First, you’re drunk. Then you remember that today is just a ghost that’s haunting you. It happened, and yesterday’s ghost won’t let you forget.
When you’re in a manic episode, it’s delicious. And I’m not sure if that’s something I’m supposed to say. I should talk about the struggles of this disease. I should tell you it’s a dangerous cycle (it is) and to take medication (you should see a doctor). This is when I’m supposed to wish for a “normal” brain. This is when I tell you how hard it is.
I still remember telling my mother, the woman who thought her little girl was an angel, that I was a drug addict and needed to go to inpatient treatment. “I don’t want to get high anymore,” I told her, “but I can’t stop.”
Just for a while, stop looking behind you.
I don’t need your arms
to habitat my rescues
to save me from refuge.
I met you in pieces;
you did not save me,
and I did not ask
I mean, T. Swift has a point. Bandaids don’t fix bullet holes. And time, as forgiving as it can be, does not swoop in like a magical antidote and permanently smooth out the left over scab. If the mark was deep enough, the scab will scar. And the scar will stay.
“Do you imagine when you are alone that soft things have empty voices?”
The best people I know have seen soul mates become strangers and have felt ghosts in their veins where gods used to reign.
Happiness will leave to help you grow, to help you feel things it only ever would have masked within you.