My bipolar hat is constantly on. It’s more of a balaclava than a hat really – it’s not terribly fetching, it’s claustrophobic and annoying to wear, but happily, can be worn under other hats if that’s the kind of look you’re after.
To the outside world, they are shrouded in mystery. They are secretive and sinister institutes filled with dark, tormented souls. But are they really like that?
More and more though, it’s thought that there’s a genetic link. That you are more likely to develop bipolar if a close family member has the condition. So what about MK? Does this mean he’s going to have to battle with his mind every single day in life in the way that I, and many others do?
Bipolar? You suck. You didn’t try to kill me with a devastating suicidal depression. You didn’t turn me into the invincible, wreckless hypomanic being you sometimes do. You just were. You played with me and seriously tainted yet another precious time in my life.
The agitation and anxiety was exhausting. Even although my body and mind were crying out for rest, I simply couldn’t settle. The simple act of me being still was about as likely to happen as a baby lying still in the midst of the most excruciating bout of colic.
The running theme is that bipolar sucks. It seriously sucks. We are all battling like Mel Gibson in Braveheart with his painted face and bloody big shield to ward off the gremlin within us all. We are survivors.
As some of you may know, a few days ago I blogged about being raped. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever written about. The following day I was so raw. So down. So numb. The most overwhelming emotion though, was guilt.
I’m going to do what I do when going into a cold swimming pool. I’m going to hold my breathe and jump straight in. Deep breathe. Jump.
14 years ago I was raped.