New Years Hell.

WARNING: THIS STORY IS VERY GRAPHIC AND MAY BE EXTREMELY DISTURBING TO PEOPLE SUFFERING FROM MENTAL ILLNESS.

It’s that dreaded time of year again. My memories, chaotic at the best of times, are a jumble of actual, fictional and hugely distorted. Why does New Year's Eve always elicit these thoughts? It’s a rhetorical question, of course, because on this day, ten years ago, New Year's Eve was the nightmare to rival all nightmares. Where my baby sister, at the tender age of eleven, chose to end her life.

I have vivid recollections of when I was so manic that I felt that I drove Molly to her own brand of madness, which led to her checking out for good. Guilt washes over my memories like a bucket of ice-cold water!

What did I do? 

I rapid cycled through Christmas and a whole two weeks of mixed state Bipolar, unable to sit still for more than five minutes, irritable, confused, aggressive and hyperactive. Falling into the depths of despair and then bouncing back up to the sky, it seemed, over and over again.

When eventually I crashed, it took three months of ECT and hospitalisation to emerge exhausted and embarrassed at my behaviour. Whatever memories my mind retained of this time were thoughts of mania in a mixing bowl, followed by an impenetrable blackness.

Molly was very anxious about my erratic behaviour, and she had confided in me that she feared that she had inherited the same genes that drove me to madness.

She was an intelligent kid and hung on to my every word. Try as I might shield her from my crazy world, she picked up on every expression, every mood flip and every dark outburst I tried unsuccessfully to repress. 

Last night I had the dream again. Well, it’s a nightmare, so dark it makes me want to vomit. It’s always the same. Intense, violent and uncontrollable… And it always starts in the same manner. I’m drifting off to sleep, my fingers twitching slightly at first, and then my brain goes into meltdown.

Oh my God… Why does it always have to be like this? So sick of feeling sad... Why always me... Not you… Never you!

Screaming, I see visions of my younger sister flashing before me as she steps off the platform into the path of the train. Blink and the picture is gone!

Replaced by… What?... What the?... 

Falling, tumbling, shape-shifting… Down a colossal funnel… 

Almost like being in an elevator… Horrific visions of times gone by, flashing before my eyes.

Sliding down the slippery slope… Descending into madness!

Tenth floor…  Slicing my arm with a shiny screw… A screw Goddam it!

Ninth floor... Lying in a pool of blood... So black… This red, black blood.

Eighth floor… In slow motion, yet the elevator hasn't decelerated.

The medic is stitching up my arm... Trying hard not to hold eye contact with me.

Molly... Molly... I can see you, don't go... Let me come with you.

Seventh floor... A small white coffin slowly lowers into the ground as I internalise my sorrow.

Sobbing... Molly, Molly... Don't go!

Sixth floor... After the funeral, at Mamma’s enormous, opulent house... I hate it there.

Fifth floor… Who are all these false people?

Sorry for your loss…  Sorry for your loss.

Fourth floor... No, you’re not… I’m screaming. You didn't even know her… She was just a baby, only eleven years old...

Third floor… Nameless faces sans eyes, staring at me… They didn't know my little sister, Molly.

Second floor... It's all your fault... “ Mamma quietly hisses these words into my face, and I inhale the hate... The profound loss... The poisonous accusations!

She's lost her baby!

First floor… Empty, almost catatonic, I feel like I'm the one embalmed… Made ready…

I am dragging Mamma’s dressmaking shears down my arm until the black, red blood spurts into the air!

Fascinated… I sit and stare. No embalming fluids, then!

Drip, drip, drip! Plop, plop, plop… Blood is now puddling around me.

Ground floor... The medics are waiting… Hands, arms, holding me down. A sharp sting and I descend into the hole again… Into darkness.

I wake up much later with a heavy head… An even more laden heart.

Jesus… What did I do this time?

Lying stretched out in a hospital bed, with bandaged arms, wrists bound to the cot sides, ankles shackled to the bed frame.

Like a freight train, it comes rushing back. Molly is - really gone - and it's - all - my fault!

Molly mimicked everything big sister did... But she was better at it.

She fucking did it!

A colossal sob builds up in my chest again, like a heart attack. I am screaming, pounding!

Why can't I finish it off? Someone always… Rescues me!

Don't they know I want to be with Molly?

Bipolar is a bitch… Spending half my time high as the moon and far too erratic to kill myself. The other half is so depressed I feel like I’ve dived off the top diving board…  

Taking an age to reach the bottom of the pool…

Then fighting the urge… To surge back to the surface… Yet emerge gasping and spluttering.

The black dog, hot on my heels, howls at the moon!

From the ceiling… Watching myself talking to the shrink...

I want to die… Sobbing…

Please let me die, give me some drugs. I can't take any more… Euthanise me! Give me the green needle. You gave it to the dog… What about me?

