I was part of two worlds in that moment. I was that lost and desperately sad me from 10 years ago, but at the same time was my 43 year old self living a life. A real and meaningful life, where the coat of armour has been replaced with a useless rain mac, but one which allows the real world to seep into my soul.
Each and every one of us have built a strength and a determination to fight our battles tooth and nail. We’ve had to. And we should all feel proud.
My self esteem was on the floor from constant rejection. I was tired of faking a smile. Tired of hiding my illness. Overwhelmed by everything.
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.
I got tired of feeling physically unwell every day due to my excesses. I got tired of chasing happiness, when quite clearly I was like a thoroughbred galloping full pelt down the wrong racetrack, so was never in any danger of sprinting over the happiness finishing line.