The weather is so bipolar.
My sister-in-law is bipolar.
My son is divorced. Well, his mother-in-law is bipolar. What can you expect?
It’s all over, the judgment. The stigma won’t go away.
Yet, I believe the greatest stigma is inside my own heart.
I hate myself. I hate myself for being so hopelessly bipolar.
I want to be free. Free to follow my heart and accomplish goals. Goals that others have mastered in their twenties. I am in my thirties and I don’t see an end. I don’t believe I will ever be able to get that degree and take that job I really want.
I’m a playgroup Morah. No, not the Morah. The assistant. I help out wherever it’s needed. I love the children. I enjoy my job. But it’s not ideal. With this job, my bipolar states don’t get in the way. I can be happy and actively involved with the kids, or I can choose to sit quietly near them, cutting and pasting.
I dream of being the Morah. I dream of teaching first grade. I dream of doing social work. I know I have the ability for these careers. I can do it. And yet. And yet, with bipolar in the way, it will be near impossible.
I have my ups. Days when I want to sing and dance and life feels so blissful. Days? It’s more like hours. Because it quickly spirals to intense energy; intense irritability. The slightest stimulation feels like too much. Noise is amplified. Things I need to do feel burdensome. And people around me are treated to my irritable behavior. I leave that up to your imagination.
My brain is exploding and I want to bang my head in the wall, bite myself, anything to take away the tension. I want to die…I slide down into the muck. Sad, tired, unable to do anything. Feeling so depleted, so hopeless. I stay in bed, my blanket over my head.
Life is hard. So hard.
I am bad. Bipolar is just an excuse, isn’t it? Judgment pounds at me.
Maybe it’s not just bipolar. Maybe it’s Borderline Personality as well. Now I’m really messed up.
My husband is suffering. My kids are suffering.
Does it matter if you create a mental health organization if I’m judging myself as bad? If life hurts so much that death is better?
How will it help my inner world change? How will it help me do more in my life besides fighting my emotions and urges?
Maybe that’s my purpose in life. To fight myself. To apologize one hundred and one times to my husband and children for hurting them; for being.
I can take all my dreams and trample them in the dust. I will never amount to anything.
I am bipolar. I’m sorry.
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