Cyclothymia

Feeling alive is often difficult for me to feel. Pockets of it come and the feeling can be immense. When I think about my friends and family, the ones I cuddle and kiss hello and goodbye, the ones who truly get me and allow me to be myself, my hands start to tingle. Their impact I can feel and that feels great. Often though, I don't feel much of anything, like being given general anaesthetic for life. I know the feeling of being alive though. Blood rushing through my veins, being able to feel every inch of my skin, feeling the air flow through my eyelashes, the hair on the back of my head bristling. It feels like I would burst rainbow unicorn dust over everything. It gives me the power to conquer everything I ever dreamed of. I ruminate on all my dreams; I want wealth, I want power, I want love. Feeling alive is to be happy, and these will make me happy right? That relationship with THE person will make me happy right? I am hopeful the creases can be ironed out this time. It will work! We will fall madly in love and this is the fairly tale life has been waiting to give me. My happiness depends on us. We need this to work. But it's ok, it will work, because I feel very optimistic. My mind would revisit other times I felt absolutely incredible and I would do anything within my power to recreate it.

I skydived in Honolulu Hawaii 2007. The experience was like nothing I have ever felt before. My second stint of camp had closed up for the summer. I had made some new friends along the way this year and it was a tough summer looking after these kids. A lot of things went wrong. The repercussions of surprise promotions, coaches almost going off the side of cliffs and 36hour shifts had taken it's toll. (I will go into more detail with this camp episode in later posts). A group of 12 us had arranged to go on holiday. Our stops were to: Los Angeles, Maui Hawaii and finally stopping in New York to catch our returning flights home. Maui is a beautiful island; incredibly picturesque. Orange/purple sunsets, golden sands and fresh exotic fruits were ours for 5 blissful days. We were all staying at the Banana Bungalow hostel. Decorated with wicker chairs and pastel colours. We opted for shared rooms of three. Breakfast was included and each day excursions were available. Mainly, we chilled on the beach, drinking, surfing, smoking and heading back to base for a night in the hot tub. The owner of the hostel wasn't afraid to jump in the hot tub naked. It was one of these nights that he said we should all skydive. Within in 1hr30mins, it had all been booked. We were flying to the main island at 6am to jump out of a plane. Pacific Skydive was the company we chose. The waiver form was intense clearly stating that incase of serious injury, paralysis or death, the skydiving company could not be sued. After reading this I was done. Hell no was I going to do this! But I had a change of heart. I didn't know when or if, I'd ever be back in Hawaii with this experience again. I signed the papers and took the risk. We boarded this tin can of a plane; if someone had told me it was held together by tape, I would have believed them. It was narrow and cramped. I was in the middle, two of my friends were due to jump before me. I was shitting bricks. I couldn't contain my nerves. All I kept thinking was: I am going to die. We were gaining altitude quite fast and my ears were feeling the pressure. I couldn't hear so well. I kept exercising my jaw to help relive the pressure but to no joy. Once we had reached our jumping altitude, the cameraman stood on the railings outside the plane. Both of my friends were flung out of the plane. Their divers, strapped to their backs, were making signals to jump on the count of three. But, on the count of two, they were being flung out of the plane! I had no element of surprise I knew this was going to happen to me. There's no turning back. I waddled to the open hatch with another human attached to my back. Out of the plane, I could see clouds and the sparkling blue of the pacific ocean. We were really far off the ground. I was excited, my knees were weak, I was nervous and wanted to vomit. I held onto the bars either side of the hatch. My diver removed them. He signalled on the count of three we would jump. He held up a balled fist, erected his index finger to mark the first count. The next thing I knew, I was tumbling out of the plane with a weightlessness I wasn't expecting. It was exhilarating!

My hair was free of braids, the rushing air was pushing my hair and all of the muscles in my face back. I just jumped out of a plane. Well, pushed out of a plane, but safely. I had a view of one of the most iconic islands on earth. Most only ever get this view from a plane. I was free. I felt light. I had taken a risk; I felt bad ass! Life felt great!

