Chapter One

Can Anybody Say Mood Swings?

Anger. Sorrow. Depression. Red, blue, and gray. These are the feelings that sweep through my body, the colors that dominate my head. And then there's the rainbow- my happiness, my over-elation. But that beautiful spectrum of colors and those amazing, over-the-top feelings, are slowly, steadily fading away. I see them less and less, and I can only wonder how much more time I have to be with them.

My life is just a rollercoaster of colors. And emotions. Always emotions. One day I'm fearless, daring, powerful, and confident. I'm a shining star that isn't afraid to face the world as I really am. But then, in a few days time, I always go back to the lows of life once again. Always. I'll be silent and shy, fearful and cowardly. It's like I'm imploding, with everything I once was crumbling and twisting together, falling backwards inside of me, finding a place to hide again until I explode once more into my happy demeanor. It's tiring- exhausting, really. It's as if I'm a new person every day. And I'm not the only one who notices. Some people call me a freak, and maybe they're right. But me- I call me bipolar.

Yeah. Bipolar. Manic Depression. Whatever it is you want to call it. I have it, or so the dear doctor says. It doesn't much surprise me, though- one side of my family is completely psychotic, I guess you could say. I just didn't think that I was in that I would could ever be grouped with them- I seemed normal enough to me. But, apparently, I was wrong- I should have known that. I shouldn't have been so shocked when I was diagnosed with the big BDP.

I mean, I remember some of those childhood memories, when I'd go through my rollercoaster of feelings. I remember how hurt I'd feel, how far into the dark abyss I'd seem to drop and, not much later, I'd be on top of the world. Mom used to always give me strange looks, telling me that I was an oddity. She had always seemed so annoyed at my fickleness, at the way I could change at the drop of a pin. It was only recently that she proposed that there was probably some sort of mental illness involved. She said that it was all too unnatural. "You're just sick," she would coo. "Don't worry, my love. You'll get better. You just need some help."

When she spoke like that, her voice sounding like melting honey, it was almost impossible for me not to believe her. Just those sentences made me believe so many lies. But I wanted to believe- I wanted her to be right. But there were things that I just didn't understand. How could I have been sick for so long without anyone really noticing? And what was I getting better from? Myself? I wasn't quite sure.

It wasn't long until mom took me to a doctor- a psychiatrist, actually. After over-analyzing everything I said and did, he came up with a conclusion- I bet you can guess, since I already told you quite a few times. Yes, that's right. Manic depression, of course. It's funny how one simple diagnosis could change my whole life.

But that truth was that, all in all, I really didn't understand the point of having a doctor to tell me all of that stuff. I mean, all I did was talk, and he made an educated guess. Besides, maybe he was just wrong. Okay, sure, I'm moody, but aren't all teenage girls? And yes, the crazy ups and downs are unbearable, but that was just life- for me, that is. It was just… me, back then, not some crazy emotional sickness. I had liked it better that way.

So, the psychiatrist analyzed me, came up with a conclusion, I'm guessing you all understand that part well enough by now. And how did this doctor decide to "cure" me? Well, basically by telling me that I was insane and filling up my medicine cabinet full of prescription medications that left me feeling completely and utterly numb- empty. Void of anything. Like someone hallowed out the inside of me, and I'm nothing but skin. Not to mention all of those pointless appointments I now have to attend.

I don't even know why I bother with all my therapy appointments in the first place. I mean, it doesn't really do anything- it never helps nor hurts the situation at hand. It's completely futile, though, admittedly, that is probably because of all the lies on my part.

"How are things going at home?" They would ask me.

"Alright," the lie would roll from my lips so naturally, without thought. Meaning: What is home anymore?

"At school?"

"Better than I'd expect" Meaning: Worse than you could ever know.

"Are you taking your medications, Jacey?" they ask me.

"Of course," I lie. Meaning: Only when I'm caught.

They pose another question. "Are things getting any better?"

"Yeah," yet another false statement drips venomously from my lips, falling limply onto the floor below me. Meaning: Of course they aren't.

"And how do you feel now?"

And here comes the biggest lie of all: "Just fine, ma'am. Just… fine." Meaning: I want to die.

Author's Note: Okay, so this is the first real story I've ever put on here... So, um, tell me what you think, please?