Bhaskar Shukla

“चुप्पी कैसे कहें?” उसने कहा। “तुम लिखते हो... तुम जानो।” “इन सारे मौन को कहने के लिए एक प्रेत की ज़रूरत होगी... चलते-फिरते प्रेत की... जो बातों को ऐसे कहे कि कविता लगे... हाँ कविता... कविता की ज़रूरत होगी... कविता छुपे हुए वाक्यों को सतह पर आसानी से ले आती है। पर उस प्रेत को सुनने के लिए गहरे उतरना पड़ेगा।” “कितना गहरे?” भूमिका ने चंचलता लिए पूछा। “उतना ही जितनी जगह हमेशा छूटी रहती है हमारे दो संवादों के बीच।” भूमिका चुप रही और वह इस चुप्पी में किसी प्रेत के कुछ कह देने की प्रार्थना करने लगा।”
― Manav Kaul, Chalta-Phirta Pret । चलता-फिरता प्रेत

“Many people can't comprehend the selfishness of suicide. And they're right, it is selfish. But in that dark place, you don't think clearly. You don't think about consequences. You can only think about making the pain stop, how to be less of a burden to everyone around you and how they should be spending their love on someone who deserves it. Someone who is worthy.”
― Kirsti Alexandra, The Bipolarfly Effect

“There is a particular kind of pain, elation, loneliness, and terror involved in this kind of madness. When you’re high it’s tremendous. The ideas and feelings are fast and frequent like shooting stars, and you follow them until you find better and brighter ones. Shyness goes, the right words and gestures are suddenly there, the power to captivate others a felt certainty. There are interests found in uninteresting people. Sensuality is pervasive and the desire to seduce and be seduced irresistible. Feelings of ease, intensity, power, well-being, financial omnipotence, and euphoria pervade one’s marrow. But, somewhere, this changes. The fast ideas are far too fast, and there are far too many; overwhelming confusion replaces clarity. Memory goes. Humor and absorption on friends’faces are replaced by fear and concern. Everything previously moving with the grain is now against—you are irritable, angry, frightened, uncontrollable, and enmeshed totally in the blackest caves of the mind. You never knew those caves were there. It will never end, for madness carves its own reality. It goes on and on, and finally there are only others’ recollections of your behavior—your bizarre, frenetic, aimless behaviors—for mania has at least some grace in partially obliterating memories. What then, after the medications, psychiatrist, despair, depression, and overdose? All those incredible feelings to sort through. Who is being too polite to say what? Who knows what? What did I do? Why? And most hauntingly, when will it happen again? Then, too, are the bitter reminders—medicine to take, resent, forget, take, resent, and forget, but always to take. Credit cards revoked, bounced checks to cover, explanations due at work, apologies to make, intermittent memories (what did I do?), friendships gone or drained, a ruined marriage. And always, when will it happen again? Which of my feelings are real? Which of the me’s is me? The wild, impulsive, chaotic, energetic, and crazy one? Or the shy, withdrawn, desperate, suicidal, doomed, and tired one? Probably a bit of both, hopefully much that is neither. Virginia Woolf, in her dives and climbs, said it all: “How far do our feelings take their colour from the dive underground? I mean, what is the reality of any feeling?”
― Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind

“I nod. Pull out a chair and try to gather my thoughts. No small feat for me these days. I take a deep breath and try again. “What is … the treatment goal for people with … with what I …” Knight leans across the table toward me. “Bipolar disorder type I.” “Yeah.” “Okay … well, we want to stop the extreme mood changes. Bring down the ceiling on the mania, bring up the floor on the depression.” Knight uses his hands to illustrate the shrinking space. “Put more time between the episodes. And make the medication regimen as tolerable as possible. Stability. That’s what we’re aiming for.”
― Juliann Garey, Too Bright to Hear Too Loud to See