yesterday I cried. I cried for all the loss, the loneliness, confusion, betrayal and fear. I mourned my pets, both living and dead, that I will never hold again. I wept at the cruelty of my husband. Choosing alcohol, not me, never looking back. My mother choosing death over me. My father never choosing me. I cried for the times I tried to please but brought only disappointment. For my endless failures. Wrong choices, missteps, bad decisions. My body aches with unbeaten sorrow. An unbearable misery that makes me want to claw my skin off my bones. I cry until my beath is short and my vision blurred.
The Cry By. Stèphane Berla on 500px.com
Bipolar, I fucking hate you, I silently screamed. I hate that you make everything hurt so much, amplify every emotion to the point of physical pain. You give no answers. All the while feeding me with confusion, betrayal, self-doubt, isolation, anger. You’ve taken so much, how much more do you want from me? Except, maybe for me to give in? Sometimes I wonder why I try so hard. So much time, money, effort, to achieve, what exactly? Because no matter how much medication, therapy, support, its always there, tucked just below the surface, laughing at me, waiting to draw back the curtain of sanity and show the world just how crazy and different and scary I am. It revels in the judgments and the obvious whispers of you don’t belong here and you never will.
But today is yesterday’s tomorrow. It may hold hope. So I put my mask on, try to look my best and carry on with the mundane, like a programmed robot (fixed smile, robot voice “hello, I am fine. Hello, I am fine”)
ANNOUNCEMENT: This episode was brought to you courtesy of the trigger gastroenteritis. Bipolar exploits any weakness.