My Prison

One could say that my existence could be described thusly: my legs, my feet, directed by myself to carry me through a jungle containing thick brush and trees, thorns and poisonously vicious creatures; the thick vegetation and dangerous animals representing difficulties in life: a child of low socioeconomy, biologically harmful setbacks in life, unadulterated stress. Carried on my back — a part of myself — is an organic syndrome begetting bipolar disorder.

There I was trekking through the arduous journey of the first part of my life, running to break free of the grasping branches and hungry animals, trying to make it into the clearing which was in sight.

However, in 2009 I take a faltering step and fall into a rocky shaft — a well.

Countless times I try to climb out, sometimes bolstered by the onset of the mania associated with bipolar disorder, sometimes harshly dragged to the bottom by unrelenting depression.

I sometimes near the top, escape. I smell the fresh air; I feel the cool breeze; I feel the remaining sunlight that has broken through the dense canopy of the jungle. My soul rejoices with hope. But, it never fails that I fall back to the bottom. Countless times.

Now, I sit in the darkness, in isolation. Broken bones. Legs. Toes. Arms. Fingers. Yet within me there is a drive to pull myself free of my prison. With my mangled body I try climbing to my freedom; but, my body, my mind, is too broken to escape on my own. I scream for help. Some come. Some lower ropes that do not reach me. No one can help me.

I have been buried in this well since 2009. I have been isolated for three interminable years.