At times, I have so much energy, dissipating it is tricky. Skydiving seemed to have set the barometer that's now hard to reach. I throw myself into everything. The gym gets my undivided attention. Go hard of go home. Be out of breath, wheezing almost passing out, that's always the goal. Class is cancelled? It's cool, I can take the class. Jump on the lead bike and everything you've done in previous classes emulate here. Lead the other trainers in the spin class. Take control and don't you dare show you are tired. You keep going, ignore the black moving dots in your field of vision, keep pushing. People are depending on you. It feels good to have your heart beating this fast, to feel the blood flowing this hard. The sweat stings my eyes turning them bloodshot red, my t-shirt is dripping with sweat and my vision is blurry. You're invincible! You're incredible! You need this! This is what it's like to feel alive. Gym sessions only last for so long though, at some point I need to go home. Once I get my home, my leg is shaking with agitation. I need another fix of adrenaline, but where on earth do you find it this late? I get home from a long day at work, make dinner, shower prepare for bed, I take gym class unexpectedly and still I cannot sleep! Insomnia is kicking my arse. But 3am, and I'm already back in the gym. Work starts soon and all I can think about is the rush. I need to feel alive. The headphones go in, and club classics plays for the next two hours. I don't stop peddling. When my feet hurt, when the skin off the back of my heels rubs off and blood stains the inside of my trainers, the balls of my feet ache, that's when your done. When the pain starts, that's the sign you're alive. That's my invincibility. Once the hot water of the shower hits my skin, head leaning against the shower wall, allowing the water to run over me, I relax slightly. Getting dressed feeds my hunger for more. I need something else. I am starting to get agitated that I cannot quell this hunger for adrenaline. It's controlling me, it's telling me this is the only way I can feel human. Sex! That makes you feel great! My libido is now through the roof, which is unusual for me. It's not enough that I have managed to cum three times. I want it again. With each climax the effort to get there results in chaffing, sweating, swearing and frustration. But the once the goal is reached, it's just an achievement. It's empty, it meant nothing and I still feel pent up. The ante gets increased, because that's the only thing that made sense. Outside on the balcony where everyone can see. I want to destroy you, I won't be happy until you find walking difficult, you're out of breath and all your limbs are tingling. Everything my eye scans over I want it. That car, that whole bucket of chicken, that person, those sweets, that money. It's mine! My consumption of life became ridiculous and expensive. I was taking risks I ordinarily would never dream of. Unprotected sex being one of them. I bought condoms, but they looked better gathering dust. If anyone paid me any attention, told me I was handsome, I pursued it. However it turned it out, sex, friendship, dates. I wanted it. I craved it. I wanted more. I created profiles on every dating site, hook up app known I could find. My insomnia meant I was talking to random people all hours of the night. With two hours sleep at most, I felt I had all the energy in the world.

Death would be better than living. Trying to manage this chase for happiness, juggling everyone's expectations, going to counselling, taking antidepressants, meditation, weekends away by the coast and even yoga, I'm am over exhausted. I can never guarantee my mood, the cycles are so rapid. I never know when they are going to change, I can never be sure of the triggers. The one thing I can be certain of though, is my death. I dream about it most nights, some of the most frightening, demented dreams. Other times, it's just the thought of going to sleep and never waking up that keeps me awake. Emotionally it never stops; physically, I'm pushing my limits to breaking point. The laws of nature had the ability to stop me from ever existing in this body. I make zero positive impact to planet. The universe could have made me a tree, that way I provide oxygen for everyone else to live. That's my one job. My only task. I can't possibly ruin that. In the end, I get chopped down, made into something else. A house, a phone case, paper, something useful. Not this pile of human uselessness. I feel so many emotions at times, I feel nothing at all. They all weirdly cancel each other out. I yearn to be loved, however. So badly sometimes, it hurts. For that love that exists in movies, read about in books or see on your arch-nemesis FaceBook wall. That, holiday, great job, good salary, selfies with bae in the Maldives and dinner with couples in Gaucho's, type of love. You know, the fairy tale, happy ending love. Imagine finding out that that person you thought was amazing, thinks the exact same of you. You work up the nerve to ask them out, the first date nerves make you feel excited. The choice between five similar white shirts, three similar pairs of jeans and two pairs of shoes is ridiculously impossible. All the heart-skipping, butterflies, sweaty palms, nervous shaking, pupil dilating love awaits you. Is this love? Or do I crave the attention of others? This is just lust right? I want to be lusted after, not loved. Are the two easily confused?

