The statistics aren’t on my side. At least 25% – 50% of people with bipolar disorder attempt suicide. It’s like having cancer, the way it takes over your life, how you try to live in between the surges of disease in your brainbox.
On my wall I have a corkboard with the business cards of people I met when I was full of idealism and hope. It keeps falling off and scattering pins everywhere.
In the morning I’m so disappointed when I see the sun behind the curtains and realize I’ve lived to face another day. I would’ve been grateful to stop breathing during the night.
I don’t like writing about this here. I hate most of the novels written about bipolar disorder. They’re self-absorbed in a way that goes beyond the introspection of other writers, other artists and dreamers. I never wanted to be that way. But I’m fascinated and repelled by this illness, how it warps everything that I am. It’s hard not to pay attention to something that’s taking over you like this does.
I’ve lost almost everyone from my life. It didn’t happen right after my manic episode, which I would have expected, but sort of gradually… I don’t like myself, and I suppose it must be difficult to like someone who doesn’t even like herself.
I live for those visits with ____. The only times I ever feel safe anymore. My isolation is almost terrifying in its completeness.
I don’t like writing about this at all – but I’ve told myself – someday, when I’m brave enough, I want to write about all the ways I’ve made life horrible for the people who have tried to love me – like a part apology, part love letter, part confession –
To say thank you and I’m sorry –
To send some words on the wind and hope it finds them again somehow
I guess this is practice, because it’s really hard.