Chapter Text
Kim Dokja was 19 years old when he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.
He had been having the regular bouts of anxiety. Despite it being years since the incident with his mother, it still felt like eyes followed him wherever he went. It felt like bugs crawling on his skin—their stares felt like insects burrowing into his arms and legs. Sometimes, he would find himself scratching his skin raw just to relieve the feeling.
“How has your anxiety been?” His doctor had asked.
“Fine. Worse? It’s fine. I think. I’m not sure.” He spoke uncertainly, hands clammy with sweat and eyes cast downwards. He had even felt that his doctor somehow knew—that she knew what had happened in that house so many years ago. His hands shook with the knowledge that she may know about his past. Would she also look at him with disgust? Disdain? Hate? He had started subconsciously scratching at the inside of his wrist, trying to rid himself of the feeling of more bugs crawling on him.
“Worse how?” She had asked.
Normally Kim Dokja would sooner cut off an arm than disclose what was going on inside his head—it felt like pulling teeth whenever he spoke about himself. Despite this, words tumbled out of his mouth at a rapid speed, disorganized and hard to discern at times. Uncharacteristically animated as he spoke, his hands wildly moving as a wave of paranoia surged over him.
He explained the stares and the bugs. But there was more: the whispers. He could hear everyone whispering about him everywhere he went. The coffee shop he frequented, the bookstore down the street, strangers on the train that sat by him—anywhere and everywhere he went was filled with accusatory whispers. They all seemed to know what happened, it seemed like the whole world knew. It felt like there was a target on his back—it felt like there was some huge plot that everyone was in on. Everyone but him.
He hadn’t slept properly in two weeks, but he didn’t find himself feeling tired. His eyes burned if he closed them for too long, and his thoughts moved at such a rapid pace he couldn’t find any time for proper rest. He had read through several book series and reread Ways of Survival twice now. He started blasting music in his earbuds to quiet the whispers. Who could possibly sleep with all that noise? Kim Dokja swore he could even hear his neighbors whispering through the walls—discussing how despicable they found his family.
“Sounds like a manic episode,” is what his doctor had said. “Does your family have a history of bipolar disorder?”
Kim Dokja left that day with two new prescriptions: lithium and Seroquel. Lithium for the mania, Seroquel to help him sleep. ‘Paranoid delusions’ is what his doctor had called them—the unwavering belief that somehow everyone in the world was out to get him. Tactile and auditory hallucinations were supposedly the cause of the bugs and the whispers. They weren’t real, his doctor had told him. It was difficult to grapple with this truth, as he was so certain about what he was feeling and hearing.
Years later, Kim Dokja can still remember that manic episode. He can remember how real all of it felt—how life and death every situation felt. The paranoia was always the worst since he’d already had a history of anxiety—but the medication helped, sort of. At least, he had never gotten to that bad of a place again.
That changed with the fall of the world. Medication wasn’t something he could easily get his hands on, and definitely not the exact dose he needed, and surely not in bulk. It wasn’t just the collapse of the world as he knew it, but the beginning of his collapsing mental state. Luckily, the fourth wall seemed to lessen some of these symptoms to an extent, it eased some of the anxieties he had. It gave him a mental barrier that allowed him to charge forward despite his disorder.
His manic episodes caused him to be restless—and the lack of sleep led to many late nights preparing for the upcoming scenarios. No one questioned his behavior, because Kim Dokja had always been a bit of a compulsive planner when it came to these things. His companions often had to pull him away from his tedious preparations just to eat. So no, the manic episodes didn’t catch anyone’s attention. Kim Dokja suffered in silence, unbeknownst to anyone, every single time.
Sometimes when the mania was really bad, Kim Dokja experienced delusions of grandiose—putting himself repeatedly in dangerous situations because he was truly under the impression he could withstand or somehow cheat death. This always caused tension amongst his companions, but no one came to the conclusion he was struggling with an untreated mood disorder—and how could they? People acting strange in the apocalypse was more normal than not. The body was in a constant state of fight or flight, Kim Dokja tried to use the symptoms of his manic episodes to complete the scenarios and help his companions.
The tension didn’t last too long between him and his company, because they were usually met with success despite his impulsive and erratic behavior. Aside from some harsh lecturing from Jung Heewon and Han Sooyoung, Kim Dokja generally got away with his unstable behavior.
Depressive episodes also weren’t questioned much by those around him. When suicidal tendencies flared, it was chalked up to Kim Dokja just being a selfish, self-sacrificial bastard again. He endured every lecture and assured them each time it was just a matter of circumstance, that he didn’t actually want to die.
Sometimes he would go without eating due to loss of appetite, and other times he would feel like he was on another planet—far, far away from those he cared for. Depression was different from mania, anything that would normally bring him joy felt as though it was being gazed at through a foggy window. Kim Dokja felt like he was on the outside of everything he created; like he didn’t deserve anything they had built together—and so he would isolate himself. Again, no one questioned this.
Kim Dokja had always been a private person, so disappearing for a few hours a day to cry in the comfort of his own room wasn’t something he had a hard time doing. His companions figured he was just prepping for the next scenario.
It was a vicious cycle, truly. When he was depressed, his companions figured he was just exhausted by the scenarios. When he was manic, they incorrectly viewed his behavior as being full of vigor and motivation to do better in the next scenario.
He was good at this. He had figured out a system to mask his illness and even used it to his advantage in a fallen world. Kim Dokja loathed when others worried about him, and he disliked even more sympathetic gazes. He had received enough of those to last a lifetime—and he certainly didn’t want pity-filled expressions to overcome the faces of those he cherished most.
So what was Kim Dokja to do when the scenarios were over?
This was where he currently found himself. The scenarios had ended about eight months ago, and the company was in good spirits. They had Kim Dokja, and everyone had made it out alive. They didn’t need to worry about anything anymore—they could live happily and freely.
But what was a salvation for some, was a hell for others. Kim Dokja had grown used to channeling his disorder into action, using his illness as a way to succeed. What was he supposed to do when there was no scenario that required his sacrifice? What was he supposed to do with his sleepless nights when there was nothing to plan for? What could he use to distract himself when depression weighed heavy on him like a weighted blanket?
“Kim Dokja, are you okay?”