I’ve only written two poems in my entire life. Well, that’s not entirely true. I used to write lyrics for a band my friends and I were forming that never got off the ground. I’ve been in a bad place as of late and jotted this down last night to kind of try to help me through what I’m going through. I don’t know if it makes sense or if it’s any good, but I thought I’d share it here. Maybe it can help someone else. Maybe I’m just screaming into the void as usual. Like I said, I’ve just been in a bad way and felt the need to write something and couldn’t come up with anything but these words. I didn’t do much thinking on it. I just wrote down what came to mind. Just my own discombobulated mind spilled out on paper and now here on the Internet.
I wake up each morning
as if returning to a mistake I didn’t make.
The sun rises out of habit,
and I rise out of spite.
Some days my mind is a broken cathedral,
echoing with sermons I never asked to hear.
Other days it’s a carnival mirror–
every reflection warped
every laugh track broken.
There is a rhythm to the collapse,
a pulse that insists I keep going
even when I want to negotiate my exit
with whatever god still bothers
to read the fine print of my thoughts.
Bipolar dawns come and go:
one morning I am incandescent,
a lighthouse for a ship that will never arrive;
the next I am the ocean floor,
quiet enough to make silence uneasy.
But existence refuses to end on cue.
It drags on with the stubbornness of a bad joke
that no one remembers telling.
And I still stay for the punchline,
not out of hope,
but because even futility has a texture
I’ve learned to hold without breaking.
If there’s any mercy in this world,
it’s that numbness, too, is a kind of shelter.
And on the days when the abyss leans in
as if to whisper a shortcut,
I answer the only way I know how:
Not today.
I’m busy watching the ruins glow.
Tag: bipolar
Covered, But Not Really: My Latest Battle with U.S. Healthcare
I have Medicare. That should mean something, right?
I told my psychiatrist I have Medicare. I’ve seen them before. We’ve talked. I’ve paid my copay. It’s all been fine … until now. Now I’m being told they “don’t take Wellcare.”
What is Wellcare? It’s a Medicare Advantage plan. And if you haven’t had the misfortune of dealing with one of these “advantage” plans, let me explain: they’re private insurance companies that slap a Medicare label on themselves so they can skim government money and give you less coverage in return.
So even though I’m on Medicare, I now owe the full amount for my last visit. And unless I want to cancel my next appointment — which I actually need — I’ll be paying the full amount for that one too. Because apparently “covered” doesn’t mean “covered.” It means “maybe, sometimes, depending on how many loopholes we can find.”
This is what healthcare in America looks like.
You can do everything right. You can make sure you’re insured. You can communicate. You can follow every rule. And still you get blindsided. You get billed. And you’re left scrambling to afford the care you already thought you paid for.
Meanwhile, insurance companies profit off confusion. They profit off denial. They profit off people like me being left in the dark until the invoice hits.
This isn’t just frustrating, it’s designed this way. They make it complicated on purpose. If you get screwed, it’s your fault for “not understanding the network.” If you ask for help, they hand you a phone number and a maze of menus. And if you give up? Great. They win. Less to pay out.
This is not a healthcare system. It’s a profit machine dressed up like one.
And right now, I’m just another cog getting crushed in it.
Waiting for the End
I didn’t ask to be born. I didn’t sign up for this whole “life” thing. I just opened my eyes one day and the clock started ticking. Expectations piled on. Rules I never agreed to. A world I didn’t create.
By now, I’m 38. No spouse. No kids. I still live with my mom. That fact alone makes me feel like I’m not a “real adult,” even though I pay attention to the world, think deeply, and try to be a good person. But none of that matters, right? Not in a world where adulthood is measured by mortgages and marriage licenses.
I look around and feel alien. Tired. Like I missed a train everyone else caught, or maybe I was never invited to the station. People around me post pictures of weddings, kids, vacations, “success.” I sit with the weight of just surviving, and sometimes even that feels impossible.
The truth? I’m tired. Bone-deep tired. I’ve had days where I didn’t want to wake up. Days where I felt like checking out would be easier than dragging myself through one more empty cycle of eat-sleep-repeat. I’ve thought, “what’s the point?” more times than I can count.
I didn’t ask for life. But life was handed to me like a debt I didn’t incur, and now I’m supposed to be grateful just for enduring it.
Still… Somewhere in the middle of all that noise, I told someone how I felt. And I wasn’t met with judgment. I wasn’t told to “cheer up” or “get over it.” I was just heard. And sometimes, that’s enough to get through another day. So maybe this blog isn’t a rallying cry or a solution. Maybe it’s just a flare shot into the dark for anyone else who feels this way. You’re not alone. You’re not a failure. And you don’t have to carry this on your own. I don’t know what comes next. I’m still here, and for now, that’s enough.
