bipolar

Bipolar disorder; understanding the highs, the lows and the in between.

Rediscovering My Hobbies
I was always told from a young age, by my parents and close family members, that I couldn’t stick to a single activity. From vocal lessons to piano and guitar, to ice skating, dance, and more.
By Klara Kabelik3 days ago in Psyche
The Weight of Ink
Arthur’s desk lamp threw a sickly yellow circle onto the stack of paper, illuminating the same half-finished letter he’d been staring at for the better part of a decade. His hand, gnarled and spotted with age, trembled slightly as he picked up the pen, the cheap plastic cool against his skin. Whiskey sat beside it, amber liquid shimmering in a heavy glass, untouched. Not yet. He always waited until the words, or the lack of them, had thoroughly beaten him down.
By HAADI8 days ago in Psyche
The Night I Understood Football
I didn’t go to the game expecting hope. It was a cold November Thursday. My brother had just lost his job. My nephew hadn’t spoken in days after a school incident. The world felt heavy, and the last thing I wanted was to watch a mismatch—our hometown team facing a dynasty that hadn’t lost in months.
By KAMRAN AHMAD9 days ago in Psyche
A Distant Memory. Content Warning.
**Editor's Note** This article was previously posted on Medium. You can read the original blog here: https://medium.com/@klarakabelik/a-distant-memory-e7500de4d1dc
By Klara Kabelik10 days ago in Psyche
The Last Article of 2025
As the year is coming to an end, I find myself in a reflective space, thinking about the past 365 days, as well as where I’m at in this current point in time.
By Klara Kabelik11 days ago in Psyche
The Moon's Cold Embrace
Arthur’s kitchen smelled of stale coffee and old wood. Every night, the same. He’d sit at the table, just him, the dim yellow glow of the pendant light pulling shadows long across the checkered linoleum. He’d trace the rim of his empty mug, the ceramic cool against his thumb. The quiet hum of the refrigerator, the distant whine of a dog somewhere down the street, these were his companions. And the empty chair across from him, that was always there too, holding the ghost of Eleanor, a faint imprint of her presence in the air, a scent he still sometimes imagined: lily of the valley, her favourite.
By HAADI12 days ago in Psyche
Broken Light on Wet Streets
Elias hadn't meant to be out this late. The rain, a cold, persistent sheet, had caught him three blocks from the bar, the one he’d just stormed out of. The argument, a low, simmering thing with Clara, had finally boiled over, spilling out in harsh whispers and a slammed door. Now, the city's neon signs, usually a garish blur, became something else, something sharper, something almost malevolent in the puddles.
By HAADI12 days ago in Psyche
Dust and Doubt
Elias preferred the deeper stacks, where the light struggled to penetrate even at midday. It was a refuge, a sanctuary from everything outside those thick stone walls. The air here, heavy with the scent of decaying paper and forgotten leather, used to be his comfort. He’d come here, year after year, meticulously cataloging the dead languages, the lost histories, anything to keep his hands busy, his mind numb. He hunched over a folio, its pages brittle like old skin, the ink faded to ghosts.
By HAADI13 days ago in Psyche
The Spine-Cracked Confessions
The library groaned, a familiar, ancient sound Elias had come to mistake for breathing. It was 4:30 AM, cold enough to see his breath in the vast reading room, even before the heating kicked in properly. He moved through the cavernous space, a lone figure amidst a million hushed stories, the scuff of his work boots the only intrusion on the deep quiet. Dust motes, like tiny, lost stars, danced in the weak pre-dawn light filtering through the high, arched windows. He loved this hour, before the students arrived, before the murmurs and the rustle of turning pages, before the world remembered the library existed.
By HAADI13 days ago in Psyche
The Weight of White
Arthur couldn't sleep. Again. It wasn't the usual restlessness, the buzzing hum of late-night traffic, or the faint wail of a distant siren. Tonight, it was a profound, suffocating quiet. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cold floorboards biting his bare feet. He rubbed his face, the stubble coarse against his palm. Something felt… different. He padded to the window, pulled back the heavy curtain.
By HAADI14 days ago in Psyche
A Bruised Sky on the Tongue
The morning light, thin and watery through her window, bled into her mouth before it even touched her eyes. Not just a visual thing, no. For Elara, the color blue had a taste, a constant, low thrum against the back of her tongue, a cold, metallic tang that clung like forgotten copper pennies. She woke with it, breathed it, carried it through every hour, a secret, unshakeable burden. This morning, it was the pale, washed-out blue of a winter sky, sharp and brittle, like sucking on ice that had been scraped with a dull knife. She reached for her coffee, hoping the bitter black would cut through it, but it just added another layer, a murky undertow of cold. She swallowed, trying to dislodge the feeling, to scrape it off with her teeth.
By HAADI16 days ago in Psyche
The Grey Shore
Elias sat at his desk, staring at the screen. Spreadsheets. Always spreadsheets. The fluorescent hum above was a dull throb in his skull. Outside, the city traffic groaned, a constant, ugly growl. He was thirty-two, lived in a cramped third-floor apartment, and felt a quiet, persistent emptiness. Not unhappiness, exactly. Just a flatline.
By HAADI17 days ago in Psyche