Forty-two days without pills.

Forty-two.

Days and time are all meaningless - even the very concept of time means nothing. To us, twenty-four hours is a long amount of time. A day. A day in our lives feels like a year. How much can happen in one day to us? The amount of things that can happen to us in a day - in an hour - is inexplicably mind-blowing.

And yet meaningless.

Every minute on this earth means so much to us, but no one else. Failing a test is so shattering to us, a simple event like that is enough to anger us for hours. Each little event in our life is something so big - one little event can be a landmark to us. But to everyone else? It's nothing. To everyone else, our lives are meaningless. Nothing. In a hundred years, will anyone know you? Remember you? Care to remember you?

So if no one knows us, were we ever really here?

I think I'm having an existence crisis.

That thought has me rolling over in my messy bed, shoving my face into the pillow and holding my breath until I just can't anymore. I groan loudly and flip over, wrapping my arms around the pillow and taking it with me. My head flops against the mattress under me and I blink, staring up at the ceiling, my mind as blank and dull as the white ceiling above me.

I think I want to die.

I don't think I'm suicidal, but I think I want to die. Maybe. I'm not too sure, but it's been pricking my interest recently. If this is the life I'm stuck with - one filled with pills and inspiration slipping so quickly from my body that I feel bedridden - then what could death possibly be? I can't imagine a life much different than the one I'm living, and maybe that's what catches my interest. I can't picture a life different than this, but I want one.

I think to a week and a half ago, a time when I felt as though I was literally greater than the world and everyone on it. I think back to the days following after I flushed the pills, how inspired and happy I was. I think about the unfinished book sitting on top of my desk.

I want to throw it out, but the very thought of even getting out of bed sends a shiver down my spine. I lay back down.

I haven't gotten out of bed much the past week, and I can feel the effects of it starting to take its toll. My stomach is flat, but I'm afraid that when I stand up, the effect of eating all junk the past week will have twisted and distorted its vision, giving me a body that I'm afraid to imagine. My legs feel so accustomed to laying that I'm not even too sure they would be able to hold up my body. I've only gotten up to go to the bathroom, and the mere thought of going down the steps is unsettling.

It's a bit funny to think of how inspired I was a week ago. A week ago inspiration ran through my veins, not blood, and it had been the best feeling in the world. I had practically been a different person a week ago - one who had control of his life and who knew he could make it as something. A week ago the idea of laying in bed was disgusting to me. I was too inspired to even sit.

It's funny, really.

I know what this - the sudden swing from inspiration to depression, one so strong that will probably last another few weeks. I know why I was so inspired and now I know why I'm feeling so devastated for no apparent reason.

It's a manic-depressive episode. It's a part of being bipolar. I went off my pills, and now the symptoms of my bipolar are back and worse than ever - manifesting themselves into an episode. An episode of confidence and inspiration, and now an episode of depression so heavy that it tears at my heart, dragging it down through my body until it loses the ability and motivation to keep beating.

I go off my pills and I'm happy.

I go off my pills and I'm sad.

It's funny, really.

I lay back in bed and laugh, the sound so foreign that it practically tears through me, ripping apart my chest in a desperate attempt to escape my throat. My laugh fills the empty room, echoing off the walls and hitting back at me, making me sit up and laugh a little bit more. A few more ridiculous giggles escape my throat before I can't handle it anymore; my elbows give out on me and I drop back down onto the bed, head hanging back to look up at the ceiling.

I hate myself. So much.

I do this to myself, I really do. All I had to do was take my pills, to conform to society, to follow the rules, but I couldn't do it. This depression, so strong that it makes me wonder if maybe I am suicidal, it's all my fault. I hate myself for being different. I hate myself for being bipolar. I hate the world for not taking me seriously. I hate the world for making me hate myself for being who I am.

I wonder if this is who I am. Maybe I'm not connected to my pills, but connected to this part of me. Maybe the manic-episodes, the depression, maybe that makes up who I am. Jeff and manic-depressive episodes?

Jeff and the pills? I'm not too sure.

I close my eyes and roll over in bed, wrapping my arms around my comforter and cuddling into it. I try to force all thoughts out of my mind because, at this point, I'm too tired to think. I'm too tired to contemplate life or think of all the reasons why I hate myself. I'm too tired of doing this alone. I'm tired of feeling alone.

I snatch my phone off my night-side table and unlock it, scrolling through my contacts with one lazy swipe of my finger. It's filled with people I don't really talk to and people I don't want to talk to. My finger hovers over my mom's contact before sliding up, instead clicking on Liam's name and opening a new text.

Liam:

hey, it's jeff. do you think you can swing by?

Liam's reply comes seconds later, before I even have time to click off the message I sent him. I blink in surprise, having not even expected a reply, and quickly bring my phone up to my face, squinting at the screen to read his reply.

Liam (5:14 AM):

It's five in the morning, Jeff. Are you okay? You haven't been to school this week.

