phantom

Bipolar disorder is a gift sometimes. Depression is what I struggle with mostly, but sometimes an overwhelming feeling of passion overcomes me. If I’m lucky, the result is something written or drawn worth of holding onto. Today I drove down the road with my chest ablaze. I turned the music up loud to block out the noise, and I held onto my shirt to keep my heart from bursting through.

When this disorder was new to me, my fear of the impending despair that would soon follow the flames would snuff them out. I eventually learned to hold onto the passion as long as it allowed itself to manifest, and I learned to make the most of the good moments and especially the great ones. I’ve been told that I inspire passion in other people in a variety of ways, but its not me doing the inspiring. I am at the mercy of this illness that only a handful of people know I fight.

Writing helps, but when the words don’t come, my fingers itch for a different kind of keys. My insides resonate with piano chords in a way that writing can’t. I don’t hear the music, I become it. I’ve mentioned this to other musicians, and they say they feel the same. I don’t have a piano anymore, and I fear this flame will burn clean through me without one. Today, I am settling for the keys connected to this screen, but the screen remains lifeless. I envy writers who have a greater gift for wordcraft. What power they have over people like me and, if they are anything like me, over themselves. I haven’t felt that power in a long time, but I hear it knocking. Knocking, knocking, this incessant phantom knocks. Tapping at my chamber door, it is.

. . . . . .