A Chemical Hiccup: Medicated Oblivion and Art

“I want to hold you in a warm Atlantic, A sea of my own making, a meringue of lapis wine.” It is bedtime, and I have swallowed my evening cocktail of bipolar drugs: 300 mg of Seroquel, the Lamictal, and, of course, the Clonazepam. The Seroquel silence is seeping in. I have about 20 minutes on this dead-end road. Soon, I will fall asleep, content and comfortable, a pleasant and sleeping “high-functioning bipolar,” but I will not get to think about what happens to that person in the warm waves of the Atlantic or find the rhythm that goes with my lapis wine. Instead, I will forget about the beginnings of my poem in my own happy oblivion, and tomorrow I will pay the bills, maybe watch my favorite show on Netflix, and I will stop trying to knit these words together. As I lay my head against the pillow, I slowly forget my own connection with the beauty of words. Somewhere, in the blue-dark recess of my mind, I still know that the way words touch each other entrances me and I remember — somewhere — that I have always, and will always, love them, and the way random, strange, unusual words can touch each other and explode into something striking and beautiful. My pillow is soft and my eyes grow tired. This slight artistic eruption was simply a chemical hiccup, a moment when the medication lapsed and let me be creative. That little desire to write a poem went shooting off to the edge of my brain and somehow sidestepped the sedative effects of the Seroquel. The sho...
Source: World of Psychology - Category: Psychiatry & Psychology Authors: Tags: Bipolar Creativity Medications Personal Artistic Ability Bipolar Disorder Creative Abilities Depressive Episode Manic Episode Mood Stabilizers side effects Source Type: blogs