Real Life

I am bipolar; everyday. There’s no through, just in. I am a person living with a disorder, just like every other person living with a disorder. If you want to be honest about it, I’m a bipolar “liver”, but no one seems to insist on saying that.

I’m also not a sexual abuse survivor, a bad childhood survivor or a motor vehicle accident survivor. Those things happened, and now they’re over. I don’t feel the need to claim great championship over things I had no control over in the first place.

But We’re Supposed to Be Positive.

Oh, I know, we’re all supposed to be running around rearranging words and spellings and sentences to reframe issues in our minds. Well here’s a thought, how about everyone just embrace reality. Instead of rearranging, try accepting.

I’m aware that I can’t afford for everyone to know I’m sick because it affects everything from how I’m looked at, to whether I’m trusted to babysit. I know being bipolar makes people frightened and creates a space between me and the supposed sane. I know that it hinders even my ability to get a job. I know bipolar disorder keeps people from seeing anything but a sad girl drowning in a painting.

But I also know that me, the actual me, is in here somewhere. It might be hiding behind the bipolar curled up, very small in the corner, or it might be locked in a closet with bipolar holding the key. But I’m in here. Somehow, somewhere, I want someone to understand who I really am, what I really do. Understand what it is to have to fight a disease so much bigger and stronger than, everything. To fight it every day. Somehow, I need to have people outside the four walls of my apartment listen to me scream. I need someone to witness the suffering. I need people to know what real life is.

So I’m here, and I’m writing. So I’m here, and I’m trying.
I’m trying to speak to you. I’m trying to tell you the truth.

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