And flying I still will not move

I’m rushing.

I’m rushing and it’s beautiful.

Beautiful like fire and lashing rain and thunder and howling howling wind, I’m rushing and it’s beautiful and it’s taking my breath away.

Thank Christ at last I’m rushing and it’s beautiful, rather than hell.

Ideas whip into my head and hardly settle before being picked up spun around, turned about; impatient with myself and the world, plans that come to half a page of scribbled lines. And it feels good it feels good, you have no idea.

I want to just stay dancing in this whirlwind and laugh, and enjoy the storm.


I mustn’t.

Deep depression weighs you down, a stone on your heart and hand over your throat. Deep depression freezes. And frozen life creaks then cracks, then shatters. Scattered frozen on the floor you curse yourself, watch others pass through life alive and warm and easy, and hate and hate yourself for being weak, for being useless, a waste, a ruin. All dirty ice and blood.

Deep depression drowns you in dust. Dead skin and dirt.

As for hypomania,

have you ever had a dream of flying?


And awoken from the dream still breathless?

I’m rushing. I’m rushing and it’s beautiful. Hypomania will lift me up and spin me round and I can watch the world so far below carry on carry on without me; I can giggle and dance and reach

out, touch rough brickwork or cold glass and sensation trills from my fingertips to my heart, part my lips in so slight a smile, gasp, soft explosions of sensation sensated.

And flying up I still will not move. But who cares? The world so so far beneath me who cares?


“This won’t last. You know it won’t. You’ll come down”

I smile and shrug and switch from languid to lively and perch, edge of my seat. Beam at the therapist.

“I know”

“And when you do, you won’t have moved forward. Your situation will be the same. All that shame and guilt will come back, and push you down further, again.

This state gives you energy. But if all you do is indulge in it, it’s just as paralysing as the depression”

And she’s right.

I know.


I first suspected I was bipolar over ten years ago, but didn’t want to bring it up with clinicians. Depression is hell; don’t I at least deserve a bit of heaven, too?

A lot of people with BPII feel the same – and do the same. Once we realise our happy can be more than happy, we hold on to it and hold it hidden as much as we can. Don’t let the doctor take away heaven.

The game was up when I entered an extreme mixed episode, when Heaven turned on me. Old Testament retribution, I guess.

But that feeling I’m owed has never gone, don’t think it ever will. And right now, I’ve been so long sunk so deep, can’t I just have this? Enjoy this dream of flying?

But it is a dream. I know. So I carry on taking the pills and I’m going to try to pin down my butterfly thoughts, to rein in the impatient child in me who just wants to play. Because if I don’t start to fill in those plans, to move forward with life, then I’m going to wake from this dream and then slip too easy back into a nightmare.

And if you die in a nightmare, you stay dead.

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