#bipolar mania

[saddevilsworld]

i’m fighting a war within my head that i don’t want to fight anymore it’s so exhausting and no one understands

[mariposas8494]

Fuck yeah it has

[maniccherrygirl]

[traumakid-hideout]

An episode of mania almost always always always starts out so euphorically, makes you feel like you’re on the perfect drug, makes your confidence and motivation sky rocket and has you romanticizing all the fun it baits you with. It feels so amazing, you feel like nothing can hurt you or get to you.

Then the irritability comes, genuine rage, such an uncomfortable and overwhelming increase in libido, dangerous impulses, social behavior to be humiliated from by the time you crash, severe sleep deprivation that disorients the fuck out of you the longer you go without it, without even feeling tired at all. But feeling completely out of control. And if it escalates, Lord help you. Hallucinations, bad paranoia, black outs, substance abuse (or relapse if you happen to be recovering), delusions, everything that could get you into a psych ward. It isn’t fun at the end and any pleasure you feel is completely illusionary.

The worst part is I still normally never want it to stop. Because the depression after, which gets so ugly and terrible the longer, more intense the mania is, is something I’m not looking forward to at all. That, and mania can really sometimes convince you that you love it. I’m not wanting to go there though, because I have a lot to lose. Even if I don’t lose anything, I’m tired of this cycle and just can’t afford to desire it anymore. So I’m managing where I can, but wow it’s just scary to watch it take you higher and higher into it, and further and further away from yourself.

This is precisely why I despise any sort of stigma toward bipolar disorder. It’s so misunderstood, misquoted, and mistreated. I just really want and need some help. My hands are so sweaty and shaky, my heart and my mind are racing, I can’t stop talking, I can’t eat. I can’t focus, I can only fixate. And it’s just so overwhelming already.

[the-chaoticarsonist]

[saddevilsworld]

fuck it we ball (malnourished, heavy eve bags, dehydrated, and on the verge of insanity)

[mariposas8494]

Haha yasss

[dollincage]

sometimes i hate hypomania, like pls i just wanna sleep my finals are tomorrow… let me rest for once for fuck sakes.

[lostbrokenboy]

Lostbrokenboy – The Silent Suffering

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Lostbrokenboy, who was only six years old. He had an older sister, Sophie, who was eleven. She was their father's favorite child. She was wild, careless, and often got into trouble. But every time she did, she cleverly shifted the blame onto Lostbrokenboy. He had long since gotten used to it. Punishments had become routine for him, pain a constant shadow in his life.

One day, the inevitable happened. Sophie lost the most valuable possession of the family – an old golden ring, a family heirloom passed down for generations. Panic filled the house when their father discovered the loss. His anger was like a storm, showing no mercy. Without waiting for an explanation, he immediately decided that Lostbrokenboy must be to blame.

Without resistance, Lostbrokenboy took the blame. He knew there was no point in telling the truth. His father wouldn’t have believed him anyway. And so it happened that, as punishment, he was locked in the cold, damp basement. It was winter, and the temperatures had dropped so low that his breath turned into small, white clouds in the air. His father forced him to take off all his clothes except for his boxers. Then the door slammed shut, and he was alone in the darkness.

The cold crept into his bones instantly. The walls of the basement were made of stone, damp and hard, and the floor was icy. The darkness was almost absolute, with only a tiny basement window allowing in a faint trace of light. Lostbrokenboy pulled his knees to his chest and tried to shiver to stay warm, but it hardly helped. Hunger began gnawing at him after just a few hours. But far worse than that was the fear – the fear of what was yet to come.

Three times a day, his father came down. Morning, noon, and evening, the door would open, the light from the upper floor momentarily blinding Lostbrokenboy before his father’s silhouette filled the doorway.

"Where is the ring?" the man asked every time in the same ice-cold voice.

"I don’t know. I lost it," Lostbrokenboy replied over and over. And each time, the punishment followed.

His father struck him with brutal precision. Never on the face – for nothing should be visible when he returned to school. But his arms, his back, his legs – they were the target of the merciless blows. Each hit burned like fire, leaving blue bruises and hematomas that turned black-violet within hours. Lostbrokenboy clenched his teeth, fought back the tears, refused to scream. He knew that was exactly what his father wanted – to hear his pain, to feel his despair. But Lostbrokenboy would not give him that satisfaction.

Three days passed. Three days that felt like an eternity. The cold was a constant enemy, never resting, relentlessly trying to break him. Lostbrokenboy's lips turned blue, his skin was icy, his body shivered uncontrollably. His stomach ached from hunger, his head throbbed with exhaustion, and his eyes burned from sleep deprivation. But he endured. For his sister, who today ungratefully denied everything and tried to twist the story as if it had been his fault. For himself. Because he knew nothing else.

When he was finally allowed out of the basement, he was weak. His father simply threw him a sweater and a pair of pants, and Lostbrokenboy pulled them over his battered body with trembling hands. He said nothing. He shed no tears. Because he knew: It was not over. It would never be over.

At school, everyone noticed. Even in summer, when the others ran around in shorts and T-shirts, Lostbrokenboy always wore long sweaters, long pants. His classmates asked him, "Why are you wearing that? It’s so hot."

He only smiled faintly and replied, "I’m cold. I feel more comfortable this way."

They laughed. They thought he was strange, a weirdo. But no one knew the truth. No one understood that Lostbrokenboy did not fear the cold – but rather what lay hidden beneath his clothes. His scars. His bruises. His secrets.

And so, Lostbrokenboy went on. In a house that was not a home. In a world that held no salvation for him.

[evilsystemm]

Not to be a narcissist but I have so much influence and I make people's lives worth living just by speaking. And it doesn't even take much effort. I can survive literally anything, barely anything hurts me emotionally or physically and I can go days without sleep and water and food and I can walk for miles and miles and I can ignore that my shin is bruised and I have so many friends, I'm well known in many spaces I'm popular by definition. I have amazing memorisation ability and my cognitive empathy is off the charts. I was tested to have an above average IQ when I was diagnosed with autism as a kid. I know exactly what to say in every situation. Multiple people are interested in me romantically and sexually. Im great at problem solving and distress tolerance. I know all there is to know, I impress people constantly with how I speak and the things I know. Im so beautiful, I have healthy, good looking skin, hair and nails. My friends are attractive, popular, talented and intelligent. Everything is so so amazing.

[that-bipolar-mood]

I met quite a handful of people with bipolar disorder who were over medicated. They often complained about the numerous side effects and issues the meds brought on.

Yet they couldn't stop, always begging for more, or a different combination. It baffled me when I could never handle more than 3 different meds.

Then I understood that some are desperate to feel the way they did before. We all have our 'befores'. Before the first episode, before diagnosis... And it's almost impossible to accept that you are changed and the before will never return to present.

Perhaps all those with chronic illnesses might relate. Seemingly, each of us lived two lives, were two people.

[eclipsewilliam]

Even once I escaped that house, I have yet to escape my mind but I’ve escaped one prison how hard can it be to escape another?

[pastacrylic]

made this for my moirail

[seductive-suffering]

The rage.

It’s fucking real.

I hate you.

I hate you because you made me love you.

And all I know how to do is love you.

That’s it.

Breath in.

I love you.

Breath out.

I hate you.

I hate that all I can do is love you.

[whydoiluvcoffee]

to anyone who has experienced mania/gone through a manic episode/has a disorder with mania as a symptom:

what does a manic episode feel like? i probably haven't had one but i wanna learn about it bc i'm curious and wanna know more and just wanna try to understand this

[saddevilsworld]

idk as the days go by the urge to hang myself is getting stronger