I hate this disease. I think I truly hate being bipolar. I hate the ups and downs, the feelings that once I start to get my groove on, it’s all going to disappear. I hate that one day I can write beautifully and the next I stare at a blank screen. I hate that I can laugh and play with my children one day and the next I know it feels that I don’t want anything to do with them. I hate the uncertainty, but mostly I am simply motion sick from the ride.
I often think that one who is not bipolar has a distinct advantage to those who do have these diseases. How nice would it be to know that just because I wake up in a bad mood doesn’t mean anything other than I am just that…in a bad mood? How nice would it be to know that I can count on myself as much as I am forced to count on others, some that I don’t even want to count on? How nice would it be not to be so emotionally tired each and every day until the idea of taking a knife to my soul and cutting it out looks like a good idea? This is a day when I even question my belief in a higher power, and his potential punishment should I take my life? Would he really be upset? Or would he understand?
The God I believe in knows me and he knows my soul. And I can feel that soul underneath all the pain and need. I can feel it lying there under a cover a darkness so thick that the clouds themselves barely have the space for a single ray to shine through. I can feel that soul quietly and so sweetly waiting. Not screaming out for me to stop the thoughts, not needing a place to hide, but just sitting there waiting. Waiting for clouds to move on, and for the real me to shine through.
Of course, when you are bipolar there is no real you. There is the you that is down and the you that is high. I had a doctor explain it to me once by bringing out a sophisticated wave chart. With a line running parallel to the x-axis, and a literal wave going around and around that single line. He used to tell me that I would feel everything greater than those around me; the highs would be higher and the lows lower. And that I could not count on anyone in my life understanding that. I simply had to endure. And that illusive mid-point; it simply wasn’t in my mind a place I was capable of going. And if I ever did reach it, it would be at 1am in the morning when I was sleeping.
I have always taken that speech to heart, and I have always tried to take that idea and turn it around into a good thing. I had stronger emotions than others, therefore the others around me couldn’t possibly feel the sheer joy that I lived. Of course, they couldn’t feel the sheer despair that I did, but that was okay too. The disease wasn’t for the faint of heart.
But none of that matters to be today. Today I am just tired of it all. And yet I live in a world that doesn’t allow me the one ingredient I really need…a place to hide. I still have laundry to put up, I still need to start cleaning up for this weekend, and I still need to take care of my children. I still have to put in a full day of work, without letting anyone in on the truth, and I still have to find a way to exist when I truly just want to hide. Hide, God I wish I could hide.
I would hide to try to find my center one more time. I would hide to try to put the pieces together for another day, and I would hide to let the misery, the darkness to settle within my soul. To completely fill all the places in my soul so that I once again can move on. For if darkness is not allowed into every part of my soul, it will linger until it can. That is one thing I have learned about the disease. Giving into joy is easy, giving into darkness is vital. Without it I am in this limbo that I can not walk away from.
But I am sorry to say sometimes I whisper those horrible words, what if…What if I just walked away from it all? What if I just stopped pretending that I want to be here? What if I found peace in a place no one could touch me? What if I simply went to sleep and dreamed for eternity? What if I never had this disease? What if?