My footsteps are heavy as I walk into my studio.

The bipolar disorder,

its stigma,

even heavier,

now make all my equipment seem like mere pieces of metal.

I do not want to acknowledge them for what they are.


I set the blowpipe on the yolk.

The furnace is raging, 

roaring like the anger inside of me.

The tip should be preheating, 

not me.

Yet I thrust the pipe to get the glass

and vigorously roll it out on the marver.

I blow to create a bubble inside the molten glass

but lava of confusion seems to be bubbling inside me.

I just feel angry from the struggle.


The bench is where I can create.

I scramble for jacks and paddles to mold my shape.

Surely this will help me think back,

back when I was a child who enjoyed making things with my hands,

back when I was a student who found joy in glass art,

back when I was a person who seemed healthy a few days ago.

Surely this will help.


What have I done?

I tried cutting the glass with my shears,

but I pushed it too far.

I pushed myself too far.

My depression inspires me

but does not help me.


I stick the pieces in water anyways.

When I pull them out,

they are beautiful

but unusable,

at least for now.

I can wait to create until I am back,

back as that child who created to get it all out,

back as that student who learned the art of expression, 

back as that person who is healthy.

I accept this, 

all of this.

Illustration by Thumy Phan

Written by Cato Jun

Edited by Rodlyn-Mae Banting

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