I didn’t go to bed again last night. This is nothing new. This is the third day in a row I’ve been unable to sleep. If I do manage to fall asleep in the nighttime, I am suddenly awoken by nothing. I wake up to find myself gasping for air. I’ve had a dream about something that I cannot recall and I am terrified. Sleeping is no longer an option. The anxiety and fear have taken over and the brain awakens even though my body is still incredibly tired. I have become lost once again. I have lost purpose in life. I’m not even sure if I ever found it.
These times are incredibly challenging. I’m not depressed. I’m enraged. I’m excitable. I just don’t know what to be excited about. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing with my time and therefore I usually do nothing. I clean. I cook. I keep myself busy, but I’m not doing anything with real conviction. Not a single thing with any intent. I’m giving myself busy work because I’ve lost something. I’ve lost my ability to write or at least my ability to write consistently and persistently. I’ve lost a little bit of myself taking care of others. I’ve put myself on the back burner so long, the front burner has broken. There is no fire left, not even a spark, yet somehow I yearn to be ignited.
I have bipolar disorder which while it is a curse is supposed to come with its benefits. The creativity is gone. I have lost it. It is at least playing hard to get. I sit down to write and a blank page laughs back in my face. This is the farthest I’ve gotten and I’m not impressed. My words have lost their passion. My thoughts have been tormented. I’m left with shadows of my previous splendor. I am tunnel visioned on a number of topics. All of which, have no real meaning to me anymore. “Fight the stigma.” I tell myself. Regain your momentum. Restart your projects. Something pushes the brake pedal and I’m left empty and unsure of where I am headed. I’m left awake. I’m left afraid to sleep.