I wish I was a professional artist who had enough time to indulge words and senses all day long. To feel fulfilled. To feel passionate. To feel satisfied. To express, unrestricted and unrestrained. To be dark or expansive without excuse. To feel I’m living a purpose. To be true. Unapologetically true. To feel alive. Because this, this is not what I had planned.
Change, they say. Get a new job. New friends. Move house. Move town. Get a hobby. Get a life coach, a personal trainer, a financial adviser, a lover, a husband. You are your own change, they say. Follow your dreams, they say. Live a life you have designed….. Live simply, dream big…… Live with no regrets…..
They? The ones that make it sound so simple? They are the ones who live free. Myself? My reality is I am forced to live within the limits of my illness to survive. Bipolar a heavy weight of confinement and commitment to my personal management plan – avoiding triggers and over-stimulation, keeping to a strict sleep pattern and predictable daily routine to maintain stability. My world is stunted, narrowed. Every, single, day. Whittled away piece by piece with each year I age. My soul inked with sadness. My mind stolen by mania. My body raked by fatigue. Bipolar is my dominatrix. So here I rot. Deceived by hope. Dreams far from my grasp. This is not what I had planned.
Twenty One Pilots (Forrest)