I live in cycles,
each phase pulling me in a different direction.
When depression comes,
it’s heavy, suffocating—
I can’t move, can’t think,
lost in the weight of my own mind.
Every breath feels like a battle,
every thought like a trap.
Then, the switch flips.
Mania sweeps me off my feet,
and I’m flying—ideas pouring out,
the world feels like it’s mine to conquer.
But it’s not real,
and deep down, I know.
The fall is inevitable,
and it leaves me shattered.
The third phase is the meds.
They flatten the chaos,
keep me steady, keep me safe.
But they take something, too—
the fire, the spark.
I become another face in the crowd,
running a race I never wanted to join.
This is my reality:
a cycle I can’t escape,
a life that shifts between extremes.
It’s messy, exhausting,
but it’s mine to live.
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