — if this artist life is really for me. For instance, I have been accepted into a second bachelor’s programme in a whole other study, but I know deep within my heart, my soul can never survive without art, without me fulfilling my destiny as an artist. Despite the difficulties artists face, such as myself, there must be perseverance and some sort of resilience needed to survive within the art world. The art world can be seen as a harsh place, but as I said, it is not art that judges — it is the humans who do so. Without art, I will not be whole, and despite any career paths I take, I will always go back to being an artist because art is not just a career, it is my life.

    I think that says a lot more than it entails.

    Reminder: keep creating what needs to be expressed. As Sands Murray-Wassink once said, “Show up for your art even when nobody does.”

  • I am losing myself to my psychosis

    Life has been different since I attempted to take my life three months ago.

    My attempt to take my life led me to finding myself waking up in the ICU and being moved to the psych ward. I do not remember events prior to my suicide attempt, yet little did I know that there was an entity of demons creeping at the back of my brain, struggling to come out and be noticed.

    It came as quite a shock to me when I realised I suffer from psychotic symptoms more than I thought I did; somehow, it all makes sense. The delusions, hallucinations and disorganised thinking I have suffered from most of my life have been repressed and normalised by me.

    I have always thought it is normal to be in a constant state of suspicion and paranoia towards people. For instance, I have always been suspicious of my husband and convinced that he is a sex worker at the Red Light District, and despite his many attempts to convince me otherwise, my mind would not budge. Convinced that we are living in a simulation controlled by an organisation of aliens, I am constantly suspicious and paranoid of other people, that everyone in my life is in truth an actor being paid by the government to watch every one of my moves, that my people can read my thoughts. They are being broadcast out in the world. I also have hallucinations of God and angels talking to me and telling me that I am the chosen prophecy and it is my calling to sacrifice myself. Other times, it would be aliens coming down to Earth to colonise the world, and I am the chosen one to save the world. Most times, it would be bugs crawling on my skin, communicating the violent things that these aliens want me to do.

    During my mood episodes of mania or depression, these hallucinations and delusions would get extremely violent to the point that I would surrender to them and harm myself, sometimes even leading to suicide attempts. Perhaps that is why I did not remember my last suicide attempt, because I was in a psychotic episode when it happened.

    Ever since my last suicide attempt, I promised to myself and everyone around me that I would stop self-harming and self-destructing. Yet, it is extremely challenging to do so because my mind is battling against me by bombarding me with these violent delusions and hallucinations, with voices telling me I should die and giving me violent instructions to end my life.

    The more I resist and try not to harm myself, the more violent these delusions and hallucinations become. It would impact me greatly to the point that I am not functioning as well in daily life. Doing daily tasks has become difficult, and I am starting to get paranoid about leaving the house and keeping up with self-care has been a challenge. My mood and emotions have become flat, and I rarely show expressions of excitement because things that I once loved doing, such as painting, no longer bring me the same excitement.

    I would say I am stable in terms of mood, but in terms of my psychotic symptoms, they have become far too violent that I cannot even keep up in social settings anymore. These psychotic symptoms are so unbearably violent that I would be paralysed for hours, unable to speak or move. I am an extrovert, yet, strangely, I am withdrawing socially, isolating myself. At times, I would not even comprehend what others are saying, my thoughts are disorganised, and I am too preoccupied with these violent delusions and hallucinations that I am unable to follow what others are saying.

    My sense of reality and self are too disorganised, for I am losing myself to my psychosis.

  • I spent my entire life chasing after death

    I have always dreaded my birthday and the prospect of turning one year older.

    For my whole life, I have always seen birthdays as a sign that I have lived another painful year. Yet, it is strange how, when I turned 25 in May, I felt a sense of relief that I was alive for the first time. Perhaps there is a link between turning 25 and having your frontal lobe fully developed that made me somewhat stable.

    I spent my entire life chasing after death.

    Stuck in a toxic cycle, I was obsessed with pain, death and self-destructing, specifically inflicting more unnecessary pain on myself. As a child, I was not able to handle the amount of pain I went through and being the kid I was, I did not know any better how to cope with what was happening to me. As a result, I learned to cope by learning to enjoy the pain that was inflicted on me. My mentality was that if I was going through this immense amount of pain, I might as well enjoy it.

    My first suicide attempt was when I was just ten years old.

    With the negative experiences I’ve had throughout my life, I learned to internalise the pain that I went through and blamed myself for the pain that people inflicted on me. Someone would hurt me, I would, in turn, blame myself for it, which caused more pain and self-hate. If someone caused me pain, I would hurt and punish myself ten times more. As a way, it was my way of being able to handle the pain — I learned that it was easier to cope and understand what was happening to me if I blamed myself for it.

