Contrast Conflict

I’m trying to stem the violent onslaught of chest pounding palpitations that seems to plague me of late. Fraught with worry, the number of cardiac appointments, trips to Accident and Emergency and countless tests later, yield no physical issue with my ticker. If not physiological, then what? Can the electrical impulses between my synapses, trigger my flight responses? Am so anxious, I’m blind to the trigger? Is it you, it, or them? Hell, could it be me?! My heart is going to explode and I die a sudden death. These episodes can last for hours; inducing a sweat and panic teasing me, reminding me of my own mortality, threatening an early inevitability. I do everything within my power to try and calm them. Take hot baths, read, watch films, nap if I have to; the aim of the game is relaxation. Do the things I love to rid my mind of all things that cause me anxiety and stress. Love myself, being kind and listening when my body is telling it needs a respite. Fall into the bubblegum plush realms of serenity, drinking the nectar of calm, chased with the pills of happiness that promise to change my brain chemistry for the better. You are enough; dressed in credibility and inspiration. Strong and resilient armed with intelligence, taking on all the battles to leave the world better than you found it. The medicated rose tints take 4-6weeks to take affect. I anxiously wait for the weeks where it feels different, hoping for invincibility. Where, I know I’m alive because of external stimulation like, good music, good food and company and not the unconscious function of my autonomic nervous system.

I write to distract from what feels like an acid fulled drum and bass track reverberating through my body. With each beat, I pulsate achingly from head to chest, the bass drum peddle thumping furiously on my sternum, fracturing it more and more with every forceful beat. I take deep breaths. Slowly. 5 counts inhaling and exhaling to stop the pins and needles in my feet, tingling in my arms and pulse waves over my body. My frowned brow, I relax by lolling my head 360 degrees to relieve the tension. I focus on the white noise coming from my speakers, desperately trying to shut the countless voices in my head chanting the devil’s narrative. It’s safe in my space of negativity; the predictability of self worthlessness and self hate is comforting. It hates without prejudice or discrimination. Like being wrapped in a blanket of spikes, puncturing your skin. The further they drive into my flesh, the more pain is released, bettering its ability to coat my skin, my body and centre my place in a world that hates my black skin, my sexuality and mental health. I confirm this hate actively. Only the most defecated walls smeared with violent disdain of my being is enough to satiate my hunger of self loathing. I deserve the pain, living in it’s misery attracting psychological anarchy, narcissistically creating my own circle of hell. Hell is hot and I was made for the heat.

In the cool shade, lemonade filled white haven, I’m not wanted here. “I have a dream” will stay confined to the realm of wistful sleep and imagination. No one really cares. Learn that and navigate your existence with it. It’s my new amour, lacquered with the blood of my pain, polished with your hate. My razor sharp articulation is misunderstood as remedy, readiness to be 110% myself. I am 10% myself, under my own crushing weight of expectation, failing myself as the years pile on, the obstacles grow more difficult, energy waning, until I reach my grave.

My bipolar needs my caring and patient attention, I won’t trust you with my prized possession.