Monthly Archives: August 2015


She longed for a deep slumber in which she dreamed of marvellous anomalies. 

Oh, how she longed for that.  She missed those types of sleeps like she had never missed anything before. 

You see, when she did not get her correct sleep, she did not function quite as normal.

There was a little less sparkle in her smile, colour in her face, spring in her step. 

So she craved it, every single day. 

Alas, sleep eluded her, for she was an insomniac – right to the core.

A night thinker, a day dreamer, a worrier and of course, Bipolar. 


Mental Breakdown

This time three years ago, to the untrained eye, I had lost my mind entirely. 

To a professional or a fellow patient, I was just in the depths of Bipolar Disorder. 

To me, well, the only thing I could think about was my own demise. 

Every day was spent in literal darkness. 

Every moment, spent hating my own existence. Cursing it. Plotting it’s end. 

I was so completely depressed that I was bedridden.  I could barely move; numb with pain – both emotional and physical. 

My thoughts were as negative as they could possibly get.  

I was so very, sadly, paranoid.  I hallucinated that people were coming to get my nightly. So I didn’t sleep. I never slept by night, only day, providing I could drift off into a light slumber.

Fight or flight mode was my entire life. Even when I slept. 

My dreams were riddled with nightmares and being awake was like being in one too. 

I was unmedicated, untreated, and losing myself very quickly. 

Three years ago, I genuinely, truly, believed I was going to die.  

And I didn’t. 

I kept going. I fought the most difficult fight that I’ve ever had to face. 

And though I have my ups and downs still to this day, I can proudly say that I beat my mental breakdown. 

Heart Sleeve. 

She wore her heart on her sleeve and rocked it as though it were the most fashionable thing in the world. 

Her heart belonged to those she loved and cared for, and they knew it. 

Her soul was free and so very content with her entire self. 

Her thoughts were lovely and empathetic, she did not have a nasty way about her. 

Her words were soft spoken and kind, in such a way that people never expected a bad word to emerge from those lips. 

Alas, this was not the way of everyone. In fact, it was not the way of most people. 

So sometimes her heart got ripped off sleeve, and then sometimes it was dropped and shattered into a million pieces. And of course, there were the days where her heart was not stuck onto her sleeve correctly and she lost sight of everything she knew. 

But she carried on. She kept on wearing it, dayafter day, because she couldn’t imagine her life any other way. 

Old Blog 2

(no title)- written December 17th, 2007. 

I’ve reached a point in my life where I feel as though I lack something.
Not something physical, or a possession.

I want inspiration.

Someone to make a difference to me, something to strive to, to look up to.

I feel lost and I’m waiting; waiting for someone to take me into the next chapter of my life.

My life is like an open book, but the author has writer’s block.

I want to make a change, do something out of the ordinary but I can’t seem to do it.

I’m sick of eat, sleep, repeat. I want change.

I’m not looking for someone to sweep me off my feet, I’m just looking for a change. 

Old Blog

I shall be posting some of my old blogs which I deem good enough for The Not-So Secret Life Of The Manic Depressant.
(no title) – written August 2nd, 2008.

Her stomach dropped. A fury swelled up inside of her that she had never felt before, her head thumped. She was being pushed, built up and broken down; the end was in sight. Her hands began to shake nervously as she sat, staring blankly out the foggy window.


She blinked, her fists clenched so tight that her nails broke the skin on her bony fingers.

“I fucking despise you,” she whispered through clenched teeth. She felt the years of hate inside of her, mixing her up, changing her; creating a monster that should never exist within anyone. The thumping continued. She didn’t remember like she thought she would, just sat stagnantly with the same words racing through her. You’re weak.

She touched her hand which was now bleeding, staring at it, as if it were something unfamiliar. Hey eyes became blurry, only a vague outline of her hand remained. She was now trembling ferociously, growing more pale and weak by the second.

It was too late – over forever.


Let your happiness radiate out of your face. Then, people will only see beauty. 

Let your actions speak louder than your words. Then, people will only see your real intentions. 

Let your soul be free. Then, people will only see that you are here to be positive. 

Let your thoughts be kind and empathetic. Then, people will only see your true colours. 

Let your words be gracious and affectionate. Then, people will only see that you are here to stay. 

Let every little aspect of you shine. Then, people will only see the real you. 


She was blindsided. 

One moment, a perfectly happy and somewhat, or appearingly, stable. The next, a diagnosed Bipolar patient. 

She didn’t know much about the illness at the time. 

“I couldn’t have that,” she thought, “I’m not crazy.”

Little did she know that there was so very, very much more to Bipolar Disorder than the typical “crazy” stereotype.  

There were ups and there were downs, they were times where everything was okay, though these had become quite the rarity to her. 

When the psychiatrist uttered the diagnosis, her breath was taken away. Her thoughts raced to many different conclusions, and she became incredibly sad. 

“Why me?” She asked, puzzled. “What did I do to deserve this?” 

It absolutely had felt like the life had been knocked out of her. 

And so, she ran.