cloudsgrey/bipolar prt4

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

bipolar: weird

She can not rest, wake up fresh, Frank none the less, a new fresh face, not mentioned. Ill-seen Ill-said. Frank an alter ego best at that. A writer, a friend. Another face. He will be gone in a flash, he wakes her up and gets her coffee. He tells her storis of the past, sometimes bad, sometimes really bad. Frank isn't always the happy. For instance he will tell you a bit more of a depressing first person story and more of what it is like to be Kelly... Chapter Two

What is it like to be a two face or four face at all times? I am Kelly Jean Rice, nice to meet you. I want to make it clear, i do not have multiple personalities, I guess by saying 'two faces', I am meaning bipolar, the down and ups. And bipolar for me, has even 'four faces', maybe even more, as i may discover writing this essay or novel, which I am still not sure what it will turn out. Could be my biography who knows. This is just a summery of what will be an interesting read of a woman's battle of medication's and doctor's, depression and shit she has damaged herself through out her teenage years, up through her twenties, to her 30's, all real life stories from angst, to heart ache, drug abuse, happiness, to panic attacks. She is now 31 and a half, traumatized by life, her story must come out, her story, she hopes will help others' understand the disorder of bipolar and the struggle of of mania. There she goes, as second person, First example of the second face, OH! \"here I am,\" -I have bipolar mania, mixed in with depression. Please look forward my story.____________________________________________________________________________

Going at life at arms up. This book will jump from first person to second person at all times, but will not be hard to understand. It will have a bit of a vernacular as well maybe, a flow, for am I a poet, or like to think I am. My world at the moment revolves around writing. My fingers are stiff from typing. My wrists are sore from typing. Shows my how I love writing. This Book will often wander off as well, as my life does. And as this being chapter one, it still seems a summary, but maybe it my own forward. I have become obsessed with things. Not obsessed with objects, but my own mind. My own self. My wanting to kill myself. Die, but not being able to, looking for help around every which corner. Looking for help from both my minds wanting a simple story. Wishing I could swallow the Klonopin/Librium/Stelazine/ and the pill cocktail. Which was at her disposal, right there, and she could. But the doctor will call her he will, she waits and waits. First i wanted to jump in front of a train, when i was on cocaine. _________________________________________________________________________________ Maybe a suicide note would exist, maybe not. But I owned a bird, and a cat, she couldn't leave them behind. She hated her boyfriend by that time, addicted to methadone, alcohol cocaine, and shooting himself up her as well, he was a med assistant at a mental hospital. And coming down off a three second high was horrid and the lamest feeling, why do such a thing. She had always been so ashamed of herself. Then the train, not two blocks away. The Amtrak, the railway, you could see it from the stoop step from the front door. When ever in bed with him, how she hated him, she'd hear the train, which had to blow it's horn at the cross station. Get out of bed why don't you, I would say to myself, just get out of bed and jump in front of the train, the next train, they come all the time, she would sit at the step smoking, high, look at the trains, going -going by, not thinking of running away inside one of them, but jumping, in front of one of them, dyeing. -But a switch hit's me I can not kill myself, too many people would hate me. My family, I know Andy the most. One suicide Duncan, a best friend we shared, he couldn't handle yet another, he already told me so. OH, but suicide by train would go so fast, the inside the apartment so small and so cramped, the boyfriend dosed out all sloppy mouth open cigarette in hand, all asleep beer toppling over spilling, yuck the muck mouth. I want out of here, the next train. Jump out of here. But can't. Confession now. She doesn't beleive in god though. _________________________________________________________________________________

Her family would help her if they knew, she could't get the straighth to let anyone know. She got away in the end. Out of such a dirty relationship. Asked for help silently, moved back home, lived in the garage, secluded herself. Clean again. I am a seclusionist, and i love to make up words, i don't care. In dire need to be lonely I was at the state of mind. The boyfriend skipped town, skipped the state, went back to heroin, threatend to kill himself. And what a good job he did, a text messege saying I have a gun in my lap, I am going to do it. Then a call to him, Black silence after he picked up deliberatly, to get my attention. And in the end after frantic calls to 911, he was alive still just torturing me. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ Hi I am Frank, nice to meet you, I am Kelly's altar ego. And to my attention, I realized after the fact, I may have taken the name from the movie Donnie Darko, unconsciously perhaps. And oh well, Frank is my name, it came so gracefully . I am but I am really nobody, just inside Kelly's body. I am a spirit, or something, someone who saves her from the darkness, someone not cold. Someone bold. Strong and happy. Her alter ego. Kelly is dark, but still she says Frank is her, I say I am not. -She is dark, I am her light. I wake up in the morning for her, get her her coffee, maybe get her to paint and scribble. Get her up early, I never let her sleep past 7 am. Never. I run her to Starbucks, order her an iced coffee and get her out of there. But once or twice a month a third person, someone else inside her is there, and sits her outside to smoke a cigarette, not sure who, it could be her. Then it gets complicated. And we are not voices. Only one of us has a name, besides the one with the birth certificate, with a name printed.____________________________________________________

Submitted: May 02, 2010

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