This is not the plot I originally had for this story. But my mind is fickle so I changed it ^^ 

And I have no experience whatsoever with the medical issues in this story. So apologies in advance for any wrong or offensive (?) details =)

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He was shaking. The bone deep tremors wrecking his body as he sagged against the closed door. His breath left him in shaky gasps as sweat and tears ran down his face. Unable to support his trembling body anymore his legs gave out beneath him and he collapsed onto the cold marble floor in a heap.  

His phone was ringing in the back pocket of his jeans. It had been for quite a while now; endless ringing and message alerts.  

They were worried about him. He was worried about him. He knew that. But there was nothing he could do about it. The way he was acting, the way he treated them was not fair. He was taking advantage of them, of him. But what was he to do? He was as helpless as they were in this if not more.

The tears stopped after a while and so did the tremors. His phone didn’t ring anymore.

“finally they’ve realized I don’t want to talk to them” he thought with a scoff.

He didn’t want to speak to them or to anyone else for that matter. What he needed was to be left alone: to be left alone so he could wallow in his own miseries.

The shadows grew longer with the encroaching darkness. The world around him was moving on as he sat there staring into space. Everything else was functioning perfectly. It was just him that was broken. Him and his problems did not matter to anyone.

He did not matter to himself anymore.

The thought made him want to cry, to rage, to fight. It made him so angry that for a second all he saw was red.

But despite all that rage he was feeling, it was a loud ringing laughter that managed to break through his vocal cords. It echoed through the quiet apartment emphasizing, once again, how alone he was. How pitiful and dire the actual situation was. It made him feel ten times worse.

His laughter segued into whimpering sobs.

This was the end. He knew it in his bones.

This… Tonight… This was the end.

             ~~~~~~

It all started a couple of months ago. It wasn’t very noticeable at first. There was this strange fear of failure in the pit of his stomach. It was something he hadn’t really experienced before so he put it aside as exhaustion- too much work and far less time to rest.

But then came the nagging thoughts of failure, of disappointing others, of disappointing himself.  

And then his thoughts started to manifest themselves in his actions.

He himself was unaware of his extreme reactions to the smallest of things. But it was not so for those around him; his scathing remarks, the small tantrums, the mood swings, the storming-out-in-anger and slamming doors.

The others seemed to put up with him for some time. They, just like he had, had probably deducted it to exhaustion taking over his body. But there was only so much they could take. His scornful remarks were occasionally returned. The shouting matches now had two opponents.

They were also tired. So why should he be the only one to take it out on the others?

It was then when things started to go downhill.

His mood swings were more constant, more severe, changing and unpredictable like the weather- going from being sunny to a raging thunderstorm in a matter of seconds. He was not eating properly, wasn’t sleeping. He was ignoring his health as well as the people around him.

His change was apparent to everyone and unlike before, they took it seriously.

They dragged him to a doctor and got him diagnosed.

Bipolar Disorder.

They’ve finally put a name to what he was feeling.

It didn’t manage to provide any comfort to him. If anything it left him feeling even more uncertain and vulnerable.

They prescribed him pills, antidepressants, antipsychotics, and a whole lot of other medication to get him back up on his feet- to help him return back to normal. They told him to go to therapy; that getting out all his inner feelings would provide some sort of a comfort.

But how could he talk to a complete stranger about his life? About everything he kept hidden inside? He did not want to.  And nor did he want to take his medication.

He was not mad.

They’ve told him no- he was not mad. It was just a small mental disorder. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.

But he was.

And the more they tried to convince him, the more aversive he became.

'mental disorder'

For him it was just the longer term for 'mad'. And he was not mad.  

He’d taken the pills a couple of times- mainly due to the continuous ‘prodding’ of his family and friends. But it was not a nice experience. Whatever chemical that was induced in those pills drained the life out of him. He was tired and nauseous all the time. He suffered from insomnia. He couldn’t concentrate on his work because of all those sleepless nights but when he got home, bone weary and ready to sleep, sleep wouldn’t come. He was stuck in some vicious cycle and it was frustrating.

For times he wondered if it will be the medicine that was supposed to help him, was what finally drove him mad.  

So he did what he thought was the best. He came off the pills. Not the smartest thing to do: he knew. In the aftermath he started to feel like the biggest loser in the world but still it was better than turning into some useless, impotent person.

He was careful not to rouse any suspicion; trying hard to rein in his feelings as they ran havoc in his brain.

He made it look like he was taking his medication daily, taking away the prescribed dosage from the pill case. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to throw them away; because somewhere in the corner of his mind he knew.

He knew how unfair he was being to the people who actually cared for him, who wanted him to get back to normal. He knew what he was doing was wrong. But after going through the effects of the pills, he couldn’t bring himself to take them again. So he kept them stashed in a small bag, hidden amongst the numerous clothing in his closet.

He was fighting a losing battle with himself. And sometimes it was hard to not let his anger or his weak-side come out. But being the good actor he is, he hid his true self behind a mask of cool indifference. But sometimes there were cracks and they all saw right through them. But the others were none the wiser about him skipping the medication.

Small relapses- that’s what they thought.

Nothing much to worry about. After all the man was fighting off a mental illness. There’s bound to be episodes like this.

So he got away with it. But his true self, he could not discard.

And now the oppressing thoughts were all consuming, bearing down on him with a force that scared him. Under that pressure he cracked and his walls caved in like wet sand. There was nowhere for him to run, there was nowhere to hide. He was a prisoner in his own mind and he could do nothing but give into that despair.