A Mind Divided

A deeply personal account of life with bipolar disorder, where moments of clarity and creativity are overshadowed by the crushing weight of darkness and despair

I'd lost count of days, but the mirror told me it had been weeks since I'd slept, dark smudges under my eyes like bruises, the face in the mirror a stranger's, the eyes it shine with an unrecognisable glow.

There hasn't been a clock in weeks. I'm not allowed out. No one can find out.

The curtains closed, the windows shut, the door locked and bolted, but I knew they were looking at me, the shadows on the walls becoming faces, the eyes tracking me back and forth, the peace only broken by the sound of my breathing, and the whispering, always the whispering, 'You're safe, you're safe, if you just stay inside'.

I suddenly feel like running with a newfound energy. I flung open the door, and sprint out into the night, my feet meet the pavement in a flurry, the wind blowing my hair, as I rid the darkness, my senses heightened, the world a splash of color and sound, and I was alive, truly alive, and could run forever, but the voice in my head growled, 'Faster, faster, you're not going fast enough', and I listen, my legs pumping, my heart hurting, as I run into the emptiness.

I tumble down as all my energy is lost at once. People are staring. I can't. I can't. I rolled up into a ball and hugged my head with my arms, the world spinning and the faces fading into a crowd of concerned people, their voices muted to a hum, a chorus of 'Are you alright?
' and 'Do you need assistance? But I couldn't respond, couldn't even lift my head, because the weight of my own mind took me down, and the voice in my head, 'You're weak, you're broken, you're a freak', and I knew I had to escape, had to move out from under the observant eyes and the judging faces, but my body was lead, and I was unable to move.

I sit there biting my tongue. I make it bleed.

The metallic taste of blood in my mouth, and I bit harder still, a mixed sensation of power, of self-harm, as if I was made to myself to hurt, as if hurting would justify my weakness, my failure, and the voice in my head was whispering, 'Yes, yes, you deserve to hurt', and I bit harder still, the hurting a cruel comfort, as everything around me began to blur and twist, like water.

I stand up. I run home. I run faster than ever before. I burst through the door. I run into my room. I crash. I lay there, breathing hard, my chest heaving, my heart pumping, the adrenaline leaving slowly from my veins, and I felt empty, the quiet of my room contrasting with the frenzy that had been in my mind, and I looked up at the ceiling, and I could see my own face staring back at me, reflected in the glass that hung above my bed, but it was twisted, distorted, like a funhouse mirror, and I knew that I was lost, stranded in my own mind, and there was no escape. And the closer I looked in the mirror, my own reflection began to fade from sight, like a ghost, and there was only a few words left, smeared upon the glass in letters of red: 'I am not myself'.

If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health issues, please know that you are not alone. There is help available. Reach out to a trusted friend, family member, or mental health professional for support. You can also contact crisis hotlines in your area.

Author's Note

Trigger Warning:
This story contains graphic and emotional depictions of bipolar disorder, including intense anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and self-harm. Reader discretion is advised.