Sometimes when I tell people they don’t get it
The response is sometimes like I’ve just announced my favorite color
No appreciation of the intense vagaries of mood
The wild, productive, but dangerous highs
And the grey paralyzing lows
There is too much silence
I need to break this silence
Being manic is not like having drunk too much coffee
It is a mood suffused in possibility—leaping for new connections
Hypomania—though more controlled—is like a cuddly gremlin
Awaiting water
Depression comes slowly and then moves in to stay
Seizing control of all promontories
It repels anything that smacks of interest or engagement
The medications are my tools
But they work too slowly
And I must reckon with my own demons
In broad daylight—but nonetheless grey
I want the world to understand
And give me credit
For a silent struggle against powerful enemies
And I want support when I need it
Bipolar is shorthand for what I endure
Being ground to the pavement upon occasion
But flying like Icarus at times
Praying the sun won’t melt my fragile wings
