I feel. You don’t know, you can’t know. How this feels. I feel.
Like the world…
Like my heartbeat… Like my soul…
I feel the world, my heartbeat, my soul. I see this majesty, this glorious, wild, passionate world. I want to grab, to pull, to claw the world. To kiss. Deep. To leave my marks, red and raw and burning. Bloody, primal, rare.
To devour. This world dripping with promise and passion and fury and chaos and love, and love, and love, and lust.
I step from the pharmacy, holding a blister pack of lamotrigine in my hand, and look to the sky; a sunset glorious and impossible and free. A breeze teasing and sensual, and playful, and exultant. Clouds, golden, blazing.
I step from the pharmacy and look at the blister pack in my hand. Do you know how it feels? You can’t know. To feel so miserable, to feel to wretched and useless and bleak and ruined, to then see the world blossom out in breathless beauty; to move so swiftly from putrid misery to… to…
And to be told this glory is folly, to be told to swallow these pills to take the fierce, untamed beauty from the world. To be told you must turn down Nirvana. Attenuate Heaven. You can’t know.
I walk, I smoke a cigarette. Catch the tube.
You can only hide so long. I suspected, ever since 2008, that the reason SSRI medication worked ‘so well’ for me was that they pushed me into a kind of hypomania. Paroxetine threw me into wild abandon – true mania, light speed and ecstatic and frightening and free; Sertraline, giddy and loose, the time I decided I needed to start dealing shares and learn Latin. Citalopram… Citalopram, like the bed of baby bear, just right. Citalopram, not too wild, just wild enough.
And yeah, sometimes I felt so free I could fly. Sometimes, even without the drugs, I could embark on wonderful new ideas and projects and schemes and it would always, always be beautiful. And I could dance in the street and dance in the gym because honestly, honestly, sometimes I can hear the music and feel the music, feel the music like a kiss. Not the gentle kiss of romance but music lustful, electric, abandoned; which grabs your neck and your body and pulls you in, devouring, devouring, hard and dangerous and fierce.
You give too much away, eventually. The records they keep are surprisingly detailed. “Would you be open to a mood stabiliser?” the psychiatrist asks. I say yes, eventually, for my own nefarious reasons.
Hypomanic episodes have less than ideal long term effects. Cognitive decline, possible neurological disruption. Still.
You can’t know how it feels. To be told this has to be taken from you, for your own good. The blinding brilliance of hypomania, when the world makes sense and you make sense and everything, oh everything is glorious, to be told everything that is glorious is a lie, the real world is a watery reflection, the real world a muted song. Take this pill. Save yourself. Turn down the world.
Would you take the pill?
I get off at Waterloo.
I take the pill.