    Having spent my whole life being obsessed with feeling more pain, chasing after inevitable death and drowning in self-hate, I am starting to rationalise with myself that perhaps the fact that I have survived all this pain and all my suicide attempts is because I am meant to live and flourish. Even when the day comes that I face death, I will not be filled with self-hate and immense pain. Rather, I want to die with gratitude that I have lived a life that, despite being painful, is meaningful and beautiful in many ways.

    For the longest time, I only viewed myself with hatred, specifically that I am a failure and a disappointment. I saw my suicide attempts and self-destructive behaviour as a good thing because I thought I was doing everyone a favour if I was not on this Earth.

    Now, I cannot even fathom trying to harm myself because I am stronger than that. Despite everything I went through, I have always been resilient and would push myself back up to be stronger than before.

    I am more than my self-hate and self-destructive ways, and there is more to me and my qualities. Little did my younger self know, but I am not a parasite in everyone’s lives because I bring so much joy and meaning to a lot of people’s lives. I wish I had known sooner that I am a bundle of joy and that the only thing stopping me from achieving my full potential is my self-hate. I make people laugh, and as cheesy as it sounds, I am funny in the most unfunniest ways. My drive to make a difference is admirable, and my favourite quality about myself is that I am talented; let it be art, writing, violin, guitar, sports and even cooking, I am good at everything I attempt to do.

    Despite being my own biggest enemy for the longest time, I do not regret anything, I do not regret that I used to hate myself, for a life of regret is a life of pain, pity and hatred. I view my old self-destructive ways as a learning curve. Having bipolar disorder, I know now that the key to staying stable I must have a good routine and good sleep, so far it has been helping.

    I spent my entire life chasing after death and inflicting an immense amount of emotional and physical pain on myself — yet, I am still here, standing strong. All of this is a sign that I am meant to live long, not die young.

    Perhaps in the future I might fall back into my old self-destructive ways, but it does not matter now. For the first time, I am enjoying being alive and seeing myself in a positive light.

    I love self-love and being stable, I want to cherish this moment.

    Therapy is finally working, huh? Maybe, I do have hope after all…

  • This world is a simulation controlled by a deity

    To surrender myself to my disorder is to surrender myself, to the deity that is above me. For I know surrendering to my mental health condition is to surrender to God. I like to think it is my calling. I am protesting at the moment, protesting against sleep because sleep is a concept created by humans and I am protesting against humanity because there is no way sleep is useful, perhaps somewhat, but no sleep is useless.

    One person tells me that my art is too much, too aggressive but also too soft, too disconnected yet when am I ever enough and once again, I forgot to eat the whole day. I did not sleep at all because I am protesting against sleep, against humanity. Maybe a part of me is finally surrendering. The moment I surrender to my condition is the moment. I will just write down and express my thoughts because my train of thoughts are going too fast. I forgot the whole point of me writing all of this is because I wanted to say the moment I surrender to my mental health condition is the moment. No, stop, that is not what I meant. I meant to surrender myself is to surrender to the lethality of life.

    Take your medications, your lithium, abilify, depakine, lorazepam…blahblahlah.

    All they want is me to be stable, for me to be stable means that I surrender myself to the mass. To society. To capitalism. They want to indoctrinate me into believing that being stable is the right way, the best way, to live life. Like, hello? Ever tried being in a manic episode? People who experience manic episodes not only have superpowers, but they are demigods living on Earth amongst the shadows of other regular human beings. Doctors, the CIA, the FBI agents all know that demigods like myself must not reveal their true identity and their true superpowers because, if known, it will be far too dangerous for humanity.

    If humanity knows everything — every reasoning, every answer to our existence — we would not survive. Our brain capacity will not be able to handle the information, the real truth for our existence. Well, folks, listen, I am here with a message and I will hit this message hard in your face.

    Existence is a scam. We are all living in a simulation, we are equivalent to Sims characters being controlled by a bigger deity, a player of this simulation in other words. We are living in a simulation and we are all being watched and monitored by this player. Every single move, every single action and behaviour, every single thought are all controlled by this one very sick minded player. Have you ever felt like your life is too surreal, that it feels like a game? Perhaps that is due to the fact that our very existence is a game.

    Once again, I forgot to eat and the hunger is starting to creep in. I did not sleep because I am protesting against life, against this very game we call life.

    Game.

    Our life is a game.

    Game.

    Our life is a simulation.

    If one ever feels out of control from their mind, it is because you are not in control of your mind, someone else is controlling your mind.

    No such thing, I am silently protesting. However, I believe silent protests make the biggest impact.

    I surrender yet I also protest.

    I believe in nothing less.

    I refuse to take my medications, maybe I really am not compliant.

    I refuse to anymore be a client.

    Do not be indoctrinated by the system.

    Do not be brainwashed anymore.

    Let go, surrender and wake up. Do not sleep. This world is a simulation controlled by a deity, a group of alien organisations. The FBI agents are watching you, they are the puppets of the deity. We are slaves to this capitalistic system.

