a hundred days of happiness: day 16 – happiness is hard.

Next time, tell me:
One, happiness is hard.
Two, don’t make the same mistakes we did.
And three, okay, so maybe it is your fault a little.
You want me to be honest? You go first


time passes so quickly. it’s crazy, the things that used to make sense and the things that no longer do.
i’m trying my hardest to just be. to let the good times impact my life and let the bad feelings roll off me. i’m trying my hardest, but some days, it’s hard.
some days, i wake up to the throbbing pain and empty ache and i know for absolute certainty that all the previous happiness i’ve tried to focus on? it means nothing.

this is what it means to be manic.

when the question “what’s the point” becomes the answer. when i can’t even feel my own heartbreak. can’t feel the muscles clench or my lungs scream in agony because i am numbed. i am beyond empty and all my thoughts are coloured a bleak, hollow black. a gaping, primordial pain.

it used to scare me, the feeling of flying.
like i’m on top of the world and i can do no wrong. like every hour of the day was designed for me. it scares me because i love it so much: the days when sleep would elude me and i’d write and write and write and everything would be fucking poetry.
where 24 hours in the day would feel like 80, a hundred, five thousand! where i would cram Socrates and Kierkegaard and John Green and listen to Janet Joplin, and spew Nietzsche and all parts of my soul would rejoice in the sheer joy of life. because in these times, the world would feel as though it belonged to me.

but the truth is, it scares me. it scares me because this feeling has only increased in intensity since march, and the higher i get, the harder the crash and the fall back into reality burns with a bone-deep anger that numbs me, until i am cold and i can’t even feel my extremities.

and i’ll paste on my picture perfect smile and crack jokes with ease and fill up the empty with smoke and mirrors because there’s nothing left of me.

and i’ll feel like i’ve aged a million years. like i’m just a fossil and i’d pray for the quickest relief in the world. and C.S Lewis was right. And grief still feels like fear. Perhaps, more strictly, like suspense. Or like waiting; just hinging about waiting for something to happen. It gives life a permanently provisional feeling. It doesn’t seem worth starting anything. I can’t settle down. I yawn, I fidget, I smoke too much. Up till this I always had too little time. Now here is nothing but time. Almost pure time, empty successiveness.

i can’t call these lessons of summer anymore because time is fading me. i am burning and dying and crying and learning and dreaming and grieving and terrifying. i am terrified.

it’s always said that admitting is the first step to recovery.
somedays, it feels like there’s nothing to admit because the problem isn’t anything. it’s my mind and i’m stuttering over truths and lies.
because there is no happiness. and it wouldn’t ever matter. and these days, that thought scares me. i’m not the girl i was in high school anymore, and i remember that bleakness. i fear the return of black because i know for sure when that happens, i really might not survive myself this time.

i am petrified and unable to escape this gloom that is me. it’s a fear that’s erupting from the very core of my being. i am the black hole.

today, i’m admitting that happiness is hard because the first step to recovering is admitting. and this is what mania is. the very real possibility that i may not resurface.


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