Losing it, just absolutely losing it.

I thought the meds would hold, but it's only been a few months, and it's a low dosage.

There was a period of... maybe two or three weeks, in which I felt fantastic. The normal kind of fantastic.

From there, on, it's been on a downward slope. Subtle, so very subtle. I can't... think straight, I can't type exactly what I want to say. And that's abnormal, beyond abnormal for me. My eloquence is not vocal, but written. And I can't. I can't do anything. There's an empty sketch book that's been sitting on my nightstand, absolutely deriding me for nearly a week.

It's spring break.

I think school was distracting me from the fact that the medication has now formed only a thin membrane over this... this whatever it is. I should have seen this coming when I vaguely felt that very same maelstrom roiling underneath it all. I should have felt the cracks and the leaks, and that something was wrong.

Fuck that, everything's wrong.

I'm stuck -- backed into a corner. I can't go back. I won't go back to this. I won't live my life like this.

But, damn if I want any more medication.

It's bullshit, I hate that I need it. I don't want to be on it, but I don't not want to be on it. Like I said, I'm on a low dose, it hasn't lasted very long at all, but then there are the stimulants for ADD, though, those aren't the cause of this. Those work, those work very well, but they've taken away my emotion, that's all.

But alas, here I am. Griping about too much emotion.

But, it isn't even emotion. I'm hollow. I'm hollow, and yet on the margin of a breakdown. How does that even begin to make sense? It's like my head is full and the rest of me if empty.

The weird thing is that I don't want to live.

I'm not one to be suicidal. In fact, I'm not suicidal. The closest I've been to it was simply the fact that I came up with a plan, a quick escape route. I never acted on it, and I'm not about to.

I won't kill myself, but I realize that there isn't a point to anything, anymore.

What am I even doing with myself?

To be honest, when I get out of high school, I want to write psychological thrillers and live on a diet of cocaine and cigarettes until I casually off myself in my late twenties.

Except, that's not true. I don't know what is true, but I know it's not that. I shouldn't be taken seriously right now, or maybe I should. That's the thing about medication, isn't it? Even if you're better off with it, you're not you. I'm not me. Maybe this really is the truth, because maybe it's really me; maybe I will destroy my life with a lackluster indifference, and maybe I'll live another ten years observing the world from the outside, though not daring to partake. Locked up in an apartment in San Francisco. Typing. Watching. Thinking. Speaking as little as possible. Sating an occasional bout of wanderlust.

I'd get help if it didn't involve questions.

I'm shit at explaining myself aloud.

The first psychiatrist I had shrugged off bipolar disorder and told me that he didn't think it was a concern we needed to focus on. Simply because I didn't explain it correctly. He asked two questions. I answered them both wrong. He swept me aside as just another hormonal kid.

I can't. I can't explain it. When I'm forced to, I shut down.

My mom thinks I have bipolar II. I'm not so sure. Hypomania, sure, maybe, sometimes. But I don't get depressed. Depression is not an issue. It's the undying fire coursing through my veins and kick-starting my mind and tying my brain in knots and telling me to run, to sprint, to fucking go anywhere, do anything, destroy everything, live, die, hurt.

That's the issue.

Maybe I'm uneducated. Does hypomania even involve meltdowns? Mum seems to believe that it's only severe enough to be considered mania if I have to be hospitalized.

The doctor believes her over me, but then again, I never tried to convince them otherwise. The guy never even gave a clear diagnosis, anyway. Just slapped a label of bipolar on me, no "one" or "two" involved. God know what he thinks, but either way, how am I supposed to relay the fact that I'm going mad, here?

I told you, I can't.

Sometimes, I wanna do that thing from that book. With the kid just waltzing right into the hospital and telling the lady at the front desk that he wants to kill himself. That sounds easy.

"Hello, my brain is rotting and I'm on the verge of completely losing my shit. I don't think you can help me, but I'm bored and I don't want to deal with myself anymore, so I came here."

I want to leave this house right now, and I don't know what I'd do after that.

I'm afraid, if I did so, I might take a bus downtown and jump off of the top of the parking structure.

Just because I can.

Because why not?

I told you, nothing matters.

Shit.

Somebody convince me to do something with myself.