Sometimes I feel that a manic episode robs me of my grief. Somewhere in the whirring of my thoughts, these strings of words in my head, my grief is taken away from me, it is moulded and shaped into a dysphoria of euphoric proportions. It is transformed into anger, no, anger would be an understatement, a rage, an endlessly bleeding rage. Grief has an unusual ability to still hold on, seemingly poisoning that persistent euphoria. Making sure that I, will not, under any circumstance, feel joy alongside a manic elation.
There is no room for my grief, in the midst of hallucinations, of flying objects, of changing backdrops, of the dissolution of the familiar. The familiar surroundings and the familiar self, all become alien, unrecognizable, having much of the same anxious quality of when you meet someone new, or when you move to a new city, that anxiety as you try and swallow your surroundings, contain them within you, familiarize them with your being, and your being with them, but they resist, because grief hangs onto them.
Grief becomes insignificant when every single emotion known to mankind, every emotion ever felt by everyone, every sensation ever experienced, everyone single one of them, encases your skin, your organs, with every breath even the insides of your lungs.
25 mg of Seroquel later….
But today, I finally have room for my grief, to grieve the loss of things I love. To grieve the loss of the things I poured my being into, the loss of the connections, the loss of the familiar that never became unfamiliar. Today, I am making space and time to honor these things I have lost by letting myself grieve, by holding this grief close to my heart, by allowing it to enclose me.