Long Way Back

I am twenty-something years old and a few weeks ago I had what has been referred to since as a 'psychotic episode'.  I tried to commit suicide but was stopped by a friend who loves me, a friend whom I love and two parents who were terrified beyond reason.  I had struggled with my mental health prior to this event however, like many men, I sought little professional help and only started using medication after I was all but dragged to my doctor.

I have written this first post a number of times since my 'episode' however each time I feel that I have come from a too emotional and irrational point of view and as such I did not, on reflection, feel that it was the appropriate way to begin.  This is not a blog about a boy looking down and watching that bottom come up at him, this is, hopefully, a blog about recovery.  I have been down there and I am tired of it.  I am ready to start the climb back up and part of that climb is this blog.  I write these words solely for myself but I click 'Publish Post' rather than 'Save As' because if my words, be they poetry or poop, find their way to a destination where they are given a positive meaning then... good.

In my writing I try to strike a balance between both art and matter.  Matter carries the message where art provides that message with context and meaning.  Likewise, I feel that my mind seeks a balance between the evil twins of rationality and imagination.  Rationality allows me to see the world for what it is and coldly calculates every piece of data whether it be light, sound, heat or one of the many ways in which I absorb information.  Rationality gives me strength and fortifies my mind against possibility for better or for worse.
Imagination is boundless freedom and absolutely deadly.  It is a sea of nano-replicators, a cluster of vibrant healthy cells and it has the power to build an organic façade around the cold rational core of my observations.  Allow this freedom to rule unchecked, allow the apoptosis of my imagination to fail and every fear can be made into an absolutely convincing replica of reality.  Imagination can even imitate reality.
My imagination has shown me reasons to despise myself, it has convinced me that I am alone and that I would be better off dead, it has, in a matter of minutes, twisted my unobscured view of reality seamlessly into an irrational darkness that seems to descend around me entirely.  Balance is essential and somewhere along the way I lost mine.  I think I can take it back.