Over the years I’ve done a lot of reading on bipolar disorder. From this extensive research, I’ve learned time and time again that bipolar disorder gets worse with age. Fuck. Hypo-mania seems like a lifetime ago, a blurry and distant memory.
This low has lasted for a long time. I usually get a break in my lows – a gap in the clouds where the sunshine cracks through, unexpected yet welcome. There has been no gap in the clouds, no spontaneous brightness.
I miss my life. I miss who I am. I don’t think that I have ever felt so alone in my life. When I am in this place, there are a handful of people that I feel comfortable enough around to be able to open up my heart and mind to. But none of these people are here. They have their own lives going on. Time and time again, I’ve reached out but to no avail. And trust me on this one, I am not the sort of person to ask for help and reach out. So if I ask for you, or say that I miss you and need to see you, that’s as close to a cry for help as you’re ever gonna get from me.
Am I suicidal? No. I thankfully don’t feel enough to feel suicidal. I am just numb. Do you ever think that you can only be hurt so much before you learn to feel nothing at all? In recent months I’ve come to accept that I have finally reached breaking point. I can hurt no more and so I have embraced empty. For the first time in my life I actually believe the words, “Sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me.” They can’t. Not anymore.
At times like this I have to ask myself this question again? Is it better to hurt than feel nothing at all? Right now, I feel nothing. I’m not gonna lie, it sucks. But would I switch it for the crippling pain of the black dog? Don’t get me wrong, I know that what I am experiencing right now is depression, I’m not daft. But I realise that is a different kind – this is not the type that makes me question my existence and daydream about ways out.
But it still sucks.
I really miss myself. Right now all I am is mother, wife, teacher, instructor. I am not me; in my purest form. I am a version of myself that is adapted dependent on audience. I miss having the opportunity to be the pure, uncensored self that I am when I have time in the presence of those who have no expectation of me – they like me for who I am and demand nothing of me except my company. Except they’re nowhere to be seen.
I don’t mean to sound like a whiny little bitch. I’m just tired. Tired of being the person that I’ve become in recent months. The longer I spend in this shell, the more I forget who I really am. A stranger looks back from the mirror and walks in my shoes.
Come back to me, me. Please.