    To surrender myself to my disorder is to surrender myself, to the deity that is above me. For I know surrendering to my mental health condition is to surrender to God. I like to think it is my calling. I am protesting at the moment, protesting against sleep because sleep is a concept created by humans and I am protesting against humanity because there is no way sleep is useful, perhaps somewhat, but no sleep is useless.

    One person tells me that my art is too much, too aggressive but also too soft, too disconnected yet when am I ever enough and once again, I forgot to eat the whole day. I did not sleep at all because I am protesting against sleep, against humanity. Maybe a part of me is finally surrendering. The moment I surrender to my condition is the moment. I will just write down and express my thoughts because my train of thoughts are going too fast. I forgot the whole point of me writing all of this is because I wanted to say the moment I surrender to my mental health condition is the moment. No, stop, that is not what I meant. I meant to surrender myself is to surrender to the lethality of life.

    Take your medications, your lithium, abilify, depakine, lorazepam…blahblahlah.

    All they want is me to be stable, for me to be stable means that I surrender myself to the mass. To society. To capitalism. They want to indoctrinate me into believing that being stable is the right way, the best way, to live life. Like, hello? Ever tried being in a manic episode? People who experience manic episodes not only have superpowers, but they are demigods living on Earth amongst the shadows of other regular human beings. Doctors, the CIA, the FBI agents all know that demigods like myself must not reveal their true identity and their true superpowers because, if known, it will be far too dangerous for humanity.

    If humanity knows everything — every reasoning, every answer to our existence — we would not survive. Our brain capacity will not be able to handle the information, the real truth for our existence. Well, folks, listen, I am here with a message and I will hit this message hard in your face.

    Existence is a scam. We are all living in a simulation, we are equivalent to Sims characters being controlled by a bigger deity, a player of this simulation in other words. We are living in a simulation and we are all being watched and monitored by this player. Every single move, every single action and behaviour, every single thought are all controlled by this one very sick minded player. Have you ever felt like your life is too surreal, that it feels like a game? Perhaps that is due to the fact that our very existence is a game.

    Once again, I forgot to eat and the hunger is starting to creep in. I did not sleep because I am protesting against life, against this very game we call life.

    Game.

    Our life is a game.

    Game.

    Our life is a simulation.

    If one ever feels out of control from their mind, it is because you are not in control of your mind, someone else is controlling your mind.

    No such thing, I am silently protesting. However, I believe silent protests make the biggest impact.

    I surrender yet I also protest.

    I believe in nothing less.

    I refuse to take my medications, maybe I really am not compliant.

    I refuse to anymore be a client.

    Do not be indoctrinated by the system.

    Do not be brainwashed anymore.

    Let go, surrender and wake up. Do not sleep. This world is a simulation controlled by a deity, a group of alien organisations. The FBI agents are watching you, they are the puppets of the deity. We are slaves to this capitalistic system.

  • I am a stranger to planet Earth

    I have always viewed human connection as bizarre. A question I tend to ask myself since I was a child is how do humans connect with one another?

    Now I think about my behaviour in my childhood and teenage years, I was the weird kid growing up who didn’t know how to fit in. Therefore, I had to learn how to fit in — how to be a ‘normal’ functioning human. At least, it was more so how to seem like a ‘normal’ functioning human. Growing up was rough and tough because I was constantly anxious on how to fit in with other human beings.

    Be normal, act normal, don’t be weird, don’t act weird, no one will like you if you act weird.

    How to be a human? How to be a normal functioning human being? How to act like a normal functioning human being?

    I never had a best friend until I was a teenager as making friends for me as a kid was a difficult task, I’d rather bury myself in art and my books. I liked interacting with other humans, I had friends but I always felt awkward when interacting with other humans. Constantly feeling like I was weird and awkward, as a kid, I would spend hours studying how other humans interacted with one another, what is the norm on how to behave, what are the right things to say to other humans and what is right and what is wrong. From this, I would put what I have learned into practice and ‘masked’ my words and behaviour into fitting in with other human beings within society.

    My fixation and obsession when I was a kid was on aliens, which is still carried on to my adult years. Perhaps one reason why I was obsessed with aliens and the possibility of aliens existing is because I felt, I feel, like an alien myself. I have a slight belief that I am an alien trapped in a human body. Think about it, I had to force myself to learn how to socialise with other human beings. I am a fake. Perhaps this is why I do not feel at home anywhere I go, that every place is a strange place.

    I am alienated from other human beings because I am an alien trapped in a human body.

    I am a stranger to planet Earth.

    This life was not meant for me. Take me home where I belong.