Pffft! All I know is, the 'aww' from the girls in the cafe drinking their ethically sourced coffee drinks is the way I want someone to feel about me. Someone that actually reciprocates the feelings I have for them. Someone crushing on me who I don't find attractive is simply not enough. I WANT YOU TO LOVE ME DAMN IT! Love me like you can't live without me. As if I'm the best thing you will ever have. Love me so much, that after me, you will never love like this again. Compare me to every, little, thing that has ever come your way and always place me on top. Grab my face and kiss me like it's the last day you will ever taste my lips, feel my tongue against yours, feel out noses rub, smell my aftershave, and notice the scar on my right eyelid. My pheromones mixed with my cologne, drives you wild with sexual desire. Lust after me, running your hands over my freshly shaven scalp, grazing your fingernails over it, making me shudder, bitting your lip when I kiss and bite your neck. You don't care about the marks, you want me to leave marks, bruising my territory on your skin. Everyone will know I did this to you. Wear my t-shirts and listen to Destiny's Child thinking about my stubble against your face and in-between your thighs. I want you to long for my touch it hurts your heart making it skip beats. When you see me touch someone else, the rage, the jealousy you have inside you erupts uncontrollably. The world needs to know I am off limits, and the only person that can have me, touch me, be with me, know my thoughts, know my pleasure points, destroy me, hurt me, cut me until I bleed, dictate my pulse, make me cry, be your slave, make me your master, drive you to insanity, is you. I yearn for you to love me so deeply, that you can't bare to live without me. My death incites suicidal thoughts and makes you depressed. The depression is dark and you can see the decent to darkness. It feels good and bad to plummet into the black, the pain lets you know you're alive and I'm not. Our worlds are separated by much more than our five senses. It's this distance, this pain that makes you know you cannot bare it. You need to be with me in whatever dimension I transcend. Our hearts and genitals are tethered by twisting, barbed wire hooks. The wires are wet, dripping with the juices of disappointments, lies, untrustworthiness and sexual incompatibilities of previous relationships. We create our own hell, it's hot when it should be cold and cold when it should be hot. Our scars are visible to each other, and yet we want to make more. Each barb contains pieces of the hearts held by previously lovers. Each bite is the reason why they never good enough for us. Why the relationships failed, why we are better than them. Good riddance. Let the self-destruction begin. We fill ourselves on the past, trying to satisfy appetites impossible to satiate; my appetite to be found desirable. My appetite to be loved. My appetite to love and embrace myself. I seek from you when I should I seek it from myself.

The only way I feel I could ever be attractive to anyone is to embody stereotypes that have been placed on black men. Yet, when I look at other black men, I don't feel like I resemble them. I came to the hurdles race without any legs, real or prosthetic. I have no chance of someone finding me desirable because I'm not the archetype of the black man. I feel so under pressure to look a certain way, be this, be that. Why don't people find me attractive? I'm not hideous, right? Or am I? This constant drive for the gym, to make people happy, to be loved and desired is all coming from a place of self-loathing. Failed dates after failed dates, witnessing my friends get married and having children. Here I am still single. It's been five years! I either want the reciprocation or I am not getting it. Either way I hate myself. I feel undesirable like I have two heads, or that I'm punching above my weight. Given the chance to meet the divine creator I'd wish for one of two things. 1). Stopping any chance of me ever existing. 2). Body swap. Give me the great genetics please?! The hazel eyes, cinnamon skin, stocky physique, 6 foot 5 inches tall, hairy body. Give me that natural Barry White baritone, throw in some talent too! Illustration, intelligence, singing, writing, whatever! Something! Something to give me an edge. You don't want your friends and family to tell you there's nothing wrong with you. That just feels like they are placating you. Hushing you, telling you it'll all be alright, pinch you on the nose, slap your back and off you go. I don't want to feel like I'm waiting for someone to pick me up, dust me off and have an 'He'll do' attitude. Meaningless sex is empty. With every climax it gulps at my hopes of ever finding something meaningful. Even when I had meaningful relationship and due to one reason or another they ended, I started to miss the relationships that were wrong for me. I missed the pain of being belittled, being bought my favourite packets of sweets, lusted after, indirectly racially abused, taking her to see musicals, feeling inadequate. These things felt like love. The other person cared enough or not, depending on your perspective, to make you feel under their thumb. I feel like the time passed between each relationship wasn't worth the growth. Just take me back to that time. I'd be miserable, but at least I'd be in a relationship. I don't even care which one, any one of them will do! The amount of hours I spent in counselling trying to tackle my body image issues, talking to friends until they are sick of hearing me belittle myself so much. I shy away from social interactions so much, I can no longer tell you if someone is hitting on me. I believe there is no way someone could like the look of me. Everyone in the world is better looking than me. Go find them, you can do so much better than me. I'm ordinary in every shape, form and fashion. Don't waste your time on me, you're too special for that.