“ How High The Sky, How Deep The Sea “
An
Ode To Those Who Suffer From Bipolar Disorder, I & II. And, Especially For Those Family Members And/or
Friends Who Simply Cannot Seem To Understand The Gravity Of Your Illness.
( impressions of a friend’s personal odyssey )
As
always, to my dear and wonderful friends, and ever-kind and constant readers.
08/20/13
I once asked my dear and loving friend
to explain, ‘Bipolar II’, to me.
And in a quiet, contemplating voice, he spoke of
errant, mood-cycled tortures without end
and, sighing, he replied, “ How high the sky, how
deep the sea.”
As subtle as the slightest loss of sleep
gives ‘way to a guarded, tightly-coiled emotion,
I rush heedlessly to appointments I must keep; my
mind is lighter than before with every, transient notion.
My ordered, ‘safe’, and normalized routine
is not enough to keep me, and I begin to crave
escape,
into some greater, much less dependable scene,
that would—in going out each night—find me more
happy, and elate.
Unsatisfied with my usual attire,
my accustomed clothes depresses...
I pull from hangers shirts and pants,
while hoping—something—will inspire,
and when caught sight of, suitably impresses.
I anger at the slightest thing
And jump at every sudden noise.
But, where’s my watches, chains and rings ?
While searching for that ‘right’ cologne
whose aroma never cloys.
Soon, I reject old friends to seek
some new,
more entertaining crowd
to pass a boring, tiresome week;
their jokes just irritate, although I find I laugh
too loud.
I’m filled—now—with energy and joy that dares to
chase the sun.
In my car I drive for hours and hours
outracing everyone.
Ablaze, on fire, each night, no matter where I went,
in such euphoria, happy, now, one never stops and
thinks;
the more my popularity soared, the more I spent
in buying ALL the House round, after round of
drinks.
Whenever barely hungry, I shoved-through that noisy,
sweating crowd as best I could,
to random, eat by handfuls, buffet hors d’oeuvres,
the kind that sometimes upscale places serves,
it, nonetheless negated all my need for food.
Amid that thousand, painted nameless faces, now,
each my ‘new best friend’,
for I was crowned as King in all these places
while I still had cash to spend
Oh…of all those frenzied, half-remembered nights,
as seen through an alcoholic daze, and smoke-filled
eyes…
the mingled laughter, singing; of conversations
impossible to hear, the distant argument, the petty fights,
could scarce be heard about the music with its
compelling beat, for I was ‘free’ and danced, and danced, until—at closing
time—the music dies.
Until the wild dancing, flashing lights had finally
stopped,
and like unhappy, penitents to the exit door were
led.
But first, the mounting tabs had to be paid, as change
and sodden bills upon the wetness of the bar were dropped,
and still the party gathered, and I had no thought
of bed.
There always was another place to go, and so
we staggered down darkened, secret streets to some
new, scary place instead,
down dangered streets and alleyways no one should
ever go,
we passed where one or two or three had fallen down;
where not a few had vomited.
To try to carry on, this time to some raunchy place
where freely flowed both drugs and alcohol,
while off in darkened corners deals were made.
And I admit I freely sampled all,
yet, in my full-flung manic phase, not once was I
afraid.
All through that noisy, endless night, I reigned as
King,
though—in truth—I had long-forgotten where I had
left my car.
I winnowed-through my courtiers, those still
standing, who could dance and sing,
I brought them back to the elegance of my hotel
room, as, it wasn’t very far.
They fell about me one by one in that glittered,
high-priced room;
and lay about like damaged dolls, without a face or
name,
their party masks askew, revealed a saddened sight
among the gloom,
And suddenly, in my exhausted state, I felt a stab
of fear that, could I be the same?
I hurried packed my bags and left, too chilled and
tired to be alone.
I then began a long and desperate drive that—in time—would
bring me home.
This cycle slows with my stumbling through the door
of where I lived.
A silent and accusatory air awaits me as I weakly
climb the stairs, my belongings dropped carelessly in the hall.
I had soiled my finest clothes, and gave away, or
sold, or had stolen all my chains and rings, arriving home at early dawn,
wanting to be full forgived.
As I drop my sodden, and odiferous clothes, I only
want to sleep, and sleep is all.
My memory’s an echo now, of how very close to danger
one can get.
I crawl most gratefully into my bed, and pull the
coverlets like a shroud about my head, piled soft, with my familiar pillows
there.,
And slowly, I forget
That in my reckless wanderings, and the many risks I
took, I could have been hurt, arrested, over-dosed, or dead…although…at the
time, I never seemed to care.
Although I cannot, cannot think yet of tomorrow,
I know that the opposing cycle will soon have me
depressed,
days of despairing will appear, all to my sorrow,
and this ‘bottoming-out’ to nothingness.
In a way, I miss parts of that other side of me,
while, granted, not as manic, for a while, I had an
easy laugh, and knew some daily joy.
Somewhere between the peaks, to live as others
do—perhaps—some seventy-five percent, that, lasting be
achieved by all that medication, and therapy employ.
For someday, someday, someday I hope to be as free,
from all the agonies of, “How High The Sky, How Deep The Sea.”
Beginning
or, End?
To
my dear, and precious friends who suffer mightily from Bipolar Disease, please,
please know that—in setting it into verse—in NO way do I mean to trivialize or
diminish your pain and agony, or, cyclic loss of control. My heart—in point of fact—goes out to you.
Please
know that I think of you so very often, and that I love you dearly.
‘Zahc'/Charles
