Justin Mark Campbell (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
likefatherlikeson) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival2016-01-14 10:52 am
likefatherlikeson) wrote in muserevival2016-01-14 10:52 am
Entry tags:
113.6. Picture Prompt
Overwhelmed
Justin hated those weeks where everything felt like it was piling on top of him. The past month, he had been doing so well and he was proud to say his illness had been what his doctors called “stabilised and managed”. That made sense. That is how he had been feeling. Sure, he had to get injections every day that he still hated, but if it made him feel normal, it was a small price to pay. Having bipolar felt a lot like a boat ride. It was the only way he had been able to explain it to people. Sometimes, the boat was a smooth and cruisey journey. It was peaceful and the water was calm. Or it might be docked in a harbour, broken down, and completely idle. Other times, it was turbulent, windy, the water was rough and made the boat tip and sway in the wind. And then, at its worst, the boat might hit a choppy patch and get thrown around and maybe even turned completely.
The week started okay, but it became obvious to people close to him that he had some underlying restlessness and agitation. He had been a little snappy and tired, but hey, that happened to everyone who worked hard. Then he slept away the whole of his day off and barely left his bed. He cancelled plans with his boyfriend three times throughout the week without giving any explanation. Everything else in life gave way when he wasn’t coping. He could only manage to hold focus on one thing, and usually he blinkered himself for work. The performing was his escape; it was his way to be someone else for that period of time. Another hard thing about mental illness was that you rarely liked being yourself.
After the show that night, he didn’t come off buzzed and hyped on adrenaline. He didn’t get excited about stage door. He stormed off after the curtain call and went straight to the bathroom where he broke down in tears. Still in his costume and makeup, he locked himself in one of the stalls in a sobbing mess because it was just too much. He had done this over and over and over again, but his sensory processing issues had triggered at some point during the performance. The applause at the end made him feel like he wanted to find the nearest window and jump out of it. He wanted to run, it didn’t matter where, just so long as it was away. He was starting to feel like he wanted to hurt himself, and that scared him.
Times like this were hard for everyone who cared about him. He shut down on them, he pushed them away. He didn’t know how to cry out for help unless it was doing something destructive and someone intercepted him. Those rational skills were the first to deplete on him during an episode, and it was why everyone was validly concerned he might succeed in suicide one day. He had many close calls with it by now.
There was one thing different this time to all the others. He locked himself in the bathroom stall and pressed his back up to it hard, sliding down to the tiles. If he let himself, he was going to do it. There was some sort of awareness to try to get help this time. He had picked his cell phone up from the bench backstage and brought it with him. With trembling hands, he fumbled with it and dropped it. It was hard to see the display blurring through his tears, but he got there eventually.
It rang on speaker and soon connected. Justin held the phone cupped in his hands, trying to get words to come out through the broken sobs. “Will, I need help. Please. Come and help me…”
Justin Campbell
Original Character
Justin hated those weeks where everything felt like it was piling on top of him. The past month, he had been doing so well and he was proud to say his illness had been what his doctors called “stabilised and managed”. That made sense. That is how he had been feeling. Sure, he had to get injections every day that he still hated, but if it made him feel normal, it was a small price to pay. Having bipolar felt a lot like a boat ride. It was the only way he had been able to explain it to people. Sometimes, the boat was a smooth and cruisey journey. It was peaceful and the water was calm. Or it might be docked in a harbour, broken down, and completely idle. Other times, it was turbulent, windy, the water was rough and made the boat tip and sway in the wind. And then, at its worst, the boat might hit a choppy patch and get thrown around and maybe even turned completely.
The week started okay, but it became obvious to people close to him that he had some underlying restlessness and agitation. He had been a little snappy and tired, but hey, that happened to everyone who worked hard. Then he slept away the whole of his day off and barely left his bed. He cancelled plans with his boyfriend three times throughout the week without giving any explanation. Everything else in life gave way when he wasn’t coping. He could only manage to hold focus on one thing, and usually he blinkered himself for work. The performing was his escape; it was his way to be someone else for that period of time. Another hard thing about mental illness was that you rarely liked being yourself.
After the show that night, he didn’t come off buzzed and hyped on adrenaline. He didn’t get excited about stage door. He stormed off after the curtain call and went straight to the bathroom where he broke down in tears. Still in his costume and makeup, he locked himself in one of the stalls in a sobbing mess because it was just too much. He had done this over and over and over again, but his sensory processing issues had triggered at some point during the performance. The applause at the end made him feel like he wanted to find the nearest window and jump out of it. He wanted to run, it didn’t matter where, just so long as it was away. He was starting to feel like he wanted to hurt himself, and that scared him.
Times like this were hard for everyone who cared about him. He shut down on them, he pushed them away. He didn’t know how to cry out for help unless it was doing something destructive and someone intercepted him. Those rational skills were the first to deplete on him during an episode, and it was why everyone was validly concerned he might succeed in suicide one day. He had many close calls with it by now.
There was one thing different this time to all the others. He locked himself in the bathroom stall and pressed his back up to it hard, sliding down to the tiles. If he let himself, he was going to do it. There was some sort of awareness to try to get help this time. He had picked his cell phone up from the bench backstage and brought it with him. With trembling hands, he fumbled with it and dropped it. It was hard to see the display blurring through his tears, but he got there eventually.
It rang on speaker and soon connected. Justin held the phone cupped in his hands, trying to get words to come out through the broken sobs. “Will, I need help. Please. Come and help me…”
Original Character