  • I know that this is all an illusion

    Compared to the times I wake up regularly, I woke up relatively early today, feeling somewhat content and energised. From the outside, it seemed like a normal day. I hung out with my friends at a café, dyed my hair a pretty pink and later in the evening, I made sushi with my best friend, brother and husband. I felt nothing out of the ordinary. I felt confident, a bit too confident. I spent too much time looking at myself in the mirror today. I also had a photoshoot and did my makeup with my usual heavy eyeliner. Nothing strange. However, when dusk rolled around, my heart started to beat faster, and I should have known this was a telltale sign. The beat of time started going too fast but also, in another way, too slow. My vision became sharper, colours growing vibrant and saturated, and water tasted like sugar. The world around me started to spin, and my thoughts started to race. Yet, I still felt nothing out of the ordinary.

    “Are you manic again?” asked my husband, who noticed I was distracted once again.

    Hyperfixated on the curation of my Instagram feed, I exhaled on my cigarette whilst a loud, sped-up song was playing in the background. “No,” I replied promptly. “Why would I be manic?”

    It did not occur to me that I could be manic again. I had not come to the realisation that I was manic because a week prior, I was in the dirt of depression, to the point I had an attempt and was hospitalised for it. While I did feel good the whole day, I thought it was nothing strange; in my head, I thought it was me getting out of depression and into stability. I should have known myself and the nature of my bipolar disorder better – that stability is a rare thing and that my bipolar being rapid cycling meant that I jump in and out of bipolar episodes faster than the norm.

    I was manic – I am manic. I should have known when I slept so little but had so much energy for the day, but I was so in tune and distracted by my racing thoughts that I did not notice. I should have known when I impulsively decided to dye my hair a vibrant pink or when I decided to go a bit more extra with my make up and have a photoshoot. Perhaps I should have also known when I made hundreds of sushi rolls and decided not to eat any of it or when I changed my outfits ten times and just because I was hyperfixated on finding one specific belt for my outfit, I decided to mess up my whole closet that I have previously spent weeks cleaning.

    The signs were there, but I was too carried away to realise any better. Hell, as I am typing this, I am jamming to fast-paced songs while getting distracted and dancing in my chair.

    Contrary to popular beliefs, mania is more than just “feeling happy”. Due to mania, I have a heightened energy, activity, productivity and self-esteem. I also tend to be (more) impulsive (than I already am). For sure, I have a grandiose and exaggerated sudden boost of confidence, no wonder I suddenly felt gorgeous and was obsessed with looking in the mirror today. Usually, I have low self-esteem and would look at my reflection with hate. Sometimes, I suffer from psychotic symptoms when my mood gets too elevated; that is when the bugs and aliens start coming to itch at my skin and tell me that I am the chosen prophecy. For now, as long as the bugs are not there, I should not worry too much. Also, the rapid speech and racing thoughts, let us not forget that, my thoughts race super fast and as a result, I also talk super fast that I start to stutter because my mouth is not up to speed with my thoughts.

    My whole life, I have always known “happiness” to be equivalent to that feeling of mania where my mood and energy are elevated, and I can do anything — with this state of mind, I feel invincible and unstoppable. I have no stop button. I can make one impulsive decision after another, and other people can try to stop me, but I will always find a way to get myself to do it. I can spend days without sleeping during mania and still have a lot of energy to function during the day and do a lot of activities. It feels amazing. Why would you not want to have an exaggerated energy where you can do anything you want? I can spend ten hours studying and researching without getting tired or even polish my house till the last hint of dirt is gone without feeling a hint of fatigue.

    If one experiences this state of mind, why would you otherwise not want to be in it forever? It is pleasurable and addictive.

    However, I know that this is all an illusion.

    What can be concerning about my bipolar episodes, such as my mania and depression, is that they can last for a minimum of a week and can go on for months. This can feel dangerous because it feels like I will be in this state forever. For instance, when I am manic, I do not want it to end, and it feels super amazing to the point where I would purposely trigger myself to get my mood more elevated and with depression, I have found comfort in it that it feels like a layer of warm yet painful blanket hugging me that sometimes I would also purposely make myself more depressed. Despite people thinking that bipolar mood swings fast within a day, from my personal experience, bipolar mood swings do not swing fast for sure.

    Also, during my hangout with my friends, I realised that having constant thoughts of secret cults, such as the Illuminati watching every step you take, is not normal. Huh, who would have thought? I guess I know what to tell my therapist the next time I see her.

    I do not know where I am going with this, I feel everything I have written is out of place. It is now almost midnight, I will try to sleep in a bit. Maybe I will succeed, maybe I will fail to sleep – I will find out sooner or later. Oh, I also need to pee.

    I am rambling too much. This is the last sentence I am writing for today.

The Dramatic Bipolar

Raw, episodic confessions from an artist living with bipolar disorder—exploring mania, depression, creativity, identity, and the search for stability.

Twenty Twenty-Five

Designed with WordPress

© The Dramatic Bipolar. All rights reserved.