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  • Writer's pictureNima

"Bipolar in a cocktail" A journey through Bipolar Disorder-Part 3

Updated: Aug 19, 2023

The happiness I had yearned for suddenly turned into a reality in my life, but then I messed it up with a kind of betrayal. It's like I wasn't even accustomed to such happiness. My guilt consumed me more than my ex-wife's reaction when she discovered the truth. She managed to move on, yet I couldn't bear living with myself, knowing I had betrayed a love so pure. "Just for the sake of tasting the darker side," I'd tell myself, as if I wanted to experience what it's like to embrace the role of a demon. It felt like that inner demon had been lurking within me all along.


Remember that photographer I met at the café when I was starting my career? Well, he became a close friend, and together, we journeyed to cover the aftermath of the devastating earthquake in a remote province of Iran, Kerman, in 2003. It was a year marked by tragedy. The disaster claimed over 26,000 lives and left more than 30,000 wounded. My stay there was brief, just a few days, but it managed to stir something in me that I had never felt before.


Upon returning home, an art gallery owner suggested purchasing some of my work from the bam earthquake aftermath. Still reeling from the shock of what I'd witnessed, this offer falsely kindled the hope that my photos could generate funds for those in need of shelter and sustenance. Why "false" hope, you ask? Looking back now, I realize that my excitement about this success was disproportionate. It turned out to be a mere mirage; the art gallery owner never acquired any of my pictures from the disaster. But I took it seriously. I was caught up in the excitement.


Haunted by my guilt over my marriage, I metaphorically thought that just as life progresses even amid the dire situation in bam, the concept of homelessness should eventually find resolution. So, I undertook a personal project to metaphorically render myself homeless. I did this in an attempt to challenge my emotions, believing that if I could reconcile with my wife, it might signify hope for overcoming homelessness. I returned the ring to my ex-wife, transforming it into a mission to extricate myself from the abyss of guilt and resurrect the love we once shared.


During this period, I was using cannabis and neglecting my mental well-being. I was on a roller coaster ride, and this newfound enthusiasm carried me away. I'd spend hours lost in strange music and crafting what I saw as my magnum opus. Writing a play was uncharted territory for me, but I poured out every metaphorical thought about my life and the concept of homelessness. Days and nights blended together as excitement fueled my efforts. I sensed a profound interconnectedness in everything, and my masterpiece seemed to morph into a prophecy.


My ex-wife struggled to cope with this situation. After two weeks of inadequate sleep, I broke down in tears, realizing suddenly that I was holding the ring she had returned to me. My elation had clouded my senses; even weed couldn't provide such intense energy. I was spiraling into what's known as a manic episode of bipolar disorder.


The roller coaster of emotions eventually led me back to the psychotherapist. This time, their advice was urgent: I needed medication or, alternatively, hospitalization. It marked my first encounter with mania. Everything felt astonishingly real. I believed I was connected to a higher power—the force that threads all existence. Miracles seemed possible within my mind. I felt invincible, at least until I began taking the prescribed medication. That's when the depression set in.


I found it difficult to be around my friends. The doctor's orders included reducing my cannabis consumption, deepening my isolation. The medication brought with it weight gain. I disliked the pills; they quashed my illusions and sapped my drive for life. Everything related to the homelessness project felt like worthless rubbish. I tore apart some of the play I'd written during those intense 14 days before seeking help. Yet, fragments of it survived. Those remnants were my sole link to those manic thoughts. I viewed them as a kind of prophecy, and each time they surfaced, they inflicted pain on my ex-wife, who tried to ignore their significance.


Days and months crawled by, devoid of motivation. I lost interest in work. Once again, I became dependent on my grandfather after the depression took hold. The very things I'd abandoned my family for now returned, causing me more of a headache than anything else—a chaotic mess I yearned to escape.


Desperation took over. I formulated an end to everything. I devised a plan, and on one fateful night, as my ex-wife slept soundly and my dog dozed nearby, I came perilously close to that end. Armed with a cutter's blade, I made a deep cut on my wrist while sitting in the bathtub. I can still recall how my thoughts seemed to flow away like water down the drain, the tub filling with a mixture of blood and water. It was as if my mind was drifting into a serene void.


Thankfully, my dog picked up the scent of blood and started barking, rousing my ex-wife. She dashed into the bathroom, barefoot and with the stressed-out dog, shards of broken glass beneath them. She swiftly carried me out of the bathroom and into the hallway, then into the car. I have only vague memories of the scene, as I soon lost consciousness. All I know is that I owe my escape from certain death to my ex.


To be continued...



cigaret and ashtray


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