Aetherias Moon

by Aetherias Moon

tw mentions of wanting to disappear.

I feel like a racing heartbeat trapped in a fleshy cage. A raging star confined to Earth where I can only live out my energy through impulsivity and restlessness. Once beautiful, radiant, I’m left to burn with cheap thrills like buying a sweet drink and barely holding back the urge to buy the entire target clothesline (just kidding it wasn’t even that appealing (but I still wanted it (just to have it))). 

I can’t sleep. I tried to sleep it off, but only got about two hours. Now I feel happier, but no less contained. I don’t know when I will crash, but I feel like I never will, only I logically know it will come. And oh, will it come. At least eventually…thankfully, there’s an end in sight.

I’ve been told that I was lucky to have bipolar rather than just depression, because “at least I get mania.” This comes from a perspective of ignorance, from someone who hasn’t been a rollercoaster doing a loop into a concrete wall.

I get it. It’s a high. When my meds work, I sometimes think “I miss this,” but right now I really fucking don’t. 

I want to sleep. I have things I need to get done. I know my body needs it. I feel ill. 

None of that matters.

I want to go on a drive. I could drive to the beach. It’s 2 hours away, it’s 1:38 AM. What the hell am I gonna do at the beach? Walk on the sand for hours, lose myself in the sea, become a mermaid, maybe even a siren. Embark on a whimsical adventure?

I won’t do it.

I’m not that far gone. So instead I’ll write.

I might have a job soon. I’m trying to get a job. I found out that I could try to get a job without it completely ruining my chances of getting disability if I fail. Because I haven’t been able to work for the past couple of years. I’ve gotten better (mentally at least) so I want to try, but I don’t know what I’m doing. 

I really don’t.

I want to disappear.

This hasn’t exactly been a “fun” manic trip (are any of them truly fun? (maybe in the moment)). I feel so unable to focus on anything at all that I haven’t gotten anything done. Not even the stuff I want to do. I’m anxious, I’m restless, I’m fucking on fire.

I can’t take it.

I talked to my doctor…we messed with my meds, you see…and well, I don’t think things are working as intended. But I really hate that my brain chemistry doesn’t know how to do its job. But can I really take the chemicals out of me and say “that’s the real me.” What does that mean (especially when I have over 70 me’s (too many)). 

Someone douse me, take away these feelings. I want to be obliterated, not because I want to die, but because I want to cease this. This way of being. Make it stop.

Please?

I’ve learned that your body can torture you. I’ve experienced little hells when my body gives me a heavy helping of pain as a treat. Going to the hospital and not getting answers is lovely, by the way. Thank you, stupid American health system.

I rely on you.

But I hate you.

Like I rely on my meds. The ones that aren’t working. And I hate them. I don’t want to take pills morning and night. I don’t think about it anymore, but if I did, I’d find it slowly chipping away at my soul. But nothing’s going to change.

Meds are the way of my life.

I really wish my meds were working. 

The worst part is that I’m scared and anxious so these intense feelings of impulsivity are crashing into a brick wall of fear. The repeated banging of my head on concrete is draining. I want to escape, become ethereal, float into the stars, and become what I was always meant to be.

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