The Soul and I



This poem speaks to me on so many levels. Enjoy!

In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
– The Quiet World, Jeffrey McDaniel


If my soul would be the ocean, my feelings would come from the unexplored depths, and they would be as powerful as the waves during a storm. Deep, intense, overwhelming, sinking my heart. How can one feel so deeply  and manage to keep their heart afloat? How can I stay afloat when I am engulfed in my feelings?

My heart sinks sometimes…and I need another heart to help me come back from the depths of my soul. But I am a heavy heart to carry. Are you strong enough?


I’m in here. I am struggling to climb the high walls Depression puts around me. She puts walls around me and around my soul. Thick, masonry and concrete walls. No windows. No sunshine coming in. Just me and the beat of my heart.

The fire in my soul is still burning, still alive. I am not completely in the dark. Sometimes the 1000 abusive voices want to tell me that my soul has died, thus I have died, or I should die, but I can feel that fire, that warmth, that rhythm. I am alive. I am still alive.

I am touching the surface of the walls in the dark. Some of bricks are chipped. Maybe the prisoner before tried to smash the walls, the same way I tried so many times. But wait…this is my cell, I think Depression puts each one of her prisoners in different cells. Yes! This is how I remember it is, she keeps us isolated so she can control us better.

Does that mean that the chipped and crumbled bricks are the fruit of my struggle to demolish this prison? I think that’s the only explanation.

I can use them! As a “ladder”. A climbing wall. I can get out of this. I’m going to grip the little niches in the bricks. I am going to dig my fingernails into them and make an effort to drag myself out of this hole. I am going to do it until my fingers and hands get bloody. I am going to make it, I am going to make it!

Coming out of the closet

I did it. I wrote about my fight with bipolar disorder and my experience on my social media. The kindness of people overwhelmed the few mean and ignorant messages. I’ve been feeling lighter and free ever since.

I am back in my depressive mood, but it’s not so bad. The dark thoughts are not here. They left me since I started the mood stabilizer medication. I am grateful for that.

I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Thank you, for keeping me going!

Talking about Bipolar

I am having this question on my mind: would it be okay to talk openly about my diagnosis and advocate for mental illness, break the stigma around it, make my contribution, or should I just not talk about it for now…

I said that I am fully accepting it. Why am so scared of how my friends are going to react? I am torn between talking about it and wanting to hide it. The thing is, I am not the person who doesn’t speak her mind. I am the person who always stands up for others, the advocate.

I guess I am going to risk it…hiding this is a great burden. I’d rather lose some of my friends and connections than keep it a secret. If they run, they were not good friends in the first place. What do you think? Which were the reactions you got? Are you able to talk openly about it?



Weekends have always been very hard for me, but this time things seem fine. I am not sure that the pattern has been broken, if it’s just because of endorphins flooding my brain, or because I am in my up cycle again. Anyway, things seem more manageable and my senses are back and really intense.

I guess, the secret is to embrace whatever state I am in, understand it, talk back, learn to dance with it. If depression is a lady in black, then hypomania is a fairy in a rainbow coloured long dress. Will they ever make friends with each other?

The big “D”

Did I make you smile? If so, that’s great (you dirty minded people, I love you).

I am going to talk about the big D. And the big D stands for Depression. Yes…I am sorry I spoiled the fun, but that’s what depression is doing to me. Spoiling all the fun.

So, coming down from hypomania, I know that depression follows. It comes with hypersomnia, executive dysfunction, migraines, isolation. To help you imagine how it looks like, I am going to paint a picture of myself at the moment: on the couch, not enough energy to move more than a couple of meters. Baggy clothes (sometimes pyjamas I wore for the last couple of days), messy hair, plates on top of plates on the coffee table. Cups, mugs, pencils, sketching paper, lists, paint brushes. All the things I said I am going to do and then they end up in a big pile next to me. Reaching them seems like climbing Everest.

I think that it is obvious that I hate this state. I always say that I am going to be prepared for the crash. I sometimes think that the hypomanic me can sometimes make a lot of things and take care of the depressed me. It never happens, because those days of high energy seem so far away and I am so absorbed in this slow, bleak mess.

I know it’s going to pass, at the same time I can’t help it and feel it in my bones. The lack of vitality, the desaturated colours around me, the cold light coming through the window.

It’s going to get better. The luscious colours are going to come back once the depression goggles are off. Until then, maybe I can paint them…