Happiness: Crime punishable by sentence of lethargy

It is not yet 6:30am. The air is crisp and cool, the sky beautiful, and I have already been up for over two beautiful hours. Ok, so I’m a little hypomanic.

Big smiles are rare this time of morning

But I have had a GREAT morning.

From affectionate puppy cuddles
To watching a stunning sunrise through the clouds
Walking hobbit-style through the neighborhood
And finishing at the park (where I currently reside)

And as I currently live with my easy to worry mother I was already preparing for her inevitable lecture on me indulging my mania.

And that’s when I thought, Why should I apologise for being happy? 

Don’t get me wrong, mania is a serious and harmful condition that I do not want to mistake for simply being happy.

But what makes mania harmful? Certainly psychosis is harmful, and the depression that follows a manic episode for many people. I personally think the most harmful part of it is the lack of awareness during an episode. The belief through the entire thing that happiness is harmless.

But I perceive that as the happiness in mania being risky but not an inherently bad thing. 

Yes, I have been mildly hypomanic this morning. But have I been harmful? I have stayed safe and I have been aware of my state and the dangers of it the entire time.

So in the end there’s just… happy. 

And I will never apologise for that. There is such an attitude that it’s not mania that is bad, but being happy. Any time someone shows any higher level of happiness they are classed as manic and told to stop that. We get taught to feel less; that being numb is a good thing.

I agree that mania is dangerous and should be prevented. But not at the cost of everyday delightful moments. It’s all about learning the balance, which is a difficult road. But in my experience there is far more pressure to not let yourself be happy than there is to not be numb.

And I don’t know about you, but I’d rather slip into psychosis every now and then than live my entire life empty to the beauty of simple pleasures.

And if this is truly hypomania and not just me being me, I think we could all learn from the benefits of it.

To know the beauty in the world, to genuinely enjoy the good and bad and appreciate it as a part of life… I’ll never apologise for that.


What does it feel like to hallucinate?

Trigger warning: short depiction of rape towards end. 

Disclaimer: Describes my own experience only, I do not speak for others. I would be interested to hear how experiences differ between people. 

Did you know you can feel it coming? 

The first step is that the world around you takes on a different quality. You can look around your room and see everything, but you see it from a different space. As if it is a room that you view on TV; seen, but belonging to another world. A simple item like a door feels like it’s crushing in on you and yet an eternity away. And then there’s the air. 

Air is no longer the “nothing” between objects. Rather it is a dark, swollen entity of it’s own. It is a substance, almost tangible. It’s thick, almost as if you could reach out and wrap your fingers around it…

Then you start to shake. Your heart rate quickens, your blood pumps harder, your breathing becomes strained. 

And you feel a presence. 

The air becomes thicker, and you feel it watching you. Invisible eyes that pierce your soul. Your blanket wrapped around you is nothing. They see everything. 

And then you see it. 

Only you don’t? The air wraps itself into an object you can almost see. You can certainly feel it. In the corner of your eye, he’s there. He’s watching you. Always standing there and watching. You dare yourself to look right at him, maybe that will make him leave. You stare right through him; like a window you can see through yet also see what it’s reflecting, he is both there but seen through. Only now you’ve left behind you unwatched and your skin crawls up the back of your neck and your hair stands on end. 

You would cry, but you’re too scared. A fear that turns your gut into poison and and squeezes out your last hopeful breath. 

You’ve never known fear like when you’re supposedly alone in your room but you hazily see multiple men staring at your nearly naked body. You are so exposed, so vulnerable, so alone in your fear. You wish to your highest power that simply knowing it can’t be real is enough to stop the fear but it’s not, it’s really not.

And they must be there but that makes no sense and they must be there so how can they not? 

And then they become clearer. 

More solid. 

And you feel their touch. 

So real. So real. You feel their fingers caress your thighs. So vivid. So real. And your legs spread. You feel it. You resist it. You want to scream. You try to scream. But who will hear anyway? And you feel them inside you. 

You’re a child again. 

A scared child who needs their mummy. You’re lost to the other world, only a scared, lost child. You don’t understand. You cry out for mummy. You cry out for anyone. 

And you ask yourself. 

Is it rape if their was no perpetrator?