The sobbing increases; I can't breathe.

Calmly he hands me a paper bag… he instructs me to breathe in and out of the bag to slow my breathing.

“LIAR!!!!!”

Sitting on the ground with little square, soft blocks raining down onto my head. Plop... Plop... Plop... Glancing up, I see they have turned into blobs of black, red blood. Plop… Plop… Plop.

It’s… Coating my eyeballs… Everything, veiled in red… 

Running down my face… A river of black, red blood, now trickling down my arms…

So much blood... Oh my… It’s no longer dripping on me.

My belly is ripped open, and my slippery intestines are spilling out… Curiously I push them back in... But they refuse to go...

Push, push… And suddenly, they are sucked up as if by a vacuum cleaner.

Wait... Spilling out of my mouth... Slippery, bloody and I can't push them back in.

I am choking, gagging, so I yank them out, yards and yards of velvety, bloody intestines…

Desperately, I pick up Mamma’s scissors and snip them off...

Oh my God - what have I done?

I've cut my intestines out! Picking up a cup of water, I sip from the vessel… I watch it gurgling out through the hole in my belly, flushing out the blood clots that have formed…

Fascinating!

Whoosh… Back in my seat opposite the shrink, body intact.

Jeez, I hate Bipolar. At times I don't know whether I’m high or low, rapid cycling, or mixed state... My mind is not to be trusted.

Unable to recall essential facts without quickly jotting things down.

Rushing from the shrink's office in tears. He invites me to stay a few minutes to regain my composure, but I have to get out…

My car... Where did I leave my car? Then I see it… The giant yellow orb atop, like a beacon…

Silently, visually beckoning to me.

A fleeting moment of sanity… Maybe I shouldn't drive like this!

What the hell… Jumping into my chariot, my bipolar brain decides to take charge… A trip down the coast! Off I go, radio turned up full bore, I'm high as a kite.

How do I get so high?... I don't use drugs…

I'm high on life!... Chuckling to myself.

Why then am I crying?... Oh God, I can't stand this anymore.

Entering the freeway, I've quickly zoomed up to 180 kilometres an hour... And I'm singing and laughing... And crying…

What's happening to me?… I scream to the sky.

Rapid cycling!

Do I want to die?

Yes... No... Maybe.... Not today, and I slow down to a more respectable 100.

Through the fog, it occurs to me to wonder why I am not in a hospital.

Because we are good at hiding our symptoms… Aren’t we fellas? Glancing at the silent holograms in the back seat.

Laughing… Crying… I don't want to do this anymore! Help me, please someone.

There’s so much stuff racing around inside my head that I’m defragmenting.

More stuff in... More pops out the other side. Push it back in, and again out, it pops.

Please help me! Screaming… Take the stuff out of my head!

Arriving home some three hours later, I gobble down some food, then bolt down some more for good measure. Medication equals ravenous hunger unless I fall asleep before I get the urge to eat and beat the need. Lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, I reflect on all of the emotions I’m experiencing today… Happy, sad, scared, invincible, drowning, empty, high, low, labile… Sometimes all at once… It messes with your head!

Oh, Bipolar, my constant companion, I hate your guts!

Arriving home, I call my Shrink and disclose honestly how I felt this morning.

Do you see the apartments across the road?... About 30 stories high. By following someone else into the building to gain access, I could catch the lift to the highest floor. They won't allow people onto the roof anymore for obvious reasons...

Giggling nervously, slightly embarrassed. I'd knock on the door, and before they could work out what's happening... I’d push past them and swan dive off the balcony.

Do you think I would die if I jumped from that height?…  Blinking, coming back to our chat.

There’s a bloody outline of my body on the ground below the apartments.

I visualise my shrink… Shaking his head sadly as he utters his familiar words. I'd like you to come to the hospital for a few days.  

It's never a few days… More like a few weeks, sometimes months... But I can't take any more, and I need someone to take the stuff out of my head.

My poor, battered head hurts.

I realise that I have packed a bag today already. So why can't I just ask for help? To ask for help, though, is to relinquish any power I have left over my ravaged mind and body.

This hellish illness controls, who I am, whenever it sees fit…

Take the medication!… Everyone’s a shrink!

What about the breakthrough symptoms? 

So many times, I have demanded a divorce from my beloved husband. He talks about my mental illness like an expert and can divulge my symptoms to whoever…

His lovely sane life, entirely separate from mine! All of his work, recreation, and community activities are utterly different to mine.

It hurts… I feel so alone.

He discusses my mood swings like they’re a joke… To people otherwise unknown to me… Then wonders why I don't want to socialise with these people!

Bipolar is the visitor you hate to encounter…

The family member you dread dropping by…

The insidious beast we all learn to hate…

It’s exhausting, confusing, sad…

And so lonely…

HAPPY NEW YEAR!