Birhythmic Hands

Forever Lost/Richard Davis

I've missed being here. I've been gone for a period of time, rationing my energy and withdrawing my vulnerability, as I waited for a storm to pass. I closed my eyes and turned my face away to be alone with my thoughts. I wept as I struggled for sleep, mumbling chants, and praying that God would love me enough to interrupt and further disorder the bi-rhythmic hands scraping, scraping, scraping at the thin walls of medicine protecting my mind.

I was medicated beyond normal functioning and grateful for the physical inability to leave my home and interact with others, to challenge the lazy pulse of what I retained. Some days I poured out all five bottles of my medicine on the side table by my bed and forced myself to recognize and admit the resentment that I had, and that I have now, for the amount of sickness that resides in me. I was created and born in a way that would prove insufficient, although not incorrect. My illness was predetermined by a loving God, and I love him still.

Now, I scrape the crust of prescribed answers from my eyes and the crumbs of self-treatment from my mouth. I see the debris and isolation of my latest survival. They are consequences of retreating and binging through the passing storm, of depriving my body of the warmth of touch. The hands are still scraping but their disorder has surpassed my own. I have acquired peace enough to rest before their rhythm tears again.

I speak again, here, to witness the release and recapture of my thoughts on this page. I will look for footsteps and hope that I have contacted someone outside of myself and granted them a small and rare bit of "knowing" what it is like to be bipolar.