Because I AM the maniac: Living with mental illness

Times get tough. Folks get sad. Most days, it's easy to push through, to hold on until the next day and the next. And then there are those times when something just snaps deep inside. Can't think straight. Can't calm down. Can't get my mind to stop racing. I'm moving so slow, better move faster to keep up with the urges, the goals, but it's impossible. I can't keep up. Too much anger, so pissed, so frustrated.

Scream, yell, punch the walls but the pain won't go away. I can't get the feeling to stop, the itch to subside. So I hit the gym, work out for three hours straight, praying for a sense of relief, but there isn't one. Just want to calm down, want to slow down but can't.

The feeling persists. I don't want anyone to know. I don't understand the harmful thoughts and feelings. And if I can't understand them how can I ever tell anyone else about them.

Things get worse. It's time for sleep, but you don't sleep, nope, not anymore. Most nights just lay awake, thinking, replaying, can't sit still, can't calm down. I'm euphoric, on top of the fucking world, but I hate everyone. They're all too slow, moving like sloths. I can't deal. Need to separate. Need to get out. Need to do things that no one knows about. Hurting myself, hurting others. I  can't stop. I'm not in control, the other bitch is, she's confident, she calls the shots and I let her because I'm too weak. I'm lost inside myself.

Two years ago, right before Christmas I lost my shit. And I didn't even know I had lost it. I went something like two weeks without eating or sleeping, and I just remember feeling like my heart was going to beat out of my chest. I wasn't hungry, my stomach didn't growl. I wasn't sleepy, I  wouldn't yawn.

For a long time I just thought I was a superhero ( I actually believed this). I thought that I had some amazing super power that allowed me to work harder without sleeping or eating. And I ignored the itches and the urges, worked through the deep depressions that followed my manic states. So that only those close to me could tell that something was wrong, something just wasn't right with Crystal.

I once wrote an entire novel in two weeks, then turned around and wrote another in three.

I thought I was the shit. No one could touch me. Turns out I'm fucking crazy, and I did all of those things while in a manic state.

They diagnosed me with bipolar disorder and I had another stint in a mental hospital. It made no sense, but it made the most sense. I knew what I was doing wasn't normal, but I'm not in control when I'm manic. And then when I would come down from a manic state the guilt I felt would make me want to cut my skin off with a dull razor blade. But that was then.

Things are far from perfect, but with psychiatric help, medication, and therapy, I've managed to keep a hold on things most days. Stress is a trigger for me. I have to watch for the signs of mania, pay attention to my moods everyday. I have an alarm for sleeping, an alarm for waking up. Too much sleep and I could trigger a depression, too little and the next thing you know I'm bouncing off the fucking walls.

I just need balance and to appreciate myself despite my flaws, despite my illness. We all have obstacles to overcome, some of us have more than others and that's okay. You just have to keep fighting. Get help, because you can't do it on your own, and it's okay to lean on other people sometimes. You don't always have to be strong, you can be vulnerable and people will still love you. I promise.

Things are going to be okay because I am not my mental illness. I will have a life.

Love,
Kris

Writing through Trauma

In life, everyone struggles. We all have times where we can't see the good in the world, where too much trouble and uncertainty has crossed our paths. And in my short life, I've seen more bad than good. The situations and circumstances that have befallen me would make most want to give up, but I'm not about to give up because I have a rare opportunity on this planet to create a life for myself.

I could be bitter about things, internalize my hatred for everyone and blame the world for the trauma I've suffered. I could also say that everything happens for a reason and I'd be destined for something great in the future. But all of those things would be a false hope -- either clinging to one extreme versus the other. No one knows why bad things happen to good people, but I will never stop trying to be good.

I wrote my first book four years ago during my first-ever long term depression. Sorrow clouded my vision. I cried in the shower and in my car on my way to work everyday. I couldn't see past my miserable life, and then suddenly a brilliant idea: why not take your suffering and use it as something that someone, somewhere else could learn from. Why not write to understand what's hurting you and in turn help others to deal with their own hurt.

And just like that my debut novel, Logost, was born. And it wasn't just like that. It took years of writing, re-writing, fixing plot holes rounding out characters, getting themes and motifs to flow perfectly. And I love doing that shit. It was torture for me to write about sexual assault and mental illness. It was torture writing the book in general, but the added fantasy element made it seem more real, if that makes any sense.

Don't be fooled by the magic of the world. Decide for yourself what's real, and if you are so inclined, buy my book and write and review. We can only support each other.

Love,
Kris

You can purchase my debut novel here.