I now understand why some people who climbed Mount Everest died shortly after they reached the peak. I now understand the word “overdose,” every single sense of it. I now understand that too much is drastic. Tragic. Catastrophic. Disastrous.
It wasn’t happiness. It was euphoria. And euphoria is an extreme, intense, heightened frenzy. Euphoria is treacherous. Deceitful. Unfaithful. Disloyal.
At first, it rewarded me a promising disposition. It offered me a quintessential state. It gifted me a spotless existence. And then, at the least expected moment, it betrayed me. I was fooled. I was tricked. I thought I wasn’t easy. I thought I was that resilient. I thought I was robust. Durable. Enduring. But no.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t appropriate. It wasn’t… good.
I have reached the top. I forced myself to sustain my stay there. Two months. Two months of telling stories. Two months of self-exploration. Two months of mustering experiences. Two months of adoring people. Two months of recognizing them, affirming them, guiding them. Two months. Two months is too much.
I have reached the top and there is nothing left there now. I had to step down. Climb down to the ground and land on my feet and feel the earth.
I’ve built a sturdy construction. Erected a long-lasting pillar. But it didn’t last long. It came to a perfect state and then it stopped being perfect and just crumbled.
I forgot to breathe. I forgot I should take a break and breathe. I was too excited, too obsessed with the newness of things. Everything was just exhilarating. I went back to being a child, and just allowed myself to have fun. I played aimlessly.
I forgot to guard myself. I forgot I shouldn’t have let myself be that transparent because every single stimulus enveloped me and took advantage of my unlocked cage.
Excessive freedom isn’t advisable. There is the need to say that.
Now I know my limitation.
Now, I am back. Despair welcomed me with warmth. Maybe I have to accept that this is where I belong. This is my home. These are my roots. This is my normalcy. After recklessly exploring the wilderness, I went back to the standard scenery.
Hours ago, I felt so much gratitude for the things that came my way. Now, I have forgotten that feeling. It is alien to me. It is unfamiliar. I know what it is about, but I can’t comprehend the details. I know the overview. I know the big picture. But if I try to zoom in, I can’t make out anything from it.
To people who have been with me through this stage, always remind me of what I was when I was in that place. You saw me in my nakedness. You saw me donating myself to those in need. You saw me. Please tell me what you saw and make sense of it. Describe it to me in any way you can.
But please, don’t back off now. I know you will be seeing my downfall. You will be witnessing a storm. But one thing I ask of you is to watch me deteriorate. Keep an eye on how I self-destruct.
After this, you can go. You can leave in peace or leave violently. Forget my existence and go on with your lives as if you just passed a random scene and it served as your backdrop.
After this, you can go. It’s up to you if you will make use of this, if you will pass this on to others. It’s you who will decide if what you beheld is relevant. If you bring this in your bag or insert this in your pocket wherever you go, I leave it all to you.
“Amanda F.,” 22, is “a warrior fighting against bipolar I disorder.”