Beauty and the Bipolar Beast

Once upon a time, I participated in a wonderful online writing group called Red Writing Hood. They gave out fantastically challenging writing prompts and inspired a lot of the motivation that got me back into fiction writing.

Here is a throwback to one of those prompts:

This week’s assignment is to write a short piece, either fiction or non-fiction, about something ugly — and find the beauty in it.

Word limit is 600.

Link up your piece with us Friday.

I watched the tides change, like a prisoner in my home. Shackled by love but empowered by patience. The scene is a familiar one. We rehearse it every day. Sometimes, multiple times a day.

I see it rise, like a mystical creature from the depths of the sea, this monster we call bipolar. It rises slowly, purposely, and pushes back the sweet angel girl. It overpowers her innocent child heart and spills its poison across her retreating conscious.

Its eyes are filled with hatred, they burn to the core of my soul, but I simply reflect the heat and I press on. It scans the room and looks for the escape, looks for the target.

It pelts me with its weapon of choice; words laced with razor edges and dripping with acidic ugliness.

“I hate you.”

“I wish I were dead.”

“I’m going to run away and you will never see me again!”

I beckon the monster to leave, using soft words, cajoling with love. I am firm. I am benevolent. I beg and bribe and threaten.

I am tired.

Its anger flares and it turns away, seeking an outlet for the darkness that presses and overwhelms from the inside out.

It topples first one dining room chair, and then another. They crash to the floor and I cringe as the wood splits against the unforgiving tile. They are only things, but I mourn the small loss none the less.

Not enough. Not enough. The monster seeks destruction. It wants to break and bust and just feel.

It runs through the hall and slams the door as it retreats. The wood frame trembles and protests the abuse silently.

There are crashes and bangs. And silence.

Tears flow loudly, freely now, washing away the monster. They wash away the slimy grip of anger.

I enter the den with caution and I am beckoned forward by eyes round with remorse.

“Mommy?” The small voice wavers now, the fear of rejection coils around each breath.

I sit beside her, my sweet girl, no longer possessed by the monster within.

She presses into my side, tries be closer, to be one.

“I love you.” Her weapons of choice, the innocence of a child’s heart and beautiful words, mean the world to me.

Until next time, scribe happy and stay sassy,

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