‘For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.’

Leonardo Da Vinci

Ever since I was a teenager, I have been enamored by these words because I have been lucky enough to have been propelled to such great heights, but I have equally been saddened by the realization that being sky-bound is a dangerous, if admittedly alluring, illusion. Sometimes I catapult skyward only to plummet downwards as if I had flown directly into the sun. The sun burns and I hurtle downwards in a tailspin, limbs on fire.

Being amongst the sun’s rays has been my only goal and I hoped with desperation, against all logic and better judgment, that I would take flight once more and open my eyes to the sun’s bright energy. It was a hope against hope that somehow I could be pulled from the tendrils of depression and returned to a space of great enthusiasm, motivation, fearlessness and clarity. It was a profound delusion. But wouldn’t you give up anything to be a ray of sunlight, even if this goal was built on a foundation of quicksand?

Now I cannot grasp hold of the sunlight. It blinks its way into my life almost as if it’s taunting me. Quick, snatch it before it disappears. Sometimes it lingers a moment longer and I wrap my arms around, forcing it to energise me. Which it does: more often now, however, it is closer to an electrocution than a grand and beautiful possession.

People tell me that I need to have strategies; that I need to build in structure to give me a safe space to be when the feelings get too much. I don’t mean to be ungrateful when people, with all their best intentions, offer advice and counsel, but I simply cannot even begin implement these ‘solutions’. I’m preoccupied by inertia. And if this shows in my face, I particularly dislike it if people reveal in their expressions a look of pity or horror. I am perfectly aware of how I look. I am entirely cognisant of my, often ghastly, appearance.

So what to do? What can I do but rely on professionals who offer both a neutral ear and medical advice? Both of which I am grateful for; I am extremely appreciative of their help and support, even if psychiatrists in particular often seem more like drug-pushers than doctors. In the past few months I have tried and failed to respond to changes in my medicinal regime. This is mostly because my body now seems unwilling to accept new chemicals and compounds. It either rejects them altogether, or reacts very badly to them preventing me from continuing. The side effects I experience have meant that there are very few options left for me to experiment with. And it is hard not to feel increasingly despondent. My preference now is to cease all medicinal therapy completely, detox and start from scratch – if this is essentially implementing a potential DNR then so be it. This might seem dramatic, but at some point you need to come out from under the miasma of drugs to see where you are and where you could go. I need the support from family, friends and professionals – and most certainly I will not ‘go it alone’. My ‘Twitter family’ in particular have been an indispensable part of my support structure and I am certain that their just being ‘out there’ will be incredibly important. It is incredibly important. Being part of an understanding and accepting community has been invaluable.

I arrived at the Twitter party and the end of 2009, so I wasn’t there at the beginning. I wondered what possible way 140 characters could be of any interest: I didn’t want to be one of those people who basically posted Instagram pictures of their evening meals and moaned about the weather. But within the spider’s web of silliness (don’t get me wrong, I love silliness. And cats. Silliness and cats.) I found individuals out there who spoke candidly about things that in my real life I had kept very much private. I discovered people who stood bravely in the glare of the ‘twitterverse’ and declared that they had a mental illness and that, yes, it was hard and undoubtedly it was often excruciating, but somehow they were still there even when often their very fibre secretly yearned not to be. And more importantly, they were willing to communicate with me: I wasn’t alone. I was welcomed to the bipolar party, often name-checked at the depression ‘bring your own bottle’ meet and greet and I was able to be there for people who were there for me – no judgment, no pity. When people say, “I don’t get Twitter” they simply don’t understand its potency. They do not realise that great and profound friendships can be made and when you feel you will never reach the sunlight, they will be there. When I say ‘hope against hope is not enough’, I don’t have to qualify it. That is not to say it is the panacea for everything, I mean that 140 characters can be incredibly powerful. So thank you ‘twitterfam’.

I have my networks: family, friends, medical professionals, a tremendous therapist and my exceptional ‘twitterfam’. I want to be able to count on them because I can no longer count on myself. I want their ‘eyes turned skywards’. I want them to hope for me. I need them to ‘walk the earth’ so that I can see that it is possible to step out into the light once more.