Hello again, dearest readers. It’s been precisely one lunar cycle – four weeks painted in shades of storm-grey and flickering fluorescent – since my last dispatch from this little corner of the web. My absence wasn’t born of exotic travels or thrilling creative blockages (though those have their own peculiar glamour). No, this particular hiatus was orchestrated by the unruly conductor of my own internal symphony: Bipolar Disorder, who decided the current score needed… dramatic revision.
Imagine, if you will, the delicate ecosystem of the mind. Mine, usually a vibrant (if occasionally overgrown) garden, decided to stage a simultaneous hurricane and drought. Welcome to the Mixed State: a place where the frantic energy of mania collides headlong with the leaden weight of depression. It’s less “yin and yang,” more “trying to tango during an earthquake while wearing concrete shoes.” Agitation became my constant companion, a jittery hummingbird trapped behind my ribs. Dizziness turned the world into a poorly calibrated tilt-a-whirl, making even the journey from pillow to kettle feel like traversing the Andes. And the fatigue? Oh, the fatigue was a thick, sweet syrup poured over everything, making thought and movement feel like wading through a dream of treacle.
The culprit, or perhaps the attempted saviour? Medication. The delicate alchemy of brain chemistry requires constant, careful tending. When the old formula lost its potency, whispering promises it could no longer keep, a switch became necessary. And so began the Grand Pharmaceutical Waltz – stepping off one medication and onto another, praying the new partner wouldn’t tread on my synapses too fiercely. The side effects, bless their predictable little hearts, arrived right on cue: more dizziness (adding a delightful sway to my already earthquake-simulator existence), a brain fog denser than Victorian London smog, and a pervasive exhaustion that made napping feel like a competitive sport I was tragically failing at.
For four weeks, I existed in a state best described as “poetically bedraggled.” Picture a slightly stunned owl who’s flown through a car wash, feathers askew, blinking slowly under fluorescent lights. Glamorous? Not particularly. Dignified? Only if you consider clutching a cup of tea for dear life while staring blankly at a wall a regal posture. (I choose to believe it has a certain je ne sais quoi).
There were moments, I confess, when the sheer absurdity of it all broke through. Finding myself intensely debating the philosophical implications of a dust bunny while simultaneously too dizzy to stand up? Pure tragicomedy. Attempting to write a grocery list that devolved into a surrealist poem about avocados yearning for the sea? A definite low (or high?) point. You learn to laugh, a dry, cracked chuckle, because the alternative is… well, heavier than the lead-lined bones the fatigue bestows.
So, why break the silence now? Because the fog is ever so slightly lifting. The new chemical tides are, perhaps, beginning to find their rhythm. The dizziness has downgraded from “epic sea voyage” to “gentle rocking chair.” The agitation is less caged lightning, more a mildly over-caffeinated squirrel. The fatigue? Let’s call it a persistent, but negotiable, houseguest for now.
I missed this space. I missed you. I missed weaving words together, even if my brain felt like it was knitting with wet spaghetti. But sometimes, the most profound poetry is written in the margins of survival, in the quiet act of enduring. Sometimes, showing up simply means whispering, “I’m still here,” even when your voice feels rusted shut.
This isn’t a triumphant return, trumpets blaring. Consider it more a tentative wave from the shore after a rough swim. I’m still stitching myself back together with tea, patience, and the dark humour that blooms like nightshade in difficult soil. The garden of my mind is still recovering from the tempest, but green shoots are stubborn things.
Thank you for your quiet presence during my quiet month. Your patience is a balm. Normal(ish) poetic service will resume… just as soon as I convince this squirrel in my chest to take a nap and the world stops its gentle, persistent sway.
With ink-stained fingers and a slowly steadying heart,
Your (Slightly Wobbly, But Still Standing) Poet
P.S. If you too dance with complex mental weather, know this: resting isn’t disappearing. Changing course isn’t failing. And sometimes, the bravest poem is the one you write simply by getting through the day. Be gentle with yourselves, fellow travellers. The world needs your unique, resilient light, even when it flickers.