Living With A Mental Illness Means I Won’t Always be Like This

These are the days fueled by nightlights and sunshine, when what could’ve been worse is only bad. All I know is stubborn, contagious laughter and smiles without hesitation. A headspace cluttered with impossibilities and a heart that turns them into possibilities. 

I won’t always be like this.

These are the times I want you to hold me, and touch me, and love me because all the parts of me are silly and happy and carefree. Everything is light and promising, and hope outweighs the fear.

I won’t always be like this.

Today I have boundless, careless energy. The sun is just a little brighter, and the troubles of yesterday still remain, but that’s ok. I want to walk outside with you, even though it’s raining. I want to stay up late watching our favorite movies because I feel so awake and present. There aren’t enough minutes in the day, and I don’t want to waste time.

I won’t always be like this.

I want to read new books with you, obsess over the ones we’ve read a million times, and watch our favorite guilty pleasures on tv. I’m unaware of the night and dream through the day. There’s a possibility in everything because I have the motivation and focus and energy to face it all. If I fall, it won’t be so far that I can’t get back up.

I won’t always be like this.

Today I want to help anyone and everyone who is hurting. I want to hear about their fears, their problems, their troubles, and everyday stresses without a scale of how serious or minute. It all matters to me.

I won’t always be like this.

Today I take advantage. I know what it’s like to feel lost, reach out, and be ignored. If I can make one person feel heard, acknowledged, cared about, make them feel like they matter in this world of boundless activity that’s so easy to get swallowed up in, then I can breathe easier.

I won’t always be like this.

Every human part of me that I should be able to control will be hijacked by an invisible, unrelenting force. I don’t know how long this will last.

It’s like that feeling when you think of a place you ache to go again. It happens somewhere between falling asleep a functioning human and waking up overwhelmed by the sight of the door across the room. Of looking you in the eye. Or it could happen at the smallest trigger that one part of my brain picks up on while the rest is oblivious, and follows suit, the blind leading the blind. Every human part of me that I should be able to control will be hijacked by an invisible, unrelenting force. I don’t know how long this will last.

I won’t always be like this.

Some minutes, some hours, some days, some weeks, some months. You won’t recognize me any better than I can recognize myself, alone with a familiar letdown. My mind is at war with itself. I have no motivation to care that I have no motivation to live. I am both paralyzed by feelings I can’t grab onto fast enough to make sense of them, and numb that I don’t have any feelings at all.

I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t want you to tell me you know. I don’t want you to give me that look that says you can see what’s happening, and you know to stay close, but far. I want you to text me that it’s ok, you’ll always be there to listen, even though I ignore you and don’t answer back. 

I want both your love and space. 

I want you to comfort me and leave me alone. 

I want you to know that it took everything in me just to breathe today, but I don’t have the energy to speak. 

And I don’t care. Sometimes I care too much. I’m as confused and whiplashed at my actions, and my thoughts, and my feelings, and my brain, and my anger, and my silent threats and resentments. 

I won’t always be like this. Just know that I am still in there, waiting. Because I won’t always be like this.