Painting and writing, drawing and building. The creativity flows thoughtlessly throughout my body. My fingertips create lovely scenes on canvas. My mind chooses all the right words to dictate into paper. My pencil guides me as I draw Disney characters like my life depends on it. My eyes envision and create stunning websites and marketing flyers. I can do anything with my creativity.
Until it’s killed. Murdered in cold blood. Left lifeless thrown in an alley, getting ate up by stray cats. Yes, that’s exactly what happens. My medicine kicks in and suddenly all the bad habits are gone, like spending money and racing thoughts and hallucinations, but with the disappearance of them, they steal my creativity.
I’m struggling now to find the words to describe such a loss. A week ago, the words would have came with ease. They would have spilled onto the page without my brain even registering it.
I struggle at work now, designing drab marketing flyers, that I hate. I have no new ideas.
So do I continue with these meds or do I get my creative juices back. For some it’s a simple decision. But for me, with a husband and kids, it’s not so cut and dry. People are depending on me. Leaning on me and looking up to me.
Bipolar is a very selfish illness and I have been fighting the urge to make myself happy this past week. Having my creativeness back would make me happy, for the moment. Although I know it would spiral and soon it wouldn’t be enough. It’s hard to let go of something that makes you feel so good. But ultimately, I have to look at the big picture.
My creativity has died.