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I am depressed. I have been depressed for as long as I can remember. And I am impulsively enthusiastic. Crazy combination, isn’t it? It was only a couple of years ago that I realized there’s a term for it- Bipolarity. It may sound scary, but it is something I have learnt to live with. I don’t ‘suffer’ from it anymore. But there are things which have become part of my existence which may sound creepy and scary to others who lead a relatively ‘normal’ life. I see paintings turn and smile at me. I see birds and mythical creatures in my room. I see a child sitting near my bed, staring at me sadly. I see a truck breaking in through the walls of my kitchen on the second floor. Because of this I find it hard to cross the road alone. I don’t know how many of the approaching vehicles are real. There are times when I wait for hours before crossing the road because the flow of traffic just doesn’t stop. I find it hard to sleep because the sadness on the child’s face breaks my heart. I find it hard to concentrate on things I should be doing because I worry about the birds being killed by the fan. But these things are pretty manageable. They last till I reach my mania and then they don’t really bother me. Because I am a skeptic and I don’t believe in good or bad that can come from paranormal/supernatural entities. I very well know that these are from my head. But that’s what scares me the most sometimes. That my mind is home to so many ghosts.

What really gets to me is the voice in my head. It keeps replaying the bad memories. Graphically. Vividly. Sometimes making them worse than what actually happened. I try to brush them away by recalling happy memories. But the voice somehow finds a way to connect each happy memory to a sad one and I start hating the pleasant memories which I had cherished till then. These days, the only thing the voice seems to tell me is that I am a mistake. An intruder in a world which would otherwise have been perfect. I believe it. If not for my existence, many would be content with their lives (if not happy) now. If not for some of the decisions I made, many would never have known depression and grief. Nobody would have lost what they loved. I am a mistake. I have made mistakes. I have remained quiet and kept my bad experiences to myself when I shouldn’t have. I have spoken about my bad experiences and looked for a shoulder to cry on when I shouldn’t have. And these mistakes of mine have cost me things I valued. The trust of those who really cared. The love of those I cared for. The secret hope that I may have a ‘happily ever after’ one day. These things are lost forever. They are not things that can be earned or grabbed back.

I don’t argue with the voice. I agree with it. I am a mistake. I repeat it like a prayer under my breath whenever the voice fills my head urging me to break down and let out the tears. And then I remind myself that the world needs mistakes. It was a mistake that caused the big bang. It was the mistake of a unicellular organism which marked the beginning of evolution (I’m sure I have read it in one of Coelho’s books…just don’t remember which one). It is a mistake which makes a story worth telling. If there were no uninvited guests, ugly step sisters,  ambitious stepmothers, poisoned apples and futile battles, the world will be an empty container of events that pass and are never remembered. I like to believe I am one of the crucial mistakes in the story of the perfect world that I have ruined. May be I am the poisoned apple which will test the Prince’s love for Snow White. May be I am the missed glass slipper which will help Prince Charming find his Cinderella. May be I am that one rebellious microorganism which will change the history of the planet. May be that’s what the voice in my head wants me to know and believe.


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