Why I Need Therapy

There are days when I am just overflowing with happiness, with creative juices, with the zest for life.

There are days, though, when I just feel like curling into a ball, crying myself to sleep, and wishing never to wake up.

Compared to other people, I have no major issues to speak of. I had a great childhood, I've no angst, and I am not at war with the world. And yet, I choose to pick my scabs so I can bleed, so I can remind myself that I am still alive, albeit, bordering the line of just existing.

It's not that I am not a happy person. I am. I would also like to believe that I have a talent in making other people happy. I am a firecracker, so they say. Never losing energy, always laughing, always in high spirit.

...until something bursts my bubble.

It could be a song that reminds me of my ex. It could be the weather that prevents me from going out with friends, holding me immobile and glued to my bed. It could be the sight of happy couples or carefree children.

To simplify things, I am a self-confessed, non-clinically diagnosed manic-depressive.

For some time, I thought that I was cured of this disorder (for more or less 5 years). But something triggered it and I don't think I need to name it.

You may be thinking that it's only because I was recently heartbroken that I'm swinging from happiness to depression in a snap of a finger.

FALSE.

I've always been a kindred soul since I can remember. I was that kid who listened intently to sad songs, feeling hopeless for a heartbreak that has not yet arrived. I was that teenager who wrote poetries and short stories to a love unknown. I was that 20-year old fresh graduate who stared at the ceiling endlessly at night thinking my life was not how it was supposed to be. And now, I am a twentysomething career woman who works 12 hours a day and drowns 2 hours a night at the thought of ending up alone.

What is important to note, however, is that I am not dishonest with myself. I never pretend to be happy when I'm not.I never incurred the habit of lying, not even to myself. If anyone would ask me if I was fine, I need not come up with a verbal response. They just need to see me, my eyes, and the way I slumped in my chair uncomfortably, and they would automatically know. I am that transparent.

And tonight, I am once again spiralling into the bottomless pit of self-destruction. Of hate. of Anger. Of helplessness and hopelessness. Forgetting how far I've come along. Forgetting the overflowing love I've been receiving.

But only for tonight. Or until this weather clears up.

Because that's the beauty of a self-confessed, non-clinically diagnosed manic-depressive. You always know that things will be better and that you will be happy again.

Until the next bubble bursting.