Living with Bipolar 2 Disorder
Living with bipolar 2 disorder is a journey I never chose, but one that has shaped me in ways I’m learning to appreciate.
At its core, bipolar 2 is about navigating two very different worlds: hypomania, where energy and ideas flow faster than I can keep up with, and depression, where even getting out of bed can feel impossible. Neither lasts forever, and learning that was the first step toward building a life I actually want to live.
In the past, I thought stability was impossible. When hypomania hits, I’ll race ahead without sleep, full of excitement, and bold plans. When the depression takes over, I’ll crash so hard it feels like nothing will ever get better. It took some time (and a lot of help involving a wonderful psychiatrist and medication) to realize that these cycles don’t define me. They were just part of the landscape I needed to learn to navigate.
Today, things are different. They’re not perfect–never perfect–but better. With the right support, the right tools, and a lot of self-awareness, I’ve found ways to catch the early signs of a shift. I’ve learned how to slow myself down when I start to climb too fast, and how to reach out when I feel myself sinking.
Therapy, medication, and daily routines have been game changers. So having self-compassion, patience, and the courage to admit when I need help. Recovery isn’t about never struggling again, it’s about building a life that can survive the struggles.
There are gifts in this too. Bipolar 2 has made me more creative, more empathetic, more resilient. It’s taught me to appreciate stability when I have it, to savor the small moments of peace, to celebrate progress no matter how small. It’s taught me that healing isn’t a straight line, and that setbacks don’t erase the work I’ve done and continue to do.
Living with bipolar 2 isn’t easy, but it’s not hopeless although sometimes it feels that way and there are days I want to give up. Every day I’m learning more about who I am, and every day I’m choosing, again and again, to keep going.
If you’re struggling: it’s not your fault.
You’re not broken.
And there is a way through.
Maybe not a perfect cure, but a path: messy, winding, but real. And it’s worth walking.
Boredom’s Not a Burden Anyone Should Bear
I wake up every day just like everyone else does that hasn’t passed away the night before, but here recently I’ve done nothing but wake up stressed and anxious. I go to bed stressed and anxious. I have had to take my anxiety meds more and more as of late, which I don’t like. I feel like my skin is crawling most days. I feel like crawling out of my skin. I can’t sit still, I toss and turn in bed, trying to find the most comfortable position. When I do find a position that’s comfortable it doesn’t last long. I have to switch from my left side to my right and then I’m on my back once again with my hands over my chest, fingers interlocked. I was told by a friend of mine when we shared a hotel room together one night that I look like a corpse when I sleep. At least the dead sleep soundly.
New Year’s Eve was an enjoyable night for me. I got to spend it with friends I don’t get to see very often. However, I’m unable to stay up as late as I once was. I think I finally crashed on my friends’ couch around two in the morning. I remember the times before when I was able to stay awake, drink, smoke pot, and talk about virtually anything until nearly six in the morning. Two in the morning is late for me now. I find myself going to bed around 8pm or so these days, sometimes even sooner than that. I’m not even tired when I go to bed. I just have nothing else to do.
I have new books to read to keep me busy right now. I am able to get through several pages some days and others I can’t finish a paragraph before that feeling of wanting to break out of my skin happens once more. I don’t want to be dependent on meds, but they’re the only way I’m able to feel some sense of normalcy. I’m stuck between wanting to do something and wanting to do nothing at all.
Why aren’t we able to just sit and be bored? Why can’t I just lie in bed and be happy that there’s nothing to do, nowhere to go, no obligations to meet? It’s hard for me to go out anymore. I just can’t bring myself to be around other people. New Year’s Eve was an exception. I had a great time with my friends, but there was still that part of me beforehand that was wondering if I was going to change my mind and just stay home and ring in the new year in a slumber. I’m wondering if my meds need to be changed again, but my psychiatrist said she doesn’t like to switch or alter meds during the holiday season. Who knows? Maybe if she went against what she likes doing with her patients then I’d be OK right now.
Then again, maybe I’ll never be OK. The suicidal thoughts aren’t as bad as they once were, but they’re still there. They happen mostly at night, but not always. Sometimes during the day since it’s just me here with nothing to occupy my time and the anxiety that hits me out of nowhere that I just want an out. Yet I press on. I think I’ll press on right now by taking a nap.
Fuck. I’ve only been awake for four hours and I’m already wanting a nap and fantasizing even more about tonight when I get to sleep for 10-12 long hours only to repeat the entire routine all over again the next day.
Sisyphus Shrugged 