Goodbye Commander

"Today's the day I change." I wrote in my journal for what seemed like the hundredth time as the sticky summer heat subsided into crisp fall air. I usually write this when I begin to feel a certain way. It's nothing the antidepressants or a distraction can fix. It could be circumstantial as I haven't spent as much time with my friends, and first semester is already kicking my ass, but I should be happy...right? Days are starting to seem like a chore which makes me wonder..."Is my life a chore?" Thinking deeper about this my life is a chore. This feeling mimics the seasons, worsening in winter. Then spring comes and life seems happier. Summer is the best. I’m at my peak and as content as can be. Then fall comes and there it is. That feeling. It's hard to describe feelings in words, but this one is gut wrenching. It's not depression or a mental disorder. It's almost like a reality check. That glorious feeling of happiness diminishes. It's a closing scene, the end of a chapter, the season finale. It makes me feel as though I've taken my jubilation for granted. 

The earliest recollection of this feeling was Christmas with my father. It's funny because it wasn't a cold Christmas day, it was a humid Florida Christmas. The atmosphere was almost ironic. Holiday season is the most wonderful time of the year, but that year it felt like a competition. It seemed like he was trying to outdo my mom. Telling me I would have more fun if I lived with him. Always speaking so negatively of her as if they weren't together before.

Another time I remember the feeling was a cold November after school. My grandma and I had been in the midst of a passive aggressive argument for days prior. I never understood what I did wrong, It just seemed like she took everything out on me. No matter what I did or how much I tried to be there for her it was never enough. She made a snarky remark. she has a way with words, always finding a way to get under my skin. I snapped back. I head inside but she doesn't follow. Two minutes pass, then five. She enters without a word. Then like the gates of hell have been set open she doesn't hold back. Her words pierce through my heart like a sharpened arrow. She tells me to get the fuck out, that she hopes to god she kills herself. The feeling set in my gut, It wasn't going away. My stomach churned with every step I took away from the house. I called my therapist. I called my mom. But regardless I knew she would spindle a spiderweb of lies to make me be at fault. I was right. A week after changes occurred. I lost trust in my family for a long time afterwards. It's taken two years to pick up the broken pieces.

 The most memorable case of this feeling was my birthday. I had been on and off with this girl for about a year. It was toxic but I didn't care. I really loved her, and my bipolarity made her my drug. For better or for worse something happened and it changed the way I saw her forever. There was denial. And then that funny feeling came back. This is why I say this feeling is like a reality check. It hit me like a bus. It felt like the universe had given me one too many signs and I chose to remain naive and ignore each and every red flag presented to me. The day after I blocked her I woke up and did 50 push-ups. 

I pick up my pen and continue to write. I write until my hand cramp is unbearable. I plan a thorough schedule. Rigorous. My life seems so out of control so I micro-manage the only thing in my power. My mind is like a lion waiting to be fed. It starts small. When I wake up. When I eat. What I eat. My steps. Then it grows hungrier wanting more. If I choose to talk today, If I can even leave my bed. 

The feeling comes with a voice. A commander if you will. He tells me how to act. He's strict. I feel like he would judge me if I don't act accordingly. He reminds me of my grandmother. I'm the feeling's puppet just like once ago I was hers. It's all an act. I deserve some type of Oscar for this. He becomes a person. My favorite person if you will. He becomes personified. It's bittersweet to be around him. I feel childlike, having a protector make choices, but I seem to grow as he settles. I want independence. 

The rest of the week is a blur. I change my routine, thoroughly planned of course. I lose interest in visibly everything. There's one thing on my mind. That feeling. That newfound feeling of control fades to captivity. I'm in a cage. At this very moment I am in too deep, but I regain the clarity to think for myself. I want out, but I can't. 

Reaching out for help is the hardest part. It makes me feel weak. Reluctantly, I pick up the phone and message my therapist. I haven't talked to her in a couple of weeks after reassuring her that I am okay. After a semi-formal greeting I apologize. I don't know if I'm apologizing to her or myself. "I'm sorry for not reaching out." I type. I reread to make sure I'm not bullshitting her then hit send. Almost immediately I receive a reply. The next day I'm sitting on the floral couch in her office. She sits on the wine red chair in front of me with a motherly aura. I count the tiles on the ceiling like I have done for the last 7 years. there's 5 rows of them. I count them one last time before meeting her kind gaze. I breathe in and out. I'm scared the feeling won't let me speak. I let it all out. through tears and hyperventilation I cry for help. The cage shatters showering me in glass.

 The following weeks are a recovery period, in which my life slowly regains consistency. And as the leaves begin transition from green to auburn I sit down to write again. the words "I am free." bleed onto the paper. Goodbye commander. Until we meet again.