My dear bipolar disorder,
You’re a real bastard, you know that? And selfish. And needy. And manipulative. It is quite clear you were in the driving seat with this relationship. It was years of ignoring you before you made damn sure you were in my life. You came in like a wrecking ball. Egged on by your other friends: stress, sexuality, depression and anxiety.
You and your gang nearly ended it for me.
I often wonder if you’re that narcissistic to just brush almost killing me and start preparing for the next time. You’re particularly astute at finding the cracks. You’re even better at burrowing through my mind and rattling my cage from the inside.
The insecurity is a wonderful personality trait you’ve gifted me. Yeah, thanks for that. Most everything that falls remotely on the spectrum of happy I check that it’s not too happy. I clean the apartment and wonder if I’m sweeping too rigorously. I greet people in the street and check myself in case it was an inappropriate friendliness. Insecurity has always been there in the quiet moments I have with myself. You found a way to exploit and conqueror it.
I often think perhaps its been my fault all along. That I was stupid enough not to see and acknowledge the signs and really get help. It was years of you skulking around my ankles, one moment gripping me into an inescapable depression, the next you’d catapult me into reckless self-harm, and worse, hurting everyone in your wake. Bastard.
Perhaps my family should have figured me out. Perhaps my friends should have. Perhaps the GP should have. I used to blame them all. As if these people were in my mind experiencing what I was. I don’t blame them anymore. They weren’t to know. And you were being your usual manipulative self so they couldn’t have seen your true colors anyway, if at all.
That you permeate through every action I take and it terrifies me. It terrifies me that I need seriously drastic medication to keep you out. I’m permanently on guard-duty for signs of you in the shadows so we can fight it out, again. We both know each of us are determined to succeed over the other. Every moment I try to tell myself I’m strong enough. Sun-up and sundown rituals are only a reminder that I am, in fact, not strong enough on my own.
Alone I am no one.
The cursory utterances from others offering what they think they should be said to build me up only serves to remind me of my otherness from all other creatures. “This is not in your control.” they say. “You’re just sad.”. “You’re weird.” “You’re drunk.”. It’s soul destroying that I was probably most of those things.
I am not all of those things. I am a creative, exuberant, passionate, leader. I did that. Everyday I triumph over you a little more.
Alone I may be no one, but I am not alone.
I have people that strategize our mission. I know that there are people in my life who, while they may not understand all the time, are willing to stand beside me to fight anyway. Like mercenaries. There are anonymous othered people like me. There are friends. There are colleges. There are memories. There is family. There are memories. We are an army that shall defeat you on every front you attack.
We’re all getting better at finding you, too.
No longer can I say that I am to blame for any of your torrid destruction of my life for a while. I found you, bastard. I will see you devastated in our wilting relationship. I hope it hurts. I hope you start thinking, “Was it me?”. Let me spare you the time: yes. It was you. And it’s over.
The only place you can be may be where I will find you and knock you down again. I’ll see you again. You’re wounded now. You’re wounded and I am stronger because of skirmishes past.
See you on the battlefield, bastard.
James