I frown at Liam's message and put my phone back on my desk, not bothering to respond. Liam's suspicious, that much is obvious, and it keeps me from responding to his message. He had already been assuming that I wasn't taking my pills, and the fact that he's questioning me wasn't something I liked. I didn't want Liam to worry about me not taking my pills. I didn't want him to know.

A thousand thoughts swirl through my mind as I laid in bed, and I hated it. I didn't have control of what I thought of. I closed my eyes, but pictures and thoughts flashed on the back of my eyelids, keeping me from sleeping. Relaxing. My mind was working a thousand miles a minute, and I hated it. This wasn't inspiration, but torture.

It hits me suddenly, how much I didn't want this. I didn't want these thoughts racing through my mind so fast I couldn't control it. I didn't want this overwhelming feeling of depression, so strong and deep that it had managed to make me bedridden for days. I had thought flushing my pills down the toilet was freedom, but I had only managed to lock myself in a deeper, more dangerous version of my mind.

I wasn't free.

I slide to the edge of my bed, barely managing to swing my legs over the side and stand up. I stumble a bit, hands reflexively reaching out to grab onto the wall in a feeble attempt to hold myself up. Closing my eyes for a few seconds to regain my balance, I slowly start to walk across the room, throwing open my bedroom door and walking over to the steps. It had been a struggle to get out of my room, and my heart started beating a little faster at the thought of going down the steps.

It was hard. My legs felt like Jell-O, my head was spinning, and I gripped the railing with such a tight grip that my knuckles turned pale white. I stop at the bottom of the steps, breathing deeply. Slowly, with my hand pressed against the wall, I begin to slowly walk into the kitchen, heading towards one part that I haven't been to in a long time.

The medicine cabinet.

I swing the door open and gaze at the bottles; there's headache medicine, cough drops, and right there in the back - a bottle of Risperidone that I never finished. It's from months ago, something I shoved in the back of my medicine cabinet when my prescription got filled again.

I grab the bottle, fingers trembling as I twist the cap, quickly popping it off and tossing it across the kitchen. I can hear my house phone ringing, but I don't pay any attention to it. I just flip the bottle onto the counter and let all the pills spill out before scooping up two and tossing them into my mouth, swallowing it try. I lean back against the counter and close my eyes, taking deep breaths as the pills undoubtedly work their way through my body.

The phone rings.

I feel nothing.

Letting out a frustrated noise from the back of my throat, I swing back towards the counter, staring at the couple of pills on my counter. There's six or seven at least. I gaze down at them before grabbing all of them in one hand, cupping them in my palm, and throwing them all into my mouth.

I rush over to the sink and dunk my head under, taking big gulps of water as I swallow the pills in my mouth. My hair is soaked when I stand up, auburn pieces sticking to my temples, but I don't care. I shake out my hair and slide down the cabinet, leaning my head against the wood behind me and taking deep breaths. The phone is ringing somewhere off in the distant, but I don't really care.

I can feel my heartbeat slowing to a calming, relaxing pace. My mind feels muggy and slow; thoughts aren't racing through it so much as slowly drifting by, allowing me time to actually think. I don't feel so scared and jittery anymore. I'm not sad. I'm not inspired. I don't really know if I'm anything, but I think I like it.

I hear the front door open and somewhere in the back of my mind I think that I should be worried about that, but I'm not. I don't pay much attention until there's a figure standing in front of me and Liam's familiar brown eyes are staring down at me with worry. My best friend is talking - I can tell by the fact that his mouth is moving - but his words are lost on me. There's a disconnect between Liam and I; an impenetrable wall keeping his words from hitting me.

I laugh and suddenly the pill bottle is thrown across the kitchen and Liam's on his phone, mouth moving faster now, free hand bunched into a fist as he stares down at me. I blink up at him, using all of the concentration I can muster to try and grasp onto a few of his words. I wonder who he's talking to.

"I don't know," I hear Liam say, voice taking on a tone of hysteria that makes me frown. I don't get why he's hysterical, nothing is wrong, "There's an empty pill bottle and he's just sitting here."

I want to tell him that it isn't a bad thing. I'm okay. But when I go to open my mouth, no words come out.

"I'm calling the hospital." Liam's on the phone for another few minutes, and I want to tell him that he doesn't need the hospital. But before I can say anything, he's bent down in front of me, hands grabbing my face and turning me this way and that before our eyes meet again, "It's gonna be okay, I promise."

It is okay.

It's funny, really. All of this. I don't take the pills and it's okay. I take the pills and it's okay. I don't and it's not okay, and then I do again and we're back to it not being okay.

It's all funny.

</ and this is the third part! It's one more part until the end, so I hope you guys are enjoying it. I know Jeff's thoughts are kind of crazy and all over the place right now, but that's the point :)

please let me know your thoughts, thank you!