3am

There are some things, some frames of mind that empathy alone cannot allow an understanding. There are some things which can only be truly understood by those who have lived through them.

It has been said that those who are truly mad cannot appreciate their madness, that in effect to ask the question of one's self is in turn the answer. I wonder how true that can be when often the greatest minds are the ones called mad.

Byron called mental illness, in his case bipolar disorder or manic depression, "a storm, whereon we ride," and at times this rings so true to me it is frightening.

I do not talk of my thoughts of suicide, we brush them aside, sweep them under the rug and pretend they aren't there until like a mountain's snow, they come tumbling down again.

I do not talk of my mania, of the seemingly endless days and nights that bleed one into the next whilst I am inspired or more accurately possessed by whatever my current outlet might be.

I do not talk of the days when I feel all but catatonic, not lacking the ability to move but the will to do so.

I do not talk of the loneliness all this not talking creates in me either. I have learned the hard way that although you may consider someone a close friend, close enough to speak of secret dreams and plans for life, they do not truly wish to know what you think or how you feel.

I have lost too many friends this way and found so little understanding in those who did not run.

So, I take my pills and try not to think, try not to let myself have enough time to take stock in where I am on the roller coaster. It's just as well, you cannot see the fall coming when your eyes are closed.